or Mrs. Kessler’s tahara beforehand, I would have made different choices. Now I had to maneuver myself down the mountain with as little damage as possible when I should be scouring bins with Theresa and catching up with my colleagues about their summer vacations.
My shoulders were so tight that they hovered around my jaw. An old Toyota Camry pulled in next to me, and four women emerged. The rebbetzin turned toward me, her face brushed by the weak morning sunlight. She was foreign and familiar at the same time. The three younger women, perhaps in their early forties, all in long skirts and dark headscarves, lingered around the car as the rebbetzin walked toward me. My skin started to tingle. I’d forgotten how tall she was; she’d slouched so much of her life that her upper body had taken on the shape of a question mark. She was thinner, and her slenderness accentuated the architecture of her face. Her eyes had faded to a softer brown, but they hadn’t lost their glint.
“Barbara,” she said.
I wanted to say “Rivkah,” but my lips protested. Only my mother was allowed to call the rebbetzin by her name. “Hello.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“I had to.” I tried to sound neutral, but my voice trembled. “How did Mrs. Kessler die?”
“Mrs. Kessler, aleha hashalom, she had a massive stroke,” the rebbetzin said.
“No warning?”
“No.”
I let the news settle in for a few seconds before I asked about the funeral.
“Tomorrow morning,” she said, and I remembered how after my father died, she tearily told me that my mother would nolonger be welcome in the shul, informing me without words that the sight of me would make the Brisket Ladies and everyone else uncomfortable. Even now, when I said kaddish for my father on the anniversary of his death, I mourned the loss of the shul too.
“Such a shame,” the rebbetzin said, and I saw a flash of sadness and something else as she looked at me. This time she wasn’t peering inside me, she was taking me in as I did with old students who came to visit me, but I never looked at them with the remorse, or maybe guilt, that flickered ever so briefly in the rebbetzin’s eyes. Yes, such a shame.
She started to give me a hug, but I hesitated. She patted me on the back instead. Then she turned toward the car and motioned the women to join us.
“Barbara, meet Chana Shapiro, head of our Chevra Kadisha, and two of our members, Aviva Minsky and Devora Klein.”
“The Chevra Kadisha is our burial society,” Chana said.
Even without my research, my old knowledge of Hebrew helped me figure out what a Chevra Kadisha meant.
“I’m sorry about your teacher, may her name be of blessed memory,” Chana said, and Aviva and Devora chimed in. They all had the rebbetzin’s Brooklyn accent, and I figured they were each married to one of the rabbis the Schines had hired to teach at their new yeshiva.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly.
“Are you familiar with the tahara ritual?” Chana asked.
“I’ve never done one, but I know what it is.” I knew as much about the ritual as you could discover from a thorough internet search.
“Just follow us, you’ll be fine,” the rebbetzin said with no trace of her earlier vulnerability.
The five of us walked into the funeral parlor lobby, and I vaguely remembered how the rebbetzin had held my mother’s hand and ushered us inside to the front row, a few feet from where Rabbi Schine was about to eulogize my father.
“Hello, Yossi,” the rebbetzin said as we encountered a mancoming out of the restroom.
Yossi. His round hazel eyes were bloodshot from fatigue and grief. He’d grown into a lanky man with a small pooch belly like his father’s. He’d lost most of his hair, a cruel reminder of the time that had passed since his baby fuzz tickled the underside of my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Yossi,” I offered.
“Thank you.” His words fell from his mouth like tears. I wished he were still a baby so I could scoop him up
My shoulders were so tight that they hovered around my jaw. An old Toyota Camry pulled in next to me, and four women emerged. The rebbetzin turned toward me, her face brushed by the weak morning sunlight. She was foreign and familiar at the same time. The three younger women, perhaps in their early forties, all in long skirts and dark headscarves, lingered around the car as the rebbetzin walked toward me. My skin started to tingle. I’d forgotten how tall she was; she’d slouched so much of her life that her upper body had taken on the shape of a question mark. She was thinner, and her slenderness accentuated the architecture of her face. Her eyes had faded to a softer brown, but they hadn’t lost their glint.
“Barbara,” she said.
I wanted to say “Rivkah,” but my lips protested. Only my mother was allowed to call the rebbetzin by her name. “Hello.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“I had to.” I tried to sound neutral, but my voice trembled. “How did Mrs. Kessler die?”
“Mrs. Kessler, aleha hashalom, she had a massive stroke,” the rebbetzin said.
“No warning?”
“No.”
I let the news settle in for a few seconds before I asked about the funeral.
“Tomorrow morning,” she said, and I remembered how after my father died, she tearily told me that my mother would nolonger be welcome in the shul, informing me without words that the sight of me would make the Brisket Ladies and everyone else uncomfortable. Even now, when I said kaddish for my father on the anniversary of his death, I mourned the loss of the shul too.
“Such a shame,” the rebbetzin said, and I saw a flash of sadness and something else as she looked at me. This time she wasn’t peering inside me, she was taking me in as I did with old students who came to visit me, but I never looked at them with the remorse, or maybe guilt, that flickered ever so briefly in the rebbetzin’s eyes. Yes, such a shame.
She started to give me a hug, but I hesitated. She patted me on the back instead. Then she turned toward the car and motioned the women to join us.
“Barbara, meet Chana Shapiro, head of our Chevra Kadisha, and two of our members, Aviva Minsky and Devora Klein.”
“The Chevra Kadisha is our burial society,” Chana said.
Even without my research, my old knowledge of Hebrew helped me figure out what a Chevra Kadisha meant.
“I’m sorry about your teacher, may her name be of blessed memory,” Chana said, and Aviva and Devora chimed in. They all had the rebbetzin’s Brooklyn accent, and I figured they were each married to one of the rabbis the Schines had hired to teach at their new yeshiva.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly.
“Are you familiar with the tahara ritual?” Chana asked.
“I’ve never done one, but I know what it is.” I knew as much about the ritual as you could discover from a thorough internet search.
“Just follow us, you’ll be fine,” the rebbetzin said with no trace of her earlier vulnerability.
The five of us walked into the funeral parlor lobby, and I vaguely remembered how the rebbetzin had held my mother’s hand and ushered us inside to the front row, a few feet from where Rabbi Schine was about to eulogize my father.
“Hello, Yossi,” the rebbetzin said as we encountered a mancoming out of the restroom.
Yossi. His round hazel eyes were bloodshot from fatigue and grief. He’d grown into a lanky man with a small pooch belly like his father’s. He’d lost most of his hair, a cruel reminder of the time that had passed since his baby fuzz tickled the underside of my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Yossi,” I offered.
“Thank you.” His words fell from his mouth like tears. I wished he were still a baby so I could scoop him up
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