AllWhoGoDoNotReturn

AllWhoGoDoNotReturn

AMemoir

SHULEMDEEN

GraywolfPress

Copyright © 2015 by ShulemDeen

This publication is madepossible, in part, by the votersof Minnesota through aMinnesota State Arts BoardOperating Support grant,thanks to a legislativeappropriationfromtheartsandcultural heritage fund, andthroughagrantfromtheWellsFargo Foundation Minnesota.

Significant support has alsobeen provided by the JeromeFoundation, Target, theMcKnight Foundation,Amazon.com, and othergenerous contributions fromfoundations, corporations, andindividuals. To theseorganizations and individualsweofferourheartfeltthanks.

Disclaimer: This is a work ofcreativenonfiction.Manyofthenames, and some minoridentifying details, have beenchanged to protect the privacyofindividuals.Allthepeopleinthe book are real and theevents described actually tookplace. The eventswerewrittenmostly from memory, and,when available, from theauthor’s personal journals.Scenes and dialogue were

rendered as closely as possibleto how the author remembersthem. In a very small numberofinstances,theorderofeventsgiven is not the exact order inwhich they occurred; this wasdone chiefly to maintainthematic cohesion betweenchapters,andonlyinsuchcaseswhere, by the author’sjudgment, the substance of thestorywasnotaffected.

PublishedbyGraywolfPress250ThirdAvenueNorth,Suite600Minneapolis,Minnesota55401

Allrightsreserved.

www.graywolfpress.org

Published in the United StatesofAmerica

ISBN978-1-55597-705-4EbookISBN978-1-55597-337-7

246897531FirstGraywolfPrinting,2015

Library of Congress ControlNumber:2014950983

Cover design: Kimberly GlyderDesign

RabbiYochanansaid:Onceamanhaslived

mostofhislifewithoutsin,heisunlikelytosinever.

—TALMUD,YUMA38B

Donottrustinyourselfuntilthedayyoudie,

forYochananwastheHighPriestforeightyyears,beforeherejectedtheteachingsofthesages.

—TALMUD,BRACHOT29A

Onaship’sdeck,inthemiddleofthesea,

Standsateary-eyedJewfromtheHolyLand.

FromJerusalem,hishome,hislife,

thatsacredlandhehasbeenforcedtoleave,

andhisbrothers,his

children,hisdearestkin.HetravelsnowtoAmerica.Oh,howbitteritis.

—FROM“WILLIAMSBURG,”BYYOMTOVEHRLICH

NoteontheUsesofYiddishandHebrew

Yiddish words arerendered phonetically astheyarecommonlyspokenamong contemporaryAmericanHasidim. This isgenerally known as theSouthern (or “Polish”)

dialect of EasternYiddish,although there areoccasionalexceptions.

Hebrew words arerendered using popularconventions for Hebrew-English transliterations,which often differmarkedly from typicalHasidicpronunciations;forexample,TorahratherthanToyreh; Rosh Hashanah

ratherthanRoshHashuneh.

The word rebbe mightcause some readers someconfusion,asthetermcanmean either a dynasticleaderofaHasidic sectora male teacher ofelementary school boys.Generally, however, theterm can be properlyunderstood from itscontext.

AllWhoGoDoNotReturn

PARTI

ChapterOne

I wasn’t the first to beexpelled from our village,though I’d never knownanyof theothers. I’donlyheardtalkofthem,hushedreminiscences of ancientepisodes in the history ofour half-century-oldvillage, tales of various

subversiveswho sought todestroy our fragile unity.The group of Belzers whotried to form their ownprayer group, the youngman rumored to havestudied the books of theBreslovers, even therebbe’s own brother-in-law, accused of fomentingseditionagainsttherebbe.But Iwas the first tobeexpelledforheresy.

ThecallcameonaSundayevening,whileGitty and Iwere having dinner withourchildren.“Shulem, this is Yechiel

Spitzer,”adeepmalevoicesaid, and then paused.“Canyoubeatthedayan’soffice for a meeting atten?”Yechiel was a member

of both the EducationCommittee and the

Modesty Committee,which were, together,tasked with looking afterthebehaviorofindividualsin our village, ensuringthat they wore the rightclothes and attended theright synagogues andthoughttherightthoughts.“Whatkindofmeeting?”Iasked.“The bezdin would liketo speak with you,”

Yechielsaid.The bezdin was our

village’srabbinicalcourt,athree-member body thatissued regular edicts onurgent religious matters—banning Internet use, orcondemning unauthorizedprayer groups, orregulating proper head-coverings for women—atthe head ofwhich sat thedayan, our village’s chief

rabbinicaljudge.Yechiel waited for my

response, andwhen I saidnothing, he said, “Youmight want to bringsomeone along. You maynotwanttobealone.”His tonewas oddly flat,

which sounded like adeliberate affect, as if tounderscore the gravity ofhis call. I didn’t knowYechielwell, butwewere

friendly enough when wepassed on the street, or ifwe happened to be sittingnext to each other at ashiva or a bar mitzvah.Clearly, though, this wasnotafriendlycall.When I returned to ourdinner table, Gitty raisedan eyebrow, and I shookmy head. Nothingimportant. She pursed herlipsandheldmygazefora

moment,andIturnedbackto my plate of leftoverchulent from yesterday’sSabbath lunch. Thechildren seemed happilyoblivious.Tziri,oureldest,had her eyes in a book.Hershy and Freidy weregiggling into each other’sears.ChayaSuriandAkivawere squabbling becauseChaya Suri had looked atAkiva’s dinner plate and

Akiva said he couldn’t eatfood that Chaya Suri hadlookedat.Gitty continued giving

me silent glances, until Ilooked up at her andsighed.“I’lltellyoulater.”Sherolledhereyes,and

then stoodup to clear theplatesoffthetable.Ilookedatmywatch.It

wasjustaftersix.

I wasn’t entirely surprisedby the call. I had heardfromfriendsthatwordwasgettingaround thevillage:Shulem Deen has become aheretic.If heresy was a sin in

our all-Hasidic village inRockland County, NewYork, it was not anordinary one. Unlike theyeshiva student whoordered a taxicab each

night to get away for anhour of karate lessons, orthe girl spottedwearing askirtthatdidn’tfullycoverher knees, or theschoolteacher whocomplained of the rebbe’slengthy Sabbath noonprayers, heresy was a sinour people wereunaccustomed to. Heresywas a sin that baffledthem. In fact, real heresy,

the people in our villagebelieved, did not happenin our time, and certainlynot in our village, and sowhentheyheardtherewasa heretic in their midst,theywerenotsurewhattomakeofit.“Doesn’t he know that

the Rambam alreadyanswered all questions?”therebbehadasked.The Rambam, also

known as MosesMaimonides, was atwelfth-century Jewishscholar and philosopher,perhaps the greatest of alltime.Hisgravestoneinthecity of Tiberias, Israel,declares: “From Moses toMoses, there has risen noone like Moses.” In ourstudyhalls,weporedoverhis legal codes and hisfamous Commentary on

the Mishna. We told talesof his righteousness andhisscholarship.Wenamedourchildrenafterhim.Butwedidnotstudyhis

philosophy.It was said that the

Rambam’s most notablephilosophical work, theGuideforthePerplexed,wasso great and so brilliantthat itwasmeantonly forthe most learned. For

everyone else, to study itwas unnecessary. Theimportant thing was toknow that it contained allthe answers, and so allfurther questions werepointless.“Doesn’t he know that

the Rambam alreadyansweredallquestions?”Idon’tknowiftherebbe

in fact said that. I hadheardit fromfriends,who

heard it from otherfriends,andrumors inourvillage weren’t alwaysreliable.What I did knowwasthattherebbewasthevillage’s supreme leader,and nothing ofconsequence happenedwithout his directinvolvement.AndsowhenIwastoldtoappearbeforethebezdin,Iknewthattheorder had come all the

wayfromtherebbe.

At exactly 10:00 PM, Iwalkedupthedirtpathtothe side entrance of thedayan’shome.Thedayan’sauthority came from hisextensive knowledge ofTorah, but his office wasan extension of therebbe’s. If the rebbe wasour chief executive, thedayanandhisbezdinwere

our judiciary and lawenforcement.Thegravityofhisoffice

notwithstanding, thedayan was a kind andgentle scholar. BackwhenI was a yeshiva student,more than a decadeearlier, I had spent hourswith him in talmudicdiscussion. During theyears following, I hadwalked this very path

hundreds of times forvarious personal andfamilial matters, bringingpalm fronds to beinspected before theSukkos holiday,undergarments to beinspected for menstrualblood, chickens withdiscolored flesh to beinspected for signs ofinjury.Now, once again I

walked up the familiarflight of stairs onto theweather-beaten woodenporchandknockedon thedoor.ThroughawindowIcouldseethelighton,andfrom inside came voices,vehement ones,argumentative,disturbed.Iwaitedafewmomentsandknocked again, and thedoor was opened byYechiel Spitzer, who

gestured to a small roomofftotheside.“Wait there,” he saidcurtly, and disappearedinto the dayan’s officeacross thehall. I sat inanold chair near a smalltable and listened to thehum of voices comingfrom the next room. Aftera few minutes, BerishGreenblatt joined me.Berish and I had been

close for years, ever sincehehadbeenmyteacherata Brooklyn school when Iwas a teenager and he’dinvitedmetohishomeforthe Sabbath when myfather was ill and in thehospital.Now, years later,we had grown apart—he,still the pious scholarlytype and I the rumoredheretic. Still, his presencewas comforting, even

thoughneitherofusknewwhattoexpect.Soon we were

summoned into thedayan’s office. The dayansatatthecenterofasmalltablestrewnwithreligioustexts, surrounded by twoother rabbis of the bezdinand four other men,leading members of thecommunity.The dayan smiled

warmly, almostbeatifically, his faceframed in his sprawlinggraybeard.“Sit, sit,” he said, andpointed to an empty chairfacing him across thetable.Isatandlookedaround,while Berish took a seatbehind me. The menfacing me were pressedtightly together, nervously

fingeringthebooksonthetable,strokingtheirbeardsand tugging at theirmustaches. A fewexchanged whisperedremarks, and soon one ofthe men began to speak.His name was MendelBreuer, a man known forbothshrewdnessandpiety.Itwas said thathewasascomfortable negotiating avoting bloc for an elected

official as he wasdelivering a Talmudlecture to a group ofbusinessmen eachmorning.“We have heard

rumors,” Mendel began.“We have heard rumorsand we don’t know ifthey’re true, but youunderstand, rumors alonearebad.”Hepausedandlookedat

me, as if expecting me toshow agreement of somesort.“People say you’re anapikorus. People say youdon’t believe in God.” Heraised his shoulders to hisears,spreadhispalms,andopened his eyes wide.“HowdoesonenotbelieveinGod?Idon’tknow.”Hesaid this as if he weregenuinely curious.Mendel

was an intelligent man,and here was a questionthat, given the time andinclination,onemightseekto discuss. But now wasnot the time, and so hewent on to tell me moreabout what people weresaying.Iwasspeaking illof therebbe.Iwasnolongerpraying.I disparaged the Torah

and the teachings of oursages.I was corrupting other

people. Young people.Innocentpeople.In fact, people were

sayingthatIhadcorrupteda yeshiva boy just lastweek. Corrupted him sobadly that theboy lefthisparents’ home, and—Mendeldidn’tknowifthiswas true, but so people

were saying—went to livewithgoyiminBrooklyn.Itwas rumored that the boyplannedtoattendcollege.People were saying,

Mendel further informedme, that something mustbedone.Peoplewereveryconcerned, and peoplewere saying that thebezdinmustact.“If people are saying

that the bezdin must act,

you understand, we can’tverywelldonothing.”YechielSpitzer,sittingatthe very end of the table,twirled a few hairsbeneath his lower lip andabsentmindedlyplacedonehair between his frontteeth.The three rabbis satwiththeireyesdowncast.“You understand,”Mendelwenton,“thatthisis not about causing pain

toyouoryourfamily.”Here he paused andlooked at the dayan,before putting his palmsflat on the table andlookingatmedirectly.“We have come to theconclusion that you mustleavethevillage.”

I was being expelled,though in thosemoments,I wasn’t sure how to feel

about it. My initialthought was to defendmyself, to declare it alllies, hatefulgossipmongering. But thetruth was, I no longerbelonged here. Thiswas acommunityof the faithful,andIwasnolongeroneofthem.And yet, to be expelled

wasdifferent from leavingvoluntarily.Tobeexpelled

istoberejected,andtoberejectedistobedisgraced.Therewere alsoGitty andthe children to thinkabout.Thisvillagewastheplace Gitty and I hadcalledhomeforthetwelveyears of our marriage. Itwas where our fivechildren were born andwhere they had dozens ofcousins, aunts, uncles,grandparents, all within a

ten-minute walk from anypoint in the village. Thiswas our hometown. Onlytwo years earlier, we’dpurchased a four-bedroomsemi-attached townhouse,imagining we’d be livingthereforagoodportionoftherestofourlives.Itwasnot a luxurious home, butitwas spacious and sunnyand fresh—we bought itnew, the smell of paint

and polyurethane still inthe air the daywemovedin—and we had grownfond of it.We’d planted atree in the front yard.We’d gotten a good priceon the house and anexcellent rate on themortgage.And so I told the rabbisthat it wasn’t at all astraightforwardmatter.“Iamhappytogohome

and discuss it with mywife.Andthen,ifweagreeto leave, I would have tofindabuyerformyhome.”I knew the rabbiswouldn’t be pleased withmy response, but unlikethose who had beenexpelled in thepast, Iwasbolder. I was moreinformed. This wasAmericainthetwenty-firstcentury.Youcouldn’tforce

people from their homesunless you were thegovernment, and thebezdin wasn’t thegovernment.The men looked at oneanother gravely. Even thedayan—who had beennodding along throughoutMendel’s little speech,occasionally glancing mywaywithafaintsmile,hisexpression empathic, as if

tosay,I’msorry,myfriend,sorry it has come to this—nowlookedperturbed.Mendellookedatoneofthe other rabbis, whoseemed to think for amoment and then said,“Nu.” Mendel withdrew afolded white sheet ofpaper from the breastpocket of his coat. “This,”Mendel said, pushing thedocumentacrossthetable,

“is what we will have topublicize if you don’tcomply.Youmayreadit.”The document took theformofanopenletter,thekind that could bepublished in newspapers,hung on synagoguedoorways,andstucktothewalls above synagoguesinks. It was written inflorid rabbinical Hebrew,heavy with biblical and

talmudicwordplay.

Toourbrethren,thechildrenofIsrael,inalltheirplacesofresidence:

ThisistoinformyouthatthemanShulemAryehDeenhasbeenfoundtoholdhereticalviews.He

hasengagedinthemannerofJeroboamthesonofNebat,sinningandcausingotherstosin,aninciterandanagitator,whohasopenlyandflagrantlyviolatedthelawsofGodandHisTorah,hasdeniedthetenetsofour

sacredreligion,hasmockedourfaithinGodandinthelawofMoses,andcontinuestoencourageotherstofollowinhiswickedpath.

The document went on tocall on all God-fearingJewstodissociatefrommeinallmatters.Iwasnotto

behiredasanemployeeorallowed residence in theirhomes. I was to beexcludedfromtheirprayerquorumsanddeniedentryto their synagogues. Mychildrenweretobedeniedadmissiontotheirschools.My hands trembled as Ifinished reading thedocumentand laid itbackonthetable.“We’re not sending this

out yet,” Mendel said, ashe placed the documentback in his coat pocket.“Comply with our orders,and we’ll keep this toourselves. Otherwise, youunderstand, we’ll have nochoice.”I looked around at therabbis. The dayan lookedatmewithsadeyes,whilethe other rabbis lookedaway.

“That is all,” Mendelsaid.Iwaitedfortherabbisto

rise. But they just satthere, and so I sat there,too,vaguelystunned.Oneoftherabbislooked

up at me. “I hope you’llcome back to visit,” hesaid.The dayan nodded

along: “Yes, yes, comebacktovisit.”

“You can stay at myplace,yourwhole family,”the other rabbi said, andfor a moment I thought,how kind of him, thisrabbi who hadn’t said aword through the wholemeeting and with whomI’d never spoken before.ButIdidn’tyetknowhowto feel about this, and Ididn’t yet know how tofeelaboutthisrabbiorthe

bezdin. But mostly, I wasthinking about how Iwould tell Gitty and thechildren. There would betears.Therewouldbecriesof shame. Therewould bepleas to ask the bezdin toreconsider.Butitwasjustaswell.Ino longer belonged here,in this village, in thiscommunity, among thesepeople. It would not be

easy, but this was boundto happen. It was time togo.

