DISOWNED Read online

  "Who's the other Snitomar?" Zvi Lichte taunted him.

  Henry only smiled back. "You think, Zvi, that I'm all alone?"

  Zvi is a short fat man with a huge belly and a tight black suit stretched over it. He is never without his prayer book tucked on him somewhere and makes his living selling second hand furniture.

  "Smart, too smart, that Henry," Zvi Lichte likes to say. Zvi Lichte especially likes to talk about it to Yusse Sharf, the dentist at the corner. Particularly when he hears that Henry won another case. "So, he won another case! So what? What kind of law is he practicing anyway? It's not Jewish law."

  Yusse shakes his head. "He's becoming like them."

  Zvi looks down to the floor. "We shouldn't know from it."

  Yusse is persistent. "Go tell him he's melting in the melting pot."

  Zvi Lichte takes Yusse's advice. The next time he sees Henry he calls out loud. "You're melting, Henry."

  Henry laughs in his face.

  "They melted in Germany and look what happened to them!"

  Henry stiffens up at that. "They took plenty Rabbis with them too," he answers harshly.

  "So you won't forgive God for it?"

  "It's not a matter of forgiving or not forgiving! I'm grateful for plenty."

  Now Zvi comes in too close. "You don't act grateful."

  Henry growls back. "I have my own views about being grateful."

  "Forget your own views. Just put on a yarmulke like you're supposed to." Zvi almost spits at him. "Who are you? You're better than Moses? It's too easy to forget everything!"

  "Who said I forget?" Henry spreads his legs apart and stands on them strongly.

  "And your sins," Zvi goes on, "where will they fall? Not on you, maybe, but on your children and your children's children. With you, that's all right?"

  "What are you following me down the block for? Get out of my way." Henry yells.

  But Zvi loves to follow Henry down the block. He takes a special pleasure out of taunting him and noticing exactly what Henry wears to work each day.

  Usually Henry wears a pin striped suit with a bright tie and The New York Times folded under his arm.

  Zvi runs behind him very fast.

  "You think God wants you to run after me like this?" Henry calls back to Zvi over his shoulder.

  "Maybe he does."

  "I doubt it," Henry yells at him loud.

  "Doubt all you want. You don't have the answers." Zvi Lichte wipes a little spittle from the corner of his mouth.

  Then Henry gets to where he is going and runs up the steps of the subway station which takes him straight downtown.

  "It's pride that's got him. The Etza Hura," people murmur. "The evil spirit has stolen his mind."

  No matter what they say about him Henry continues in his own ways. "Wake up fellas," he yells when they try to talk to him about it directly, "every day I get news from Europe. We're living in a new generation now."

  But here there is no such thing as a new generation. And news from Europe means nothing either. Only the words of God matter. Only they last forever.

  When the weather is nice and he is not at the office, most of the time Henry doesn't go downstairs. He goes out onto his front porch and sits under the wide branches of the old cherry tree. Then he stares at what's left of the daylight, and thinks everything over silently.

  Rivkah often runs out and sits beside him. "What are you thinking of papa?"

  "I won't be here forever, Rivkah," he tells her every time. "One day you'll wake up and I'll be gone."

  Rivkah's heart clenches.

  "I belong somewhere else. Other places are calling me." And he curls his full red lips.

  "What places?"

  "If only you knew," he smiles strangely and smacks his lips a few times. "There are plenty of places I could go. Plenty of women would be happy to have me. Beautiful women from different neighborhoods. I could have married anyone."

  Rivkah shrinks away. She doesn't want to hear about his beautiful women.

  "But what could I do? I fell in love with your mother."

  Most people in Borough Park don't fall in love though. Here marriages are arranged very carefully. For a much larger purpose than temporary love. But in the case of Molly the whole family was relieved when Henry came along.

  "At least it's someone," Molly's father, Moshe, said.

  "Someone, maybe. But the question is who?" Devorah never liked

  Henry. Not for a minute.

  But Moshe quickly had his way. Within six weeks there was a big wedding. The whole neighborhood came, and Molly looked beautiful.

