Lowenstein’s office, a paper- and book-jumbled mess with overflowing filing cabinets and an enormous picture of the old city of Jerusalem.
I need to know exactly what the Shulchan Aruch says. Maybe kissing a girl is only a minor misdemeanor, and I can just wash my hands in the morning or say an extra prayer.
I scan the shelves for a copy of the Shulchan Aruch and slide into a chair behind a bookshelf by the back corner. I flip through the pages. Sexual relations between women are forbidden. The punishment: lashing.
The fan whirs above me, cool air swirling down over my sweaty head. A sob catches in my throat. Eyes closed, I take some deep breaths until the tears recede.
Hunching over my lap, I read Mrs. Lowenstein’s note again. My head aches, and my hands leave sweaty splotches on the thin paper. Evil impulses. I choke back nausea and carefully hide the note in the inside pocket of my bag.
I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Just as I am replacing the book, Rabbi Lowenstein enters the room. He is a tiny man in his early sixties with a gray beard, crinkly brown eyes and a rounded belly. Unlike the rest of our teachers, he talks, leaning back in his chair, without using his hands to accentuate his points. “Doing some homework, Ellisheva?” he asks pleasantly. He balances a stack of texts against his chest.
“Oh, just some research,” I mumble, staring at my loafers.
“Very good. It’s nice to see a student starting the year off right.” He glances at the cover of my book. “Doesn’t your father teach halacha ?”
“Um, yes he does.”
“Well, I’m happy to answer any questions you have. I’m sure your father is a great help.”
I blush. “Yes, yes he is.” I smile weakly and nod good-bye.
I burst out of the building and jog toward the ravine, not stopping until I reach the slope down into the trees. The dense green foliage tunnels the sun-dappled path, the maples touching overhead. Shuffling toward Bubbie’s house in Forest Hill, I pass afternoon joggers in sleek running tights; moms walking their kids; elderly couples, their lapdogs yapping at the squirrels.
“Ellie, come on in.” Bubbie plants an air kiss near my ear. I breathe in perfume, cigarette smoke and blue cheese. I follow her through the paneled hall past the living room with its black-and-white floral wallpaper. Bubbie’s house is full of pristine white sofas and black hard-edged furniture
She wipes her hands on the apron covering her wool slacks and turtleneck sweater. “I’m just cleaning up from my bridge group. The girls brought all this sumptuous food. Would you like some sandwich loaf?” She points to a cream cheese-covered dome of bread layered with tuna, egg and salmon.
“Is it kosher?”
“Kosher style.”
“Neh.”
“Here.” Bubbie reaches into one of her white kitchen drawers and takes out a box of the kosher biscuits she keeps for Neshama and me.
She carefully covers the sandwich loaf, her fuchsia fingernails snared in plastic wrap.
I take a bite of biscuit. “Bubbie, these are so stale.”
She shoves the box in the trash. “Well, you obviously don’t come by often enough.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?” Bubbie rummages in her enormous refrigerator. She pulls out a plate of raw vegetables.
“I’m reading about the ice age and how the glaciers carved the rock. You know, the Canadian Shield.”
“Sounds great. By the way, did you ever hear from that Lindsay?”
“No...I left a message, but she hasn’t returned my call.”
“That’s odd.” Bubbie scrubs her hands at the sink. “Did you have a fight or something?”
“No, not really.” I pinch my arm, squeezing until it hurts. I take a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you something—”
Bubbie interrupts, “Let me just get one thing. I’ll be right back.”
I hear her climbing the stairs as I wander through the kitchen. A stack of dirty china plates with pink roses waits by the sink to be washed. Silver monogrammed dessert
I need to know exactly what the Shulchan Aruch says. Maybe kissing a girl is only a minor misdemeanor, and I can just wash my hands in the morning or say an extra prayer.
I scan the shelves for a copy of the Shulchan Aruch and slide into a chair behind a bookshelf by the back corner. I flip through the pages. Sexual relations between women are forbidden. The punishment: lashing.
The fan whirs above me, cool air swirling down over my sweaty head. A sob catches in my throat. Eyes closed, I take some deep breaths until the tears recede.
Hunching over my lap, I read Mrs. Lowenstein’s note again. My head aches, and my hands leave sweaty splotches on the thin paper. Evil impulses. I choke back nausea and carefully hide the note in the inside pocket of my bag.
I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Just as I am replacing the book, Rabbi Lowenstein enters the room. He is a tiny man in his early sixties with a gray beard, crinkly brown eyes and a rounded belly. Unlike the rest of our teachers, he talks, leaning back in his chair, without using his hands to accentuate his points. “Doing some homework, Ellisheva?” he asks pleasantly. He balances a stack of texts against his chest.
“Oh, just some research,” I mumble, staring at my loafers.
“Very good. It’s nice to see a student starting the year off right.” He glances at the cover of my book. “Doesn’t your father teach halacha ?”
“Um, yes he does.”
“Well, I’m happy to answer any questions you have. I’m sure your father is a great help.”
I blush. “Yes, yes he is.” I smile weakly and nod good-bye.
I burst out of the building and jog toward the ravine, not stopping until I reach the slope down into the trees. The dense green foliage tunnels the sun-dappled path, the maples touching overhead. Shuffling toward Bubbie’s house in Forest Hill, I pass afternoon joggers in sleek running tights; moms walking their kids; elderly couples, their lapdogs yapping at the squirrels.
“Ellie, come on in.” Bubbie plants an air kiss near my ear. I breathe in perfume, cigarette smoke and blue cheese. I follow her through the paneled hall past the living room with its black-and-white floral wallpaper. Bubbie’s house is full of pristine white sofas and black hard-edged furniture
She wipes her hands on the apron covering her wool slacks and turtleneck sweater. “I’m just cleaning up from my bridge group. The girls brought all this sumptuous food. Would you like some sandwich loaf?” She points to a cream cheese-covered dome of bread layered with tuna, egg and salmon.
“Is it kosher?”
“Kosher style.”
“Neh.”
“Here.” Bubbie reaches into one of her white kitchen drawers and takes out a box of the kosher biscuits she keeps for Neshama and me.
She carefully covers the sandwich loaf, her fuchsia fingernails snared in plastic wrap.
I take a bite of biscuit. “Bubbie, these are so stale.”
She shoves the box in the trash. “Well, you obviously don’t come by often enough.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?” Bubbie rummages in her enormous refrigerator. She pulls out a plate of raw vegetables.
“I’m reading about the ice age and how the glaciers carved the rock. You know, the Canadian Shield.”
“Sounds great. By the way, did you ever hear from that Lindsay?”
“No...I left a message, but she hasn’t returned my call.”
“That’s odd.” Bubbie scrubs her hands at the sink. “Did you have a fight or something?”
“No, not really.” I pinch my arm, squeezing until it hurts. I take a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you something—”
Bubbie interrupts, “Let me just get one thing. I’ll be right back.”
I hear her climbing the stairs as I wander through the kitchen. A stack of dirty china plates with pink roses waits by the sink to be washed. Silver monogrammed dessert
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