ChapterTwo

I have an image in mymind of the moment Irealized that I was anonbeliever. I don’tremember the day, or themonth, or even the exactyear,butonlywhereIwasand what I was doing. Itwasmorning.Ihadwoken

late and was rushingthrough my morningroutine. I was no longerpraying at the shul, but Istill prayed, alone athome, choosing only theimportant passages—thefirst and last sections ofthe Verses of Song, theShema,theShmonehEsreh—and skipping the rest. Ino longer found prayermeaningful but still kept

up the routine, partly outof habit but also out offearofdispleasingGitty.Ifshe knew that I no longerprayed, there was notelling how she wouldreact.IrememberthatIwasin

the dining room, andthrough the thin walls Icould hear Gitty busy inthe kitchen: “Akiva, finishyour toast,” “Freidy, stop

botheringthebabyandgetdressed,” “Tziri, brushyour hair and get yourbackpack.” The sounds allblended together. One byone, each of the childrenrecited the morningblessings, groaned aboutunfinished homeworkassignments, lost shoes,misplacedhairaccessories.I swung my prayer shawlover my shoulders,

whipped up my sleeve,and wrapped the leatherstrapsofmytefillinaroundmy arm. And as I stoodthere, the black leathercube on my left armbulging against the sleeveofmystarchedwhiteshirt,mybody enveloped in thelarge, white, black-stripedshawl,thethoughtcametome:I no longer believe in

anyofthis.I am a heretic. An

apikorus.For a long time, I had

tried to deny it. A meresinner has hope: AnIsraelite, although he hassinned, is still an Israelite,the Talmud says. But aheretic is lost forever. Allwho go do not return. TheTorahscrollhewritesistobeburned.Heisnolonger

counted in a prayerquorum, his food is notconsideredkosher,his lostobjectsarenotreturnedtohim, he is unfit to testifyin court. An outcast, hewanders alone forever,belonging neither to hisown people nor to anyother.It was at that moment,sometime betweenfastening the knot of my

tefillin against myoccipital bone and racingthroughwhateverchaptersof prayer I still chose torecite, that I realized thatmy heresy was simply afact about myself, nodifferent from my browneyesormypaleskin.But being a heretic was

not a simplematter. Gittyand I, alongwith our fivechildren, were living in

New Square, a villagethirty miles north of NewYork City inhabitedentirelybyHasidicJewsofone particular sect: theSkverers. The village hadbeen established in the1950s by the grand rebbeof Skver, Reb YankevYosef Twersky, a scion ofthe Chernobyl and SkverHasidic dynasties.Stepping off the boat in

NewYorkHarborin1948,the rebbe, who had beenraised in the town ofSkvyra, Ukraine, took inthe city’s aura ofdecadence and said to hisfollowers, “If I had thecourage, Iwouldget rightback on that boat andreturntoEurope.”Instead,hesetouttobuildhisownvillage, an Americanshtetl. Hewas told that it

was impossible, thatAmerica was not a placefor shtetls, and that hisplan would surely fail. Italmostdid.For decades, his

followers would tell ofendless obstacles inbuilding the village:hostile neighbors, anuncooperativetownboard,building materials stolenby the very truck drivers

who delivered them,endless problems withsewage systems and badlypavedroads.Buttherebbepersisted. According tolegend, a county clerk,listening to a group ofbearded Jews declare thatthey wanted their newtowncalled“NewSkvyra,”wrote “New Square”instead, and thisAnglicized form of the

namewasnowofficial.ButifthenamesoundedAmerican,thevillageitselfwas anything but. Somepeople would later say tome: “Of course youbecame a heretic. Youlived in a place sosheltered, among suchfanatics.” It was oftenHasidim who said this:Satmars and Belzers andLubavitchers, no strangers

to fanaticism.New Squarewas a place that evenextremists thought tooextreme, where evenfanatics shook their headsin dismay. This, theyseemed to say, is taking ittoofar.Thisisjustcrazy.At first, I questioned

only the authority of therebbe, the wisdom of theHasidic masters, and theparticulars of our

ultraconservative andinsular lifestyle. Soon,however,Iwastreadingonmore fraught territory: Iwondered whether theTalmud truly containedthewordofGod,andthenI wondered about theTorah itself.Wasanyof ittrue? And God Himself,where was He and whowas to know what Hewanted or whether He

existedatall?In the beginning, all I

had were questions. Buteven asking questionswasforbidden.“Isn’t Judaism all about

asking questions?” peoplewould later ask. “Isn’t theTalmud filled withquestions?”The Judaism that is

familiar to most liberalJewsisnottheJudaismof

the Hasidim, nor is it theJudaismof the Baal ShemTov, or Rashi, or RabbiAkiva.TheJudaismofourancient texts allows forquestions, true, but theymust be of a certain kindand they must be askedjust so. He who inquiresaboutthesefourthings,saystheTalmud,itisbetterifhewere never born: What isabove, what is below, what

is the past, what is thefuture.Ifoneisplaguedbyquestions for which thereare no answers, it is notthe fault of our faith butthefaultofthequestioner,whohassurelynotprayedenough, studied enough,cleansed his heart andmind enough so that thewisdomoftheTorahmightpenetrate his soul andmake all questions fall

away.“What made you

change?”peoplewouldaskin later years, and thequestion would frustratemebecausethethingsthatmade me change were somanyandvariedthattheyfeltsimplyaslifefeels:nota single moment oftransformation but aprocess, a journey ofinquiry and discovery, of

beliefs and challenges tothose beliefs, ofuncomfortable questionsand attempts to do awaywith them, by brute forceif necessary, only to findthatthatwasnotpossible,that the search was toourgent and necessary andgiving up was not anoption.YetIfoundnoneatanswersbutonlymuddledand contradictory ones,

until hope gave way todisillusion,whichwouldinturn give way to hopeonce again, but dimmerand weaker each time,until I would swing backto confusion anddisillusion in an endlesslymaddeningcycle.

IrememberoneofthefirsttimesIhadquestionsthatIcould not ask. They were

not questions of faith butof more mundane matters—about the girl proposedtome inmarriage.What Iwanted to askwas chieflythis: Is she pretty? Is shesmart? Is she personable?And if she isn’t thosethings,canIsayno?The questions I would

eventually ask—Does Godexist?Doesourfaithreallycontain the universe’s

essential truths? Is myfaith truer than someoneelse’s?—would, on thesurface, seem of greaterconsequence. But at theage of eighteen, I had nobig questions, onlyrelatively small ones. Andthose small questionsseemed so trivial that Iwas embarrassed to voicethem. Charm is deceptiveandbeautyisvain;awoman

whofearsGod,itisshewhois praised. I was told thatthe girl was very much aGod-fearing one. Did Ireallyneedtoknowmore?

I was in the middle ofdoing laundrywhen Iwastold of the girl I was tomarry. I was a student atthe Great Yeshiva of NewSquare,when thewashing

machine in the dormitoryhad stopped working andstudents scattered to thehomes of friends andrelatives to do theirlaundry. I dragged mylaundrybagtothehomeofthe Greenblatts, familyfriends who lived at theedge of the village. Myfather had died severalyears earlier, and mymother was still trying to

rebuild her life after myfather’s death. So theGreenblatts were standingin as family, providingmeals, laundry services,and the kind of meddlingordinarily reserved forfamilymembers.Itwasclosetomidnight,

and Berish and thechildren had long gone tobed.Theonlysoundswereof Chana Miri finishing

chores in the kitchen,cabinets gently openingand closing, the carefulclinking of dishes beingplacedinthesink,runningwater. Soon these soundsdieddown,andIheardthesoft tap-tap-tap of ChanaMiri’sslippersasshecametoward the laundry room,near the stairway to thebedrooms upstairs. Iimagined shewasheading

to bed. Iwould letmyselfout,asIoftendid.Chana Miri appeared inthe doorway to thelaundryroom,andIraisedmy head in her directionwithoutmeeting her gaze.She wasn’t family, and tolook at her directly wasforbidden.From the edgesof my peripheral vision, Icouldseethecloudyimageof a diminutive female

form,akerchiefedhead,ashapeless floral-printhousedress.“Did Berish tell you

about the shidduch?” sheasked.Ishookmyhead,myeye

fixedonthemotionoftheiron.ChanaMirifellsilent.“Well,” she said finally.

“Berishcangiveyoumoredetails tomorrow, but Imight as well tell you

now.” She paused, andthen said haltingly, “Iknow … this might notsound like a greatproposal. But … give itsomethought.”InoddedasImovedthe

iron across the whitepolyester fabric, watchingthe soft creases disappearunder the gentle hiss ofsteam. I was hoping toappear nonchalant,

although I felt myheartbeat quicken with atickofexcitement.“Chaim Goldstein’sdaughter,”ChanaMirisaidfinally.I must have lookedcrestfallen because ChanaMiri’s nextwordswere, “Iknow what you’rethinking. But it’s not asbadasyouthink.”I didn’t know the girl,

butIknewhermalefamilymembers.ChaimGoldsteinwas a portly man whoprayed exuberantly andunself-consciously in theback row of the shul.During Friday nightservices, I would see himmaking his way throughthesynagogueaisles,silversnuff box in hand, whilethe cantor’s twirling voicefilled the high-ceilinged

sanctuary. Shuffling fromtable to table, he wouldofferworshipersapinchofhis peppermint-scentedsnuff, while behind himtrailed three of his youngsons, with unkemptsidelocks, mud-crustedshoes, snotty noses. Hewasnot thekindofman Iimagined as my father-in-law, and I turned awaynow, not wanting Chana

Miri to see mydisappointment.I thought also of

Nuchem Goldstein, ChaimGoldstein’s son. Iremembered a day when,mystudypartnerabsent, Ihad asked Nuchem to bemy partner for one studysession. This was duringmy first year at theyeshiva,andI’dthoughtitkindly to reach out to the

boywhosatdayafterdaywithout a study partner,idling over his Talmud,drumming his fingers onthe table for hours, neveroncelettinghisgazefalltothe open volume beforehim.Nuchemseemedtohave

little aptitude for Talmudstudy. In fact, I hadneverbefore encountered apartnerlikehim.“Whydid

the sages ask all thesequestions if they alreadyknew the answers?” heasked,asiftheentireformwere unfamiliar, as if hehadn’t been studyingTalmud since the age ofsix.“It’s a process,” I said,scarcely believing I washavingthisconversation.“Why does the processmatter?” he asked,

scowlingandindignant,asif personally affronted bythe sages’ lack ofconsideration, putting himthrough thegrindand toilof rediscoveringconclusions that surelyoughttohavebeenknownby now. “Why don’t wejust study theconclusions?” It was astartling question, and Ifelt bad for this boy, who

was clearly not enjoyinghistimeattheyeshiva.Butwhat I felt mostly wascontempt; he was askingthatwhichwe knewmustnot be asked. Was he sodenseasnottoknowthat?“I know what you’rethinking,”ChanaMirisaidagainnow.“Youknowherfather, you know herbrothers. But I was toldsheisdifferent.”Shestood

in the doorway, and thesilence hung heavybetweenus.“What’s her name?” Iaskedfinally.“Gitty,” shesaid,all tooeager.“GittyGoldstein.”Gitty.FromtheYiddish,git,good.Ithadapleasantring, suggestingfemininity, innocence,devotion.Still,all Icouldthinkof

was her family—Chaim’ssimplemindedmannerisms, the dim lookon Nuchem’s face, thelittle boys following theirfatherattheshul,shyandtimid,as ifaware,evenatthat youngage, that somepeople were more worthythanothers and that they,byvirtueofsomearbitrarysocial code, had beenplaced among a lower

class.“I need time to thinkaboutit,”I toldBerishthenext day. I said the sametomymother after Berishasked her to speak tome.Only Chana Miri seemedto understand. But still,she thought I shouldn’tdismissit.“She’sdifferentfromherbrothers,”ChanaMirisaid.“Ihearshe’sverynormal.”

I couldn’t help thinking:Normal? Is that her bestquality?

Severalmonthsearlier,myclassmates and I weretakenbysurprisewhenthefirst of our friends gotengaged.“Hust gehert?” The newswent from table to tableand bookstand tobookstand, sweeping

throughthevaststudyhallwithinminutes.“Haveyouheard? Ari Goldhirsch isengaged!” The studiouslooked up from the tinyletters in the margins oftheir Talmuds, and theidlers halted theirconversations. We werestunned, hardly expectingone this soon. Most of uswereonlyseventeen,someevenyounger.

“Bei vemen?” was thequestion on everyone’slips.Bei vemen. Not withwhom but in whose home?—into which family, andwithin which extendedclan of aunts, uncles,cousins,grandparents.“Mordche ShloimeKlieger.”The name of the bridedidn’t matter, only the

name of her father. Itwasn’t just a girl that aboy married but anextended set of familyrelations, with all itsrespectability, if one waslucky—or its grimordinariness,ifonewasn’t.It was April 1992, andI’d been hoping that theengagements wouldn’tstart until the followingyear. It was said that the

rebbe didn’t approve ofthese early engagementsbut that familiessometimes rushed themwhen the match was toogood to let pass.Sometimes, if the boy orthe girl was not yeteighteen, the engagementwas kept secret; but soonenough, word would getout. The first engagementbrought with it the

pressure to be among thefirst. Early engagementwas a sign of desirability;extended bachelorhood, amarkofshame.With Ari’s engagement,theracewason,andotherclassmates soon followed.Moishe Yossel Unger andBurich Silber wereengagedwithin a week ofeach other to two sisters,granddaughters of the

rebbe’s personal secretary.Ofcourse,noneofusknewwhat the girls were like,but the girls themselveswerehardlythepoint.Aron Duvid Spira wassoon engaged to thedaughterofAvigdorBlum,the wealthiest man in thevillage. Zevi Lowenthalfollowedsoonafter, tothedaughter of a prominentscholar. My afternoon

study partner, ChaimLazer,was engaged to thedaughter of his uncleNaftuli.Asonefriendafteranother was paired off, I,too, waited for thematchmaker’s call. Icongratulated each of myfriends at their weddings,accepted in return theirgracious smiles—mertzeshem bei dir, yourown engagement soon, if

Godwillsit—yetmyheartached, anticipationseasoning into dread. OnFriday nights, as Ipreparedtolifttheglassofsweet wine to recite thekiddush, I prayed thatsoon I might be doing sowith a wife at my side,rather than alongsidehundreds of other hungryyeshiva students. King ofkings, command Your

ministering angels tocommend me with mercy.Let it be soon. Let it bewith a good girl from arespectablefamily.At the tischen, the

rebbe’s public Sabbathmeals, we stood on sixrows of tall bleachers tothe rebbe’s right. Eachyear, the yeshiva studentsshiftedonesetofbleachersnearer to the rebbe

himself, until the yeshivaseniors, the eighteen- andnineteen-year-olds whowould be married thatyear, stood nearest. Alleyes were trained on thelatest group of eligiblestudents, appraising eachone, wondering whichdaughter of whichcommunity member hemightbepairedwith.

“What is wrong withChaim Goldstein’sdaughter?” Berish asked afewdayslater.IsaidonlythatIneededmoretimetothink,unabletoformulatethetorrentofthoughtsintowords.“She has everything awife should have,” Berishpersisted.“What’s to thinkabout?”Ididn’tknowwhatthere

was to think about. If atfirst, I was not drawn tothis match because I wasnot drawn to this girl’sfather or brothers, I soonfound myself wonderingabout the girl herself. Butthe questions I had inmymind could not be askedaloud. I wondered: Wasshe pretty? Was sheintelligent? Was shethoughtful and charming

with a pleasant smile andan endearing laugh? Ordidshehavenoneofthosequalities, andmaybe evendecidedly unpleasantones? I wondered if Imight ask for a photo ofthe girl, but since nonewas offered, I thought itimproper. I imagined thatBerish and thematchmaker and the girl’sfamily would wonder:

What kind of boy is this,who needs a photo of agirl before deciding tomarryher?“I hear she is verysweet,” my mother said,after making her owninquiries.“Thefourthchildof twelve, takesverygoodcare of her youngersiblings. That says a lot.She’d make a good wifeandmother.”

“She’s very social, too,”mymotheraddedbrightly.“Attends weddings andother family celebrationsvery eagerly. Joins in thedancing.Hasfriends.She’sverywellspokenof.”Whennoneofthesebits

of information had thedesired effect, Berishsuggested the obvioussolution.“Whynotasktherebbe?”

Of course. The rebbe.The rebbewouldhave theanswer.

