Alfred stood with some of his buddies in the back of the room, next to a small table upon which sat a few bottles of rye, bourbon, and scotch. One of the men, a husky business a.s.sociate who had a loud and obstreperous voice, called Paul over to join them for a drink. "Come here my boy," the man said as he handed Paul a shot. "Have one in honor of being a man," he continued, slapping Paul on the back while demonstrating how to down the whisky.

Paul followed the man's wrist motion only to end up almost having a seizure. The others laughed, including Alfred. Paul was embarra.s.sed. It was going to be a long day.

Alfred mingled with his guests, practically ignoring Paul. There were no displays of warmth or affection between father and son, but Paul didn't seem to mind. His thoughts were elsewhere. In the past two weeks, not a minute had pa.s.sed when his mind was free of Rachel.

His imagination was running wild. For in actuality, he knew that Rachel had been rather indifferent to him. He blamed it on his background, and he was determined, in time, to fix that. He also figured she was too devout to even think about boys at this point in her life. He just couldn't fathom any other reason for the way she reacted to him.

What he didn't know was that there was more to Rachel Weissman than he, or anyone who knew her, had realized at the time.

CHAPTER 9.

It wasn't that Rachel Weissman didn't like boys; in fact, quite the opposite was true. And while she lived the life of a reverent Hasidic maiden, her fantasies often told another story.

As if being the daughter of a revered scholar in the community wasn't enough, she was also the child of a man who had a son taken from him in one of G.o.d's crueler moments. She had never been told the details, but she knew she bore a heavy burden. She would always have to lead two lives-her dead half brother's and her own.

Rachel's mother knew this too. Hannah was almost twenty years younger than Isaac, yet the gap between them was filled by more than time. She never doubted his devotion, but always felt the presence of his past. It wasn't his fault, for he tried to keep it inside, but there was only so much he could conceal.

Hannah had understood this when she'd accepted Isaac's marriage proposal. Having been one of the more desirable young women in the community, strikingly attractive and from a fine family, she could have had her pick of the lot. Almost every shodchin, matchmaker, in the neighborhood had been knocking at her father's door. Until, one day, her father came home from a Talmud lecture and announced that he had found her the perfect husband.

"Who needs those ridiculous matchmakers?" Aaron Twersky exclaimed as he came through the door on that cold January night in 1950. "I have just listened to one of the great scholars of our time recite from the holy books. He is new here, from Europe, somewhere in Poland I think. And he is single, so they say."

"So they say?" Hannah's mother, Rivka, asked her husband as he removed his hat and coat. She was a cautious woman.

"Well, I didn't go up to him and ask, but I walked home from the cla.s.s with Reb Lazar, and he said that he heard from Reb Mordechai, who heard from his wife, Raizel, that the man is single. So how can this be wrong?"

Rivka sighed and Hannah laughed. Hannah trusted her father, and disliked the matchmakers as much as he did. She'd already had some frightful experiences at their hands, and had become skeptical of ever finding a husband. She would gladly do as her father wished.

What Aaron Twersky hadn't told his wife and his seventeen year old daughter was that this brilliant scholar was thirty-six and widowed. He would worry about that in time, but first he would consult the Rebbe, for the Rebbe always knew what was best. If the Rebbe gave his blessing, then the shiddoch was meant to be.

The following week, the Rebbe weighed in. Isaac Weissman was a great scholar and Hannah Twersky was a dutiful young lady from an esteemed family. Together, they would produce extraordinary children. Nothing else mattered.

Rivka Twersky's anger at her husband was intense at first, as was Hannah's surprise. But in time, as they came to know Isaac, they couldn't help but love and respect him. For he was a "special" man.

After only three months of courting, Hannah fell deeply in love. The wedding took place two months later, and on her wedding night, Hannah learned yet another thing about Isaac that would make her smile each time the thought of him entered her mind: he was a wonderful lover, soft and pa.s.sionate, far beyond anything she'd ever dreamed. During the time of month when s.e.x was permitted, she spent her days longing for him, craving his touch. And when he came to her at night, she experienced such pleasure, it often brought tears to her eyes. "How could anyone have the right to feel so good?" she once whispered to him as she was catching her breath, lying back on her pillow.

"It is not a right," Isaac responded softly, "it is an obligation."

