The Sacrifice of Tamar (12 page)

Surie Mandlebright looked at her little daughter in the poorly ironed blouse with unraveling buttonholes and the stained blue woolen skirt, her lips bunching with fury and her smooth fingers knotting into a fist she thought best to hide in the pocket of her elegant holiday dress.

Hadassah stared back. It was a look of triumph.

Chapter eight

The next morning, Tamar sat at the kitchen table. Her cousin Zissel was playing on the floor with a puzzle, and her aunt Malka was busy helping her mother roll out the cookie dough for more prune-filled Hamen’s ears cookies.

“Tamar asked me if you’re bringing Zissel to shul this year,” her mother whispered to her aunt. The low tone immediately attracted Tamar’s full attention.

Malka shook her head. “What for? She won’t hear anything. She won’t understand. And if she wants to ask me something, she’ll start using her hands, making those funny sounds…”

“But the girls, they want her to come, to see the costumes…”

“No, I don’t want. I don’t want the stares, the talking behind the back. You know what I mean. I’ve got to think of Daniel. He’s also my child. I don’t want everybody to know our business. You know what happens. They don’t let the kids come over, they get scared… It’s better this way, Ruth, believe me. What’s not nice, we don’t have to show…”

Tamar heard her mother sigh. “But Malka, you can’t keep her locked up forever! What about school next year?”

“I’ve asked around. There’s only one place: the Manhattan School for the Deaf. Such a
goyische
place.” Malka’s voice lowered, full of shame. “I thought I’d, maybe, keep her home another year.”

“It’s not right to do to the child…”

“Don’t tell me what’s right to do for my child! I know what’s right for my child! I stay home with her, not you. I’m the prisoner, not you!” Her voice took on a bitterness that made Tamar look away, frightened.

The two women glanced at her and then at each other.

“Malka, G-d knows I’m not blaming… It’s just Zissel, what’s best for her…”

“But what else can I do?” Malka continued in a fierce, pleading whisper. “You know they’ll send a special bus to pick her up. It’ll stop right in front of the house, where all the neighbors can see… I’d die of shame.”

Tamar found herself waiting anxiously for her mother’s reply. But she heard only a long, resigned sigh, which surprised and frightened her even more. She looked at her cousin Zissel, the long red hair, the pink cheeks. She was so pretty! And smart. Why, that puzzle had three hundred pieces, and she was nearly done! She was used to Zissel’s unmodulated voice, her elaborate hand movements, which seemed like some clever game of charades. Always before, it had seemed just a different kind of normal, Zissel-normal… For the first time she realized that it might be something to be ashamed of.

“Maybe you could ask the bus to pick her up a few blocks away,” Ruth suggested in a whisper.

They were ashamed of Zissel. Because she wasn’t perfect. And if something wasn’t perfect, it was best if you kept it locked up behind closed doors, so no one would see. Even her kind mother believed that.

She felt her stomach lurch in fear as she watched her mother’s dark head, her shapely, efficient arms bent to their task, rolling the pliant cookie dough.
Mameh
was perfect, she thought. Slim, with large blue eyes and auburn hair. Why couldn’t she look like her mother? she mourned.

“You eat nothing, Tamar. Are you sick?” her mother asked, placing a damp, floury hand across her forehead. “You’re not hot.” Ruth rubbed the flour mark off the child’s forehead. “You’re not wearing your costume!” she suddenly noticed.

“
Mameh
. . .” Tamar began, not knowing where to begin. “
Mameh
, am I… ugly?”

“Ugly?” Ruth’s face was incredulous. “
Gotteinu!
Malka, Aaron, you hear this? What is she talking about? Come, eat a cookie, drink a little milk with it. Don’t forget to make the
broocha
.”

“
Mameh
. . .” She tried again, looking desperately for confirmation in her mother’s loving eyes. But all she saw was herself reflected there, small and forlorn, with long curly hair and big glasses. She swallowed hard. What was the point of asking? She had gotten the answer yesterday, in school. The only ugly Queen Esther… She, too, would have to hide. She too would never go outside, never go back to school again. She would stay home, like Zissel.

“What was that?” Aaron Gottlieb said, sauntering with leisurely ease into the kitchen. He had taken the day off in order to hear the reading of the
Megillah
in the synagogue, to give out the gift baskets and to participate in the Purim
seudah
, the large eating and wine-drinking feast that made the holiday such a merry one.