Late one night, severaldays before Chanukah,Berish and I went to seekan audience with therebbe. The gabbai, RebShia, the rebbe’s elderlysecretary, sat in his officeadjoining the rebbe’schamber, while several

dozen Hasidim waited inthe large, brightly litwaiting room, pacingnervously,recitingPsalms,orbroodinginsilence.RebShia wrote my kvittel, arequestnotescribbledontoa small white square ofpaper,andignoredBerish’squeryofhowlongthewaitmight be.Hour after hourpassed as, one after theother, the men were

summoned for their turnwith the rebbe, soonemerging with smiles forthe surly door attendant,slipping ten- or twenty-dollar bills into his palm,now pleased, with heartsandmindsunburdened.Finally, Berish and Iwere ushered in. I’d onlybeen to see the rebbe forhurried blessings andrushed handshakes, never

for advice on a personalmatter. Now, for the firsttime, I was to make adecision based on therebbe’s guidance. Itwas acomforting thought. ThiswasthespecialprivilegeoftheHasid,havingaccesstothe divine inspirationchanneled through thetzaddik, the perfectlyrighteousindividual.The rebbe sat at the

headofalongtableonanelaborately gilded chairupholstered in rich bluefabric. I could see himobserving the door,fingering a gold pocketwatch. His forehead wasmistywithsweat,hisstoutframe and graying beardappearing so close, solifelike—unlike in shul,where he seemed only ablurry impression beheld

from afar. Strewn acrossthe table were piles ofrequest notes from earliervisitors, mixed with thetraditional money gifts—twenty-, fifty-, andhundred-dollarbills.“Nu, gei shoin!” theattendant shoved my armwhen I hesitated at thedoor. “Go already.” Therewas no time to be awed;others were waiting.

Berishstoodofftothesideas I handed the rebbe thekvittel and watched as heread it: Shulem Aryeh thesonofBracha.Forblessingsandredemptions.Berish stepped closerand told the rebbe why Ihad come: a girl wasproposed, and I was heretoseek therebbe’sadvice.Therebbelookedatmeforamoment, and then,with

a flash of recognition,grewanimated.“Ah, yes, yes, yes. Of

course!” He’d beenconsulted about it by theother side, he said. “Agood match, a wonderfulmatch. Yes, yes.Wonderful, isn’t it?” Therebbe smiled, his eyestwinkling, crinkling alongtheedges.“He isn’t sure,” Berish

said softly. “He has somedoubts, some questionsaboutit.”The rebbe regarded mefrom above his gold-rimmed eyeglasses andraised his bushy eyebrowswith a look of surprise.“Questions?” he asked.“Whatkindsofquestions?”What were myquestions?Here I stood infront of the righteous

foundation of the world,whowasaskingmeto tellhimwhyImightnotdesirea match that he hadalready declared“wonderful.”Ilookedfromthe rebbe’s inquiring eyesto the heavy brocadetablecloth to the piles ofkvitlech,but thewordsdidnotcome.ItwasthenthatI realized, I didn’t havequestions,notreally.

I just didn’t want thismatch.Iknew inmyheart that

it was not the right one,that the things that werenot said about GittyGoldstein were assignificant as those thatwere, and that I wasunlikely to hear anythingthat would change that.PerhapsIhadbeenhopingthat the rebbe would tell

me something new anddelightful about thismatch, but what I reallywanted was permission torefuse it. I wanted therebbe to say that if I didnotwantit,itwasOK,thatsomething better wouldcome along and thatsaying no was notshameful,orcruel,evenasIknewthatGittyGoldsteinwas at that moment

anxiously awaiting wordfrom the matchmaker. Iwanted the rebbe to tellme that I did not need areason to say no but areason to say yes. But therebbehadalreadydeclaredthe match wonderful; onedidnottelltherebbewhatone wanted to hear. Onelistened,andaccepted.The rebbe waited withraised eyebrows, then

looked back at the kvittelin his hand, then back tome. Finally, he spoke:“ChaimGoldsteinisaveryfinemanwith a very finefamily.” And, the rebbeadded, he had heard verygood things about thekeren.“Thekerenisagoodkeren,”therebbesaid.Keren is the principalsum in a financialinvestment,andittookme

a moment to grasp whathe meant. But of course,the rebbe would not say“girl,” aword soblatantlyfeminine that to speak itwasimproper.Instead,thegirl was the keren, theprincipal.This investment,the rebbewas saying,wasagoodinvestment.“It’s a good thing, this

keren,” the rebbe saidagain,andwavedhishand

with a sweeping,exuberantmotion.“Agoodkeren. A fine keren. Eh.Nothingtoworryabout.”Hereachedformyhand

with his fingertips. “Maytheoneabovebestowyouwithgoodgraces.Maythematch be concludedfavorably.”

Severaldays later, I sat inthe backseat of a car, on

the way to the home inwhichmybrideandIwereto meet. It was earlyDecember, the third nightof Chanukah, and asnowstormhadcomeearlythatyear.Snowdriftswerepiledalongthesideof theroad, and I watched aschildren sledded down adriveway on LincolnAvenue.“Nervous?”Berishasked

from the front passengerseat.I shrugged, avoiding hisgaze. I was not nervous,not in the way that hemeant it. I had been toldtheywantedme.Iwasnotconcerned about beingrejected.The car pulled over tothecurb.Thefrontdoorofthehousewasslightlyajar,andthroughathincurtain

Isawpeoplemillingaboutinside. My mother, in thefoyer when I entered,looked at me with whatlookedlikeforcedcheer.“She’salovelygirl,”shesaid,smiling.There was a hint ofsadness in her voice, as ifshe sensed theheaviness Ifelt, but she, too, knewthat refusing the matchwas no longer an option.

The rebbe had given hisblessing. There wasnothinglefttosay.Chaim Goldstein

appeared from one of thebackrooms.Hesmiledandshook my hand, and thenhe andBerish ledme intothe dining room,withmymotherfollowingbehind.The girl, my future

bride,stoodatthefarsideof the table, next to her

mother.Herhairwasshortandcurly,dirtyblond.Herclothesweresimple,alongpleated skirt, a V-neckbutton-down sweater overawhiteblouseandruffledcollar.ShelookedawayasIentered,andonlyafteramomentdidshelethereyewander toward me,offering a stiff smile, thenlookingawayquickly.Ourelderslefttheroom,

and Gitty and I sat downon opposite sides of thetable. For the past fiveyears, all conversationwith girls had beenforbidden, and it felt oddbeinginaroomalonewitha girl, vaguelyinappropriate. I had beentoldthatitwasmyroletoinitiate conversation, butthe strangeness of thecircumstances left me

bewildered. For a fullminute, I could not thinkofasinglethingtosay.“Smile fromear toear,”

a friend had said to meearlier that evening. I hadconfidedthatIwashavingmybeshow thatnight, andIneededsometips.“Smilefromeartoear.Thewholetime. You must show heryou’rehappytobethere.”“Thewholetime?”

“From ear to ear, thewhole time.” He wascertainofit.I wasn’t sure what tomake of his advice.Smiling from ear to earwould require anunnatural stiffening of thefacial muscles, whichwould be impossible tomaintain for the fullfifteen minutes of ourmeeting. Also, it would

makemeappearinsincere.Yet it was all the advicemy friend had to offer.He’d used it himself, hesaid, and he could vouchfor its success. When Iasked for topics ofconversation, he said,“Talkaboutanything.”Butwhat does one talk aboutto a girl who has neverstudied Talmud, neverattended a rebbe’s tisch—

whoselife,infact,seemedso far removed fromminethatwecouldnotpossiblyhaveanythingincommon?My frienddidn’tknow,hewasn’t sure, he no longerremembered, really, hisownmeetingwassomanymonths ago. Anyway, hesaid, in his case, the girldidmostofthetalking.Gitty, however,was not

doingmuch talking at all.

Fumbling for conversationtopics, I finally askedabout matters I alreadyknew: whether she wasstill in school, how manysiblings she had, whethershe wanted to remainliving in the village afterour wedding. No, sheshook her head, she’dalready graduated somemonths earlier. Elevensiblings, shemouthed ina

barely audible whisper.Yes, she nodded, shewanted to remain livinghere. I offered a fewremarks about myself. Isaid that I hoped tocontinue my studies afterwemarried, at least for acouple of years. Shenoddedinresponse.Itwasa given. Two years ofstudy was mandatory forall married men in the

village.She kept her eyesdowncast at the table infront of her. When sheglanced at me at onepoint,Iquicklyflashedtheear-to-ear smile my friendhad advised, and shereturned it stiffly. Ithought she might offer afew questions or remarksof her own, but sheseemedtohavenone.Soon

Iranoutofquestions,andwe sat in silence untilChaim Goldstein enteredtheroom.“Are you done?” heasked.It wasn’t a question.Clearly, we were done. Ihad imagined a fifteen-minute meeting, but thiscouldn’t have been morethan sevenminutes. Iwasrelieveditwasover.

We rode to the rebbe’shome, a short distanceaway, Gitty and I inseparate cars. A few closefriendsandrelativesmilledabout and greeted mecheerfully. They had beennotified already, and theyseemedhappyforme.Therebbe’s attendant smiled,too,hisusualgruffmannerset aside for this joyousoccasion, a new

engagement.The men entered first

and the women followed,whiletherebbesmiledandwaved his hand in agesture of joy. The mengatheredaroundthetable,clearingaspacesothattherebbe had a view of thebride, who stood amongthewomenagainst the farwall.Theattendantclosedthe

door.“Mazel tov, mazel tov!”

the rebbe said. “May itbeasteadfastunion.Mayyoumerit lastingseed tobringforth upstanding andblessedgenerations.”The engagement was

final, the rebbe’s blessinglikeajudge’sgavel.The attendant placed a

small tray of chocolatepoundcakeinfrontofthe

rebbe, and the men lineduptoreceivetheirportionsfrom the rebbe’s handwhile thewomenwatchedfromtheedgeoftheroom.Themensippedfromsmallcupsofwineand linedupforblessingsofl’chaim,“tolife.” As the person ofhonor, Iwas first,and therebbe held my fingertipsfor a long moment,mumbling a blessing, the

sameonehehadmumbledto thousands of groomsbeforeme. It feltcoldandimpersonal, the rebbe’seyes shifty and restless astheysearchedforandthenlingeredonmybride,asifto includeher fromafar. Itold myself that this waswhat I truly wanted. Therebbehadapprovedofthematch. I toldmyself that Iwaspleasedwith it, that I

must be pleased, becauseclearly the rebbe waspleased.Itoldmyselfwhatwe, the rebbe’s followers,always told one another:The rebbe cares about usmore than we doourselves. Our joyousoccasions bring him morejoy; our sad occasions,more sorrow. I believedthis, had repeated it tomyself countless times,

and had made myselfbelievethis.Iknewitmustbeso.

ChapterThree

The first time I saw therebbe, I knew little abouthim. I was thirteen yearsold, a student at theSkverer yeshiva inWilliamsburg, Brooklyn,when I was told: “Therebbe is coming.” Iresponded with a shrug,

andwatched,amused,asafrenzyofanticipationtookhold among students andstaff. Broken table legs inthe study hall werefrantically repaired.Floorswere cleaned and waxed.Guatemalan day laborersworked overtime toreplace the wainscotpaneling in the hallwaysand repaint the lecturerooms.Wewereinstructed

to scrub our dorm roomsclean. Even the bathroomstalls were cleared ofgraffiti:RebMosheLazer isa chazzer. Touching yourbrisisworsethansmoking.I had enrolled at the

yeshiva not as a followerof the rebbe, like moststudents, but because theSkverers didn’t ask toomany questions, and Ineededayeshivainwhich

few questionswere asked.While most of myelementary school friendshad sought Talmudacademies withreputations for producingimpressiveyoungscholars,my own goals were lesslofty. I had heard of theentrance exams at themore prestigiousinstitutions,hour-longoralexams covering many

pages of Talmud alongwith their majorcommentaries, and thetalesinspireddreadinme.The summer after my barmitzvah, after my friendChaim Elya told me thatthe Skvererswere in needof students for theirmodest-size Williamsburgyeshiva and that theyweren’t very selective andadministered no entrance

exam, I told my parentsthatIwantedtostudywiththe Skverers. My fatherlooked doubtful, curiousabout my uncharacteristicinitiative; but ultimately,he was pleased. “They’reehrlich people, theSkverers,”he said.Ehrlich.Pious.GoodJews.But the Skverers and

theirwayswerestrangetome. I had spent my

childhood mostly amongthe Satmars. The Satmars,too, had a rebbe, but I’dseen and heard little ofhim. My Satmarschoolteachers rarelyspoke of him. My fatherembraced the teachings ofthepreviousSatmarrebbe,the firebrand Reb Yoel,who died in 1979, butnevervisitedhissuccessor.“Ah!Therebbesofold!”

my teachers wouldexclaim, and from them Ilearned that modern-dayrebbes were only quaintrelics of a once-gloriousera.Therewasatimebackin the old country, in thetowns and villages thatspeckled Russia’s Pale ofSettlement and themountains of Carpathia,when a rebbe couldmakean anti-Semitic landowner

perish in a freak accident,make a childless couplebearchildrenwellintooldage, gaze into the eyes ofhisfollowersandseeeveryoneoftheirdeeds,goodorbad, past and future. Buttimeshad changed, itwasunderstood.There were rumored

exceptions. Reb YankelefromAntwerp,peoplesaid,performed miracles so

greatandsofrequent,theywere near dailyoccurrences. There wastalk of the Tosher, nearMontreal, who was goodfor marriage blessings—itwas his specialty, theysaid.But these rebbes andtheirHasidimwere not inBrooklyn, and so theydidn’t seem quite real tome.Now, observing the

Skverers as they preparedfortherebbe’svisit,itwasclear that they thoughttheir present-day rebbe tobe of equal stature to thegreatrebbesofold,andallI could do was scoffinwardly.

“Didyouseeyournameonthe lottery list?” ChaimElya asked one day.Anticipationwasmounting

as the rebbe’s visit drewnear.“Whatlotterylist?”“The lottery for the

rebbe’s visit,” he said.“The lottery for who getsto do what. You wonPsalms.”As I was to learn, a

lottery had been held inwhich all students wereenteredfortheprivilegeofserving one of the rebbe’s

needs: opening the doorsto the rebbe’s shiny blackCadillac on his arrival,holding his sterling-silverpitcher and washbasin,pullingouthischairwhenhe stood or sat. It seemedas if the rebbe did notmove an inch or raise afinger without apredetermined set ofassistingmaneuvers.Iwonthe privilege of handing

the rebbe my book ofPsalms, from which hewould recite five chaptersat the end of morningprayers.At first, I was

indifferent. Sure, Ithought, the rebbe coulduse my Psalms if hewantedto,althoughitwasjust the same to me if hedidn’t.“CanIseeyourPsalms?”

aclassmateaskedthenextday.Several students

gathered around as Iwithdrew themodest fauxleather-bound volume—abar mitzvah gift from afamily friend—from mynavy-blue velvet tefillinpouch. My friends leanedin to examine it, butwithone quick glance at itspuny ordinariness, they

shook their heads. It wasnot the right kind, theysaid.“What’stherightkind?”“The rebbe uses only a

Shlohprayerbook.”The Shloh prayer book

was a special prayer bookfor the mystics and theultra-pious, filled withkabbalistic commentary inthe margins. Because therebbeusedone,most self-

respecting SkvererHasidim used one, too. I,ofcourse,didnot.One of my classmates

pulled me aside. “I’d behappy to exchangeprivileges.”“What’dyouget?”He bit his lip. “Holding

the towel after tefillin—but the rebbe can’t useyourPsalmsanyway.”Chaim Elya, my source

for all things Skver,explained it tome:“Whenyou hold the towel,” hesaid, “the rebbewipes hishands, and that’s it. Thetowel is still the rebbe’s.But with Psalms, it’s yourPsalms. You make a noteinside that the rebbe usedit. You get to keep it forlife.”Other students, too,

offered to exchange

privileges, always makingsuretoemphasizethattherebbe couldn’t use myPsalmsanyway,andso I’dbesttakewhattheyofferedor I would end up withnothing.Suddenly, my

indifference was gone. Ihad won the privilegefairly. I approached thedean, Reb Chezkel, to askif my Psalms was good

enough for the rebbe, andhe waved his hand todismiss the critics. “YourPsalms is fine. The rebbewon’tcare.”Still, some of thestudentswouldnot let thematter rest. “You’re notevenaSkvererHasid,”oneargued, “What does itmattertoyou?”One student offered metendollarsinexchangefor

the privilege, and for amoment I wonderedwhether Imight capitalizeon theaffair, sell it to thehighest bidder. I thoughtof the chocolate Danishesatthecornergrocerystore,the shelves of Yiddishbooks at the Judaica shopon Bedford Avenue, thehot dogs turning in thewindow of Landau’sdelicatessen on Lee

Avenue. But selling thePsalms privilegewould beunseemly, an insult to therebbe. Besides, now it allseemed like a pretty bigdeal. I was keeping myprivilege.

