In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist by Feuerman Ruchama

Author:Feuerman, Ruchama
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2024-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Isaac sat under the olive tree. The Jerusalem night air was cool against his neck, a reprieve from the stuffiness of his bedroom. Pink clouds swirled in the dark sky. Probably smog from a factory nearby, but smog had made the night beautiful and mysterious. Random memories came into his mind, his mother putting a parsley garnish on a piece of salmon, the smile on her face when she saw Isaac’s report card, the way she folded laundry as she sat before the TV watching her favorite soap opera. She poured all her caring into that laundry, folding every shirt and sock just so. Maybe that’s why he had become a haberdasher, and so, surrounded by all that clothing, he could feel close to her throughout the day. Once, she actually stood up to his father. Isaac still remembered that evening. He was fourteen at the time and he longed to buy a set of Talmuds. His father was dying of emphysema at this point and could no longer go to work. Isaac’s request (the third time in the past six months) brought on an intense coughing fit, and after the coughing subsided, his father spat a clump of mucus into a soup bowl and rasped, “No.”

His mother put down a shirt she was sewing and said, “If Isaac broke a leg, would you give him the money to go to the doctor?” His father thought about it and said yes. Then his mother said, “Pretend he just broke a leg. Now give him the money,” and his father, amazingly, did. Isaac still used that same set of Talmuds.

Above, a bird flew into the olive tree, sang something, and twittered away. He thought of the verse, “A bird in the sky may carry your words …” Who knew—the fanciful thought struck him—maybe it was his mother saying, “Isaac, I should’ve stood up to him more.” Or maybe his father was saying, “A little Torah study—it’s not such a bad thing.” A message from the grave, he thought. He was beginning to wonder if maybe such a thing was possible. An urge to sing something swelled in him. Instead, he took a bus to the Kotel in the dark of the night.

At the ancient wall, he placed both hands flat against the hot stones. They got hottest at night, having cooked the whole day in the Jerusalem sun. He opened his siddur and prayed, letting his needs wash between the words.

But what were his needs? Someone once told him, “Isaac, you don’t have needs. You have hurts.” The truth was, he still carried the hurt and pain of what his old yeshiva buddy Heshy had done to him. His friend had taken his bride and stolen his school. And from that point on, Isaac got permanently off his game. No, his bride and school weren’t taken from him. He lost the woman, and he lost the school. And Heshy became the better man. True, they both did him wrong. At the same time, some part of him had sided with them, as if he deserved to lose.

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