Jephte's Daughter by Naomi Ragen Page A

anything. He would be a wonderful teacher, too, she imagined, with his troubled, caring eyes and delicate hands. He would be a leader, with his powerful shoulders, his clear, penetrating gaze.
    His eyes, she told herself, had seen the mysteries of the Torah, the very mysteries of the Kabbalah. He had been on that treacherous journey to the center of truth hidden to most people because of their ignorance and cowardice. He had been there, she would swear it. She could tell by his eyes that mirrored his magnificent soul. He would be able to lead her there, step by step.
    Her eyes focused on his hands. So white and long and fine. She wondered how these hands would feel, those gentle, understanding hands. Wondered how it would be to touch those hands, to have them smooth her hair back, to touch the small of her back. All through dinner she heard almost nothing, smiling uncertainly, hoping the pounding of her heart would not sound as loud to others as it did to her. But then after dessert her parents got up with Reb Avigdor and just disappeared, leaving her alone with Isaac.
    It was an awkward, almost terrifying moment. She was afraid he would read her thoughts, and if he did, she might just as well die. He got up and smiled pleasantly and began to ask her questions in Yiddish. She was startled. Yiddish! But of course, his English was almost nonexistent and Hebrew was the holy tongue not to be used for everyday conversation. She knew so little Yiddish, just what she understood from her teachers and from the private conversations of her parents.
    “I must answer you in Hebrew or English, Isaac,” she explained, feeling stupid and inadequate. He nodded sharply and she interpreted it to mean, very well, we will make allowances. What had she studied most recently in school, he wanted to know. “Secular studies, and the Book of Kings, the Book of Ruth, and Deuteronomy with the commentaries of Rashi, Rambam, and Ramban.” He nodded approvingly. “And privately, I have been tutored in Mishnah and Talmud.” He looked at her sharply, with disbelief and disapproval.
    “It is not the custom to teach women Talmud.”
    She was not sure he had said that. Actually, she was sure, but she couldn’t, didn’t want to, believe it. It poured such cold water over everything. Perhaps he didn’t understand that it was all right, her father approved. “But I enjoyed it and benefited from it.”
    There was a moment of silence while Isaac Meyer Harshen looked over Batsheva Ha-Levi. What he should tell her, it occurred to him, was that women were not given the intelligence to study the Talmud as it was supposed to be learned. Their minds were too flighty and inconstant. But most important, women had other things to do that were their role in life—and learning Talmud wasn’t one of them. Isaac, a product of his environment and education, was not naturally bigoted or insensitive. He sensed very clearly that if he should tell this particular woman his philosophy of the division of labor between the sexes, woman’s role in life, her limitations and responsibilities, the wondrous eyes that sought his now with such shy interest would cloud over with resentment and irritation.
    Orthodox Jews believe that each human being is possessed of a good and an evil inclination that stand like close friends beside one every minute of one’s life. At every crossroad in life, they are there, pushing in one direction or another, advocating the long difficult road to heaven or the short, pleasant one to hell. At every turn, they whisper advice that a man may heed or disregard, thus deciding his own fate.
    At this moment then, Isaac Meyer Harshen’s Evil Inclination, so long suppressed and trod upon by his strong conscience and the power of his vast knowledge, suddenly breathed fresh oxygen and sprang up with unbridled strength at his side.
    He had never seen a woman like Batsheva and had no knowledge that such a creature could exist. She made him think of Esther,