Istoodwiththerestofthestudent body, lined up inthe study hall waiting forthe rebbe to appear. Thedoor opened slowly from

theoutside.“Shh, shh,” the crowd

hushed.An elderly man with a

salt-and-pepper beard andbulbousnose,lookingbothmoroseandself-important,appeared,andittookmeamoment to realize that hewas not the rebbe but hisattendant. He beganbrushing away imaginaryspecks of dirt on the floor

with the tip of his shoeandshovingasidestudentswhoseelbowsstucktoofarinto the cleared path.Several paces behind himcame a stout man with areddishbeardgoneslightlygray, his brow wrinkled,his wide-brimmed hatpulled low over hisforehead, his eyebrowsnarrowed into an insistentscowl.This,evidently,was

thegreatmanhimself:HisHonorable Holiness, OurMaster, Our Teacher, OurRabbi, the RighteousFoundation of the World,the Rebbe of Skvyra,MayHe Live Many Good andLongDays.He did not look like arebbe. He did not lookregal, he did not lookscholarly, he did not lookrebbish.His beardwas not

white,andnotnearlylongenough—fist-length, atmost. He did not sportlong flowing whitesidelocksbutsmallreddishones, and he kept themtied in a small knot infront of his ears. I hadalways thought rebbeswere supposed to have alanguid air, eyesdownward or lightlyclosed or rolled upward,

otherworldy. But thisrebbe’seyeslookedshrewdand present. When hewalked, his head pointedforward,buthisdarkeyes,under thick, slantedeyebrows, shifted withalertness. He said not aword and made nounexpected gestures, andyet, his presence in theroomwasthick;Ifeltitinthe utter silence, in the

unblinking, staring eyesandthebatedbreathofallaround me. The rebbeapproached the speciallectern prepared for him,then whipped his denselywovenprayershawloutofits cowhide pouch andflung it in one sweepingmotion over his head andtorso, sending a gentlebreeze over our sweatyforeheads.

Prayer began momentslater. We stood in a tightsemicircle around therebbe, whose face wasobscured,only thebulkofhis large, swaying bodyvisible from behind. Ahandful of burly studentswerestationedinthefrontrow, creating a force fieldofemptyspacearoundtherebbe while behind themthe rest us elbowed for a

betterspot.He who makes peace

amongtheheavens,mayHemake peace among us. Theprayer leader called outthe last verses of kaddish,and I readiedmyself withmylittlePsalms.With the last chorus of

“Amen,” Ipushedmywaythrough the tightsemicircleandapproachedthe rebbe. My hands

trembledasIlaidthebookonthelecternandwatchedas the rebbe’s thick handsreached for it. Frombehind the folds of histallis, his eyes met minefor a quick second,piercing me with theirsilent scrutiny. I tookseveral steps backwardandwatchedasheglancedat the volume, flipped thefront cover, and read my

gold-embossedname.Foramoment Iheldmybreath,waiting for the rebbe toturn and say that it wasnottherightkind.Instead,he glanced once again inmy direction, and I saw ahint of a smile, as if anacknowledgment of myboldness in offering avolumesoordinary.Ifeltaflutterofvictory.It was all over very

quickly. After prayers, therebbe was led around thepremises by Reb Chezkelasthestudentbodysurgedseveral paces behind. Assoonastherebbe’scarleft,taking off with its strobelights flashing and sirenshrieking to announce therebbe’s departure to theHasidim of Williamsburg,we took toanalyzingeachmomentofthevisit.Every

step, every glance, everytwitch of the rebbe’seyebrow, had beencarefully observed andscrutinized, and for therestoftheweek,itwasallthestudentstalkedabout.Insidethefrontcoverof

thelittlevolume,followingthe guidance ofmy friendChaimElya,Iwrote:InthisBook of Psalms, the RebbeofSkvyra,mayhelivemany

long years, recited chapters91 to 95 on Thursday, the27th day of Cheshvan,5748.

Itwasn’tuntilmyfirstvisitto the village of NewSquare that I came tounderstandwhatreallysetthe Skverers apart. Thedeath anniversary of therebbe’s grandfather, RebDuvidel of Skvyra, was

approaching, and theyeshiva organized anofficial trip to the sect’sheadquarters. The rebbewould be leading amemorial tisch, atraditional communalmeal.Iwasn’teagertoattend.Rebbes were still not onmy mind much. InBorough Park, where Ilived, there was no

shortageofthosewholaidclaimto the title.Theyallseemed indistinctive anduninspiring, caricatures ofpietistic pretense, eachwith his gauzy whitebeard, glazed eyes underthick eyeglasses, blue orwhite floral caftans: theMunkatcher, the Bobover,the Stoliner, the Skulener,the Rachmastrivker;Hungarian and Polish,

Romanian and Galician,even the occasionalLithuanian. On the rareoccasion that I wouldattendoneoftheirtischen,I would listen as theyspoke, mumbling in oddsingsong voices, alwaysvariations on the samethemes,aboutTorahstudyand prayer and theSabbath kugel and goodJews and bad non-Jews.

There were songs, onoccasion, as often as notuninspiring, tepidmelodies sung half-heartedly and off-key bysparse crowds. Usually, Iwould attend only withfriends, if itwas a specialoccasionandtherewasthepromise of entertainment—a Purim play inMunkatch, the menorahlighting in Rachmastrivka,

dancingtilldawnatBobovon the seventh night ofPassover, which waspleasant enough for aboutfiveminutesbutsurelynotfor five hours. For themost part, little of it heldmyinterest;Iwasfarmoreconcerned that my blackcaftan would becomecreased, that my polishedblack shoes would bescuffed, and that my

Sabbath beaver hatwouldgetknockedintoabowlofchickensoup.Reb Chezkel, however,made it clear thatattendingthetischinNewSquarewasmandatory.The shtetl was only anhourfromBrooklyn,butasour yellow school busmade its way through thestrange village, I foundmyself intrigued. Young

boys wore blacksuspenders over dull-colored shirts and blackpants, their unkemptsidelocks down to theirchests—unlikeusBrooklynboys who snipped oursidelocks at chin-lengthand kept them perfectlycurled. Their hatsappeared rain-speckled,and every man and boyappeared to be wearing

“Medicaidglasses,”cat-eyeframes of thick black orbrown plastic. Theirgartels, thin black prayersashes,werewoundtightlyaround their waists overill-fitting gabardines; theirshoes looked worn-out,scuffed at the toes andencrustedwithmud. Eventhe women had a morepious appearance,kerchiefsboundover their

wigs more tightly than inBrooklyn,theirexpressionsmore severe. There wassomething slightlyrepellent about thesepeople and, at the sametime,strangelyenchanting.I half expected to see ayard full of squawkingchickensandamilkcowatpasture.Thebusstoppedinfrontof a large, plain-looking

rectangular structure inthe center of the village,its only adornment anarrow roofed porch andtwo concrete squarecolumns at its entrance.Thiswasthevillage’smainsynagogue. Inside thesanctuary, an enormoustablewassetup,madeupofdozensofsmallertables,each covered with whatwas once a white

tablecloth but was nowgrease-stained andyellowed. Seated onbencheswithtallbackrestsalong both sides of thetable were elderly men,and behind them, leaningon the backrests, weremore men, middle-aged,some with small childrenin their arms or standingbeside them. Behind themwere rows of bleachers,

five stories each, aboutfifteen feet tall. On thebleachers, youngmen andteenageboysstoodpressedagainst one another, andmore were climbing totake their places amongthem, all of them lookingtoward the head of thetable,wheretherebbewassoontoappear.I felt a tap on myshoulder. A thin, tall man

stood behind me andextendedhishand.“Shulem aleichem,” hesaid.“Welcome.”IlookedtoseeifIknewhim, but he took offwithout another word.Soon another manapproached to shake myhand, and then another.Some smiled but mostdidn’t, as if thesewelcominggestureswerea

solemn duty. Some askedformy name andwhere Iwasfrom,butmostmovedon quickly. Thehandshakeswereasvariedasthosewhoofferedthem:limp,firm,pumping—evena two-handed one from amiddle-aged gentlemanwho smiled broadly as ifwe were old friends, butheofferednowordsatall.Suddenly, there was

frantic hushing, and Iwatched asmen and boysof all ages made a finaldash for their places. Itriedtogetapeekbetweenthe many hats and headsandshouldersbutcouldn’tseemuch past the jostlingmen in front of me. Therebbe,Ipresumed,hadjustenteredfromaroomatthefront.Another tap on my

shoulder. Chaim Lazer,one of my classmates,stoodbehindme.“Come up onto the

parentches,” he said, andpointed to the bleachers,rowsandrowsofboysourownage.“Itlooksfull,”Isaid.“They’ll make room for

you. In Skver, there’salwaysroomforanother.”I followed Chaim as he

climbed to the top rowofthe last set of bleachers.Alreadycramped,theboyssqueezedtogethertomakeroom for us and reachedacrosstoshakeourhands.Therewasa faintmusk inthe air, from thecompressed bodies andlayers of clothes; onoccasion,mynostrilswerehit with a strong whiff ofit.

The hall fell silent. Allfocus was on the rebbe,who now sat on a tallgildedchairattheheadofthetable,itsseatandbackof rich red leather, a goldcrowninwoodreliefrisingfrom the chair behind therebbe’shead.Iwatchedashe raised a large loaf ofchallah,thesizeofasmallchild, and cut a slice forhimself.Herippedasmall

piece and chewed slowly,hisheadswayingfromsideto side, as if in prayer.Meanwhile, the attendanttook the rest and cut itinto smaller pieces. Thechallah chunks, soonshredded into hundreds ofpieces, were passed fromhand to hand all the wayacross the shul. Somereceivedonly crumbs, andthose crumbs were split

into even smaller crumbs.Thesewere the traditionalsacred morsels, sherayim,leftovers of the tzaddik’sfood,eachmorselbringinguntold blessings: it healedthe sick, brought goodfortune, and instilled inonethefearofGod.Morefoodwasplacedinfrontoftherebbe,allofitin enormous silver dishes:a whole cooked salmon,

chicken noodle soup in acovered silver tureen, alarge platter piled highwith dozens of chickenlegs, and another withbrightly glazed carrots.Fromeachdish, the rebbeate only a few morsels,swaying from side to sideashe chewed, afterwhichthe attendant passedaround the leftovers,which were then passed,

handtohand,throughtherestofthecrowd.Anelderlymanbeganto

sing a familiar song, acoarse and boisterousmelody, its simple notestaught in every Hasidickindergarten:Grant us thegood inclination, to serveYou with truth, with aweand with love. The rebberested his forehead on hisright hand, covering half

his face. His cheeks wereflaming red over hisreddish-gray beard as hisbody swayed softly to therhythm.The crowd joined in,and slowly their voicesgrew louder, more robust,the song filling thesanctuary. Moments later,the rebbe removed hishand from his foreheadandbegantopoundhisfist

on the table. The crowdresponded, stomping theirfeet in time to the rebbe’spounding. Even the brasschandeliersvibratedtothebeat of the song. Thesimple passage wasrepeated over and over,until thecrowdwas likeasingle massive organismscreaming its desperateplea:Grantus,grantus,thegood inclination! Grant us,

grant us, the goodinclination!During a pause in thesinging, men removedkerchiefs from theirpockets and wiped thesweat from their brows.Above us, latticeworkpanelscoveredthebalconyareas, the women’ssection,andhereandtherea slender finger gripped awooden strip from behind

the partition. Through theslats,Icouldmakeoutthevagueoutlineof faces, thefew women who cared toattend, to observe thisotherwisemale-onlyevent.Anotherdishwasplacedin front of the rebbe, andthen quickly removed fordisbursement. The crowdgrew tense withanticipation, softmurmursfollowed by expectant

silence.Therebbegesturedto one of the elderlymenat the table. The manbegan to sing a slow tunesettowordsIrememberedfromthepenitenceprayersof the High Holy Days, aprayer not to God but tohisministeringangels:

RemindHim,makeitheardbeforeHim,

theTorahstudyandgooddeedsofthosewhorestbeneaththeearth.

The crowd took up thetune, again starting outweakly, their voicesgrowing stronger witheach stanza. The songcame to an end, and thecrowd took it up again

from the beginning. Someofthemenappearedtobeweeping.Theboysaroundme swayed vigorouslywith their eyes closed.Even the children stoodremarkably solemn, alleyesontherebbe:

LetHimremembertheirlove,andkeepalivetheirseed,

sothattheremnantofJacobwillnotbelost.Forthesheepofafaithfulshepherdhasbeenputtohumiliation,Israel,onenation,toscornandmockery.

The last partwas directed

to God Himself, as if ourrestrainthaddissolved,thepassion of our crywarranting the bypass ofheavenlybureaucracy:

Answerusspeedily,Godofoursalvation,Redeemusfromallharshdecrees.Save,withYourbountifulmercy,

YourrighteousanointedoneandYournation.

There were more songs,slowtunesandlivelyones,some set to words andothers only a steadystreamofyadidadidai. Ifound myself swept up inthe energy, joining handswith the boys beside me,

lifting my feet with themand stomping on thefloorboards, sharing intheir exuberance, smellingthe sweat of their bodiesandtastingthesherayimoftheirrebbe’sfood.For the first time, I

understood the tisch, notas something a teacher orparent declared importantbut as somethingexperiential and

inexpressible. It was somecombinationofthepeople,the food, the bodiespressed tightly togetherswaying in unison, theHasidim’s warm smilesthat inexplicablycaptivated me. For theveryfirst time, itoccurredto me that being a Hasidallowed formore than thedaily grind of studyingTalmud and adhering to

the minutiae of ourreligiouslaws.Here was the ecstasyand the joy. Here was allthat I had been told thatweHasidimonce had andlost. “The teachingsof theBaal Shem Tov have beenforgotten,” the old rebbeof Satmar had famouslysaid, but here among theSkverers, they appearednottobeforgottenatall.

It was soon after thatevening that, if anyoneasked,Iwouldsay,“IamaSkverer.”Other Hasidim, those Ihad grown up among inBrooklyn, were different.They cared a great dealabout their crystalchandeliers and Persianrugs, their summerbungalows in the CatskillMountains and and the

prestige of their children’smarital arrangements. OnSabbath afternoons, themen paraded throughBorough Park in theirfinestclothes,thetasselsoftheir silk, handwovengartels flapping at theirsides, their gleaming furshtreimels tall on theirheads, with the outeredges shooting up incircles of tiny spires. But

they did not cry as theystomped their feet: “Grantus! Grant us! The goodinclination!” as theSkverers did. Hasidim inBorough Park remodeledtheir kitchens frequentlyand got the best deals onlate-model cars, but neverhad I seen them squeezetogether to allow anotherHasid to experience thesong and dance of a

rebbe’s tisch. “Animals!”myfriendShloimeSamet’sfather screamed when hediscovered a light scratchalong the side of hisbrand-new tawnyOldsmobile, and I stoodstunnedthatascratchonacarcouldenrageamanso.“Don’t ruinmy furniture,”myfriendNuchemZinger’sfather growled as Ibrushedlightlyagainstthe

mahoganychinacabinetintheir dining room. InBorough Park, I had beentold tales of men whoembraced asceticism andpovertyandwant,whodidnot go to bed until theyhadgiventheirlastcointothepoor,andyetwelivedasifthosetaleshadtaughtus nothing. But theSkverers were different;they appeared to live

exactly like the pious andmodest folk of the oldEuropeanshtetl,andnowIlongedtobeoneofthem.

