The Sacrifice of Tamar (33 page)

Almost consumed by curiosity, he nevertheless did not pursue it because it was wrong to encourage his wife to speak
loshen hara
. That was the
halacha
.

Chapter twenty-two

The words of the Kovnitzer Rebbe acted like a magic elixir. Tamar felt a bubble as thin as sunlight, as impenetrable as steel, surround her. Nothing could harm her. Once, she even forgot to latch all of the windows. And at night, sleep again became that soft blanket of restful forgetfulness. Her dreams were oddly mild, forgotten as soon as she woke.

She went looking at baby clothes with Rivkie, fingering the soft pastel jumpsuits with their little snaps and embroideries, wondering at their tininess. Could a human being fit into that? A whole human being?

Jenny called frequently, but their conversations were short and strained. All the important things were avoided, all the trivial belabored until, bored and uncomfortable, they both found some reason to hang up.

The doctor’s appointments grew more frequent. And in the pristine, white waiting room with the lovely pictures of healthy, smiling babies and their healthy, smiling mothers, she felt herself lulled into forgetfulness. She began to think in terms of a baby,
a longed-for little child. As she flipped through
Family Circle
and the
Ladies’ Home Journal
, she lingered over crochet patterns for crib blankets and darling little sweater sets, going so far as to write down the directions and buy the wool.

It was going to be all right, she strengthened herself, praying with extra diligence, saying the Book of Psalms until she was hoarse. But it was not a real prayer, she knew. Because it was forbidden to ask G-d for something that was already decided. You could not ask for a boy or a girl once you were pregnant. Your prayers were foolish, meaningless. So she could not really ask G-d to make this child the union of her egg and her husband’s sperm. It was what it was. But still, she prayed all the same. She prayed and prayed and prayed for this thing, knowing it was wrong and useless.

It was inhuman to ask her not to pray, she thought.

The elixir lasted until she entered her ninth month. And then, for no reason, its potency suddenly failed her.

The dream was red this time, all shades of red, brick and blood and rust and wine. She woke up like a diver who has swum desperately to the top with empty oxygen tanks, gasping for breath. She did not remember the details, only the color: red, splashed over everything. Horrible pain. Tremendous fear, hot red, heavy red. She put on her robe and walked into the bathroom.

There was blood, real blood. Her panties were wet with it.

“Josh!!”

“What?”

“I’m bleeding,” she whispered, panic-stricken.

“Sit down. I’ll call the doctor,” he said with cold fear.

She lay on the examining table in the cold hospital room, the light shining in her eyes, blinding her. She heard the doctors conferring, snatches of words: “. . . irregularity… better to go in… first pregnancy…” The soft flow of distant words from strangers hovered over her life and body.

“Tamar, darling. The doctor thinks we shouldn’t wait. The placenta may have detached. He wants to do a cesarean right away. But it’s up to you. We can still wait, get another opinion…”

“It’s too soon, too early!”

“You’re almost at the end of your ninth month. The doctor says the baby is big enough, it won’t be premature. Tamar, we have to, or the baby might die.”

It might die, she thought, wondering at the strange mixture of emotions. Did she want that? Her baby, she thought. Black or white or green or yellow. Her baby. Her mind couldn’t go beyond that. It was too late. She had made the choice to give it life. To trade its life for her own if need be. She had spent nine months giving it life. She wanted that work to bear fruit. Living fruit. There wasn’t room for any other emotion.

“I don’t want to wait. Tell them to do it.”

The rolling bed, the slam of mint green doors, the masked faces looking down at her. The old nightmare come alive.

No!!
she began to scream, but her mouth was smothered by the anesthesia mask, and mercifully blessed darkness, like the best night’s sleep in the world, enveloped her.

“Tamar, wake up!”

Her eyelids fluttered. She tried to move, but her body felt horribly bruised, as if someone had cut her in half.

She was afraid to open her eyes. Afraid to face what had happened.

“Tamar!”

“Look!”

It was not the voice of the nightmare, but a friendly, warm sound. The babble of happy people involved in something they liked.

She looked up.

Josh stood at the head of her bed, a small blanket in his
arms, a tiny warm, small blanket. Her mother’s arms went around her shoulders. Rivkie was smiling ear to ear.