  "So, I married your mother and we had you." Henry enjoys remembering everything. "But you know what I realized, the minute I saw you?"

  "What?"

  "God has his ways. He's playing a trick on them. He's giving them someone just like me!"

  "Not exactly."

  "Yes you are. My daughter exactly! You don't belong here either."

  "Daddy, you're wrong."

  But Henry seems quite sure of himself. "It takes a certain kind of person to belong here. It's not you. And it's not me."

  Rivkah's head starts to spin. She longs to see her father happy, exactly where he belongs. She knows he is scorned by everyone and only allowed to live here at all because he is Devorah's son in law.

  "There's a place here for everyone,” Rivkah answers, “even me, even you.”

  Henry starts to laugh.

  "What are you two laughing at out there?" Molly's voice comes from inside when the laughing goes on for too long. Sometimes she comes out on the porch to join them, stands behind Henry, puts her hands on his shoulders, and strokes. "Come on now, tell me. What are you two laughing about? What's so funny out here?"

  "Lots of things, Molly."

  "What?"

  "Stroke a little harder."

  "First answer my question."

  "I'm teaching Rivkah about the real world."

  Molly presses down hard on his shoulders. "And where is that, exactly?"

  Henry laughs harder.

  "The real world is here, Henry. Right under your nose!"

  "That's what you think, but you'll know different when you come with me downtown."

  "You know I can't do that."

  "Alright, I was just asking."

  Molly stops stroking. "You ask me over and over to punish me, Henry."

  "How am I punishing you?"

  "You just love punishing me."

  "Molly, open your eyes. I work hard. I provide for my family. I'm a good man."

  "Maybe."

  "Damn you."

  “Damn me?" That is more than she can swallow. She puts her hand to her forehead and starts to rock back and forth slowly then, like a little girl lost at a parade. Then she leans down to him and whispers, "you're hurting me, Henry."

  "I don't mean to Molly." He pulls her down to him hard and she nestles her head deep into his shoulder as if there were nowhere else on earth she could turn.

  "Molly, please. Tell me you love me."

  But Molly refuses to reply.

  "I'm begging you. Tell me I'm a good husband."

  "How can I tell you, Henry? You make it so hard for me."

  "Alright then, I'm getting out of here. This isn't good for my health. For my constitution."

  She wraps her arms around his neck. "Stay near me Henry. You have to. You promised."

  Henry looks up at her filled with desire. "Molly, Molly," his voice is husky, "love me. I am who I am."

  I am who I am, the words enter Rivkah and etch their mark upon her heart. But their meaning eludes her, just out of her grasp.

  Now for a moment Molly and Henry are mesmerized, locked together inside of themselves. An odd silence rises up between them, a silence that has no place for Rivkah in it at all. She stands there outside it looking in at them, a stranger from another land.

  After their long embrace, Henry pulls back a little. "Molly, you still haven't told me you love me."

/>   She speaks falteringly, "I can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Not this minute. Later, maybe."

  "Then I'm leaving!"

  "Where?"

  "God will guide me. There are places to go, believe me. Fabulous places, daring people. People who look you right in the eye. Who tell you what you're waiting to hear from them."

  "In your imagination, Henry."

  "I'm packing anyway. I'm packing a bag and putting my new suit in it. The blue one with the big lapels. I'm going tomorrow. And I'm packing tonight."

  But when tomorrow comes, nothing is packed. Molly knows it won't be, but Rivkah is frightened. "Mamma, where's daddy? Did you see him this morning?"

  "He's just at work. Where else can he go?"

  "Are you positive?"

  Molly takes a little step towards her and smiles. "Rivkah, you don't realize it yet, but we're all very lucky. There is no other place in the world worth living in. Once you've lived here in Borough Park every other place is empty. It's only thin air."

  * * *

  But although Henry can't leave Molly, still he won't give in. He holds his ground as best he can and talks only about what he considers important. Politics. He tries to talk about politics to everyone. No one cares in the least.