Several months later, myparentssentmeforayearof study at a yeshiva inMontreal. The deanwas aSatmar Hasid, as weremost of the students, butthere were also Belzersand Vizhnitzers, and

Bobovers, and even oneLubavitcher. I, along withonly two others, was aSkverer. A year later, atfourteen,Iwouldreturntostudy with the Skverers,first in Williamsburg, andlater, at sixteen, in theGreat Yeshiva in NewSquare. But it was duringthat year in Montreal,amongHasidimofsomanydifferent sects, that my

new identity took firmhold.On the Sabbath, at the

third meal, as eveningblended into night, wewould gather around thetables in the dining roomover pickled herring andcooked chickpeas, and Iwould think of NewSquare, where the samemeal was held in therebbe’s great synagogue,

the lights extinguished, asifitwereaUkrainiantownacenturyearlier,whenthecandles of the previousevening were burned outandnewonescouldnotbelituntilnightfall.“The sons of the inner

chamber,whoyearntogazeat the countenance of Ze’erAnpin,” the boys in myMontreal yeshiva wouldsing, while I would not

sing with them but onlychantmournfully,asIhadamong the Skverers intheir shtetl, wherehundredsofmenandboyswould stand pressedtogether, the blackness ofour coats and hatsblending with theblacknessof thedarkhall,creating an eerieotherworldliness, at oncemelancholic and strangely

joyful. “Rejoice! There isgoodwill in this hour, noanger or fury,” the rebbewould cry, his sobsreverberating through thepitch-black chamber. Achillwouldgoupmyspineuntil I felt the hair alongmy temples go straight.“Come near to me, beholdmystrength,fortherearenoharshjudgments.”“Hey, Skverer, where

areyourboots?”oneofmySatmar classmates wouldtaunt me. Skverer men,once married, wore tallpeasant boots on theSabbath instead of theknickers and whitestockings of otherHasidim. But I felt nottauntedbutproud.Iwouldwear those boots, too,whenthetimecame,whenI found a girl from a

Skverer family to marry,and raise our children asSkverers.

ChapterFour

A dozen of us attendedeach of AvremelShayevitz’s sessions of“groom instruction.”Beneath the harsh whitelight of two long, nakedfluorescent bulbs, we sataround a brown Formicatable in Avremel’s dining

room. Through the closeddoor to the kitchen camethe sounds of childrenplaying, crying, laughing,bursts of raised voicesfollowed by a woman’sscolding: “Shh, Tatti isstudying with thebucherim.”“‘Respect her more thanyour own self!’” Avremelwould cry during thosesessions, quoting the

Talmud, his jerky armsand fists slicing andpounding the air. “Buthowdoweunderstand thispassage? What does itmean to respect awoman?” Avremel wouldtwist a hair from hisscraggly black beardaround his finger, pull itout, and drop itabsentmindedly on thetablebetweenus.“Whatit

really means, esteemedyoung men, is that wemust be vigilant! Respectwhatshe,awoman,candoto a man if he does notremaincareful.”Hewouldwag an index finger overhis head, “Let down yourguard, and she will leadyou into sheol tachtis—theabyss of sinfultemptation!”There were other

“groominstructors,”too.There was Reb Noach,

with his mangy blondbeardandhis springystepand ever-present smirk,whowouldteachmeaboutthe female body and themany laws related to itsfunction. There was RebShraga Feivish, whowould,ontheafternoonofthewedding,teachmethemechanics of how to

perform “the mitzvah.”TherewasRebSrulik,withwhom I would consultafter the wedding onvarious questions—embarrassingones,mostly,about body fluids, andshades of red and brownand ocher, anything thatmight interrupt our“familycleanliness.”Butbefore,after,and in

between all the others,

there was Avremel, thefacilitator and clarifier ofall that information,castingitinitsappropriatelight, ensuring that it wasproperly understood andactedupon.

Avremel’s mentorship hadbegun nearly three yearsearlier, inour firstyearatthe Great Yeshiva, not toprepare us for marriage

butasageneralcounselor.He was a thin man, withhollow cheeks and darkeyes that opened wide toreveal the whites andnarrowed to slits sointense that they werefrightening. Avremel wasone of a cadre of menchosen by the rebbe toserve as special mentors.In lateryears, Iwould seeAvremelasacaricatureof

religious fanaticism, aSavonarola of the Hasidicworld; but at the time, Iidolizedhim.His speecheswere masterful: he wasable, inasinglebreath,toweave talmudic passagesabouthellandtheafterlifeinto a scathing comedicrant against one sort ofwickedness or another,scorning the sheer idiocyof those who could not

resist temptations of theflesh, who veered from“holinessandpurity.”Once a month, for the

NewMoon feast, scoresofyoungmenwouldsqueezeinto Avremel’s smalldining room and sitaroundhis tableoronthebattereddivanbythewallor cross-legged on thefloor. We would dipchunks of challah into

bowls of yishke—aconcoction of overripetomatoes, diced onions,and bits of schmaltzherring, drenched invegetableoil—andwashitdown with flat seltzerwhile Avremel spoke ofthe evils of gluttony andearthly temptations, sinfulthoughts in our sleep,insufficient devotion inprayerortotherebbe.We

wouldenterthroughareardoor, to avoid glimpses ofAvremel’s wife or hisyoungdaughters,butwe’dhear their disembodiedvoices from other parts ofthe small apartment.Occasionally, one ofAvremel’s young sonswould join us, and eventheyoungestknewtoclosethe door behind himquickly. Itwas theperfect

Hasidic home, andAvremel, clearly, was aparagon of Hasidicmanhood.The groom instructionsessions were different:intimate and secretive.Only the soon-to-be-married were invited, andwe were instructed tospeak with no one aboutthem.Theseweresensitivematters,andwewouldslip

away from the study hallin the evening, aware ofthe furtive glances in ourdirection.The first session took

place two months beforemywedding,whichwastobe held in early June.When the session wasover, I waited until theothersleft,andthenaskedAvremel if I might speakwith him. We sat on

oppositesidesofthetable,andIrememberstrugglingforwords.What cameoutwas a croak, a lameattempt at verbalizing mytempestuous swings fromanger to melancholy toresignationduring the lastfour months. “I am nothappy.”Avremel’s eyes went

wide in response, fiery,almost scolding. “Why?”

heasked.Again, as in the rebbe’s

chamber, there was aquestionandIhadtocomeup with an answer. IthoughtthatwithAvremelit would be easier, butnow I realized that here,too, I couldn’t speak mythoughts. They feltinappropriate, almostsinful. I was thinking thewrong thoughts, feeling

thewrongthings.“I don’t know why,” I

said. And then I felt anexplosion of despair, myface suddenly awash withtears. I did not want tomarry this girl. The day,thehour,themomentwasapproaching, and I couldnot stop it. I wished Icould escape, take off tosome unknown place,where I could start a new

life and be spared theshame of what I reallywanted,butwherewouldIgo?Overwhelmed,Iburiedmyfaceinmyarm,unabletocontainmysobs.When I raised my head

again,Avremelwasstaringat me, his eyebrowsnarrowed, his browcreased, as if he nowrealized that, yes, we hada problem. But he needed

moreinformation,hesaid.“Perhapsyoucanthinkonitsomemore.”“I don’t know,” I

remember muttering.“Maybe—Ijustdon’tthinksheandIhaveanythingincommon.”Avremel nodded slowly,

then looked at the tableforalongtime.Finally,hesaid,“Youwerehopingfora friend.” He stroked his

beard, beads of spittrappedintheedgesofhisunkemptmustache.I shrugged with a halfnod.Perhapsthatwasit.“A wife isn’t a friend.”Avremel shook his heademphatically. “Eizerkenegdo,” he said, quotingGenesis.“Awifeistobeahelpmate. Your friendswill still be your fellowstudents.”

Avremel looked at mewhile I stared at the fauxwood-grainpatternsintheFormica tabletop and Ithought about his words.After several minutes ofsilence, hebegan to speakagain,more assuredly thistime. I hadmisunderstoodthe wholemarriage thing,he said. A wife is not afriend. A wife is notsomething to think about

excessively.Totakeawifeis a biblicalcommandment, and sowedo God’s will by takingone. A wife is there toassistwithone’sservicetoGod,nothingmore.

In later years, I wouldhavewordsforthatwhichI could not articulate tothe rebbe or to Avremel,words from beyond our

cloisteredworldof tischenand Talmud study andgroom instruction:Attraction. Chemistry.Compatibility. I wouldlater learn other words—passion, romance, arousal,desire—that I wanted aswell, but to want thosewasanunquestionablesin;those feelings andthoughts and behaviorsthat passed between sexes

outside of ourworldwereanathema to us and oursacredways.

I remember when I firstbecame aware of a worldfilled with forbiddenpassions. I was nearingfourteen, during my yearofstudyinMontreal,andIhadacuriousthought.“Have you noticed,” Isaid one day tomy friend

AvrumYida,aSatmarboyfrom Williamsburg, “thathere in Montreal,whereveryouturn,thereisamanandwomanwalkingtogether?”Avrum Yida didn’tunderstand what I meant,and I tried to point outwhat was to meunmistakably apparent. Inour world, fathers walkedwith sons and mothers

with daughters, but here,everywhere,weremenandwomen in pairs—strollingdown leafy Avenue SaintViateur, past the manyshuttered Roman Catholicchurches; sitting on thebenches in OutremontPark,restinghands,heads,legs in each other’s laps;eyeing the jewelry storedisplays in the small rowof shops along Avenue

Bernard, eyes glitteringtowardeachotherthroughthe fog of their breath inthefrigidJanuaryair.ItmustbeaFrenchthing,Irememberthinking.Ihadlearned that Quebecoiswere French, and theFrench, I had heard once,werethemostdecadentofall people. Paris was thesource of all shmutz, ourteachers had told us. It

was the place fromwhichimmodest women’sfashions were conceivedandsent to therestof theworld, to tempt men tosin. This uncouth displayof intersex courtshipmusthavesomethingtodowiththat.Avrum Yida, when hefinally understood myobservation, dismissed it.“It’s just how goyim are,”

hesaid.“Youcanseeit inManhattan, too.” AvrumYida thought himselfwiseand worldly, and I wasinclined to take his wordfor it. Not a French thingbutagoyishthing.French or goyish,

however, it was sinful togaze at. Yet I could notlook away. From thesecond-floor window ofouryeshiva,Iwouldwatch

as they passed, hand inhandorwiththeirarmsoneach other’s backs, headsleaning on shoulders,peckingateachother’slipsand nuzzling noses. Myjaw would go slack as Iobserved them, until Iwould catch myself andturn to check that no onewaswatchingme.

Shield your eyes, our

teachers would warn us.Your eyes are the doorwaysto evil thoughts. From theday of my bar mitzvah,matters of holiness andpurity became theobsessive concern of mymentors. If at twelve, Imighthaveplayedagameof cat’s cradle with mysister’s friend Rachy fromdown the block, byfourteen, such interaction

wasstrictlyforbidden.Ifatthirteen, I could still sparwithBruchyFeldmanoverabook,byfifteen,Iwouldavert my eyes entirelywhen a girl or womanentered a room or passedmeonthestreet.Guardyourcovenant,myteacherwarnedduringmyprivate bar mitzvahlessons. I was not surewhat he meant until he

looked at me sternly, andwarned me that if Itouched my covenant anditbecamelongandhard,itcould lead to the greatestof all sins: the well-knownsin. And I couldn’t helpwonder: If it was so wellknown, why did I notknow it? Did it haveanother name, maybe?WasIallowedtoask?“From tomorrow

onward,” my father saidon the evening of my barmitzvah, “you mustimmerse in the mikveheach morning beforeprayers.” He made vagueallusions to impuritiesoccurringduringthenight,whichthepurifyingwatersof the ritual bath were tocleanse.“You went to Eichler’s?”

mysister,Chani,twoyears

older than I, asked inhorror when I returnedhome one day with anEichler’s shopping bag.Eichler’s was a Judaicabookstore on ThirteenthAvenue, Borough Park’smain shoppingthoroughfare. “Youshouldn’t be anywherenear Thirteenth Avenue!”Thirteenth Avenue wasfilledwithhousewivesand

schoolgirls.Evenmysisterknew that was too muchtemptation for a thirteen-year-oldboytohandle.Eleven-year-old BruchyFeldman, the sister of myfriendsNusyandEli,knewit, too, and attempted togive me a lesson about itwhen she caught mereading a book I hadquietly taken from herroom.Itwasduringoneof

my return visits fromMontreal, while visitingthe Feldmans next door,when I wandered intoBruchy’s bedroom tobrowse the collection ofbooks she had—mostlyHolocaust memoirs, talesof ancient sages, andnovels about OrthodoxJewish schoolgirls.On thefloor near her bed, as ifdiscarded, was a tattered,

dog-eared volume, on itscover a drawing of a boyholding a pair ofbinoculars. Before I knewit, I was slouched on thehallway floor outsideBruchy’sroom,riveted.“You shouldn’t readthat,” Bruchy said,appearing suddenly at thetop of the stairs andsmiling coyly as sheapproached. “It’s not for

boys.”I grunted in response,then inched away as shereached to take the bookfromme. Iwas thirteen,ayeshiva boy and buddingTalmud scholar. I didn’ttake orders from eleven-year-oldgirls.Bruchy leftbut returnedseveralminuteslater.“You shouldn’t readthat,” she said again, her

tone now reproachful,certain of herrighteousness. “It’s not forboys!” she cried as shelunged for the book, herstraight, unstyled, dirty-blond hair flapping acrossherface.But the book was forboys.Itwasnotoneofourbooks but a secular book,withthestampofthelocalpubliclibraryontheedges

ofthepage.Thebooktoldthe story of a boy whowould gaze throughbinoculars to the houseacross the street, inwhichthere lived a girl his agewho kept her windowshades open. The boywould watch her undress,then think about what hesaw, and later he wouldfind that in his pants hefelt an odd feeling, a

tightening bulge that hewas certain everyonenoticed and that he triedto cover up by wearing araincoat at all times. Healsoexperiencedwhatoneof his teachers called“nocturnal emissions,”which described exactlythat terribly embarrassingthing that I had begun toexperience over the pastfewmonths.

If I was surprised thatthisbookwas tobe foundin the Feldmans’ home, Ididn’t give it muchthought, although I wasdimly aware that Bruchyhad probably sneaked itintoherhomewithoutherparents’ knowledge. Herfather was a rabbi andscholarwhospenthisdaysabsorbedinhisstudiesandpaid little attention to his

children’s reading habits.Mrs. Feldman, a booklover herself, must havebeenlaxaboutsupervisingherdaughter’sreading.But Bruchy knew, asanyonewithanysensedid,that thiswascertainlynotabookforboys.Boyswereto keep their minds pureand spend their dayswithTorah study. Girls werenot required to study

Torah.He who teaches hisdaughter Torah, the sagessaid,teachesherfoolishness.Girls,wewere told,didn’thave the urges andtemptations that boys did.Girlswereallowedtogazeatboys,butboyswerenotallowed to gaze back.Some said that womenpossessedloftiersoulsthanmen and therefore didn’tneed to study Torah,

weren’t obligated with asmany commandments,were allowed to studyEnglish literature andhistoryandevenalittleartand science, too, becausetheir souls were so loftythatthosesubjectscouldn’thurtthem,ornotnearlyasmuchastheycouldboys.Iknew this, and Bruchyknewthis,andsowebothknew that itwasher duty

tokeepmefromreadingabook that she, too, shouldnothavebeenreadingbutwas far more sinful whenreadbyaboy.It would be severaldecades before I learnedthat the book was ThenAgain, Maybe I Won’t,which, along with otherbooksbythesameauthor,Judy Blume, was seen astransgressiveevenbynon-

Hasidic standardsandwasbanned from schools andlibraries across thecountry. At that time,however, Iknewonlythatthe book addressed somany mysteries of myprivate world that I couldnot contain my desperatedesire to keep reading it.Except, Bruchy would notallowit.Overthenextfewdays,whenever I returned

to the Feldmans’ home, Iwould plead with Bruchyfor another glance at it,only just to hold it inmyhand, and each time Iwould face again herrighteous hissing: “It’s notforboys!”Aweeklater,Iwasbackon the bus to Montreal,squeezed into a windowseat beside a heavysetrabbi who spent most of

theeight-hourtripofferingme chulent-making tips—he claimed to be aworld-class expert—while all Icouldthinkofwastheboywith the binoculars. Iwonderedwhetherheevergot to speak to the girlacross the street, orwhether he learnedanything more about themysteries of his body. Asthe rabbi went on about

choosing thebest kindsofbeans and how to cut thepotatoes just right, Iwonderedwhysomebookswould be not for boys,whatmade boys and girlsdifferent, and why I wasbeginningtofeelastrangestirring whenever thisrabbi’s daughter, a pale,thin girl with a long darkbraid sitting across theaisle,glancedmyway.

