It was the Fast of Esther, the solemn day that precedes Purim, the merriest holiday on the Jewish calendar.
The festival of Purim celebrates the bravery of Queen Esther, who successfully petitioned her husband, King Ahasuerus, to revoke the death sentence he had imposed on all her fellow Jews in Persia. Since Esther spent the preceding day praying and fasting, religious Jews commemorate her piety by doing the same.
Despite the outward sadness of the Fast Day, Deborah always found it a heartening occasion, for no other holiday in her religion celebrated the noble actions of a woman.
To her growing resentment, not once in all the time she had been a captive in Jerusalem had the Schiffmans allowed her to visit the Wailing Wall. So it was not surprising that Deborah chose to grieve over her own exile by praying there.
Perhaps she even hoped to put in a kvitl—one of the tiny slips of paper containing personal pleas to the Father of the Universe—which pilgrims traditionally left in the crevices of what some called “God’s mailbox.”
She knew that Rebbe Schiffman went to the Wailing Wall often, not merely to pray but to communicate with other religious leaders. Yet during all the time that Deborah had been with the Schiffmans, he had never once invited even his wife to come along.
“What’s the point, anyway?” Leah rationalized to Deborah in a rare moment of conversation. “They squash us into a fenced-off corner, and the men pray so loud that you can’t even concentrate.”
“I’ll concentrate,” Deborah insisted.
Rebbe Schiffman capitulated. “All right, Leah. If she wants it so badly, go with her.”
His wife frowned. Exhausted from her household duties, caring for their offspring (and carrying a new one), she did not relish the prospect of walking to the Old City—even for so sacred a purpose. She scowled and muttered, “Very well. I’ll ask Mrs. Unger next door to keep an eye on the children.”
An hour later, the two women were trudging along Hanevi’im Street. The narrow byways of Mea Shearim always seemed in perpetual shadow, and Deborah welcomed the early spring sunshine on her face.
As they entered the walls of the Old City at the Damascus Gate, and walked down the slender cobbled alleys, Deborah was almost dizzy with anticipation. She could feel the immanence of a million pilgrims who had left invisible atoms of their spirit reverberating like silent prayers in a thousand tongues.
They passed the Via Dolorosa, and reached the rampart above the wide expanse of courtyard that had been cleared by Israeli soldiers after the Six Day War.
As a military policeman checked Leah’s purse, she grimaced at him and then remarked to Deborah in Yiddish, “Look at this bunch of storm troopers. Do I look like a terrorist bomber?”
Before Deborah could respond, one of the soldiers replied, also in Yiddish, “Do you think I like this job, Madam? But I’d have to do it even if you were my mother.”
Leah glowered, and again commented to Deborah, “Did you hear how disrespectfully they talk?”
The soldier merely smiled indulgently and waved them through.
As they descended into the forecourt, they could see the multitude of black-garbed worshipers swaying fervently in front of the Wall. Their prayers soared into the air and resounded in a cacophony of melodies in accents as diverse as Damascus, Dresden, and Dallas.
A metal barrier set off a small area in the far right-hand corner for the use of women worshipers. As they headed in that direction, Leah tugged at Deborah’s arm to keep her as far away from the men as possible.
“What are you doing?” Deborah whispered with annoyance. “I’m not disturbing them.”
“Don’t talk,” Leah snapped. “Just do as I say.”
The tiny area of their segregated sanctuary was crowded, but Deborah eagerly pushed her way through the press of other women to reach the front. And felt a shiver as she gently kissed the holy stones.
Without opening her book, she joined in the morning prayer. By the time they had reached ashrey—“Happy are they that dwell in Thy House”—Deborah’s glorious voice had grown in volume and fervor, inspiring the others to follow her example.
Praise the Lord, O my soul:
I will praise the Lord while I live:
I will sing my praises unto my God
While I have my being.…
Then came the attack.
From across the barrier angry shouts began to bombard them: “Shah! Zoll zein shah!” Shut up! Keep your voices down!
But the women were so caught up in Deborah’s zeal that they sang their prayers even more loudly—except for Leah Schiffman, who kept trying to quiet them.
The men continued to shout, and the women continued to chant. Suddenly, a wooden chair was hurled over the barrier, striking a grandmotherly woman and knocking her to the ground.
Then, as Deborah bent down to help her, a metal object was lobbed into the air. As it struck the ground, it split open, and began to hiss.
“My God—it’s tear gas!”
Outraged beyond fear, she snatched up the canister and hurled it at the men with all her might. There was an outcry of indignation. As more missiles began to fly over the barrier, the women followed Deborah’s lead and threw them back.
Deborah shouted frantically to the policemen ringing the area above, “Why the hell don’t you do something?”
But the guards were uncertain how to act. They had strict orders not to interfere with the worshipers except by express permission of the Religious Ministry. (Who had thrown the tear gas was anybody’s guess.)
Captain Yosef Nahum arrived at the only solution that would prevent further injury.
“Get the women out of here,” he barked. “And try to keep the men away.”
Some of the officers hurried to help the frightened women retreat. A dozen others locked arms to restrain the rioting male zealots from chasing after them.
Ten minutes later the women were allowed to regroup and finish their prayers elsewhere.
Though Deborah was in shock, the irony was not lost on her. They had been banished to the Dung Gate—the door of the Old City, which for thousands of years had been used to expel the garbage.
They reached home to find Rebbe Schiffman incensed.
“You mean you’ve heard about it already?” Leah asked her husband.
“In Mea Shearim you don’t need newspapers to know what’s happening.”
Pointing an accusatory finger at Deborah, he growled, “It’s all because of this devil. I knew we shouldn’t have let her go to the Wall.”
“Me?” Deborah asked in a stunned voice.
“Of course you,” the rabbi shouted. “Your father didn’t tell me you were such a harlot.”
“Harlot?”
“You sang,” he shouted accusingly.
“I was praying,” Deborah protested angrily.
“But loudly,” snapped the rabbi. “The men could hear your voices. Don’t you know the Talmud says ‘the voice of a woman is a lascivious temptation’?”
He turned to his wife. “I tell you, Leah, I’m ashamed this girl is staying in our house. I’ve half a mind to ask Rav Luria to take her off our hands.”
Oh, thought Deborah to herself, inwardly wounded and grieving, If he only would.