pleasurable!”
I remember feeling confused. Wasn’t that the point, not to experience pleasure? “No,” Avremel said. That was the point but also not quite the point, because if there was no pleasure, it wasn’t the real thing. I was still confused, as he stood there making wild, wordless gestures and shook his head in exasperation. When he spoke again, it was with palpable irritation.
“For a woman’s body to respond,” he said, bringing his five fingers together opposite his nose, “in order for her to create a child, there must be liebshaft .” Liebshaft is the Yiddish word for love, and it was a strange word to hear, applied to a woman, from a man who was otherwise obsessed with guiding me on the path to holiness and purity. I did not know how Avremel knew this medical fact, but I had no reason to doubt him. Yet the idea made me angry.
“ Love her?” I asked. The notion seemed ludicrous. “How?”
“If the love isn’t there,” Avremel said, “then you have to create it.” He shook his head and closed his eyes, as if thinking through a complex problem, and then opened them again. “You just have to find a way.”
Later that evening, as we ate our dinner of roast chicken and breaded egg noodles and spoke quietly about the things we’d done that day, I looked at Gitty and wondered if I could love her. When she stood up to clear our dishes, I noticed the curve of her hips as they swayed gently when she walked. As she stood at the sink and washed the dishes, I leaned on the counter nearby, and noticed the color in her cheeks, the gentle way she looked at me when she spoke, the softness of her voice when she asked what to prepare for lunch the next day.
The next evening, after my last study session, I made my way to the Mazel Tov Gift Shop, a small basement store that sold everything from Rachel’s Tomb needlecraft kits to sterling-silver menorahs to diamond rings. One night a week, after ten, the shop was open for one hour, for men only. The proprietor, Reb Moshe Hersh, a stocky man in a yellowed and grease-stained tallis katan , laid several trays of rings and earrings on the counter. I looked at the selection, and then looked at Moshe Hersh, who stood with his hands resting on the counter, waiting for my decision.
“What do you think?” I asked. I had never bought a woman a gift before, and the selection in front of me was a baffling array of gold and silver and glittery gems, like a field of pebbles glittering in the sunlight.
Moshe Hersh shrugged. “You’re the customer,” he said.
I studied the items in front of me. As Moshe Hersh stood breathing heavily, I inspected the pieces one by one and slowly began to notice their differences: silver and gold, sleek and intricate, chunky and subtle. I settled on a silver ring with a scalloped pattern and tiny diamonds inlaid across the top. I liked its understated elegance and hoped that Gitty’s tastes weren’t dissimilar.
I left the ring in a box on Gitty’s pillow when I left for yeshiva the next morning. Under the box I placed a folded sheet of plain white paper on which I wrote what seemed like appropriate sentiments, using the same Hebrew script I used for jotting notes on the Talmud or for transcribing the rebbe’s talks. I hope that our love will grow and last forever. As if the love was already there, and needed only to be tended and nurtured. As with faith, Avremel had declared it something one might will into existence.
When I returned home that evening, Gitty was at the kitchen counter, her back to me, putting our dinner onto plates. She said nothing, and so I thought perhaps she hadn’t discovered my gift. I checked the bedroom, but the package was not on her pillow. “Did you find … the thing?” I asked when I returned to the kitchen.
She nodded without turning, and then, almost as an afterthought, said, “Thank you.” She made no more mention of the gift, and neither did I, and I wondered if she liked it, if I was
I remember feeling confused. Wasn’t that the point, not to experience pleasure? “No,” Avremel said. That was the point but also not quite the point, because if there was no pleasure, it wasn’t the real thing. I was still confused, as he stood there making wild, wordless gestures and shook his head in exasperation. When he spoke again, it was with palpable irritation.
“For a woman’s body to respond,” he said, bringing his five fingers together opposite his nose, “in order for her to create a child, there must be liebshaft .” Liebshaft is the Yiddish word for love, and it was a strange word to hear, applied to a woman, from a man who was otherwise obsessed with guiding me on the path to holiness and purity. I did not know how Avremel knew this medical fact, but I had no reason to doubt him. Yet the idea made me angry.
“ Love her?” I asked. The notion seemed ludicrous. “How?”
“If the love isn’t there,” Avremel said, “then you have to create it.” He shook his head and closed his eyes, as if thinking through a complex problem, and then opened them again. “You just have to find a way.”
Later that evening, as we ate our dinner of roast chicken and breaded egg noodles and spoke quietly about the things we’d done that day, I looked at Gitty and wondered if I could love her. When she stood up to clear our dishes, I noticed the curve of her hips as they swayed gently when she walked. As she stood at the sink and washed the dishes, I leaned on the counter nearby, and noticed the color in her cheeks, the gentle way she looked at me when she spoke, the softness of her voice when she asked what to prepare for lunch the next day.
The next evening, after my last study session, I made my way to the Mazel Tov Gift Shop, a small basement store that sold everything from Rachel’s Tomb needlecraft kits to sterling-silver menorahs to diamond rings. One night a week, after ten, the shop was open for one hour, for men only. The proprietor, Reb Moshe Hersh, a stocky man in a yellowed and grease-stained tallis katan , laid several trays of rings and earrings on the counter. I looked at the selection, and then looked at Moshe Hersh, who stood with his hands resting on the counter, waiting for my decision.
“What do you think?” I asked. I had never bought a woman a gift before, and the selection in front of me was a baffling array of gold and silver and glittery gems, like a field of pebbles glittering in the sunlight.
Moshe Hersh shrugged. “You’re the customer,” he said.
I studied the items in front of me. As Moshe Hersh stood breathing heavily, I inspected the pieces one by one and slowly began to notice their differences: silver and gold, sleek and intricate, chunky and subtle. I settled on a silver ring with a scalloped pattern and tiny diamonds inlaid across the top. I liked its understated elegance and hoped that Gitty’s tastes weren’t dissimilar.
I left the ring in a box on Gitty’s pillow when I left for yeshiva the next morning. Under the box I placed a folded sheet of plain white paper on which I wrote what seemed like appropriate sentiments, using the same Hebrew script I used for jotting notes on the Talmud or for transcribing the rebbe’s talks. I hope that our love will grow and last forever. As if the love was already there, and needed only to be tended and nurtured. As with faith, Avremel had declared it something one might will into existence.
When I returned home that evening, Gitty was at the kitchen counter, her back to me, putting our dinner onto plates. She said nothing, and so I thought perhaps she hadn’t discovered my gift. I checked the bedroom, but the package was not on her pillow. “Did you find … the thing?” I asked when I returned to the kitchen.
She nodded without turning, and then, almost as an afterthought, said, “Thank you.” She made no more mention of the gift, and neither did I, and I wondered if she liked it, if I was
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