Chosen; Moby Dick; Bleak House; The Iliad; The Macmillan Handbook of English; Eichmann in Jerusalem.
She brought few belongings of her own: clothes, music disks, her computer, photographs, her high school yearbook, which showed her in a short booster outfit (she never made cheerleader). There were also some of her own favorite books: Valley of the Dolls, Gone with the Wind, Jepthe’s Daughter, Little Women, and The Rainbow —which, along with a few other books by D. H. Lawrence, actually belonged to the public library out in Rockaway.
She had another few months of school to go before she graduated and earned her dental hygienist’s license. Her plan was to get a job in some very affluent dental practice and work there for clothes money until shegot pregnant. She looked forward to working, trying out her skills, earning her own money. Being married didn’t make her feel like an adult. The opposite. She felt as if she’d gone straight from her parents’ home to her husband’s home, despite the three years of dorming, which never really counted because she’d been obliged to go back home for weekends.
Each morning before leaving for school, she’d prepare Chaim’s breakfast, which she’d leave on the table in a covered plate awaiting his return from morning prayers. Chaim would sit down by the table in the empty house, missing her, as he ate his lonely cornflakes and drank his black coffee, before settling himself into the work of assistant rabbi, which consisted of spending long hours in front of open volumes with tiny Hebrew lettering as he laboriously prepared his maiden speech before his grandfather’s congregation.
He felt the sweat curl the tiny hairs on his forehead as he delved into the weekly Torah portion, searching for a sentence on which to build a twenty-five-minute talk that would display his erudition, wisdom, and wit. He wanted to enlighten, but also to entertain. When he finished, to his dismay, he found he had twenty minutes of erudition, five of wisdom, and none of entertainment. He closed the books, kissing them and putting them away.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter, he told himself. After all, most of these people were used to his grandfather’s rambling sermons on the finer points of Talmudic exegesis delivered in an accent that was hard to decipher if you weren’t familiar with the speech patterns of American immigrants from that particular corner of the Sudetenland. Besides, most of them didn’t hear very well and tended to use speech time to nap, girding themselves for the mussaf prayers that were to follow, most of which had to be done on their feet, exhausting for people of that age.
His plan was to win over the congregation not with speeches but with good deeds. By visiting the sick, bringing succor to the bereaved, being friendly and interested in the lives of his grandfather’s flock, he knew he could bring them a caring energy that only youth could provide. His grandfather never got around much anymore, his weekly visit to a nearby chiropractor the only outing he continued to make on a regular basis.
Their first Sabbath, Delilah agonized over what to wear to the synagogue. Should she wear a wig, the only one she owned, a long, blond number purchased for exactly such an occasion, or a stylish hat in which most of her own hair would show? Or should she wear one of those horrid hairsnoods so popular in Boro Park among the women who took the Woman of Valor song literally ( Charm is a lie, and beauty is worthless; a God-fearing woman brings praise upon herself ). She had one in her closet, purchased to wear to the ritual baths if she wanted to shampoo her hair before she got there, saving time. It was black with little silver sparkles, hugging her head like those towel turbans in the shampoo ads, making her look like an Italian film star in the forties. The wig, on the other hand, made her look like Farah Fawcett when she was plastered on the bedroom walls and lockers of every horny
She brought few belongings of her own: clothes, music disks, her computer, photographs, her high school yearbook, which showed her in a short booster outfit (she never made cheerleader). There were also some of her own favorite books: Valley of the Dolls, Gone with the Wind, Jepthe’s Daughter, Little Women, and The Rainbow —which, along with a few other books by D. H. Lawrence, actually belonged to the public library out in Rockaway.
She had another few months of school to go before she graduated and earned her dental hygienist’s license. Her plan was to get a job in some very affluent dental practice and work there for clothes money until shegot pregnant. She looked forward to working, trying out her skills, earning her own money. Being married didn’t make her feel like an adult. The opposite. She felt as if she’d gone straight from her parents’ home to her husband’s home, despite the three years of dorming, which never really counted because she’d been obliged to go back home for weekends.
Each morning before leaving for school, she’d prepare Chaim’s breakfast, which she’d leave on the table in a covered plate awaiting his return from morning prayers. Chaim would sit down by the table in the empty house, missing her, as he ate his lonely cornflakes and drank his black coffee, before settling himself into the work of assistant rabbi, which consisted of spending long hours in front of open volumes with tiny Hebrew lettering as he laboriously prepared his maiden speech before his grandfather’s congregation.
He felt the sweat curl the tiny hairs on his forehead as he delved into the weekly Torah portion, searching for a sentence on which to build a twenty-five-minute talk that would display his erudition, wisdom, and wit. He wanted to enlighten, but also to entertain. When he finished, to his dismay, he found he had twenty minutes of erudition, five of wisdom, and none of entertainment. He closed the books, kissing them and putting them away.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter, he told himself. After all, most of these people were used to his grandfather’s rambling sermons on the finer points of Talmudic exegesis delivered in an accent that was hard to decipher if you weren’t familiar with the speech patterns of American immigrants from that particular corner of the Sudetenland. Besides, most of them didn’t hear very well and tended to use speech time to nap, girding themselves for the mussaf prayers that were to follow, most of which had to be done on their feet, exhausting for people of that age.
His plan was to win over the congregation not with speeches but with good deeds. By visiting the sick, bringing succor to the bereaved, being friendly and interested in the lives of his grandfather’s flock, he knew he could bring them a caring energy that only youth could provide. His grandfather never got around much anymore, his weekly visit to a nearby chiropractor the only outing he continued to make on a regular basis.
Their first Sabbath, Delilah agonized over what to wear to the synagogue. Should she wear a wig, the only one she owned, a long, blond number purchased for exactly such an occasion, or a stylish hat in which most of her own hair would show? Or should she wear one of those horrid hairsnoods so popular in Boro Park among the women who took the Woman of Valor song literally ( Charm is a lie, and beauty is worthless; a God-fearing woman brings praise upon herself ). She had one in her closet, purchased to wear to the ritual baths if she wanted to shampoo her hair before she got there, saving time. It was black with little silver sparkles, hugging her head like those towel turbans in the shampoo ads, making her look like an Italian film star in the forties. The wig, on the other hand, made her look like Farah Fawcett when she was plastered on the bedroom walls and lockers of every horny
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