Chapter 39

That afternoon, I met Bernie at the station and we took the subway uptown to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We were going to see the Egypt exhibit, which the entire city was abuzz about. Before Shmuel left, my father sometimes took us to the museum on summer Sundays after he got off work. It was late afternoon by the time Papa got home, but there was still enough daylight for us to stroll back downtown afterwards or even catch a free outdoor concert in the park.

“Yaakov saw the exhibit last month,” Bernie reported. “I asked him about the carvings and paintings, but all he wanted to talk about was the gory details of the shrivelled mummies.”

“Ooh! What did he say?”

Bernie blushed. “It’s not for sharing in polite society.”

“Do you think it’s wrong for Jews to be interested in the glories of ancient Egypt?”

Bernie took time to answer. “The exhibit can help us understand why Pharaoh wanted to keep us as slaves. We’ll get a sense of how our ancestors lived too.”

“You mean we’ll appreciate why, after the Exodus, the Hebrews pined to go back to the leeks and garlic and fish of the Nile instead of subsisting on manna in the desert?”

Bernie laughed. “You know your Torah.” Never before had I heard a man say this with praise instead of scorning a woman for being uppity. My heart flip-flopped with pride.

He continued. “Manna was God’s food, sustaining us for forty years of wandering in the desert while we learned the value of freedom. In all that time, even our sandals didn’t wear out.”

We looked down at our shoes, obviously polished for our date, but which nevertheless bore the chaffing and cracks of poverty. I held out my foot, revealing a bit of ankle for Bernie’s closer inspection, but he glanced out the window “We don’t want to miss our stop,” he said.

The Egyptian wing of the museum was filled with thousands of orchids, making Onkel Gershon and Tante Yetta’s swanky apartment look like beggar’s quarters by comparison. I ogled the most beautiful necklace I’d ever seen, strung with carnelian, amethyst, turquoise, and quartz. “Those are four of the twelve stones embedded in the breastplate worn by the high priest in Leviticus,” I commented, showing off more of my Torah knowledge. Together Bernie and I named the other eight. I wished my father were a fly on the wall to overhear how much I knew.

The next display case held a carved bronze ankle bracelet. “Do you suppose ankle bracelets will become fashionable now that skirts are getting shorter?” I asked Bernie.

“Goodness, Dev. I deal in small electric appliances. I leave it to you to ponder fashions.”

My blood raced to hear him say my name. Mama must have once felt that way about Papa.

“I’m ready to see the tombs and mummies if you are,” I said, louder than I intended .Moving from the sparkling glass cases to the hushed cave-like enclosure where the burial rituals were displayed, we stared in uneasy silence at images of the deceased, painted on dark wooden coffins. Gesso, sarcophagus, amulet. I added these magical words to my vocabulary list to keep the creepy feeling at bay, but after a while, the sense of eeriness gave way to one of calm.

“Too bad Jews don’t put pictures on grave markers,” I sighed, wishing I had an actual portrait of Shmuel to talk to, not just an anonymous sailor on a poster. It would be terrible if I forgot what he looked like. I was also touched by the food mourners buried to sustain the dead on their journey to the afterworld, and the clothes and ointments to assure they arrived in splendour.

“I sometimes wish we believed in an afterlife,” I said.

“It would be easier to accept death,” Bernie agreed and shivered.

“Maybe we’d kvetch less about our troubles in this life too,” I said to lighten the mood.

Bernie’s laughter rewarded me. “I guess Jews have to be satisfied with being remembered through the children we leave behind...”

“What about people who don’t have children, or whose children die before their parents?”

“They still live on through their good deeds.”

“So it’s not incumbent on us to have children provided we do good deeds?” If my medical research saved humanity, would I be spared God’s judgment for not having children?

Bernie’s face darkened. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to spend an afternoon with the dead so soon after sitting shiva for Shmuel.” He turned back toward the light-filled hallway.

“Wait,” I said. “My father turned away too quickly, but instead of getting past the pain, he’s stuck there forever. My mother let the grief seep in and absorbed it so she could move on.”