“Perverted thoughts onlyenter a mind devoid ofwisdom,” my teacherswould remindme,and so,throughout my yeshivayears, I would try to fillmymind only with Torahstudy.Andyet,thoseotherthoughts still came, oftenwhenmostunexpected.If the woman plants theseedfirst,thechildismale,Iread in the Talmud, and I

wondered about the waysinwhichsuchaseedmightbeplanted.In the Bible, I read thetalesofancientpeopleandtheir many acts of “lyingwith”—Pharaoh andAbraham’s wife Sarah;Reuben and his father’sconcubine Bilhah; Judahand his daughter-in-lawTamar—and I tried hardnot to let my thoughts

wander to what such“lyingwith”mightentail.Then there was that

mysterious term: tashmishhamitah. It appeared onoccasionduringmystudiesbut was never explained.Teachers mumbled itwithout elaborating. Iknew the literal meaning:“service of the bed.” Iknewsomethingsaboutit:It was forbidden on Yom

Kippur. Itwas the thing—referredtobytheBibleas“playing”—that Isaac didwith his wife, Rebecca,while the Philistine kingAvimelech watchedthrough the window. Itcaused ritual impurity,requiring immersion inwater before beingallowedintothetempleinJerusalem or partaking ofthe sacred meat of ritual

sacrifice. But I did notknowwhatitwas.When I was twelve,several months before mybar mitzvah, I turned tomy father one day as heheadedtohisstudywithaglass of tea in hand. Thequestionpoppedoutofmymouth, as if on its own:“Tatti, what does tashmishhamitahmean?”My father stopped,

startled. Standing tall andthin in his faded blackchalatel, the lightgabardineheworearoundthe house, his gartelwound snugly around hiswaist, he looked atme asif trying to read somesecret intent behind myquestion. Then he askedme to follow him into hisstudy, where he sat downin his chair and askedme

toclosethedoor.Tashmish hamitah, myfather said, refers tosomething very privatebetween a husband andwife.“It involves touchingin a way that expressesfeelings,”hesaid.He looked at methoughtfully to see if Iunderstood, and Inodded,feelingforamomentasifIhad actually learned

something. I had neverseenHasidichusbandsandwivestouch,andsowhatInowheardwassonewandstartling that I did notthinktoaskanythingmoreaboutit.“You’llunderstandmorewhen you get older,” myfather added, and it wasonly after I left his studythatIwonderedwhatsuchtouching might look like.

Myfathersaiditexpressedfeeling,andsoIwondered:Did they hold hands?Caress each other’scheeks? And why was abedneeded?Severalweeks later, ourrebbe, Reb Meshulam,gave his afternoon Biblelesson.“And you shall enter theark,youandyoursons,andyour wife and your son’s

wives,” he read from theBible text. It was the taleofNoahandtheflood,andfewstudentsseemedtobepaying attention. We’dstudied this portion eachyear, for nearly a decade,and the story neverchanged. Noah built hisark. God sent the flood.Everyone perished, exceptthose in the ark. We’dhearditallbefore.

“LetusstudytheRashi,”Reb Meshulam said, andpointed his finger to thelowerhalfofthepage.Rashi was a medieval

French rabbi who wrotethe most essentialcommentaries on both theBible and Talmud. Butwe’d already studied thisportion of Rashi, too,manytimes.From across the room,

Shloimy Rubin doodled inthe margins of his Biblereader.EliGreenrestedhischin lazilyonhis forearm.Next to me, one boyyawned followed byanother. It was late on aSunday afternoon, andclass would end in anhour.Reb Meshulam readfrom Rashi’s commentary:“The men and women

entered the ark separately.And so we know thattashmish hamitah wasforbiddenintheark.”Suddenly,mymindwasalert. Therewas that termagain. Tashmish hamitah.Service of the bed. Thiswas a passage of Rashi Ihadn’t noticed before—asifithadbeennewlyplacedinsideourtexts.SostartledwasIbyitsnewness,thatI

blurted a question aloud:“Tashmish hamitah wasforbidden in the ark?Why?”Reb Meshulam fell

silent. Shloimy Rubinstopped doodling in themargins of his Bible, andEli Green raised his headfrom resting on hisforearm.Reb Meshulam looked

away. “The world was in

sorrow,” he said after alongpause.“Itwouldhavebeeninappropriate.”Reb Meshulamcontinued his lesson.Shloimy returned to hisdoodling. Eli rested hischinbackonhisarm.“You know whattashmish hamitah means?”Shloimy and Eli camerunning after me, whenschool was over. I was

heading down Forty-ThirdStreet,pastaschoolyardinwhich a group of non-Hasidic kids were playingsoftball.“Weheardyouaskyourquestion,” Eli said,catching his breath. “Wefiguredyoumustknow.”“Idoknow,”Isaid.They waited for me toelaborate.“I can’t really say. It’s

not proper to talk aboutit.”“We think we know,”

Shloimy said, looking atme intently. “Eli saw apictureinamagazine.”Elinoddedalong.“Tell me what you

know,”Isaid,“andI’lltellyouifit’scorrect.”Shloimy looked at Eli,

who smiled sheepishly.Then, as Eli could not

bringhimselftomouththewords, Shloimy offered itinstead, speaking thewordsalmostinawhisper:“The man puts his frontintothewoman’sbehind.”

Itwasnowfiveyearslater,withmyweddingnearing,and Shloimy’s wordsniggledinmymind.Couldthat have been what myfathermeant? Itwas hard

tobelieve,andyet,whatifShloimy was right?Anxious to have it eitherconfirmed or denied, Iproceededtothenextlevelof groom instruction, aseries of lessons with RebNoach.At Reb Noach’s dining-room table, sitting on asweaty,plastic-upholsteredchair for two hours eachafternoon, I listened to

instruction on a wholenew set of laws: To awoman impure frommenstruation, thoushaltnotapproach, Reb Noach readfrom the Hebrew Bible infrontofus.Amanwholieswithamenstruatingwoman,both will be cut off fromtheirpeople.Awomanemitsabloodydischargeeachmonth,RebNoach explained; during

thatperiod,itisforbiddento approach her. It isforbiddentoshareutensils,to pass her any objectdirectly, to touch her orevenhergarments,togazeat her body parts that aregenerally concealed—upper arms, thighs,shoulders,evenherhair.Itis forbidden to sit on herbed,topourheraglassofwine, or to exchange

words of affection.Detailed records must bekept to allow us to bevigilant during days thather period was likely toarrive.It was all just another

elaborate set of laws, notunlike the requirement tofast onYomKippur, cut anewborn male infant’sgenitals, or tie your leftshoe before your right.

Many volumes had beenwrittenonthesubject.Andstill, the great mystery ofthe touching was notrevealed.

Myweddingdayarrivedamonth before mynineteenth birthday. Atthree o’clock in theafternoon, I was to meetwith the last of all groominstructors, Reb Shraga

Feivish.I awoke early thatmorning to recite theentire Book of Psalms. Iwould be fasting; thewedding day was apersonal Yom Kippur forthe bride and groom, asacred day of atonementand repentance. Aftermorning prayers, I had abrief audience with therebbe,whosatwrappedin

hisprayershawlashereadmy kvittel, and thenextended his hand. “Mayyour celebration arrive ata good and auspicioushour,” he said, as he heldmy hand with the tips ofhisfingers.Reb Shraga Feivish, anemaciated-looking rabbiwith a beard down to hisnavel, led me into hisstudy.Religioustextswere

strewn about on everyavailable surface. Heopened a large volume onthe table and read aloud:One who marries a virgintakes possession of her, andseparates from herimmediately.RebShragaFeivishwent

on to teach me about allthe laws that come after“takingpossession,”andastheminutespassed,Ifelta

risingpanic.Hadheflownright past the obvious?Had I missed a cruciallecture with no onerealizing it? I needed thebasics, not the laws onwhat came afterward. Iwanted details of the actitself, but Reb ShragaFeivish seemed tooabsorbed in his stream ofinstruction, and I was tooanxiousandtoostunnedto

interrupthim.After about twenty

minutes, Reb ShragaFeivish closed his book.“Whenyougethomeafterthe wedding, beginpreparingrightaway.”“Tonight?” I gasped in

alarm.“Yes. Themitzvahmust

be performed beforedaybreak. It’llprobablybevery late when you get

home, so don’t waste anytime.”I hadn’t been expecting

this immediacy. I hadthought that whatever itwas, Iwouldhave time toprocess it all. Reb ShragaFeivish, however, onlycontinued with hisinstructions. The mitzvah,hesaid,mustbeperformedtwice aweek, on Tuesdayand Friday nights, after

midnight, in totaldarkness.“Haveyoubeen toyourapartment?” he asked.“Doesthebedroomhaveaheavywindowshade?”I had been to theapartment but hadn’tthought to check thewindowshade.“Well,” Reb ShragaFeivish said thoughtfully,“don’tworryaboutitnow.

Ifnecessary,youcanputaquiltoverit.”Then, at last, hedescribedthemechanicsofthe sexual act. He used aseries of hand gestures,and finally I understood,more or less. Shloimy andElihadbeenwrong, Iwasrelievedtolearn.Reb Shraga Feivishwasn’tfinished,though.“Before the act itself,”

Reb Shraga Feivish said,“liebesideherandchatforafewminutes.”“Chat about what?” I

asked.“It is recommended that

one tell tales of therighteous. Only a fewminutes are necessary.Until she getscomfortable.”“What kindsof tales?” I

asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Anytale about a righteousman. About his fear ofGod, or his love of hisfellow Jews. The usualtales.”Hepaused tomakesure I understood. “Thenyou get on top, and tellheryouloveher.”“How?” I asked simply,

and the question feltstupidonmylips.Reb Shraga Feivish

paused,asifstartledbysodirect a question. “Justsay,‘Iloveyou.’”Thenotionoflovingmy

wifehadneveroccurredtome. Marriage was a duty,no more. To pretendotherwise seemedridiculous.“It is the law,” he said

with a shrug. “The lawsaysyoumusttellheryouloveher.”

There was no arguingwiththelaw.“You must kiss hertwice,” he continued.“Once before the act andonceduring.”The “mitzvah,” RebShraga Feivish explained,mustnotbedonewhenina state of anger. It mustnot be done duringdaytimehours.Itmustnotbe done when drunk, or

after eating, or beforeusing the bathroom. Itmustnotbedone if she isbrazen (“shemust not askfor it explicitly; she mayonly hint at her desireindirectly”).Itmustnotbedone in the presence ofsacred books, or in thepresence of a child. Mostimportant of all, themitzvahmust bedone theway it was done by the

great sage Rabbi Eliezer:withaweandwithfear,asifforcedbyademon.Bytheendofthelesson,

Ihadmorequestions thananswers, but therewasnomore time. It was fouro’clock. The wedding wastobeginatsix.RebShragaFeivish gave me areassuring look and awarm smile, and then ledme to thedoor and shook

my hand. “Mazel tov,” hesaid. “If there are anyproblems,callme.”

Laterthatevening,Isatata narrow table coveredwith a white plastictablecloth, my shtreimelperched heavily on myhead, etching a deep redring intomyforehead,mytall black boots stiff andpainful. The betrothal

agreement was read, aglass plate was broken tothe joyous cries of “mazeltov.”Thewhiteshroud, inremembranceofdeathandthe day of judgment, waspulled over my head, andsoon I was led out to thestreet,accompaniedbymyfriends’singing:

Onceagainwillbeheardinthe

citiesofJudahandthestreetsofJerusalem,Criesofjoyandcriesofgladness,criesofbridegroomsandcriesofbrides.

Wemovedtothewomen’ssection of the weddinghall, for the badeken, theceremonialcoveringofthe

bride’s face. I was ledthere as if in a daze byGitty’s father and BerishGreenblatt, who stood informyfather,whowasnolonger alive. I walked tallbutkeptmyeyesdutifullyaverted from the sea offemales that parted infront of me. Gitty sat onher bridal throne as Iapproached, and our eyesmet for a brief moment.

During the six months ofour engagement, we hadneither met nor spokeneven once, and we werestill strangers in everyway. Her eyes shifteddownward quickly. Awhite veil was placed inmy hands, and I laid itacross her forehead,allowingittofalloverherface. My mother stood toGitty’s left, her eyes

glistening. My sister,Chani,atmymother’ssidewith her two youngdaughters, looked at meandsmiled.Gitty’smother,standing just to the right,stared at me,expressionless.The chuppah, a canopy

of deep-blue velvet withgold fringes, was raisedoutside the shul, where acrowdofmenhadalready

gathered. “Right footforward,”myfather-in-lawsaidasIsteppedunderthecanopy beneath the clearJunesky.I would later remember

the ceremony onlyvaguely, with the dayanofficiating and the rebbeswaying silently nearby,and from my eyes anocean of tears flowed asGitty circled me seven

times. I remember beingsurprisedwhen,weakfromthe day’s fast andemotionally spent, Istepped on the glass cupand it did not break. Thesecond time, I raised myfoot and brought the heelof my boot crashing ontothe glass as if in anger.“Mazel tov, mazel tov,”thecrowdcried,andburstintosong.

Gitty and I were driventhe short distance back totheweddinghall, togetherin the backseat, riding insilence. After a briefperiod in a small room atthe wedding hall, wherewe broke our fast andexchangedpleasantries,weparted again, I to themen’s section on the firstfloor, and Gitty to thewomen’sonthethird.

The rest of theweddingpassedinablur,aconstantthrobofmusicandthrongsof men dancingecstatically. Aroundmidnight, the crowdsthinnedaswepreparedforthemitzvahtantz,theritualdance.Gittycamedowntothe men’s section, andthen held the end of aprayer sash as the maleguests, holding the other

end, shuffled before her,fulfilling the words of thesages: He who gladdens abridegroom and bride, it isas if he rebuilt the ruins ofJerusalem.Thevery lastdancewas

for the bride and groomalone. Among other sects,thesashwaslaidasideandthegroomtookhisbride’shands as they dancedtogether, for the first and

only time in their lives.But in Skver, there wereno allowances for suchimproprieties, and so Itook the end of the sashand performed the ritualdancewhileGitty,swayingas if in prayer, held theotherend.Atthreeinthemorning,

we arrived home to ournew apartment. The giftswere hauled in, our

parents said their good-byes, and Gitty and I satdown at our new dining-room table, completelyalonetogetherfortheveryfirsttime.Weregardedthemountain of wrappedpackages piled up aroundusandcounted thecheckswehadreceived.Wespokehesitantly, cordially,asking each other how itwent—“Did you dance?”

“Did you eat?”—andhoping to postpone theawkwardness ofwhatwastocomenext.We didn’t have much

time, though. Itwas earlyJune, and dawn wouldbreak soon. From myprayer-shawl pouch, Iretrieved a small bookletgiventomebyRebNoach,a summary of instructionsand prayers for the

evening.

Lord,grantmepureandsacredseed,blessedandgood.Purifymybodyandsanctifymysoul.MayIgatherstrengthtofulfillYoursacredwill.

There was also an

incantationadvisedby thekabbalists, not in sacredHebrew but in Aramaic, awarning to Lilith, thedeviantfirstwifeofAdam.Refusing to submit to herhusband, the kabbalistswrote, Lilithwasbanishedfrom Adam’s side. Eversince, she lies in wait formen who spill their seed,which she gathers up,greedily, hungrily,

impregnating herself andgivingbirthtodemons.

InthenameoftheLord:Do not enter anddo not appear.Return, return, theseabeckons.I am clasped to asacred allotment, Iam cloaked insovereignholiness.

Itwasamatterofduty,thelastritualofalongday.Aquilt hung over thewindow to ensure totaldarkness.We fumbled ourway into bed, movingabout each other shyly aswe adjusted to thisunfamiliarintimacy.

“Call me if there’s anyproblem,” Reb ShragaFeivish had said, and as

we lay in bed some timelater,wefoundthatnotallhad been made clear. Weneededmoreguidance.Welookedoverattheclock—4:30, the green numbersread—and I hesitated butmadethecallanyway.RebShraga Feivish picked uponthefirstring,asifhe’dbeenwaiting,thenlistenedcarefully to my questions,about anatomy and

friction and physiologicalresponsesofvariouskinds.He suggested we keepdoingwhatweweredoing,that it wasn’t so difficultand we should, givenenoughtime,figureitout.Ittookseveraltries,thatnight and a couple ofnights after, with severalmore consultations withReb Shraga Feivish. Theact was laborious and

clumsyandentirelydevoidof the erotic. But therewere moments oftenderness—fleeting, butpresent—of sharedfrustration and deep sighsand suppressed giggles,evenburstsof laughter. Inhindsight, itwasabit likeassembling a piece offurniture. You turnrepeatedly to theinstruction manual, to

verify the shapes of partsandhow they fit together,and it all seems kind ofbaffling, the screws andthe holes appear to besized differently from thediagram, and you’re notsure which goes intowhere, and as you placeyour index finger on yourchin and contemplate itfurther, your partnerreaches out and gives

something a tug and atwist and you think, “No,that can’t be right,” andthen,“Oh,look,itsnappedinto place.” And you lookat herwith a self-satisfiedgrin, as if you actuallyknew what you weredoing.

