THE NEXT DAY I go down to my publisher’s to sign the contract for my new novel. My editor Lynn hugs me hard in the hallway. “I love the book,” she says. “I’m so thrilled for you. And for us.”
She takes me by the arm and leads me through the office, introducing me to the publicity people, the marketing people, the interns. She gives me a pile of free books and says she’ll have the substantive edits to me by the end of the month. When I get home, there is a message waiting from Shayna. She’s been thinking of me all day. She has something she wants to talk about.
I call her back and tell her all the news: the book is sold; the baby is healthy. A girl!
“Oh,” she says. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.”
My phone beeps; another call, which I ignore.
“And the conversion stuff?” she asks. “Any news?”
“Nothing new,” I say. “I can’t see a way around the policy.”
There’s silence over the phone line and then another click, the other caller leaving a message. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Shayna says.
“Oh?”
“I was having a conversation with my rabbi in Peterborough,” she says. “I was telling him I felt sad about you and your situation. That I wanted to help you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
There’s a pause. It sounds like Shayna is trying to decide whether to say more. She clears her throat, then finally says, “He said the policy was changed.”
“Which policy?” I ask.
“On just one spouse converting.”
I swallow. “Changed how?”
“Changed to give the sponsoring rabbi more leeway. Leeway to assess each case individually. So Rachel could potentially convert you.”
I pause. “Really?”
“I didn’t want to meddle. And I wanted to be sure, too, so I called the head of the board. He had the paper in front of him, the new draft resolution. He confirmed that the sponsoring rabbi has the final say.”
“Wow.”
“I know.”
I pick at a hangnail, trying to absorb this information. “So the end of the story is not that I’m denied.”
Shayna laughs, a bright peal of bells. “I’m not a writer. But even I can see that’s the wrong ending!”
“So I just have to be patient?”
She says, “You and Degan are at the forefront of a change. You’re the ones helping us learn.”
At our next synagogue meeting, we plunk ourselves down in the red armchairs. “So,” Rachel says, “catch me up.”
“I’m pregnant,” I say.
She laughs. “I gathered!”
I look down at my belly. “I guess you can tell.”
“I was waiting for you to announce it.”
I tell her about the miscarriage, how it made me wary. How I didn’t want to tell anyone about the new baby until I was sure.
“That’s wonderful,” she says. “B’sha’a tova.”
“Why not mazel tov?”
“The Talmud states babies are born at either seven or nine months, so we hope the baby will come at its own right time. May it be at a good time.”
I nod. We chat briefly about morning sickness, about the marvels of Diclectin, with which she seems familiar. “And what else?” she asks, turning to Degan.
“We finished the class.”
“I heard,” she says. “Mazel tov.” She smiles. “In this case it applies.”
“So now is when people convert,” I say. “Tom and Diane, for example.” Rachel is sponsoring them, too, so she knows they’re proceeding, but her face remains noncommittal. She is a consummate professional.
“I’d like to go ahead, too,” I say. “Especially now that …” I put a hand on my belly.
The rabbi’s face falls, not in disappointment or disapproval but inner conflict. She sighs heavily. “And you?” she asks Degan. “How are you feeling about proceeding?”
Degan is quiet. And Rachel’s expression shows she already knows the answer. “I’m sorry,” she says, looking at my palm resting on my stomach. “But now more than ever it’s important you be on the same page.”
I am struck by this unfairness: first my partner and now my child will be used against me. I know this is not what Rachel intends, but it’s how it feels to me. I try not to cry; I don’t want to cry.
Rachel passes me the Kleenex box from her desk. “I was clear about the policy from the beginning,” she says.
I sniff, take a breath. “About the policy,” I say.
She looks up.
“I heard something. And I wanted to ask if it’s true.”
She holds her body still. Her beautiful eyes wide.
“I heard that the policy has changed,” I say. “For situations like ours. For cases where just one spouse wants to convert.”
Her jaw tightens. “Where did you hear that?”
I’m silent. I can’t divulge my source.
She sighs. “No,” she says finally. “Not changed. Just revisited. So that rabbis who feel they have an exception can bring that particular case before the beit din.”
It is clear from her voice that she doesn’t think we count as such an exception.
Now I start to cry in earnest, tears rolling down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away. I give in, and put my face in my hands and sob. I’m overcome with helplessness and despair. I think of Gumper’s words: “Not if I were the last Jew on earth.” And of Lucy’s dream: “Mrs. Liska Pick regrets that she is unable to attend.” Of Marianne’s bare legs in the cattle car. Maybe it’s I who am wrong to want to go back there. I could push Degan more, help him wrestle with his doubts. The truth is he would probably do it for me if I asked him. But I don’t have the energy; I don’t have the comfort or the confidence. I am different from the other Jews, who have something concrete, a roof and walls, to invite their new spouse into. My Jewish home is built of straw and grass, of the flimsy cobwebs of dreams.
I look up and blow my nose. Degan holds out a hand for me and puts my snotty tissue in the wastepaper basket. “So you won’t take our case to the Board,” I say to Rachel flatly.
She looks me in the eye and then her gaze moves for a second time down to my belly, straining the waist of my new maternity jeans. I see her face change, a series of emotions moving across it like weather. She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them, her eyes are soft. “I will,” she says. “If you want me to.”
I sniff, and nod, surprised. “Really?”
“I will.”
She sees my skepticism. “It might be hard for you to believe,” she says, “but I really do want what’s best for you.”
I remember our first meeting: What a happy story.
I nod again, wipe my nose.
“Trust me,” she says. “I’ll represent you well.”