Hannah knew that Isaac was referring to the rabbinic commandment to enjoy s.e.x. She had learned about this in her bridal cla.s.s at the women's seminary. A man who s.e.xually pleases his wife will merit sons, was the dictum she recalled each time they made love. Yes, they would create extraordinary children. Yes, she would give him what he had lost, many more than he had lost. She would help him forget.

But eight months after their wedding, Hannah's hopes faded into illusions. She had been seven and a half months pregnant, and one evening-in the middle of the night-she began to bleed profusely. By the time she'd finally made it to the hospital, both she and the baby were almost gone. The doctors managed to save both of them, but she would never again bear children.

Rachel was it. Hannah knew it, Isaac knew it, and-above all-Rachel knew it. Nothing ever needed to be said; all was understood. Isaac, especially, doted over Rachel and attended to her in ways that were uncommon. When she was an infant, for example, and wouldn't sleep through the night, he convinced Hannah to let him take her into their bed to comfort her, instead of listening to the pediatrician's instructions to let her cry herself to sleep. "Vhen she is ready, she vill sleep alone," he'd said. Hannah had her doubts, but not enough to argue. She saw how much Isaac loved Rachel, and wanted to believe that he knew better than the doctors.

One Friday night when Rachel was six months old, she began crying hysterically in her high-chair while Isaac was trying to recite the blessing over the wine. Isaac took her from the chair and sat her on his lap while he concluded the Kiddush. He rocked her on his knee as he sang the blessing, and even let her taste the sweet red wine. When he tried to return her to the high-chair, she protested with more crying and kicking, so he took her back to his seat and fed her from his plate. Rachel never returned to the high-chair, and remained on her father's lap until she was old enough to take her own seat at the table. Isaac couldn't handle hearing his daughter cry; the memories were just too powerful.

Throughout Rachel's childhood, every morning after Isaac finished teaching his Talmud cla.s.s in the yeshiva, he would come home for a few hours to spend time playing with her. And every evening, after dinner, he would spend yet a few more hours with her. On Shabbos afternoons also-a time when he should have been napping to catch up on sleep-he would sit and read to her or take her for walks around the neighborhood. He never seemed to tire or lose patience.

Hannah felt that Isaac should devote more of his time preparing for his cla.s.ses or resting, but she would not argue. She even began to feel jealous. Still, she wouldn't allow herself to interfere with her husband's joy. She was proud of him, and confident in his love. She wanted nothing more than to make him happy.

For her first two years, Rachel's parents never went out without her. This was despite numerous offers from Rivka and Aaron Twersky to baby-sit for their granddaughter. After that, Hannah and Isaac went out only rarely, for special occasions such as their anniversary or a friend's wedding. Once in a blue moon, Isaac would agree to let Rachel sleep at her grandparents' home so that he and Hannah could be alone. Those nights Hannah was reminded of how wonderful things could be, dampened only by her frustration and longing for the next time which she knew would be far off.

Soon after Rachel mastered walking, Isaac began taking her with him to the synagogue on Shabbos. It wasn't unusual for a father to take a child to shul early so that the mother could have some time to dress, and maybe tidy up the house a bit for any afternoon guests. When Hannah finally arrived at the synagogue, she would look down into the men's section and find Isaac and Rachel (young girls were permitted to accompany their fathers in the men's section). Isaac would usually be praying and Rachel would be running around with the other children. Hannah waited patiently for the time when Rachel would, at last, be at her side.

Rachel Weissman was plagued by the depth of love she received, and the overwhelming responsibility that came with it. For Isaac, she represented everything he had once lost. For Hannah, she was simply everything. Rachel understood this, and accepted her role as an obedient, n.o.ble daughter.

There was no television in the Weissman home, and the radio was permanently tuned to the news station. For entertainment, Rachel learned Hasidic tunes and stories of great Jewish heroes. The protagonist was inevitably a great scholar or Rebbe, and by his side was always the righteous wife that every Hasidic woman should ultimately aspire to be.

In school, Rachel was exemplary. By the third grade, she knew the Bible cold, far more thoroughly than most of the other girls in her cla.s.s. She was also a prodigy with numbers, able to calculate instantaneously in her mind, and easily achieved a perfect score on every arithmetic test. The teachers were amazed, even intimidated.