Her mother said something in Yiddish too fast and low for Tamar to catch. She saw her father looking down at her.

“What, Tamar, no veils, no evening gown? Where did that beautiful Queen Esther disappear to? You didn’t happen to see her, did you?”

A tear trickled down her cheek.

“
Oy vey is mere!
On Purim,
mamaleh, mamaleh
, what could be so bad? What?” He picked her up and she flung her arms around his shoulders with greedy affection, burying her head beneath his chin.

“Rivkie, what’s the matter with your sister? Did she say anything to you?” Ruth asked.

Rivkie, already in costume, flipped one of the hot cookies from hand to hand. “No,” she said, finally eating it. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She said something about looking ugly…”

Rivkie’s bites slowed down and she chewed meditatively. “I only told her to take off some of that lipstick…” she said cautiously. “But she didn’t start crying about it then.”

“Come,” Aaron Gottlieb said, walking into the living room with Tamar’s head still burrowing into his shoulder. He stood in front of the large mirror over the couch. “Now look at yourself.” She shook her head. “Come on, one little peek, all right?”

She cautiously lifted one eyelid, already feeling something pleasant was about to happen. Just being off the floor made her feel taller and more beautiful. The prisms of the chandelier caught the light and flung it over her, like fairy dust.

“Now both eyes,” her father coaxed, looking over her flushed face, her tender, vulnerable mouth, the eyes almost fierce with distress. “See what pretty hair, so long and curly. Why, in Europe, if a little girl had curly hair like this, all the other little girls were so jealous they made their
Mamehs
sit for hours dipping their hair in sugar water to make them curls!”

Her eyes were wide with interest but skeptical.

“Oh, yes.” He nodded solemnly. “Now look at those eyes.” He took her glasses off. “Look how large and beautiful they are, like silver. And those pretty red cheeks…”

She looked at herself. Could she trust his vision? Could she trust him? She wasn’t sure. But somehow the look on his face
seemed to shine over her, like the flattering light in a photographer’s studio.

“Now will you please put your costume back on?”

She hesitated.

“Well, it would please me so much to escort such a lovely queen around Orchard Park to give out the
shalach monos
. Won’t you please, little queen?” He winked at her. It was a special wink, a code between them that left everyone else out. It meant “Come, we’ll have fun, just the two of us!” She could never resist that wink.

She was about to ask, “What about Zissel?” when she thought better of it. She knew the answer. She accepted it. Besides, she was too relieved and grateful at her own rescue from the cliff’s edge to risk reaching out for Zissel’s hand, which might pull her over.

“Is Rivkie coming with us?”

“I think Rivkie is going to be busy making up more
shalach monos
baskets with your mother and Aunt Malka.” He winked again.

That settled it. A two-wink outing with her father. Without Rivkie. Not to be resisted. Ever. Her arms tightened around his neck, and she planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek. How she loved him! And if he thought she was beautiful, who else mattered?

She put the veils and dress on again. But this time she smoothed down the tulle cautiously and carefully tied her hair back. The lipstick no longer even tempted her.

“Ready?” Her father beamed.

“Ready!” She bounded into his arms, her face reflecting his. “Just, I want to say good-bye to Zissel.”

She crouched down, touching Zissel on the shoulder. The child turned around and smiled.

“Happy Purim, Zissel!”

“Ah-pee Pooh-rim!” Zissel answered as usual. But it
sounded different to Tamar now, strange and loud and funny. It sounded shameful.

“
Tateh?
”

“Uhm?”

“Can we bring a basket to a new friend?”

“Who?”

“Jenny Douglas, from my class.”

“Jenny?” He shrugged, surprised at the very American name. “Where does she live?”

“Fifteen-fifteen Newrose Avenue,” she read off a slip of paper where she had written it the day before.

“It’s a long walk,
mamaleh
. Why specially this girl and not somebody closer?”

“Because… she’s… my friend.”

“But you have lots of friends!”

She shook her head: “Please
Tateh!
”

“I suppose.” He smoothed down Tamar’s curly hair, and the child caught his hand and kissed it.

