DISOWNED (15 page)

   Gone? The word echoes inside of Rivkah.

"We should sell it. No?"

   What is he talking about? Sell the house? Give my grandmother's kitchen away? This is my house, she wants to yell to them. It belongs to me. And to David.  But no one has the slightest idea that Rivkah is standing out there listening. The others are eager to be rid of the burdens, including Molly and Henry. Who needs a place here in Borough Park? Especially when they all have modern kitchens and electronic garages.

   "What's the use of holding onto it? Who needs it anymore?" Max is adamant.

  Rivkah peers inside. Zvi Lichte is sitting in the corner, rustling papers in his hand. Only Uncle Jake shakes his head in disagreement.

   "We got memories here too," Jake says.

   Max laughs out loud. "Memories and a quarter will get you a ride on the subway."

   Rivkah walks in. "Hold onto the house for me," she speaks out. “It’s mine. I grew up here."

   "What's going on?" Max's face flushes. "You were standing out there all the time? Well, talk like a normal person then. You're a big girl now, Bekkie. You're going to college. You'll make new friends. You won't want to come back here anymore."

   "Yes I will."

  "For what reason will you come back? Sweetheart, a new life is about to begin."

   "Don't call me sweetheart," Rivkah's voice rises higher.

   Uncle Jake lifts his arm kindly, but no one notices him at all.

   "Bekkie's shaken up," Max mutters to the rest. "She doesn't see what's really here."

   You're right, Rivkah thinks, I don't see what's really here. I see the room filled with Shabbos guests, people praying, delicious food. This room doesn't change. How can it? It's a holy room. A room that held people who had more to do than press a button on an electric garage.

   Now Max gets up from the table. "We get over everything, honey. All of us. It just takes time."

Zvi Lichte rustles his papers louder.

"Keep the house for my brother David then," Rivkah's voice is more strident. "After all, he's a boy."

"We can't go on with this stupid discussion," Zvi Lichte interjects. "Time is precious. It's getting late. We got business to do."

   "Not in grandma's kitchen, right after grandpa died." Rivkah stamps her foot hard. "Get out of here. All of you. You don't belong."

   "Bekkie," Henry gets up from the table.

   "This is my kitchen. Grandma's and mine! You don't know how to keep it. You never will. Before she died she warned me about this!"

The men look a little frightened now.

Rivkah feels her grandmother's strength rising inside her. "Now you have to listen me."

    As if shot with a gun, they all stare in silence.

"If you're going to talk about business, get out of here! NOW!"  No one moves though. Not even Zvi Lichte.

Uncle Jake breaks the silence slowly. "She right. Let's go."

   "NOW!"

   "Calm down, Rivkah sweetheart," Jake goes on.

"So, we'll go to another room. It's no big deal, is it?" Max is looking at Rivkah strangely though. He gets up first and leads the rest of them out of the kitchen, into the main sitting room where they sit around the old wooden table Moshe used to love to play pinochle on.

   When the men are all out of the kitchen, Rivkah picks up the broom and starts sweeping the floor. In the midst of her sweeping, she hears Zvi Lichte's speaking though. "Besides selling the house there are other matters. Moshe left certain personal belongings."

   A vision of her grandfather's Shofar rises in front of Rivkah's eyes. It's mine, she remembers, puts down the broom, and goes outside to the main room.

   "Not again," Zvi Lichte breathes harshly, as Rivkah walks in the door.

   "My grandfather's Shofar," Rivkah says softly.

   "Sit down, Rivkah," Jake says.

   But an odd silver strength surrounds Rivkah.

   Zvi Lichte just goes right on. "The Shofar goes straight to the synagogue."

   "It does not. It belongs to me," Rivkah interrupts.

   "You got to be crazy?"

  "My grandpa said so!"

   "A Shofar for a girl?"

   "He wanted it that way."

   "What do you mean he wanted it that way?" Jake tries to intercede.

  "Moshe made a mistake," Zvi blurts loudly. "He was old, he was sick. His mind wasn't thinking. He wrote things down. Nobody knows when."

The men grow silent again, as shafts of sunlight come and criss cross in front of them on the walls.

"The Shofar is mine," Rivkah repeats now. "Only for me." The odd silver strength surrounds her more strongly.