Her best friend was Esther Mandlebaum, a slightly overweight young lady with brown eyes, curly hair, and a long, narrow nose. No match for Rachel in the looks department, but definitely an intellectual equal. Esther lived in a private house around the block from Rachel, in one of those President Street mansions: four stories, lofty white pillars, sparkling windows, and a huge front lawn with a limestone walkway. Her father, a diamond dealer, was one of the wealthiest men in the neighborhood, and-like Isaac Weissman-a regular attendee at Rabbi Feldblum's Talmud lectures. The girls' mothers were very close friends. From infancy, Rachel and Esther had played together; they were like sisters.

Rachel seemed to be the only one who knew how smart Esther was, for Esther was less concerned with school, and spent most of her time daydreaming about other things. That was how it all began: Esther started sharing her dreams with Rachel, and Rachel started having dreams of her own.

Esther had it easier than Rachel. She was the oldest of four, with two sisters and one brother. Her father traveled a lot, and even when he was around, he gave most of his attention to little Moishie. Rachel often wondered what life would be like with a sibling, how it would feel if everything didn't rest on her shoulders.

Esther fantasized about becoming an actress. Her parents had a television set in their bedroom and would, on rare occasions, allow her to watch. She would play-act scenes from movies with Rachel as her audience. Rachel was a great spectator; she admired Esther's zeal. Esther made her laugh, made her want something more.

Exactly what that "something more" was, Rachel didn't know-an indefinable, yet constant longing. At times, she wanted to be like Esther, to live in a big house, have nice clothes, lots of siblings, and a television. But Esther wasn't so happy either, and Rachel was the first to notice.

Then, one freezing January day when Rachel was nine years old, it came to her. She was on her way to pick up Esther so they could walk to school together, as they did each morning. In her snow boots, she walked up the icy path to the Mandlebaums' front door. Carrying her book bag draped over her shoulder, she lost her balance, slipped on a patch of ice, and hit the ground hard.

Esther and her mother came running out as soon as they heard Rachel screaming. Rachel was lying on the ground at the foot of the stairs, crying, unable to move her left leg. They helped her up and took her inside. As soon as her boots were off, Mrs. Mandlebaum looked at her ankle, realized she needed medical attention, and called Hannah Weissman, who immediately rushed over. Rachel tried to be brave, but was still crying from pain; her ankle was swollen to the size of a grapefruit and badly discolored. Hannah phoned the pediatrician who advised them to go to the hospital emergency room.

They helped Rachel into Hannah's car and drove to the Kingsbrook Jewish Medical Center. Although the Kings County Hospital was closer, Kingsbrook was more modern and upscale, and the Hasidim always preferred a "Jewish" hospital.

They entered the crowded emergency room. Apparently, Rachel wasn't the only casualty of the icy streets. It would have been a long wait had the nurse on duty not felt sorry for the tearful young girl. She discretely shuffled Rachel and Hannah into a treatment room where they waited for a doctor while Esther and her mother remained outside.

About twenty minutes pa.s.sed before an attractive, tall, vibrant redhead in a white coat entered the room. She smiled at Rachel and Hannah and, without saying anything, picked up the medical chart and began reading. "Excuse me, nurse," Hannah interrupted, "do you know how long it is going to be before we see a doctor. My daughter is in a lot of pain."

The woman glanced up from the chart. "Oh, I'm sorry, I neglected to introduce myself." She smiled at them both again and said, "I'm Doctor Schiffman."

Hannah was taken aback and immediately responded, "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that..."

"It's okay," Doctor Schiffman interrupted, "it happens all the time. I'm quite used to it."

Though Hannah tried to be mannerly, Schiffman read the discomfort in her face. True, it was the late fifties and female doctors weren't such a rarity, but among the insulated Hasidic communities, the notion was completely blasphemous. It was one thing if a woman had to work in a bakery or dress shop, which was the case if her husband's income was insufficient, or if he were a scholar and studied the holy books all day. But to actually pursue a career and spend endless years studying in college and graduate school? That was absurd. A Hasidic woman made a career out of getting married and having as many children as G.o.d would provide.

Rachel was having other thoughts, however. As the doctor examined her ankle, Rachel took notice of the woman's wavy hair and the gold wedding band on her left hand. A Jewish woman, married, with no head covering, she thought. And a doctor too. Rachel was intrigued.

