the matchlessly beautiful Jewish girl chosen as queen by the king of Persia over every other woman in the kingdom; or Rachel, for whom Jacob had worked fourteen years and they had seemed “but a few days” because of his love for her. Honestly, he didn’t give a damn what her views on study were, her views on anything. He was lost in her eyes, in the beauty of her body, her glistening hair and skin. And, though it was an unworthy thought, he considered how much material comfort she would bring him as a dowry. He would never have to worry about money again. But most of all, he thought of her as the successor to the Ha-Levi dynasty, a position of such power and prestige in the Jewish world, a position he would step into because of her with unquestioned authority. It would give him enormous power, power he, of course, would exercise with the greatest care.
He saw her exquisite face looking up at him with a puzzled look, waiting for his answer. Almost against his will, a smile flashed across his face and she saw his eyes glance over her body. “It doesn’t matter, then, if you enjoy it.” She relaxed and smiled back, glad to have been mistaken.
He made her feel so shy, so young and ignorant. But he was kind about her mistakes in Yiddish. He seemed so pleased with everything she told him. She loved to take photographs, to play the piano, to read everything and take long, wonderful nature hikes in the hills. She revealed everything to him. How she planned to travel and study and pursue her photography as an art. And all the while he sat watching her attentively, his eyes keeping hers captive, looking, she thought, into her soul, approving everything he saw there.
Actually, Isaac Harshen, at that moment, was not the least bit interested in Batsheva Ha-Levi’s soul. He looked at her beauty, at the the fine carving on the chair that framed the back of her head, and beyond at the man who was the last of the Ha-Levis. He let her speak on, telling himself that she was a young, innocent creature who needed guidance. But this was not the time for it. Instruction could and would come later. It would be harsh and unrelenting, as he had experienced all instruction must be. She would no doubt suffer, as he had suffered. But in the end, she would arrive at a much higher spiritual plane, and she would view him as a husband, a teacher, and a benefactor. But now was not the time to talk of these things, a voice whispered to him and he felt himself mightily propelled down a definite road by a strong, implacable force. He smiled at Batsheva, smiled and said nothing.
The week passed with incredible, breathtaking swiftness. There were long walks in the garden, trips to Disneyland and Universal Studios. Hikes in the mountains. It was almost as if she had found a dear new friend. True, he spoke very little, but this she interpreted as a result of the language barrier between them. She didn’t listen to his long silences for what they were—a refusal to deal with the issues—which at the bottom line, was plain dishonesty. He would not have agreed to this interpretation. He meant to have this girl and to mold her into the kind of wife she had to be. She was a given. Her opinions, hopes, dreams, desires were not relevant. He would become the undisputed leader of the Ha-Levis and she would be his wife, with all that entailed. He would have the Law, history, and all the pressures of society on his side to help him. And so he let her talk.
His long silences gave her an opportunity to fill in the blanks, to imagine what he would say if he had the words. She took each small incident and interpreted it, the way Rashi took each syllable in the Torah and gave its hidden meaning: The wonder and deepening smile that began in his eyes and ended in the corners of his mouth told her how very beautiful and special she was to him, that hers was a transfixing beauty. The hand that had accidentally brushed against her arm when they walked through the
He saw her exquisite face looking up at him with a puzzled look, waiting for his answer. Almost against his will, a smile flashed across his face and she saw his eyes glance over her body. “It doesn’t matter, then, if you enjoy it.” She relaxed and smiled back, glad to have been mistaken.
He made her feel so shy, so young and ignorant. But he was kind about her mistakes in Yiddish. He seemed so pleased with everything she told him. She loved to take photographs, to play the piano, to read everything and take long, wonderful nature hikes in the hills. She revealed everything to him. How she planned to travel and study and pursue her photography as an art. And all the while he sat watching her attentively, his eyes keeping hers captive, looking, she thought, into her soul, approving everything he saw there.
Actually, Isaac Harshen, at that moment, was not the least bit interested in Batsheva Ha-Levi’s soul. He looked at her beauty, at the the fine carving on the chair that framed the back of her head, and beyond at the man who was the last of the Ha-Levis. He let her speak on, telling himself that she was a young, innocent creature who needed guidance. But this was not the time for it. Instruction could and would come later. It would be harsh and unrelenting, as he had experienced all instruction must be. She would no doubt suffer, as he had suffered. But in the end, she would arrive at a much higher spiritual plane, and she would view him as a husband, a teacher, and a benefactor. But now was not the time to talk of these things, a voice whispered to him and he felt himself mightily propelled down a definite road by a strong, implacable force. He smiled at Batsheva, smiled and said nothing.
The week passed with incredible, breathtaking swiftness. There were long walks in the garden, trips to Disneyland and Universal Studios. Hikes in the mountains. It was almost as if she had found a dear new friend. True, he spoke very little, but this she interpreted as a result of the language barrier between them. She didn’t listen to his long silences for what they were—a refusal to deal with the issues—which at the bottom line, was plain dishonesty. He would not have agreed to this interpretation. He meant to have this girl and to mold her into the kind of wife she had to be. She was a given. Her opinions, hopes, dreams, desires were not relevant. He would become the undisputed leader of the Ha-Levis and she would be his wife, with all that entailed. He would have the Law, history, and all the pressures of society on his side to help him. And so he let her talk.
His long silences gave her an opportunity to fill in the blanks, to imagine what he would say if he had the words. She took each small incident and interpreted it, the way Rashi took each syllable in the Torah and gave its hidden meaning: The wonder and deepening smile that began in his eyes and ended in the corners of his mouth told her how very beautiful and special she was to him, that hers was a transfixing beauty. The hand that had accidentally brushed against her arm when they walked through the
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