“Look at your son!” her mother commanded, her eyes wet.

Josh bent down. Painfully, she pushed her body off the pillows. She pulled back the blanket. Her fingers trembled.

A face, white and pink and perfect, looked back at her.

She closed her eyes and wept.

“Crying?” Her
mameh
laughed. “Tamar, you’re all finished! It’s over. The baby’s fine. You’re fine. I mean”—her mother winced at her daughter’s painful movements—“you will be fine after you rest up.” She hugged Tamar as if she were a small child. “You’ve made me so happy. Given me such
nachas
. You will call him Aaron, after your father?”

“Of course,
Mameh
,” Josh said without hesitation.

“A namesake for your father.” She glanced at Rivkie, who lowered her gaze guiltily. Rivkie had named her baby after her husband’s grandfather. “It would have made him so happy. A beautiful little grandson. Tamar, Tamar, you’ve made us all so happy!”

“My dear wife,” Josh whispered, taking the baby from her. “A little kaddishul. A son,
baruch Hashem, baruch Hashem
,” and she could see his knuckles whiten as they gripped the precious package, guarding it.

It’s all over, she thought.

“Look, he’s waking up!” Rivkie exclaimed. “Look at his eyes!”

“What color are they?” Tamar asked.

“They’re that baby color—bluish gook. You can’t really tell. They might be Josh’s blue, or your gray. But look how dark the hair is!” Rivkie exclaimed. “That’s strange. You’re both blond.”

Tamar felt a sudden sick jolt tear into her stomach, leaving her breathless.

“That’s nothing. That hair always falls out, and then the
blond grows in. Tamar was the same way. So much black hair, and then it all fell out and grew in blond,” Mrs Gottlieb said offhandedly, examining the baby with great joy. “And if it doesn’t… black hair is beautiful on a boy. Handsome. Your grandfather had the blackest hair, like coal it was, and black eyes. My beautiful little Aaron, my beautiful boy, we won’t let them say anything about you that’s not nice, will we?” she cooed to the infant.

Tamar sank back onto the pillows.

“Visiting hours are over,” a nurse told them. “Do you want the baby in here, or should I take him?” she asked Tamar.

“Leave him, please.”

“Good-bye, darling. I love you,” Josh mouthed voicelessly, embarrassed to make such a declaration out loud in front of the others.

“I love you, Josh.” She smiled up at him. He looked happy, oh so happy! Had anyone since the creation of the world ever looked as happy? she wondered.

“Mazel tov, my little Tamar. Be well, eat, rest,” her mother murmured, kissing her cheek, rubbing a finger over the baby’s smooth little chin.

“Good job, Tamar.” Rivkie laughed. “Now you can open a day-care center, and I can bring Shlomie over every morning…”

“Or you could baby-sit for your sister, it wouldn’t kill you,”
Mameh
said dryly.

“Well, sure, I suppose.” Rivkie smiled wanly. “Be well. I’ll come tomorrow.”

Tamar waved to them tiredly, relieved to see the door close behind them.

She laid the baby on the bed and opened his blanket, the way a married woman would open a secret letter from a lover. She undid his soft cotton undershirt and opened the diaper, her heart beating with guilt and dread and excitement. With one finger, she traced the lines of his tiny body, from his small, smooth
forehead to the tips of his tiny perfect pink toes. He had her own mouth, well shaped and vulnerable, her father’s big ears, and her mother’s high cheekbones. The eyes were small but with thick dark lashes, almost too pretty for a boy’s, the color a newborn’s indistinct motley blue. She studied them and thought she glimpsed a darker blue beneath. Josh’s blue.

Or was it wishful thinking?

She laid her hand over his chest, her fingers spanning his entire body.

White and pink and beautiful, she thought.

Why should you worry anymore? White and pink and perfect. Mazel tovs. Smiling eyes. I love yous. Perfect.

Everyone was happy.

Everything was perfect.

Thank you, G-d, for this child. Thank you for doing what I asked of you. Thank you, oh, thank you!

She touched his head, smoothing down the dark black curly strands.

Part Two

Chapter twenty-three

July 10, 1971

With G-d’s help.