Doctor Schiffman also had an air of confidence about her, in the way she moved, the way she examined Rachel's leg. Her touch was both soft and strong at once. And so pretty, Rachel thought, such delicate hazel eyes, and slight freckles beneath the makeup on her nose and cheeks.

"I'm afraid this ankle might be broken," the doctor said, looking at Hannah. Rachel had been so lost in her thoughts, she'd hardly felt the doctor manipulating her leg. "We need to take her down the hall to Radiology for an X-ray to be sure. Who is your pediatrician?" she asked Rachel.

"Doctor Bronstein," Hannah interjected.

Schiffman nodded.

"You know him?" Rachel asked.

"I most certainly do," Schiffman replied with a smile. "He's famous around here. He takes care of lots of the children in the neighborhood."

"He's on staff at this hospital," Hannah said in a tone that indicated she wished he were there in the room with them at that moment.

"I know," Schiffman replied, not taking Hannah's discomfort personally. Most Hasidic patients preferred to be treated by their own, and Bronstein was a Lubavitcher. "If you like, I'll see if he's in the hospital."

"No, its okay, that won't be necessary," Hannah responded, feeling somewhat embarra.s.sed.

"Good," said Schiffman, "but if you change your mind, let me know." She turned to Rachel and added, "And you, young lady, let's get you to X-ray."

"It really hurts," Rachel said as Schiffman slid open the curtain to summon an orderly.

"Don't worry, we're going to give you something for the pain right away," Schiffman responded. She smiled again at Rachel and Hannah. "I'll see you two as soon as the X-rays are developed," she added as she slipped away to attend to another patient.

A moment later, two orderlies came in and transferred Rachel onto a gurney. "We'll have her back in a few minutes," one of the orderlies said to Hannah.

As they wheeled Rachel out, Hannah was reminded that with all the tumult she'd forgotten to call Isaac. Rachel was already halfway down the hall when Hannah waved to her and rushed out to a phone in the waiting room where Esther and her mother were still sitting.

Rachel watched the ceiling move as the orderlies pushed the gurney toward the X-ray room. She was no longer afraid, and despite her pain, even managed a slight smile. Doctor Marcia Schiffman had entered her life, and in that, she had finally found her answer, her way out: Rachel Weissman was going to become a doctor.

But that wasn't all.

The trouble really began a few years later, one balmy June afternoon in 1963. Rachel had just turned twelve; Esther's birthday was a month away. They were on their way home together, as usual, from the Beth Sarah School for Girls where they were inculcated, day after day, with the do's and don'ts of maidenly Hasidic life.

"Let's not go straight home, today," Esther suggested. "I have something I want to show you."

Rachel looked at her. She knew Esther well enough to guess when the girl was up to no good. "And what might that be?"

"Why tell you and spoil the surprise? Trust me, my dearest, and all will meet with your complete satisfaction. I guarantee it." Esther always tried to make herself sound dramatic.

Rachel figured it had something to do with boys; these days, that was the only thing Esther ever thought or talked about. "I just know you're taking me someplace we ought not be going, Esther Mandlebaum, down the path of temptation I would bet."

Esther twirled herself around as if she were dancing. "How clever, my dear, how clever indeed. But 'clever' is thy middle name, is it not?"

"Indeed."

"Then, let us not waste another moment, the day is short, and there is much work to do," Esther said, citing a well known Talmudic dictum.

Rachel chuckled at the blasphemy. "So it is," she said. She loved to banter with Esther; she loved Esther's joie de vivre. And though she was more reserved than Esther, she always loved the adventure.

They walked up Carroll Street to the corner of Rochester Avenue, and then across Rochester to the entrance to Lincoln Terrace Park. "So what do you think?" Esther asked as they stopped in front of the park.

"About what?"

"This," Esther exclaimed, pointing to the basketball courts about a hundred feet away. Rachel could see the courts, and could hear the tumult of the games, but didn't understand what Esther was so excited about. "Those are basketball courts, Esther," she observed.

"Ah, yes, but not just any basketball courts. Come, my dearest, let me show you."

They walked toward the courts, and Esther inhaled deeply through her nose. "Such fresh air."

Rachel smiled.

They approached the tall wired fence surrounding the basketball courts when Rachel finally realized what the hullabaloo was about. Before her was a group of young men, mostly white, all in shorts, and some shirtless. They were running, jumping, pushing, and shoving. Strutting their masculinity.

