The Sisters Weiss (26 page)

Slowly, she put down the groceries. Then, she took off her coat, hanging it carefully in the closet. “Do you want eggs?” she asked him, helpless with the knowledge that she had come to a turning point.

He got up from the couch, walking toward her with slow, silent steps, as sinuous and dangerous as a panther, she thought. He put his arms around her. “My sweet angel,” he said, enfolding her, resting his cheek against her neck. His lips pushed aside her blouse, finding her bare shoulder.

“Simon,” she whispered, breathless, trapped in her own confusion and desire. “It’s a sin.”

“Are you married?” he murmured.

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“We aren’t married.”

“Where is it written that single people have to get married before they can have sex?”

She could not think of an answer. It was like the Jewish milk, she thought. More things she’d been taught that made no sense, added on to her religion by people who wanted to make life difficult, not pure. But there was one thing she was certain of. “I have to go to the mikveh first.”

“Those ritual purification baths?” He shook his head skeptically, smiling.

“I must.” She shook her head adamantly.

“Okay … if that’s what you need. I respect that,” he said, loosening his arms. “But I have to ask you something. Do you have some protection?”

Now she was totally confused. “From what?”

“Okay. I guess that means I’ll use something.”

“Something?”

“A condom.”

She blushed scarlet. “No, no. You mustn’t use anything! It’s a sin. Like spilling your seed on the ground like Onan. But you don’t have to worry about it. I won’t get pregnant.”

He didn’t probe. “So you are using something.”

“I won’t get pregnant, Simon,” she repeated.

“All right, then. I guess I’ll go get dressed and get to work.”

She watched as he turned, his beautiful body moving away.

27

A week later, Rivka walked down the unmarked path toward the door of the mikveh. Opening her purse, she took out the shiny, five-dollar ring and slipped it on her finger; then, she tied a scarf around her head, tucking in all her abundant hair.

She had traveled an hour and a half by subway to Far Rockaway in order to visit a ritual bath where hopefully no one would know her. Sick with apprehension that the mikveh attendants—who had a reputation for unrelenting piety and strict supervision of the area under their control—might somehow sniff out the scandalous truth, she shook as she rang the intercom, aware of the blinking video cameras recording her every move. Finally, she was buzzed in.

The waiting room was full of women of all ages. Some, certainly past menopause, had no doubt decided to come simply for good luck, as was the custom. One or two looked like frightened young virgins clinging to their mothers. But the majority were overweight and harried young mothers who seemed pleased to have a reason to sit and do nothing. They looked up briefly and curiously as she took her place among them.

From across the room, she looked into the open door of the “salon,” where women who had finished their ablutions were now using high-powered hair-dryers to style their hair, as well as availing themselves of the nail polish and makeup left on display for their use. While strict religious adherence usually looked askance at such displays of vanity, the opposite was true of those preparing for their rabbinically sanctioned postmikveh encounters with their husbands.

From the time a woman’s period commenced until seven days after it ceased and she immersed in the mikveh, married couples were forbidden any physical contact. Nonobservant people, she realized, could never understand what kind of passion this abstinence evoked. She remembered the way her mother would come home with wet hair but fresh lipstick, something she hardly ever wore. The way her father would speak to her mother in an especially soft tone of voice. She squeezed her hands together nervously at the memory. The practice of attending mikveh was meant to encourage intimacy between married couples, who would produce the next generation of pure souls. What would they say of her, though, a single girl prettying herself up for an illicit romp with a boyfriend?

Can I really immerse in the holy waters, say the blessing, and then desecrate myself? Was sex a desecration when it was between two consenting, unmarried people? According to the Torah, she knew, it was hardly a sin at all. Well, it was severely looked down upon by Jewish custom, but nowhere was it written that it was strictly forbidden. In fact, Jewish law even considered it a legal method of contracting a marriage. But having sex without immersing in the mikveh was unforgivable. The punishment for such a transgression was “karet,” meaning “being cut off,” a supernatural punishment brought down on you by heaven. Some said it was being cut off from your people forever—both here and in the World to Come, while others said it was to be cut off from life—dying young or without children.