  These days when he sees two or more people sitting downstairs on the green, wooden benches in front of the house, he runs downstairs, sits with them, crosses his legs and starts talking, much too loud.

  Everyone tries to pretend he isn't there. The more they try, the louder he speaks. When Rivkah hears him outside speaking she runs down to the bench. Somebody, she thinks, has to be on her father's side.

  Finally, one Sunday afternoon, with the benches full of family and neighbors, Henry makes the announcement that he is running for public office. On the Republican Party, no less. Row A.

  Not one person on the benches even blinks an eye. They don't stop talking or look up. No one says congratulations. Maxie, his brother in law who has moved to Long Island and visits with his family every Sunday, continues eating his bagel with cream cheese and olives, and Zvi Lichte starts humming a tune.

  Henry isn't the least bit daunted. "Do you know what my platform is? Freedom. Respect for all people! Individual choice!"

  "Look who's talking about respect?" Zvi bursts out.

  But Rivkah gets excited. "I'll vote for you, daddy".

  This is too much for Zvi. "Your vote doesn't count!"

  "Everything counts," Henry calls back. "Thanks, Bekkie. Thanks a lot."

  These days Henry refuses to call her Rivkah. "I knew I would get Bekkie's vote. The rest of you can laugh all you want. I got plenty of others, all lined up. Waiting."

  A moment of silence falls over everybody. "You don't have one vote," Maxie challenges him.

  "Oh no? Just wait and see. You think it matters to me that this neighborhood won't give me its vote? You think I need them?"

  He does, and deep inside Rivkah knows it. She even sees the muscle of his left eye start twitching then, badly.

  "Nah, I don't need you," Henry goes on. "I have friends of my own. Smart and snappy. Real people too."

  Rivkah doesn't have the slightest idea who these real people could be.

  "And when Bekkie's just a little older, I'm taking her downtown and introducing her to them. Every single one of them."

  "Yeah, you'll take her!" Maxie explodes.

  "Why shouldn't I take her? She's My daughter, isn't she? Henry's voice rises then like the politician he fancies himself to be. "I'm going to show her who real people are. And I'm going to show her that every one of them is voting for me!"

  "Congratulations, daddy!"

  "You want to take your daughter straight to hell?" Maxie's face is filled with disgust.

  "And I'm getting her a dress like the other girls wear. Not the girls here."

  "It's not necessary. daddy."

  "Bright red. Silk, maybe. Plenty short." Henry's lips are quivering. "Bekkie hasn't seen anything yet! But, believe me, she will someday."

  His words fly through and through Rivkah like a poison arrow and the warm afternoon starts turning cold. Rivkah wants to get away.

  "I'm taking a walk now, Bekkie. Want to come with me?"

  "Later maybe, not right now."

  "What's wrong with now?"

  Rivkah puts her hands up to her head for a minute. Her temples are throbbing very fast. "I don't feel so well, daddy."

  "Doesn’t start like your mother now."

  Rivkah rubs her forehead a little, then puts her hands on her hair and pulls it back away from her face. Tight, like her grandmother.

  "And anyhow, daddy, right now I have to go. I'm expected somewhere."

  "You're not expected anywhere. You're running away from me?"

  "Of course not."

  "You're telling the world you're not my daughter?"

  "Never. Ever. Of course I'm your daughter."

  "So, say it again."

  "I am your daughter, daddy!"

  "Now say it louder so everyone can hear."

  "I already said it."

  "Not loud enough, Bekkie! Make an announcement!"

  "Of course I'm your daughter. Of course I'm your daughter. But daddy, you've got to remember,"

  "What?"

  "I'm God's daughter too."

  For a moment all are silenced.

  "They got you Bekkie," Henry breathes.

  "No, they don't." Rivkah takes a few steps and tries to head away down the block.

  "Run all you want now," Henry cries out in pain. "But the time is coming! Soon you won't be able go to your Uncle Bershky! They won't let you! You won't be allowed."

  Rivkah turns on her heel and starts moving fast. She has no idea what her father is talking about.