   "What did he Moshe say exactly?" Henry stands up suddenly.

   "This summer he told me his Shofar was mine."

   "Give me that paper, Zvi Lichte." Henry goes over fast to Zvi Lichte, and tears it out of his hands.

 Zvi stands bewildered. "It's not a personal possession, Henry."

 Henry unfolds the fragile paper, and reads it out loud to everyone.

"My Shofar is for Rivkah alone. Only she deserves it. No one else."

No one dare say anything.

"That comes from a mind that wasn't thinking," Zvi breaks in.

Tears fall from Rivkah's eyes. Then she holds out her hands. "Do as he wanted. Give it to me."

"Now, wait a minute," Zvi's voice is shaky.

"Put it in my hands."

"You heard her," Henry goes closer to him, "I got Moshe's paper here in my hands. For long enough you cheated our family!"

   Zvi trembles, goes to the bureau, takes a key out of his pocket, opens the draw, and slowly takes the Shofar out. It is an old, carved ram's horn. "I can't do it, Henry!"

   "You have to."

   Slowly he puts it in Rivkah hands. "Why he gave the Shofar to you, I'll never know. You of all people," Zvi's voice is catching. 

The horn is light, carved and beautiful. Rivkah feels her grandfather's soul alive in every pore of it. Then, suddenly, it becomes heavy, much too heavy for her to hold. She cannot bear it.

"And how come he gave her his Shofar?" Zvi cries out. "Because Moshe was a saint."

   There are no saints, Rivkah wants to yell loudly. God didn't intend for us to be saints. It's hard enough just being a person.

   "A saint is gone," Zvi laments, missing Moshe, his old friend and Rabbi. "He died without pain. That's good." Zvi chants deeply. "He died without warning. That's bad."

   Every day in the neighborhood the old men pray for God to give them warning before they die. They pray for time. Let me wipe out my sins before I come to you, they plead.

"The note says more," Henry looks up frightened.

"Read it to me," Rivkah pleads.

But now Zvi grabs it back. "When you deserve to hear it, then you will!"

"Now!" Rivkah cries.

"First, kill me."

   "When will I deserve it?" Rivkah begs.

"That, we'll never know."

Rivkah pulls the Shofar close to her then like a newborn baby. She wants to raise it to her lips and blow it loudly into the sky. Every day during the month of Elul the Shofar is blown in Israel, warning all Jews, gathering them, begging them to return to God.

   Slowly she lifts it to her mouth.

  "Don't you dare! Have pity! Stop it! You're a girl!" Zvi is hysterical.

Rivkah takes it away from her mouth.

   "Take care of it, please. Promise me," Zvi Lichte's voice is scruffy with sorrow.

   "I will, don't worry." Rivkah breathes softly.

   "And with God's help, it will take care of you."  Then he turns and stares at her hard. Slowly Rivkah is moving away, towards the door. "Rivkah stop a minute."

   She stops.

"You don't have to go immediately. Do you want to stay here with us for a little while?"

The fear rises in her promptly. All of a sudden, she's invited to stay? Her mind starts spinning. How can she? "How can I stay with you, Zvi Lichte? Now of all times, I have to go."

   Zvi's eyes look sad then. "Where?"

   Rivkah has never seen his eyes looking so sad.

   "For everything else she has time, but to come back and stay with her grandpa's old friends. That is too much for her now."

It is too much, Rivkah thinks simply, trying to hold back blinding tears.

  "But someday you'll come back anyway," Zvi shouts coarsely. “Whether you want to or not. The Shofar won't let you stay away!"

   But this is not yet someday. So, holding the ram's horn close to her heart, Rivkah turns with it and flees. Year and year she vows to carry it with her, wherever she goes.

After the Shiva, when she returns home, Rivkah stays in her room alone and comes out only once a day to eat. She sits there and blows the Shofar softly to herself.

"If you don't put the Shofar down and come out of your room," Molly warns her, "you won't be allowed to go away to college. As it is, Dr. Ahren came by and told us you shouldn't go. He said you're not stable. Something terrible could happen to you."

By now Rivkah can barely hear the words of her mother.

"If I were you," Molly goes on, "I'd put the Shofar down and start to pack. What choice do you have? Your grandpa is gone. You can't go back to Borough Park."

