said, "is where women sit." Several hands instantly shot up. David laughed and, without calling on anyone, explained the religious reasons for this. That was when she noticed her husband slip off his yarmulke and search around his immediate area with the finicky distaste of someone working out where to stash a plug of chewed gum. He finally gave up and orphaned his yarmulke on the empty seat next to him.
She elbowed him. "Come on," she whispered. "Put it back on."
He whispered back: "Fuck that. They segregate the sexes? Fuck. That."
"I'm glad," she said, still whispering, "that you've found something to be angry about. But this is an Orthodox synagogue."
"I can't be angry?" He was no longer whispering.
"No, you can. What you're not allowed to be is surprised."
As they were leaving, the stout American father took a picture. David rushed over to him with frantically though still politely waving hands. "No photos, please. For security purposes."
The man said, "I'm just taking one of the rug here."
David smiled in what she recognized as tourist-honed, yeah-it- IS -crazy ingratiation. "Our synagogue was once attacked, by terrorists, and so security is important to us. Please understand."
The man's mouth opened. "When was the synagogue attacked?"
"In 1982."
Her husband burst out laughing.
"Security is important to us," David said to the man in a loud, dislocated voice she knew was directed at her husband. "Upstairs in the Orthodox synagogue you can see for yourself our broken windows. Those were shattered in the attack, and we have never repaired them to remind us of what happened here."
"Was it Muslims?" the man wanted to know.
David smiled. "Let's go upstairs to the Orthodox synagogue."
The trip took them briefly outside. Their feet made wet splashing noises on the gravel walkway that led to the Orthodox synagogue's wooden doors, which David held open for everyone, nodding in identical welcome at each person as he or she passed. Inside were dozens of rows of wooden pews, the baker's-chocolate-colored joinery of which was truly lovely. David allowed them all a few moments to walk around and explore. She saw that many individual seats were affixed with little gold plaques bearing the name of the worshipper for whom they were reserved. She then noted that the entirety of the synagogue's first row was labeled EX DEPORTATO . She did not need any Italian to know who sat there and why. She looked up into the square dome, filled with a sparkling airborne cathedral of sunlight. And there they were—the synagogue's broken windows, through which shoots of bamboo-colored light beamed.
David began his tour. The synagogue was inaugurated in 1904. The columns were hewn from some rare marble, the name of which she neglected to catch. From the black candelabras and chandeliers to the boiled-milk marble, you could see that the synagogue's Christian architects had worked in what was called the Syrio-Babylonian style.
"And where do the women sit?" one of the other tourists, a small, bespectacled woman with a round face, asked. She looked the woman over: yellow smoker's fingers, trembling hamster nose, an intense grudge-seeking manner about her.
"Women," David answered, "can sit upstairs, behind the gate, if there's room."
"If there's room," her husband echoed loud enough for David to hear.
David looked at him and was about to answer when he noticed that her husband was no longer wearing his yarmulke. That their exchange would now be one of regulation rather than confrontation seemed to relax David. "Excuse me, sir—there are yarmulkes in back." He moved on to answer another question, but her husband did not budge. She felt her face grow warm as the rest of her body chilled like a licked finger raised into the wind. David looked back to her husband a minute later and, still smiling, said, "Sir, please help yourself to a yarmulke in back."
She said her husband's name and gently pushed him rearward, toward the yarmulke basket. Her
She elbowed him. "Come on," she whispered. "Put it back on."
He whispered back: "Fuck that. They segregate the sexes? Fuck. That."
"I'm glad," she said, still whispering, "that you've found something to be angry about. But this is an Orthodox synagogue."
"I can't be angry?" He was no longer whispering.
"No, you can. What you're not allowed to be is surprised."
As they were leaving, the stout American father took a picture. David rushed over to him with frantically though still politely waving hands. "No photos, please. For security purposes."
The man said, "I'm just taking one of the rug here."
David smiled in what she recognized as tourist-honed, yeah-it- IS -crazy ingratiation. "Our synagogue was once attacked, by terrorists, and so security is important to us. Please understand."
The man's mouth opened. "When was the synagogue attacked?"
"In 1982."
Her husband burst out laughing.
"Security is important to us," David said to the man in a loud, dislocated voice she knew was directed at her husband. "Upstairs in the Orthodox synagogue you can see for yourself our broken windows. Those were shattered in the attack, and we have never repaired them to remind us of what happened here."
"Was it Muslims?" the man wanted to know.
David smiled. "Let's go upstairs to the Orthodox synagogue."
The trip took them briefly outside. Their feet made wet splashing noises on the gravel walkway that led to the Orthodox synagogue's wooden doors, which David held open for everyone, nodding in identical welcome at each person as he or she passed. Inside were dozens of rows of wooden pews, the baker's-chocolate-colored joinery of which was truly lovely. David allowed them all a few moments to walk around and explore. She saw that many individual seats were affixed with little gold plaques bearing the name of the worshipper for whom they were reserved. She then noted that the entirety of the synagogue's first row was labeled EX DEPORTATO . She did not need any Italian to know who sat there and why. She looked up into the square dome, filled with a sparkling airborne cathedral of sunlight. And there they were—the synagogue's broken windows, through which shoots of bamboo-colored light beamed.
David began his tour. The synagogue was inaugurated in 1904. The columns were hewn from some rare marble, the name of which she neglected to catch. From the black candelabras and chandeliers to the boiled-milk marble, you could see that the synagogue's Christian architects had worked in what was called the Syrio-Babylonian style.
"And where do the women sit?" one of the other tourists, a small, bespectacled woman with a round face, asked. She looked the woman over: yellow smoker's fingers, trembling hamster nose, an intense grudge-seeking manner about her.
"Women," David answered, "can sit upstairs, behind the gate, if there's room."
"If there's room," her husband echoed loud enough for David to hear.
David looked at him and was about to answer when he noticed that her husband was no longer wearing his yarmulke. That their exchange would now be one of regulation rather than confrontation seemed to relax David. "Excuse me, sir—there are yarmulkes in back." He moved on to answer another question, but her husband did not budge. She felt her face grow warm as the rest of her body chilled like a licked finger raised into the wind. David looked back to her husband a minute later and, still smiling, said, "Sir, please help yourself to a yarmulke in back."
She said her husband's name and gently pushed him rearward, toward the yarmulke basket. Her
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