A Passover, a pastoral divorce, just a few hours before the seder, in the library of a rustic madhouse purposely garnished by me with flowers and greenery. The Yemenite finished arranging his quills and parchment and rolled himself a cigarette of greenish tobacco while gazing curiously out the window with his shrewd eyes, excited to be in an insane asylum. Rabbi Mashash handed out copies of our file, his jolly roundness filling the room, keen to get through with the ceremony in a hurry. “Professor Kaminka,” he called warmly to Yehuda, who winced at the words, making me wonder whether he had really been promoted in America or was simply trying to impress them. I passed among them pouring the tea while he followed me with spoons and sugar, offering them the crackers as though they were guests in our house. At first they balked, glancing at their watches to see if there was still time to eat leavened food, but in the end they each took a cracker, careful to keep the crumbs off their clothes. The Russian sat in a corner with his coat on, smelling unwashed; he had just taken hold of his teacup between two fingers in the ancient way, blown on it, and broken into a blessing in his slow, melodic voice when the door opened and a young woman I didn’t know, no doubt from the closed ward, came in with a book. I supposed she must have seen that the library door was open and hurried over to exchange it. At a loss, the men looked at me but I said nothing, not even when father rose to stop her. She slipped quickly past him into the room, and I knew at once that she had a double, that there wasn’t one of her but two, and that, though she knew she mustn’t come in, it was her double who had made her, who was now forcing her to simper and circle among us as tiny as a bird, studying the rows of books and touching them lightly while glancing at us over her shoulder. Suddenly she said in a violent whisper, “Get your hands off of me, you infantile jerk!” Everyone froze, except for the Yemenite, whose eyes sparkled with mirth. Yehuda made a move to restrain her but I put a hand on him because I knew that her double wouldn’t stand for it. Finally she took a book down from a shelf, glanced at it, threw it on the floor as though we weren’t there, and fled from the room with an obscene bump and grind.
The Yemenite was enraptured. Like a child he laughed merrily and even went to the window to watch her walk away. Rabbi Mashash, though, was annoyed. “This will never do. Perhaps we had better close the door, because we haven’t much time and we’ll never finish like this. I told Dr. Ne’eman that we needed a quiet place… well, never mind. Let’s begin. First, gentlemen, we will identify the divorcing couple.”
They opened their files for an identity check. First they asked for our fathers’ and mothers’ names, then for the names of their parents, and then for their dates and places of birth.
“Since everything is in order, Rabbi Korach,” declared Rabbi Mashash, “you can begin to write the divorce.”
But just then the young Russian — who had said nothing so far and had not even opened his file but had simply sat staring at me — rose from his place and said:
“One small moment. Not to rush, please. We must not go against law.”
And turning to Yehuda, he requested him to leave the room.
“But what is the matter?” Rabbi Mashash angrily protested. “What’s wrong?”
“I want to ask something the wife by herself,” said the Russian in his thickly accented, odd, melodious Hebrew. He took father by the arm and opened the door for him. “Please, one moment outside.” Something hard and domineering seemed to emanate from the gently bright-curled figure.
“But what’s wrong?” asked the other rabbis. “What is it you want? Why don’t you ask us first?”
He insisted, though, humming some biblical verse and repeating the name of some rabbinical authority. Yehuda grew alarmed. “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll leave.” The door shut behind him while Rabbi Mashash and Rabbi Avraham jumped angrily up and glared at the troublemaker, moving back and forth in the room like the black hands of a clock, one big and one small, while he, a thin, light second hand, stood still and stared at me.
“I did not think that she… that you, madame… was in condition… that madame was so normal. I was said no choice in matter. But me, I see choice. In no circumstance… if mind is free… madame understands… she has right too, even in asylum… if madame says I do not sign… here is not Russia… here is no… nu…coercion…”
By now Rabbi Mashash was furious.
“Coercion? There’s been no coercion here, Rabbi Subotnik. What are you talking about? Mrs. Kaminka signed of her own free will. It was her decision. I beg of you. What are you trying to do? She herself asked him to come from America… you’re putting us in an impossible position… an impossible light… everything has already been seen to… we’ve given our word of honor… Rabbi Vital himself gave us his blessing…”
He turned excitedly to old Rabbi Avraham, who, hidden behind his dark sunglasses, had begun to bite his nails worriedly.
But the Russian didn’t turn to look at them. With great dignity he bore down on me in his heavy Red Amy coat whose big copper buttons bore the head of an eagle, his ritual fringes hanging down to his knees underneath it. He couldn’t have been much older than Asi. A smooth, unlined face. A fanatic.
“Is you here… is you asked… but why? What difference it makes if she… nu, you, madame… is in this place anyway… and not young no more too… nu…”
He turned red, flustered, his broken, melodious Hebrew tripping him up. Yehuda had talked just like that when he first came to this country.
“But he’s going to have a baby soon,” I said.
“Baby? Where is baby?”
“In America.”
That lit a fire under him. He turned angrily, sarcastically, to the others.
“Nu. So now we have little bastard on our hands.” He thumped the file that he held. “Here says nothing of it…”
“Rabbi Subotnik!” Rabbi Mashash was shouting now, pulling at the heavy greatcoat. “Explain yourself!”
But the Russian shook himself free and went on leaning tautly over me, so close I could feel his breath.
“Mrs. Kaminka! Never mind bastard… are many, will be one more… everywhere is same big mess… but marriage is holy…”
He was crimson now.
“Holy for whom?” I asked calmly.
“For whom?” For a moment he was taken aback. “Nu, for God, of course…” He said the word very gently.
At last. It was time. My anger hummed inside me. I had to force myself not to choke on the torrent of words that poured out of me.
“God what are you talking about who is that?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want to hear another word about it. Not another meaningless word. Please understand that God means less than nothing to me. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Old Rabbi Avraham sat up stiffly and buried his face in his hands. As red as a beet now himself, Rabbi Mashash assailed the Russian, who retreated a step with a smile.
“Rabbi Subotnik! That will be enough. How do you think you’re making us look? There’s a procedure to be followed here. There’s a presiding judge. I ask you to keep your philosophy out of it.”
He stepped hastily over to me and steered me to the door. “Mrs. Kaminka, there’s been a small misunderstanding. We’ll continue soon. Please wait outside for a minute.”
He led me out into the strong sunlight, closing the door after me. Father was sitting on a rock to one side, smoking. “What’s going on?” he asked. If only he would have taken me in his arms now. It was too much to ask. And yet he did that first day, and with such unexpected warmth. “What’s going on?” His anxiety was growing. “What do they want?”