ChapterFive

“GENTLEMEN! THERE ISAFIREBURNING!”ThewhitesofAvremel’seyes were blood-red, hiseyeballs protruding, hisbony hands tightened intofists as he raised thembesidehishead.“The flames are rising

from within these verywalls! This sacred edifice,built by that sacredsmoldering ember savedfrom the inferno of theHolocaust, our saintly oldrebbe, is now crumblingfrom within! And ourpresent rebbe carries theweightofpreservingit….”Hisvoicecrackedandwe,too,heldbackthestinginour eyes, our hearts

melting for the rebbe’swearyshoulders.It was shortly before

dawn on a Sundaymorning. Fifteen of us sataroundtwooldtablesinadank room in the yeshivabasement. We were theelite, handpicked byAvremel to be part of aspecial group. Once aweek, we would gatherhere to read from one of

our mystical texts andAvremel would provideelucidation andcommentary sprinkledwith condemnation of allthings impure. The timingwas deliberate, to weedout those who preferredwarm bedsheets to thefierywords of theHasidicmasters. All of us weremarried—a condition forinclusion. Marriage

allowedthatextrameasureof holiness and purity, thepent-up virgin energyreleased, the lustfulnessofadolescenceappeased.Avremel was known for

dramatic pronouncements,but now he seemedgripped with genuinepanic. It was the dead ofwinter, and our sidelocks,which had frozen intosolid strands during the

sixty seconds it took towalk from the mikveh totheyeshivabuilding,weredripping onto our booksand into our laps, as wesattherestunned.Avremel continued, his

face flushed crimson, blueveinsonhisneckstrainingthrough his skin. “It hascome tomyattention thatwithin these very roomsare students engaging in

abominable behavior!Andthey are sweeping otherswiththemtothedepthsofsheol!”He told of studentswatching television onsmall, compact devices,sometimeswithinourverystudy halls; studentslistening to secular music,or sneaking out of thevillagetowatchmovies indarkened theaters;

studentstakingtaxicabstosinful places where nodecent human beingshould ever be found. Itwasuptoustostopit.Totake up the spear ofPhineas,andsmitetheevilwithin those whoblasphemed within thesesacredwalls.We headed to our

morning prayers, each ofus stirred with the call to

action. The sun was nowup, and the sanctuaryfilled with studentsdonningprayershawlsandtefillin.ItwastheTenthofTeves, a fast day, whichincluded a special readingoftheTorah.

AndMosesbeseechedGod,hisLord,saying:

Why,myLord,

mustYoubeangrywithYourpeople?Theyareastiff-neckednation.

AndGodsaid,Ihaveforgiventhem.

But only God couldforgive. Man must actagainst those who angerGod. Watching television

and reading magazinesand listening to secularmusic angered God; sowhen we finished ourprayers, we huddled in acorner of the prayer hallfor hushed consultations.We conveyed the urgencyof our task to those whohadn’t been at themeeting, and the outragegrew.

Ahalfhourlater,inoneofthelargelectureroomsoffthe building’s maincorridor, two dozen of ussat arounda list of nameswe had drawn up, namesof those we suspected ofsin—peers, classmates,friends with whom we’dshared countless hours ofstudy. There was littletime for establishing facts.Vague suspicions and

Avremel’stalkwereallwehadandallweneeded.Nuta Margulis was thefirsttobesummoned.“Please sit,” someonesaid when he entered.Nuta looked confused,butcomplied. It was a pitifulsight,Nutaaloneononeofthelongcast-ironbenches,his palms resting on hisknees, the rest of usstandingagainstthewalls,

animpromptutribunal.Somebodyspoke.We,as

a group, would nottolerate the kind ofactivitywe’d heard about.Any one of our friendscaught with a forbiddendevice, a radio or aportable television, or asecular magazine orforbidden musicalcassettes, would bewrappedinaprayershawl

and beaten. Associationwith certain undesirablepersons, knowntransgressors, would alsobe forbidden.This time, itwas only a warning. Thenext time,wewouldn’tbesotolerant.Nuta tried to protest: “I

didn’t—I have never—Idon’t—” We silenced himquickly.Hiswordsdidnotmatter.

Other friends weresummoned,eachtoldtositand given the samespeech. For each studentsummoned, before heentered, there was a callaround the room—“Who’sspeaking this time?”—andsomeonewould volunteer.The things said were thesame. The reactions, too,were similar, always thesame look of horror as

each of those summonedsat wondering what couldhave turned longtimefriends into inquisitors.OnlyYossiRosendeclaredthat he would not becowed.“Misomchule’ish?”Yossi

shot back at us, citing theverse in Exodus. “Whoappointedyouasmaster?”Menashe Steiner, who

wasdoingthetalking,held

up his hand and said:“That’s what the cursedDathan said. And whathappened to him?”Swallowed into the pit, ofcourse, along with all theotherIsraeliterebelsinthedesert, and the thoughthung heavy in the air asYossiwasshownoutoftheroom.A half dozen of our

friends had been

summoned and released,but we weren’t pacified.Unsatisfied with therelative moderation ofwarnings, we wantedmore.Mendy Klein had not

appeared whensummoned,soahandfulofstudents were dispatchedto findhim.Theycheckedthe synagogue, the studyhall, the lecture rooms,

and the basement diningroom, but Mendy wasnowhere to be found. Hisdorm room was reportedlocked, the persistentknocking on the doorunanswered. The thoughtof Mendy’s locked doorignited our imaginations.A locked door meantsomething hidden,somethingforbidden.“Let’s get in there,”

someonesaid.We looked at oneanother in silence. “Wecan’t go into the dorms,”someonesaidfinally.Allofusinourrighteousclique were married, andyeshivapolicy—asorderedby the rebbe himself—forbade married studentsto enter the dormitoryarea. The reasons werenevermadeclear,but like

the rule that two studentsalone were never to lockthe door, this hinted atfears of sexualtransgression.The sense of urgency

was now heightened. Anopportunity for acting onourzealwasslippingawayon a technicality. As westood outside the studyhall,RebYankelGelbman,arabbiat theyeshivaand

one of the village’sforemostscholars,cameupthe stairs carrying a stackoftexts.Oneofus left thehuddle and approachedthe rabbi to ask thequestion.RebYankelfurrowedhis

brow, and looked aroundat our group. “And thoushaltberidoftheevilwithinyourmidst,”hesaidfinally,quoting the Bible. “An

unequivocal biblicalcommand!”A ransacked room is anugly thing, but for us itwasathingofbeauty.Thedoor smashed in, blanketsand linen ripped off themattresses, dressersoverturned,itscontentsonthe floor in disarray, themob of dozens searching,picking through items,certain that somewhere in

thatroomlaytheevidenceof transgression andabomination, proof thatour zeal had not been invain, our impassionedassumption of a sacredguardianshipjustified.A locked cabinet wasdiscovered, a hammerprocured, and the locksmashed. We didn’t knowwhat wewere looking forbut were sure that the

evidence existedsomewhere. A cheer wentupwhensomeonefoundapile of unmarkedaudiocassettes. A cassetteplayerwas found and oneof the cassettes inserted.Hebrew music by a malesinger came out of thetinny speakers, andsomeone hit the Stopbutton in disgust. Thesinger sounded secular,

Israeli, thoughweweren’tsure;evenso, itwasnotasin worthy of our zeal. Ifthesingerwasfemale,thatwould’ve been somethingelse,butitwasn’t,andthecassette was ejected withdisappointment. A secondunmarked cassette wasinserted but was only ascratchy recording of oneofAvremel’soldtalks.Someone discovered a

pile of photographs, andleafing through it found aphoto of Mendy andseveral other studentswearing T-shirts andbaseball caps. It wasquickly taken as evidenceof something illicit. Whyelse would they discardtheir long black coats andwide-brimmed black hatsfor the vulgar sartorialhabits of common

Americans? Later welearned that Mendy andtheothershadbeenonanouting to cut phragmiteweeds from the NewJersey Meadowlands tocover the sukkah boothsfor the Sukkos holiday,and had simply donnedclothing more suitable tothetask.We found little else.

Soon we heard the sound

of an emergency siren.Someone came runningfrom the outside: “Mendycalled the police!” Theroom had all but clearedout in seconds, and myfriend Mayer GoldhirschandIwerethelastonesinthe room.Mayer was stilllooking through thescatteredmessonthefloorand I grabbed his arm.“Mayer, let’s go!” But he

wouldn’t leave. I let go ofhis arm to leave on myown,andhelookedupandgrabbed me. “Shulem, wehave to find something. Iknow we’ll findsomething.”“Find what, Mayer? Wedon’t even know whatwe’relookingfor!”Reluctantly,hestoodup,looked around, andfollowed me out of the

room. The wailing sirenhadstopped,andweheardhasty footsteps coming upthestairs.“Quick, the other side!”Mayer cried, and we ranacross the corridor to theother stairway. As wepushed open the door,welooked back to seeMendyangrily leading two policeofficerstohisroom.Mayerand I bounded down the

stairwayand ran,panting,back to the yeshivabuilding.

Ithadn’talwaysbeenclearthat this was to be mypath. My father was apious Hasid but of agentler,moretolerantsort.HewasnotaSkvererbutamix of Satmar anti-Zionism, Breslov

mysticism, and his ownbrand of humanism. Hewasascholarandteacher,andspentmuchofhistimereaching out to secularJews to teach them aboutOrthodox Jewishobservance.Andyet,therewasmuch

about him that wasunorthodox.One Saturday night,

whenIwasaroundeleven,

my father allowed me toaccompany him to alecturehegaveataJewishCommunity Centersomewhere on LongIsland. My father and Ienteredaroomfilledwithpeople who did not lookparticularly religious,menin bare heads andwomenin short skirts, knees andelbows showing. It wasshockingtometoseethat

the sexes were mixed. Ilookedatmyfathertoseewhether he, too, wasdisturbed, but I could tellnothing from hisexpression.Hepointedmetoaseatoff to thesideashe took his place at thepodium. The sight of myfather, a tall Hasidic maninafurshtreimel,acaftandown to his calves, andwhite stockings, brought

silencetotheroom.“Gut voch,” my fatherbegan. Some in the crowdnodded and smiled.“Before I begin,” hecontinued,“Iwouldliketoask thatmenmove tooneside of the room andwomen to the other.” Iwatched the changingexpressionsinthecrowd—astonishment, indignation,bemusement. People

looked at one another forhints on how to proceed.My father was notfinished. “I would like tosay,” he added, “that Iunderstandandrespectthedesire to avoid suchseparation. But I do notagreewithit.”Herepeatedhis statement a couplemore times for emphasis:“I respect it, but I do notagreewithit.”

I watched as theaudience rose slowly,shuffled around, and tooknewseats,menononesideoftheroomandwomenontheother.Irememberthatmy father thanked themfor it and then made aremark that drew laughs,andwhatever tensionmayhave lingered appeared todissipate. After that, hegave his talk, of which I

understood little but fromthe attentive expressionsof the audience, and theeager and lengthyquestion-and-answersession that followed, Iknew that his talk wasreceived with satisfaction.Awomanlaterapproachedme in the corridor, herface glowing, her palmagainstherchest,hertorsobentfromthewaistasshe

leaned—almostbowed—tomy own eleven-year-oldheight, and said, “Yourfatherisanamazingman!”I knew then that he hadtouched his audience in adeepway.I respect it, but I do notagree with it. Those wordswouldembodywhatIsawas my father’s ability tostand by his principleswhile acknowledging that

others lived by differentones, their convictions asstrong as his own. Thosewords provided acounterbalance to themore prevalent viewexpressed by my teachersand others, of uttercontempt for everythingbut our own worldview.Andso Icouldn’thelpbutwonder: Who was right,myfatherormyteachers?

Were we allowed torespectothers,orwereweobligated to vilify allwhobelieved differently? Myfather seemed to embracethe former, and myteachers the latter.Which,then,wasItoaccept?

It wasn’t only other Jewsmy fatherhadunorthodoxviews about, but alsopeopleofotherfaiths.

“Judaism accepts,” myfather said to me onceduring a walk to shul onthe Sabbath, “that non-Jews have their ownfaiths.Thatotherreligions,too, for their ownadherents, can provide apathtoGod.”I told my father whatmyrebbehadtoldme:Thekindnessofthenationsisforsin. A goy, even when he

does a good deed, itspurposeisforevil.My father shook hishead.“Thatisnotcorrect,”hesaid.Later,athome,hetookmeintohisstudyandopenedabookonhisdesk.“Read this passage,” hesaid, and I read aloud therow of tiny letters at thetipofhispointedfinger:Sosaid the Prophet Elijah: Itestify before heaven and

earth, each Israelite orGentile, man or woman,slave or maidservant, eachaccording to his deed, sorests upon him the holyspirit.My father sat down in

his chair and drew meclosewithhis armaroundmy back and his hand onmyarm.“Iknowthis isn’twhatyoualwayshear,butyou must still always

rememberit.”“But don’t all goyimhateus?”Iasked.My father thought for amoment, and then said:“There are some who do.And throughout history,there were many. But no,notall.”Yet why did my fatherchoose to raiseme amongpeople whose views hedisagreed with? I did not

know the answer to thisquestion, nor did I knowhow to ask it, but I knewthatIcouldnotacceptmyfather’sview.Hewasonlyoneagainstthemanywhopreacheddifferently.It is awell-knowndictumthat Esau hates Jacob, thesage Rabbi Shimon BarYochai said.Asmy rebbesexplained, itwas a law ofnature: The non-Jew will

always despise the Jew.History proved thatprinciple correct, myrebbes would remind us.The Spanish Jews in thefifteenth century and theGerman Jews in thetwentieth bore witness tothe same thing: a Jewmight think himselfassimilated, but the goywillalways—secretly,ifhemust, and openly, if he

dare—despisehim.The non-Jews in ourneighborhood, theTalyayners andPortrikaners, seemed toreinforce that view. Theylived not among us butalong the edges of ourneighborhoods, and whenmy friends and I wouldpass them on the street,they would jeer. “Jews!”one of the Puerto Rican

boys would always shout,laughing. If Iwaswalkingalone, one of themwouldapproach and flick myyarmulkeoffmyhead,hisbuddies cheering. I’d besitting on the stoop infrontofourhome,eatingaPopsicleorreadingabook,andifoneofthempassed,I’d cast him a nervousglance.“Ya motha!” the boy

wouldshoutatme.“Why do the goyim saythat?” I asked my motheronce. “Ya motha. Whataboutmymother?”“It’sagoyishthing,”shesaid, her eyes on the potshe was stirring on thekitchenstove.“Just ignorethem.”Passing the Catholicchurch on SixteenthAvenue, my friends and I

would cross to the otherside of the street, spit inthe direction of thechurch, and recite threetimes: “Thou shalt utterlydetest it, and thou shaltutterly abhor it, for it is acursedthing.”Thoushaltnotwalkintheways of other nations, wereadintheBible.This,ourrebbes explained, meantthat we should not play

baseball, wear Western-style clothes, or sportpopularhairstyles.On occasion, our non-

Jewishneighborssurprisedme. At age eleven, twofriends and I, overcomewith curiosity, asked anItalianboynearourschoolto tell us “themeaning ofF.”“ThemeaningofF?”the

boyasked.

“Yes,” we said. “Youknow. The F-word. Whatdoesitmean?”“Oh,” the boy said, agrin spreading across hisface.“Youdon’tknow?”We didn’t. The boymaintained his grin butwouldn’t tell us. He saidthat it was a dirty word.And we couldn’t help butwonder: Why would thatbother him? Didn’t all

goyim use such wordsfreely, issuing profanitiesascasuallyastheywalkedtheir dogs or fiddled withthe undersides of theircars?