But custom was stronger than law, she knew. If anyone here even suspected the truth, it would start a virtual riot, and she’d be thrown out unceremoniously in front of all these strangers! She felt tears rise to her eyes for what she was about to do and, contrarily, at the thought that something might prevent it.

“Just had a baby?” a young woman sitting next to her asked, pointing to Rivka’s long nails.

Rivka hurriedly clenched her hands into fists, attempting to hide them.

Why, oh why, hadn’t she cut them at home? They were a dead giveaway. There were only two reasonable explanations for such nails: that you were finishing up a long pregnancy and birth, and thus hadn’t been to the mikveh for months, or that it was your first time. Since she’d walked in with her hair covered and a ring on her finger, the latter was no longer possible. I am a very bad liar, she thought, forcing a smile and a nod.

“I had my first baby a few months ago,” the woman chatted on. “So I’m back to no nails. But I don’t care. Who has time for manicures with a newborn crying day and night? Are you new in the neighborhood?”

“I’m … actually visiting … with … that is … we are visiting…”

“Oh, who are your friends? Or is it family?” she probed, continuing the friendly game of Jewish geography that made Rivka want to cut and run. Luckily, her interrogator’s name was called and she soon disappeared inside before Rivka needed to make up an answer.

Soon after, it was her turn. “Room number four,” the mikveh attendant told her, handing her a towel, washcloth, and bar of soap. “Do you need anything else?”

Rivka, who had no idea, shook her head, walking into the room and locking the door behind her. Everything looked clean and pleasant, she saw, relieved. There was a sink and a bathtub with nice pink bath tiles. On the counter were nail clippers, cotton balls, nail-polish remover, and makeup remover. Luckily, there was also a sign listing all the things she needed to do to make herself ready for immersion. It went on forever.

Slowly, she hung up her coat and unbuttoned her sweater, hanging them on a hook. She unbuttoned her blouse and unzipped her skirt. Her slip was new, a pale white silky material with lace over the breasts. She hung it beneath her coat, hiding it along with her new, matching lace bra and panties, horrified by the idea that the matronly attendant should see them. Naked, she felt suddenly vulnerable and frightened. She quickly wrapped a towel around herself, turning on the faucets of the bathtub.

As she waited for it to fill, she lifted her leg up, resting it on the rim of the tub, examining her toes and using the nail clippers to shear off her toenails, carefully gathering the shards and disposing of them, as was the custom. Then she switched legs, repeating her actions. Then she turned to her fingernails, cutting them so close to the nail bed that her skin began to bleed, determined to convince the mikveh attendant of her piety.

Done, she hung up the towel and got into the bath, looking down at herself. She couldn’t recall a time when she had been forced into such intimacy with her own naked body for such a long time. She had never taken baths, an unheard of, selfish indulgence for a member of their large family given that they all shared a single bathroom. No one would have dared waste so much expensively heated hot water on themselves! Bathing—along with everything else they did in that room—was a hurried affair, completed as soon as possible.

Lying back in the warm water, she drew the soapy washcloth over her pink, smooth arms and shoulders, finally reaching down to her plump young breasts, embarrassed at the nipples that stood out so firmly. But why should you be embarrassed at your own body? she asked herself, boldly examining them as if for the first time. They were like two soft, plump fruits, not rounded, but conical with a dark pink circle at the center with its own tiny bud. She lifted them and they filled her hands, pressing against them with luxurious, heavy softness. She ran the cloth over her firm rounded hips and flat stomach, her slim thighs and calves. Following the written instructions, she shampooed the hair of both her head and lower body, blushing as she rinsed both carefully.

Then, she stepped from the bath, reaching for a towel to cover herself. In the corner of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of her naked body in the mirror. As if sleepwalking, she moved closer, standing shamelessly before it.

OH, oh. Could it be possible? All those pieties, and yet, underneath the heavy opaque stockings, the midcalf skirts, the long-sleeved shirts, there was … this! She looked at the voluptuous curves of her breasts and hips and thighs, the blond triangle where her legs met. This, this was what she was. Not a prayer sayer, an obedient, modest girl filled with spirituality … but this. She felt almost angry, as if this truth had been deliberately hidden from her, this amazing revelation, with all its intoxicating power.