Bernie slowly pivoted, taking in the hundreds of paintings, containers, and gifts that had outlasted four millennia of decay. “Spoken with the wisdom of a rebbetzin,” he said.

On our way out of the museum, we passed through galleries filled with the sculptures of ancient Rome. I stopped to look at figures of naked men and women, but Bernie tried to hurry me to the exit. “Just like my father,” I joked. “You think that by scurrying along, we’ll get past our discomfort. I’d rather stay and let reality sink in. There’s always something to learn.”

Bernie’s flushed cheeks looked twice as red against the cool white marble of the statues. “I don’t think these have the same educational value as the Egyptian exhibit,” he mumbled.

“Not for an appliance salesman, but remember, I’m going to be a biologist.”

***

Our short walk to the subway station turned into a foot race. I let Bernie win, but only by a little. Standing on the platform as the train shot out of the tunnel, I felt the wind whipping my hair. My thick curls trapped the warm gust and a sense of heated exhilaration swirled around my head.

The train hurtled us from ancient Egypt to the Lower East Side, a journey traversing six thousand miles and four thousand years. Bernie and I sat next to each other, bouncing in unison, on the shiny woven seats. Three stops before ours, the car lurched to a stop. I was thrown against him, one hand on his chest and the other on his thigh.

“Ups-a-daisy.” Bernie gently pushed me back into an upright position.

This pas-de-deux was repeated at the next stop. We lingered a second until Bernie edged away and I sat up straight again. At our station, we climbed to the street level and Bernie walked stiffly ahead. I reached for his hand to stop him, and lifted my face. I was hoping for a replay of our first kiss, curious whether our second might be a touch firmer and last a bit longer. It would have to happen while we were still a few blocks from home and the prying eyes of our neighbours.

“We can’t, Dev.” Bernie’s voice trembled.

This time, hearing him say my name made me angry. I remembered my mother slapping me when I got my first period, the same day Shmuel disappeared. She told me it was a tradition intended to “make the blood flow,” but I worried that it was a warning not to bring shame on the family. Even then, I believed I was capable of it. The proof was that I wanted to go further with Bernie now. I was curious about sex, feeling a force stronger than blood pumping through me, but I was motivated by more than desire. I wanted, above anything else, to simply be fully alive.

“Why not? Where in the Torah does it say, ‘Thou shalt not feel good?’”

Bernie gently pried my fingers loose. “I’m thinking more seriously about being a rabbi. You’re the one who inspired me, last week, with what you said about following our dreams.”

I was thrilled to think that what I’d said had been so important to him, but furious that yet another person was trying to make me feel guilty about wanting something. “Fine and dandy,” I retorted. “You go your way, I’ll go mine, and we won’t see each other again.” I walked past him.

This time Bernie held me back, with a light touch on my shoulder. “Let’s be friends, Dev. At first, I thought seeing you would fill the hole left by Shmuel, but I care about you for yourself. I never met a girl I like talking to as much. You’re smart and funny. You teach me what it means to enjoy life. You have a force inside you that’s important for a rabbi to know and understand.”

I shrugged my shoulder, but not hard enough to dislodge Bernie’s hand.

“There is no mitzvah against feeling good,” he continued, “only one to do good. We’re different people, but we’re both committed to pursuing our dreams. We can honour them, and stand with virtue before God, if ours is a relationship of minds, not bodies. At least, for now.”

Bernie lowered his arm. We stood face to face, hands at our sides, then simultaneously turned in the direction of home. Minds, not bodies. Brains, not blood. It sounded dry to me, like the static words of Talmud. I wanted animated diagrams. I walked the last block alone, Bernie’s eyes on my back the same as last time, but this evening he was protecting himself as much as me.

Two weeks later I read my answer from Bintel Briefs in the newspaper:

Dear Trying-To-Be Dutiful Daughter:

Immigrant parents come to America with dreams for their children. Follow your dream, and your father will eventually join your mother in kvelling with pride. As for romance, proceed with caution. We are born with many talents and opportunities, but only one heart. Career paths are easily rerouted, not so the road taken in love.

The Editor