"Take a look at that one," Esther said, pointing to a well-built, dark haired young man of unquestionably Italian stock.

"Quite appealing," Rachel confirmed. She stood and observed the young man for a moment, and found that she enjoyed what she saw. She enjoyed watching him sweat, watching him b.u.mp up against his opponents, watching his muscles tighten and his hair fly as he jumped through the air. She felt a tinge of guilt over her feelings, but that didn't stop her from looking, or from liking it. She was forced to admit that Esther Mandlebaum had most definitely discovered something worthwhile.

For her and Esther, it was most unusual to find boys like this. The boys they knew were scholarly and, even on the hottest days of the year, wore several layers of clothing. It was forbidden for a Hasidic young man to be out on the street without his black hat and jacket. Beneath the jacket, a shirt was always b.u.t.toned fully except for maybe the very top; beneath the shirt were the tzitzis, a garment with fringes on the corners to remind one of the Torah's commandments; and beneath the tzitzis was always an undershirt to keep the sacred garment from touching the body. Hasidic boys were well shielded, too well, Rachel now thought.

She became mesmerized by the sight. This one young man was surely outstanding, but several of his friends weren't bad either. She was taken, also, by another shirtless young man on the opposite team, a tall, freckled red-head, with green eyes and a sweet face. Glistening from perspiration, his legs and arms looked powerful and muscular, so much so that she couldn't help wondering what it would feel like to be next to him, to touch him. Her mind was out of control.

She a.s.sured herself that this was merely innocent fun, fantasy. It wasn't real; it could never be real. Not with a Gentile, not even with a non-religious Jew. She loved her parents and her religion, and though she was to become a doctor-something she hadn't yet shared with her parents-she was still planning to marry a scholar and lead as much of a Hasidic life as a female doctor could. She imagined her husband as having all the outward appearances to satisfy her parents, and all the inner pa.s.sions to satisfy her. She believed that such a man existed, constantly telling herself, If I exist, so does he. Of course, none of the Hasidic boys she'd met ever seemed to measure up. They were robots, espousing the usual thoughts and perceptions, not daring to deviate an inch. But somewhere, she knew, she would find her basherte, her intended. As for now, that Adonis on the basketball court would do just fine.

Rachel and Esther were quiet, lost within themselves. The boys on the court were too engrossed in the game to even notice the ogling la.s.ses in their ankle length skirts and long-sleeved blouses. It was apparently an Italian versus Irish wrangle, the sort of contest that was taken most seriously in these parts.

"How did you find this?" Rachel asked, disturbing the silence.

"By accident, really. It was about a month ago. I had a fight with my sister, Shira, because she refused to let me borrow one of her dresses for Shabbos. You know how she can be about those things."

Rachel nodded in agreement. Esther had often complained to her about Shira's stinginess.

"Anyway, I stormed out of the house, and it was good that I did. I swear, I was ready to hit the fabissina."

Rachel chuckled at Esther's reference to her sister as a "b.i.t.c.h." Strangely, she regarded her friend's penchant for vulgarity as yet another sign of emanc.i.p.ation.

"It was a beautiful day," Esther continued, "not as hot as today, but just as sunny. So I decided to walk off my anger and, somehow, G.o.d brought me to this spot. The rest, as they say, is history."

"And how many times have you been here since?"

"Ah, the third degree. Okay, I'm sorry. I suppose you have a right to be p.i.s.sed that I waited so long to tell you, but..."

"It's all right," Rachel responded, knowing quite well why Esther delayed sharing her secret. They both knew that Rachel was more attractive-by far-and it was understandable that Esther had felt threatened.

"It's too bad we can't stay here all afternoon," Esther said, changing the subject.

"I'll second that!"

"It is getting late. We have to be home soon, or explanations will be required."

"My thoughts exactly," Rachel responded, wondering what she could possibly dream up to explain her tardiness. But that was just her guilt talking, for if she got home soon, it wouldn't be necessary to explain anything. Rachel often came home a little late, and Hannah never inquired, for she usually a.s.sumed that her daughter was at Esther's house. At this moment, Rachel appreciated her mother's a.s.sumptions. It was one thing to keep secrets, another to lie.

As they turned to leave, Rachel noticed a group of young black men playing in their own game on a far court. She stopped for a second to watch, and then turned away. "I wonder why they don't play together," she asked.