  For now the time has not yet ripened. Rivkah is still able to fly down the block, slip through the hedges, run into Uncle Reb Bershky's study, and sit there, trembling, at his side.

  Later that night, as Rivkah is lying in bed, tossing and thinking of all that has happened, she overhears her father saying to her mother, "get ready Molly. The time is coming. Soon I'm taking Bekkie with me downtown."

  "Over my dead body."

  "You watch and see. Why shouldn't I? What have I got here? Nothing! I don't have a wife and I even have the votes of my own neighborhood!"

  "You have a wife," she answers indignantly.

  "Yeah?"

  "Me," she proclaims and her cheeks start to flush.

  But he won't be silenced. "You call this a wife? 'Where is your wife, my friends ask? When are you going to bring her around?' You never come anywhere with me, Molly."

  "Tell them," she answers staunchly, "that I can't. It isn't allowed."

  "You're not the woman I once knew," he answers bitterly.

  But she is. Exactly the same. Nothing about her changes, ever.

  "I'm a poet, Henry," she whispers softly. "Be patient with me, please. I have an artistic soul."

  "It's over, Molly." For a moment he triumphs, goes into the next room and slams the door shut.

  Then the next day he calls her at least three times from work frantically. Rivkah listens into the call.

  "Molly, Molly, he begs over the phone, what can I do to make you happy?"

  "Nothing."

  "There must be something."

  She hesitates, but only for a moment. "Let me read you some of my poems."

  Molly starts reading them to him then. Strange poems they are too, about little birds who are just born, then fall over, tremble and die.

  Rivkah listens and shudders. These birds are nothing like Rivkah, who was born fierce. I'm different from them, Rivkah thinks to herself, and always will be. I'm a bird who was meant to fly.

  That evening, inside Uncle Bershky's study, Rivkah sits shivering. "Uncle Bershky," she speaks from out of the confusion that is beginning to invade her heart, "I may not be able to stay here with you forever. And what will happen then?"

  He looks up f
or a sharp moment. "Rivkah, there is one thing to remember. Only God's will can ever happen for you. Whatever comes, you must say thank you."

  CHAPTER 3

  For now, most of the time Rivkah stays downstairs in her grandmother's kitchen, working at her side. Day after day she is right there helping, cleaning, sweeping, cutting vegetables and running back and forth to Ruthie's corner store. The preparation for Sabbath takes days.

  "Grandma, I need more time with Uncle Reb Bershky."

  "Why? What's so great about Uncle Reb Bershky? There's no greater blessing than to cook for others." Devorah checks the vegetables and moves around the room, putting things in order, taking out pots, preparing the dough. "If you want to bring Messiah, knead this flour into dough."

  Together she and Rivkah roll the dough for the strudel. Their routine is firm and immovable. Devorah opens and closes the huge steel ovens in the walls. Rivkah kneads the dough into Challah on the long wooden table. After kneading the dough, they start peeling carrots for tzimmes, a pudding of carrots, raisins and prunes.

  "We are giving honor to the King," Devorah sings a little. "God is the King. Sabbath is his bride. A huge celebration is being made ready. Honor for the King, honor for the King." She keeps humming this over and over. "If even one person goes away from the Sabbath table hungry or disappointed, we haven't given real honor to the King. Only do everything perfectly and God will give you the wisdom you need."

  For as long as she is needed Rivkah stays there helping, but the minute she is finished, she runs out the side door to the alley way. Some bluebells are blooming unexpectedly beneath the hedges. They are blooming by themselves, uninvited. Rivkah stops for a moment and smiles at them.

  "Hello, hello," she whispers, "what in the world are you doing here?"

  Today, before Rivkah goes out the side door, Devorah comes over to the window where Rivkah is standing.

  "What's the big rush?"

  "Grandma, look, it's almost spring."

  "So? Rivkah, I have no idea what will come of you, but how can it be good?"

  Rivkah tries to shrug the old lady away.

  "I feel it cannot be good. We are all in danger, and no one knows it. I know it though."

  "I'm sorry."

  "And what good is it if you're sorry, tell me? Does it make our exile easier?"