   "Maybe I can," Rivkah answers dimly.

   "Not ever."

   "Why?"

"How can you?" Molly whispers, between closed teeth, "It's too late for you Rivkah. No one will have you. How can they? You're soiled."

CHAPTER 14

Nothing is soiled in Vermont. As Rivkah arrives at college the trees are filled with late summer and the sky is clear with endless birds that come to nest around the small white cottages that serve as dorms and classrooms for the college she is to attend.

A little welcome speech is being given to the incoming freshmen in a large barn that smells of grass, old wood and apples.

  "Our College is an entirely unique, small college dedicated especially to the arts, and to developing the fine, creative spirit of each individual student who has been chosen

very carefully to be in attendance here."

Rivkah sits on a wooden chair next to her roommate, Marsha, and gazes around slowly. This place is totally unlike any place she has ever been before. She feels as though she has been lifted up and transported to another continent.

Along both sides of the barn, wooden plank tables have been set up and are filled with mugs of fresh apple cider, homemade brownies, cookies, cheeses, pots of coffee and paper plates and cups. The afternoon sun enters gently through the high, wide, oblique windows that have been carved through the old wood.

he Dean who is speaking goes on for a little while longer as the odd collection of students sit rather quietly and listen to him.

   "Each of you students has been particularly chosen, each for a separate reason. We have chosen only those who we feel to be the most interesting, vital and individualistic to join us this year. Our mission is to enhance and explore the unique truth of each individual."

   The students clap softly at that.

Rivkah breathes in the air deeply. It tastes cool, fresh and filled with pine and sweet grasses. Fresher than she has ever tasted before. lowly she lets herself look at the others. An interesting collection of students are sitting on the wooden chairs. There is a beautiful, haunted looking girl, with a carved, sculpted face sitting just directly in front of her and to the side. Her name tag says Clover.A tall, handsome, slim, dark- haired, older student is sitting two rows down, staring with great intensity at the Dean up in front.

   "Who is he?" Rivkah whispers to her roommate who has already met almost everyone.

   "One of the graduate assistants in theater."

   In a minute or two the older student looks up and over at Rivkah and catches her eye for a moment with a fierce, defiant look. Rivkah recoils.

   "He's noticing you," Marsha whispers to her.

   Rivkah is suddenly very afraid. There is no smile on his face, just a long stare.

The Dean talks for a little bit longer and then all are invited to have the refreshments. Everyone gets up from their chairs and starts to circulate slowly, nodding hello to one another tentatively.

   Rivkah stops for a moment at the long table, takes a paper cup to pour some cider. She notices Clover at her side.

   "It's crazy here, isn't it?" Clover smiles painfully.

"Nice," Rivkah answers.

   "I'm an artist. From France."

   "Really?  Hello."

   "I've had two shows in Paris and one in Amsterdam. You remind me exactly of my older sister Chloe. I mean it's amazing. Exactly!"

"Really?" Rivkah likes Clover. They are at home with each other right away.

   "You're so damn familiar," Clover goes on then, and starts pouring cider for both of them. "I've lived in Paris my whole life long. Where are you from?"

   "Borough Park, Brooklyn."

   "Where?"

   "Fifty second street."

   "Oh? Never heard of it. Is that some place famous?"

   "Not exactly," Rivkah says, and she and Clover both drink their cups of cider at exactly the very same moment.

  "God, all this apple cider! Are they trying to make us healthy or something? I wish they had a little white wine. How can we survive without our white wine?"

   Rivkah looks more closely at her. Clover has high cheekbones and enormous, slightly sunken green eyes that look as though they had witnessed tremendous devastation. It is easy to picture her in her studio, painting wildly, late into the night.

   "Your paintings must be powerful."

   "Not bad. Still I've got far to go." Then she takes a huge brownie and cuts it exactly in half. "Here, have some."

   Rivkah looks at the brownie, and for a swift moment a sharp pain cuts through her. This isn't kosher, she realizes. None of it is allowed.  The words of Uncle Reb Bershky come to her, "when you take something that isn't kosher, that isn't right for a Jew, maybe in the beginning it tastes good to you, but later on there's a price to be paid."