They gave out the heaviest basket first, the one laden with choice wines and expensive chocolate bonbons. The Kovnitzer Rebbe’s basket.

The Gottlieb family were not Kovnitzer Hasidim. But like many other Jews, particularly those who’d survived the war in Europe through a thousand haphazard decisions, they had a certain longing for the clear, dilemma-free lives of the Hasidim, who could ask their rebbe any difficult life decision and be relieved of the burden of personal choice. After all, they reasoned, following a few new customs, listening to words of wisdom from a great learned man like the Rebbe… How could it hurt?

And while they would not have trusted the Rebbe with the selection of a surgeon or advice on a particular medical procedure—as would bona fide Hasidim of Kovnitz—they were
nevertheless happy to have his advice about what business to go into or how to overcome sudden setbacks through charitable donations… Like wearing a rabbit’s foot and a star of David, they were simply hedging their bets. Their relationship to the Rebbe gave them a set of training wheels as they rode the wobbly bicycle that was their new life in America.

Tamar knocked on the door, hoping Hadassah wouldn’t be there. She didn’t want to face anyone from her class in this costume again. Rebbetzin Mandlebright opened the door. Tamar handed her the basket.

“A
frelicht
Purim.” She smiled, accepting the basket and handing Tamar a dime, the custom.

“A
frelicht
Purim, Rebbetzin,” she answered politely.

“What a pretty Queen Esther! Hadassah wanted a blue dress too. She really did. She’s upstairs. Do you want to say hello?”

She did not want to say hello to Hadassah Mandlebright. Or good-bye. Or anything. Hadassah’s role in yesterday’s disaster, her sudden, belated defense after her initial participation, was uncomfortably undigested in her mind.

“My
tateh
is waiting…” she said, backing away as quickly as she could.

Out of nowhere, Hadassah suddenly appeared at her mother’s side. “Hi! What are you doing?” She seemed bored.

The rebbetzin patted Tamar on the head and left the two girls alone.

“I’m giving out
shalach monos
with my father.”

“Is that him?” Hadassah pointed over Tamar’s shoulder to where Aaron Gottlieb stood waiting patiently on the pavement. He smiled and waved.

“Yes,” she said proudly. “That’s him.”

“And he is taking you all over Orchard Park, just you and him?” Hadassah asked wistfully. “He has time?”

“My
tateh
doesn’t work today.” She was proud of that, too,
and exhilarated by the inexplicable envy in Hadassah’s eyes. “But your
tateh
is home all the time!”

“So, big deal. I never see him. He never takes me anywhere. All those people in the house. They make so much noise. It’s so boring.” Hadassah looked at her wistfully.

“I’m going to Jenny’s next. I mean Yehudit. Come with us?” Tamar said impulsively, feeling suddenly very sorry for Hadassah Mandlebright.

Hadassah’s dull eyes brightened. “I’ll have to ask. Wait a minute.”

“But we’re walking, my
tateh
and me,” Tamar suddenly hedged, beginning to regret, just a tiny bit, that she would have to share her father. Besides, she had never in her life seen Hadassah walk anyplace except on the Sabbath and certain holidays when the
halacha
forbade driving.

“I don’t mind. Wait, I’ll ask my
mameh
.”

The white Chrysler Imperial let Tamar, her father and Hadassah out in front of Romano’s Italian Grocery on Newrose Avenue. The driver, an affable Hasid with a long red beard and eyes as bright as new copper pennies (from the Purim liquor at the Rebbe’s table, already half gone), said he would wait in the car to take them back.

“This can’t be…” Tamar said, scrambling out to the sidewalk, looking at the run-down stores.

“Come girls,” Aaron Gottlieb said quietly. “Let’s do a mitzvah.”

“Who is it?” Jenny called. Her mother was at work. She wasn’t allowed to open the door for anyone.

“It’s me, Tamar. And Hadassah. And my
tateh
, and we’ve come to bring you
shalach monos
,” Tamar said excitedly, feeling somehow brave and adventurous. And full of pleasure at doing a mitzvah.

“I’m not… dressed,” Jenny said, a great panic-stricken
ache slicing through her stomach at the idea of girls from her class knowing where and how she lived.

“Is your father home, child?” Aaron said in his quiet way.

There was a short silence. “No. He’s dead.”

The two girls looked at each other, horrified and impressed.