Dear Tamar,

The plane took off and I shut my eyes, wondering if I would turn out to be one of those people who are petrified of flying. Guess what? I love flying! I like it better than driving any day. I think I know the reason why. In a car you have some illusion of being in control so you’re always tense and worried about the car behind you or the car coming toward you, your imagination working overtime… But on a plane, you are up there in G-d’s hands, completely helpless. Nothing you do matters. I’m one of those that feels a whole lot safer that way (considering the way I drive!). I figure, I’m on my way to Israel, to do this great good deed, to start this beautiful good life, G-d will carry me there safely.

The plane was jammed, packed, loaded, engorged. And everybody was so up, so happy. Lots of students with backpacks, lots of Hasidic families and little kids, lots of good-hearted Jews from Detroit and Chicago and Denver all fingering their little cameras and Mogen Dovids. In the middle of the trip the Hasidim got up, gathered in the back, and started praying. If I didn’t feel safe before, I certainly felt safe after that! Imagine, thousands of feet in the air, and all these black-and-white prayer shawls, and tefillin… I mean, how many commercial airlines are also flying shteibels? I love Shalom Airlines! Even though everything you’ve heard is true: they pack you in like sardines, the bathrooms are feculent (look it up!), the stewardesses are nasty and unhelpful and throw the food at you if you’re not a handsome man in your thirties. But they speak Hebrew, and they’re from Israel, and I love them anyway. I loved every single person on that plane. And I loved them even more when the plane swooped out of the clouds and we looked down and saw the coastline of Israel, blue and fair. I really felt like that old prophecy was coming true: “And I shall carry you on the backs of eagle’s wings…”

When I think of how many Jews spent their whole lives dreaming about seeing this place and that I actually have the privilege of fulfilling that dream… shivers. I almost feel sad, in a way, as if I don’t deserve it. Why me? Why not all the great rabbis who lived and died in Polish ghettos, or in Spanish or Portuguese auto-da-fés? Or those who died on those long treacherous sea-land journeys through Arabia before ever achieving their dreams? Or the Jews in Russia and Syria who are virtual prisoners? Why am I privileged to have been born at this time, in this place, to pay my ticket and come so easily?

Anyway, the plane landed and everyone, but everyone, sang that Naomi Shemer song “Jerusalem of Gold,” and as corny as it all was, I felt the tears pouring down my cheeks (this will be a frequent phrase in this letter, so I’ll just abbreviate it from now on—TPDMC).

Something very strange happened to me when I got off the plane. I saw people actually bend down and kiss the earth. I wanted so much to do it, but I felt paralyzed. I am just such an American. I wish I could let myself go. I wonder if a person can really change countries, or do you carry your birthplace and culture with you always? And is American culture really stronger than anything we learned in Ohel Sara?

I got my passport checked. Got my immigrant card. Picked up my luggage. And then, total panic!

My Ohel Sara Hebrew is just about worthless. My HIF Hebrew slightly better, but too slow. Everyone speaks so quickly, the way the Puerto Ricans speak Spanish. But the real problem is I don’t know how to say anything. I mean, if I wanted to negotiate for a burial cave, or warn the Jews to break all their idols, I could probably manage with the Hebrew we learned in chumash class. But trying to hail a taxi left me speechless.

Somehow I managed to locate a taxi going to Jerusalem. Not a private cab, which costs a fortune, but this thing called a “sherut,” sort of a shuttle service. There was only one problem: the driver needed six passengers to make it worth his while and there were only four of us. We waited and waited. I got to feeling I’d be ready to shanghai someone just to get us moving (and some air circulating) until finally an old gentleman and his wife turned up. I had to restrain myself from hugging them.

The car started moving and all the way I kept thinking: I’ve really done it, I’m here!! I looked out the back window and saw the airport fading in the distance, and this lump came to my throat. It wasn’t the same type of lump I had when I kissed my mother and brother good-bye, or when I hugged you. I knew what was in that lump: nostalgia, parting, when will I see you again, don’t let me leave the familiar, all my good friends, my dear family… Looking out that back window, I felt the lump was hard and small and full of one feeling: fear. I never want to leave. I never want to come back to the airport and take a plane out. On the other hand, I was feeling: I don’t want to be here, I’m afraid of the unknown. Take me back.