She felt suddenly hot, almost dizzy with the vision. Slowly, she took a comb and ran it through her hair to remove any tangles. And when she finished with the hair on her head, she reached down to the blond triangle below.

She had never spent any time at all thinking about it, and had never in her life stood like this examining it. That powerful place where life began, where babies pushed out into the world. And yet, not just a factory. A place too of magic and wonder, a vortex of pleasure. This was where she felt Simon. Not in her head, or even her heart. But down here, in this place, the place she liked to call her belly. But she could see now that it was not. It was a different destination altogether.

Was she ready to go there? To take him?

For one panicked moment she considered fleeing. It was not too late to rush back into her parents’ arms, to put off this decision for months, even years. The terrible idea came to her that, whatever she did at this point, her life might not turn out to be all that wonderful anyway. Was it really worth it, then, to sacrifice her honor, all she still believed in? And was it really her honor, and did she really still believe in all those things she had been brought up to believe?

You have no idea what your life is going to be like, a voice inside her scolded. Stop being a spoiled brat! Did you really think it was going to be so easy? Have courage to follow your dreams, or die trying!

The voice was harsh, intimidating, and convincing, much more so than the pale threats from her parents that her imagination conjured up, annoying reminders of her duty to the Torah and to the family’s good name. Since she was the youngest and her other siblings were all married, she was spared the most convincing threat of all: that her wantonness would destroy her siblings’ chances for good matches, as her aunt Rose had destroyed her mother’s. That threat, she knew, kept most of her friends in line.

Scrubbed, clipped, and painfully combed, she modestly covered herself with a towel and rang the bell for the attendant. Soon someone was knocking on the door, trying to get in. She quickly unlocked it.

“Ready?”

Rivka nodded.

“Your hair! It’s so long! Didn’t your husband make you cut it when you married?”

“My husband likes it long,” she said in a small voice.

The woman shook her head. “No wonder it took you so long to get ready for immersion! And all the stray hairs…” she tsk-tsked, examining Rivka’s bare shoulders and back. “It’s impossible. Come, show me your nails.”

Rivka held out her brutally manicured fingertips and the woman gave her a bright smile of approval, somewhat placated.

“Very good. But next time, don’t damage the skin. You can’t immerse if you’re bleeding.” Then, the woman was silent, waiting. Finally, she said, “The towel, child.”

“What about it?”

The woman gave her a long, searching look. “You act as if this is the first time for you in a mikveh…?”

“No, no, it’s just that where I usually go…”

“So tell me, how does the mikveh attendant check your body where you usually go if you keep it covered with a towel?” Her tone was polite but skeptical.

Rivka felt herself blush from head to toe as she opened the towel and let it drop to the bathroom floor. The woman looked her over matter-of-factly, picking off stray hairs with a tissue, all the while peppering her with questions: “Did you remember to clean out your belly button? Did you use Q-tips on your ears? Did you wipe the corners of your eyes? Did you brush your teeth?”

All the while, Rivka stood, exposed and mortified, all the joy of her secret exultation stamped out and destroyed. Stupefied, she nodded wordlessly.

“Fine, fine.” Again, the woman waited, finally handing her the terrycloth bathrobe that had been hanging on a hook, still slightly damp from the last woman who had used it. Rivka cringed.

“Are you sure this is not your first time?” the woman asked again, this time with added sharpness.

Rivka, disgusted, suddenly gave up. “Yes, it’s my very first time here! I have no idea what to do!”

“But you are married, aren’t you?” the attendant demanded sharply. “We don’t let unmarried girls use the mikveh.”

She felt the moment of truth had arrived. She could tell and be honest and one with her soul, accepting her punishment of public humiliation and facing Simon’s disappointment and anger, or she could continue to lie, weaseling out of the unhappiness that was her due in order to reach the illicit joy looming tantalizingly in her imagination.