“Istherabbihome?Canhespare something for thebaby?”Thewomanwouldstandbythedoor,andoneofuschildrenwould run to our

father’s study and say,“The lady from the cornerishere.”Weknewheronlyas that, because sheseemed at all times to besittingonthecornerstoop,in front of a decrepit,graffiti-covered apartmentbuilding beneath theelevated subway line,chain-smoking anddrinking something out ofa paper bag. She would

often come with herteenagedaughter,bringingwith her the stench ofsomething we could notidentify. Sometimes theywould be carrying aninfant, although I neverknewifthebabybelongedto the mother or thedaughter.My father wouldrummage through hispockets and withdraw a

crumpled bill, and thenwalktothedoorandhandit to her. He would askhow she was doing, andshewouldmoanabouthermiseries and my fatherwould wish her the bestandsaythathehopedshefeltbetter.“Dovid!” my motherwouldcry.“Why?”My father would sayonly, “She says she needs

food. It isn’t for me toquestion her.” And mybrotherAvrumiwouldsay,“Butshe’sagoy.”Andmyfather would simply say,“Sosheis.”My father’s generosityfrustratedmymother, butI thought of him as atzaddik, his mannerreminiscent of the saintlymen one heard about inlegends. When he prayed,

my fatherwould stand forhours on end, often withhis eyes half-closed, onlythewhites visible, as if inadeepmeditativetrance.Ihad seenhimpray in thatsamewayas farbackas Icould remember, and stillitwasmystifyingtowatchhim. For most of mychildhood, I had assumedthat when he prayed, he,or some essential part of

him, went elsewhere,traveling through someexalted and spiritualrealm. I have a vividimage of myself at agefour, standingnext tohimin the empty synagogueafterprayers,lookinguptohimandpleadingwithhimto recognize a truth thatappeared to have failedhim: “Tatti!” I would cry.“All the people have gone

home!”I remember wonderingwhyhiserectbutstillbodymadeno effort to respondasIpulledonthetasselsofhis gartel, attempting toawaken him fromwhatever unconsciousstatehewasin.

Over time, I came torealizethatourfamilywasdifferent. While my

brothers and I spoke toone another in Yiddish,picked up at the schoolsweattendedasfarbackasourmemoriesreached,ourparentsspoketousmostlyin English. They showedodd interest inmatters noone we knew cared for,their values acquiredelsewhere. Unlike myfriends,whosehomeswereelegantlyfurnished,crystal

chandeliers gleamingabove their dining-roomtables, Persian rugs intheir living rooms, late-model cars in theirdriveways, our familylived modestly. As I grewolder,Ibecameawarethatmy clothes were often asize too small, that ourdining-room chairs weremismatched and rickety. Ifelt embarrassed to have

friends over, worried theymight notice that welacked the piece offurniture that existed inevery Hasidic home: achina closet, which was aglass-enclosed polished-wood breakfront thattypically held a family’scollection of silver—menorahs, ethrog cases,cylindrical megillacontainers, kiddush

goblets. We had littlesilver, no china orheirlooms or otherprecious objects, and sowehadnoneedforachinacloset.Once a week, myparents would take thesubway to a place theycalled“theVillage,”wheremymotherclaimedthatnoJews lived. They wentthere tobuyorganic fruits

and vegetables, whichwere unavailable inBoroughPark.Irememberfrustrating visits to ourlocalsupermarket,whereIwould gaze at blood-redtomatoes and football-shaped green grapes, andmy mother would waveher hand dismissively: “Ifyou only knew thechemicals they put inthose things.” As if those

things were clever plasticimitations.Sugaredcerealsand candy bars and sweetsoda drinks never enteredour home. My mother’snotion of American foodmanufacturers was of fat,cigar-chomping men whoput toxic ingredients intotheir food products tomake childrenwantmore,more, more, and rot theirteeth and poison their

bodies while the fat evilmen laughed and laughedand raked in the profits.Her attitude was unusualin Borough Park, wheremiddle-class comforts andconsumeristattitudeswereasentrenchedasanyotherplaceinAmerica.Itwouldn’t beuntil lateadolescence that I wouldunderstand what set ourfamily apart. My parents

hadspenttheiryouthsnotin theultra-religiouswordof the Hasidim but insecular environments,wheretheywereraisednotwith fur hats and flowingcaftansandfloralkerchiefsbut with movies andboyfriends and seculareducations. They spokelittle about their pasts,preferring to shelter usfrom the knowledge that

they had not always beenHasidic, to keep us fromknowing that my mother,as a teenager in Queens,wasaBeatlesfan,andthatmy father, raised inBaltimore, had spent histwenties in San Franciscoparticipatingincivilrightsprotests and getting highon psychedelics. Both ofmy parents had spentseveral years as hippies,

and their choices—mymother in her late teensand my father in histwenties—to join theHasidic community camewith high-mindedidealism. They retainedtheir disdain for societalconventions.“Is it trueyour father is

abaalteshuvah?”myfriendYochanan Friedwhisperedto me in the school

bathroomwhen Iwas ten.We were standing at theurinals when he said it,and I looked at him inhorror over the partition.Baal teshuvahs, or“returnees,” were thoseraisedassecularJewswholater joined the Orthodox.They were given lipservice for their courage,but it was no secret thatbaalteshuvahswereoddfor

giving up the temptationsof their former lives andjoining aworld of endlessrules and restriction.Theymustsufferapsychologicalailment of some sort, itwas assumed. Or theywere those who couldn’tmake it among the goyimandcameto try their luckamongtheHasidim.I denied it to YochananFried. I had not learned

the truth yet. I knew thatmyparentsweredifferent,and my father’s behaviorwasunorthodoxinaworldin which piety andrighteousness were to belived within theparameters of convention.Ithoughtonlythathewasa man who lived in aworld unto himself,extending himself for afew hours a week to

interact with the world—toattendshul,toteachhisclasses, and grantaudiences for those whosought his counsel—butsoon withdrawing backinto his little study withhismanyshelvesofsacredtexts and his hours ofprayer.Iwouldrealizelaterthat

myparentshad joined theHasidic world with

knowledge of only itspiousexterior.They foundits teachings profound. Somuch love. So much joy.Such inner peace. In theiridealism, they overlookedits harsher realities. Theyhadn’t grown up in thisworld, hadn’t seen thegruff attitudeswithwhichchildren were raised,hadn’t been subject toschoolteachers who

routinelybeat students fornot knowing the meaningof an Aramaic word intheir Talmuds, or forremoving their fingersfrom the tiny text of theRashi script in themargins.

“Ich bin a chusid funaybershten,”myfathersaidone day, when I askedwhat sect he belonged to.

“IamaHasidofGod.”The boys inmy class at

the Krasna cheder inBorough Park were fromfamilies that belonged tosmallHasidiccommunities—Kasho, Sighet, Tzelem—groups that had no bonafide rebbes of their ownbut were, by their sharedHungarian and Romanianorigin, loosely affiliatedwith Satmar. And so, at

theageof tenoreleven, Iwondered:Whatwerewe?Being aHasid ofGodwasall right between myfather and God, but itwouldn’tdoifthequestionofourbelongingwasraisedby a friend, a teacher, oranacquaintance.“Wheredoesyourfatherbelong?” Reb ShimonMauskopf asked one dayduring lunchtime, as he

pouredwarmcocoa intoarow of plastic cups on hisdesk.Imade a snap decision.“MyfatherisaBreslover,”Isaid.My father studied theteachings of both Breslovand Satmar, and those, Ithought, were theplausibleoptions.In truth, though, Iwasn’t happy with my

father being a Breslover,evenif,asthecasewas,hewas not one. Bresloverswere the eccentrics of theHasidic world. The deadHasidim,somecalledthem.They’d never chosen arebbe after their first,RebNachman,diedintheearlynineteenth century. Theywerethemisfitswithinourworldandwereknownforattracting themisfits from

without: former hippies,druggies, ex-convicts, andothersocialoutcasts,allofthem drawn to theintensity of the Breslovermessage,thepsychologicalinsight of its long-deadleader and his whimsicaltalesofbeggarsand forestdwellersanditsNewAgeyembrace of meditativepractices.It would’ve been better

tobeSatmar.TheSatmarswerearrogantandsuperiorand bombastic and proudandentirelyscornfulofallbut their own. They weredisdainful of other sects,even friendly ones, andfiercely hostile towardthose who opposed them.They were the winners,and it was good to be awinner. Better to be abullythantobebullied.

But I couldn’t plausiblysay that my father wasSatmar. Unlike theBreslovers, the Satmarshadarebbewhowasverymuch alive, Reb Moshe,thelateRebYoel’snephewand successor. To declareoneself Satmar wouldrequire a nod to RebMoshe’s leadership.Unlikemy friends’ fathers andgrandfathers, who took

occasional pilgrimages totheSatmarrebbe’sshulonRodney Street inWilliamsburg, my fathernevervisitedhim.Itwouldbetoocontrivedtodeclarehim Satmar. It was moreplausibletoturnmyfatherintoaBreslover,evenifatthe same time, I wouldresentit.

I knew little about the

Skverers back then. TheKrasna school I attendedwas around the cornerfrom the Skverer school,our backyards back toback, with occasionalexchanges of waterballoons hurled over thebarbed-wirefencebetweenus. “Skverer chenyokes,”we shouted. “Krasnabums,” theyshoutedback.And then our bells would

ring and recess would beover,andwe’dallgobackto the same volumes ofTalmud,thesamerodsandswitches and rubber-wirecasingsinthehandsofourrebbes.Word on the street was

that Skverers burnedBreslov books in annualconflagrations along withthe pre-Passover burningofthechometz. Itwassaid

that Skverers refusedevento utter the word“Breslov,” hissing insteadthe phrase yene chevre,“thatnotoriousgroup.”Noonereallyknewthereasonfor the centuries-oldhostilities but only thatthey had been passeddown from generation togenerationandwerenowamatteroftradition.It was this animosity

thatwouldcausemesomeconsternationlater,whenIthoughtImightattendtheSkverer yeshiva. GiventhatmyfatherhadBreslovsympathies, he might notapprove. But my father,calling the Skverers“ehrlich,” had noobjections.The Skverers, I would

learn,wereehrlichbutalsoidiosyncratic, with a kind

of provincial piety thatwas uncommon amongAmerican Hasidim. Once,duringmyfirstfewdaysatthe Skverer yeshiva, Istood in the hallwayspeaking to my friendChaimElyawhenourfirst-year instructor passed,then stopped in his tracksand looked me up anddown.“Why are you dressed

likeashaygetz?”heasked.I stared at him, frozen.To dress like a shaygetzwas to dress like a goy:blue jeans, T-shirts, barehead.ButIwasdressedinmy beaver hat and longcoat,thesameaseveryoneelse.Our instructor shookhishead, annoyed. “Where’syour gartel?” he asked,andIrealizedthatmycoat

was unbuttoned and mygartel, the thin waistbandwornduringprayer,wasinmy pocket instead ofaroundmywaist.Skverers,I would later learn, woretheirgartelsatalltimes;tobe gartel-less was to bevulgar, and to be vulgarwas to be a shaygetz,which was only one stepawayfrombeingagoy.

The afternoon after weissuedourwarningstoourfriends and ransackedMendy Klein’s room, anassembly of all thestudents was called. Thedean condemned ouractions. “Students shouldnot take suchmatters intotheirownhands,”hesaid.“He had to say that,”

Avremel would tell uslater, emphasizing that

we’ddone the right thing.We’d suffered noconsequences, nosuspensions, nothing evenlikethefifty-dollarpenaltyfor failing an examor thetwenty-dollar penalty formissingastudysession.Still I felt shame,

although I was not surewhy. As the weeks andmonths passed, I tried toerase the memory of that

day. Ihadbeenpartof it,had volunteered to speakbefore those we hadsummoned,hadtakenpartin the smashing and thestomping and theransacking. I had feltduringthosemomentslikean insignificant part of alarger unit, myindividualityswallowedbythecollective.Forthefirsttime, I understood the

powerofamob.NutaMargulis had beenagoodfriend.YossiRosenhad been my studypartner. Mendy Klein hadbeen my roommate. EachFriday afternoon, I wouldcome by the dormitorywith a pan of kugel forMendy; it was commonpractice for marriedstudents to drop offhomemade food for their

former roommates untilthe latter, too, weremarried and would bringfood to those whoremained after them. TheFridayaftertheincident, Ibrought the usual pan ofpotato kugel, and handedittoaresidentoutsidethedoor topass toMendy.AsI left, I wondered whatMendywouldthinkofme,ransacking his room on

Sunday and bringing himkugel on Friday. ButMendy said nothing aboutthe event in the days andweeks that followed, andno one else spoke of it. Ifour friends bore us anygrudges, they neverexpressed it. Yet, in thesilence, in theunspokenness of it all, layshame, thick as thedensely woven prayer

shawls over our backs,heavyasthebraidedsilveradornments over ourheads.

ChapterSix

Six months had passedsinceweweremarried.“Isthere any news yet?” therebbe would ask whenGittyandIwentforoneofthe sixty-second audiencesgrantedvillageresidentsinthe days before RoshHashanah and during the

nights of Chanukah. Gittywould watch from the farwall as I would shakemyhead, no news, and therebbewouldsay,“Nu,mayGod help, it should besoon.”We had settled into aroutine.Inthemornings,Iwould go off to theyeshiva and Gitty to herjob at the offices of theMonsey Trails bus

company,whereherfatherwas the general manager.From a window in heroffice, above the bustlinggarage at the entrance tothevillage,Gittycouldseedown towheremechanicsworked on buses raisedonto enormous lifts. Ididn’t think it anappropriate place for awoman to work, withexhaust fumes and grime

everywhere,amaleworld.But Gitty enjoyed beingout of the house, alongwith the light secretarialworkshewasgiven.Over dinner, we wouldsit mostly in silence,punctuated with politeinquiries about eachother’s day. I did most ofthe talking, with Gittylistening carefully andonly very occasionally

offeringwordsofherown.Whenshedid,itcamefirstin a whisper, and then,afterclearingherthroat,acroak. Her face wouldflush, and I would lookaway as she battled heranxiety within thestrangeness of this newrelationship.Our interactions felt

dictated, most of all, bythe laws of family purity,

the fear of forbiddencontacthoveringoverusatall times. Once everymonth, I would comehome to find that Gittyhad moved the smallbouquet of silk flowersfrom the kitchen counterto the table—this was theagreed-upon sign: it wasthat time of the month.Duringthetwoweeksthatfollowed, the small space

of our home would beoverwhelmed by thepresence of somethinginvisible to me yetmysteriousandforbidding,aspiritualbacteriummorenoxious than any physicalsubstance. A singlemoment of carelessnesscould lead not only togreat sin but generationsoftaintedsouls.“Can you take

something to the dayan?”Gitty would ask at timesduring the Seven CleanDays,duringwhichshedidher twice-dailyinspections. The bloodwould rise to her face asour eyes met, herexpression at oncedetermined and tortured,and as much as I hatedthese requests, I had nodoubtthatshehatedthem

more. On the bedroomdresser she would lay asmallplasticbag,insideofwhich was a two-inchsquareof inspection cloth,or occasionally anundergarment, which Iwould place inside mycoat pocket and hope tofindthedayaninhisofficeonthefirsttry.“Let’stakealookatthis,

shall we?” the dayan

would say, always tooloudly, clearly audible topassersby behind me. Atthe window, he wouldhold up the item forexamination by sunlight,while I looked away,anxioustobedonewithitall before the next mancameknocking.Wouldhisrulingbe“kosher,”or“notkosher”? For thoseextended seconds, I felt

like a patient dreading aphysician’s diagnosis. If“notkosher,”Iwouldhaveto tell Gitty to begincountinghersevendaysallover again, which shewould accept in silence,althoughherexpressionofdismaywouldbehardnottonotice.A woman’s hair is

nakedness, says theTalmud, and so, once

married, she must neverexposeanyofit.Accordingto the Zohar, the primarytext of the kabbalists, thisapplies even in her ownhome. During the last ofhersevencleandays,Gittywould take the set ofelectric clippers fromabove our bathroom sinkandshearherentirehead,leaving only severalmillimeters of growth,

though even I, herhusband,would rarely seethose;ahead-coveringwasrequired at all times.Indoors,orforcasualvisitsand quick errands, aturban, green or blue orpurple on weekdays andpristine white on theSabbath.Outdoors,ashortwig of synthetic haircovered with a hat—apillbox during those early

years of our marriage,though this would changewith the fashions of thetimes.After the seven clean

days, Gittywould head totheritualbathattheedgeof the village, and returnwithher faceglowingandher manner unusallyserene. It was in thosehours, between her returnandthestrokeofmidnight,

when we would retire forthespecialmitzvahofthatnight,thatIwouldfeelthefirst charges of eroticism,andanoccasionalsparkofpassion, so very distinctfrom the primal lust ofpreviousyears,thoughnotyet fully recognizable.Overthenextweeks,Gittywouldbeconsideredclean,and slowly we would getto know each other,

though these earlyprogressions feltinfinitesimal.Sometimes, Gitty would

withdraw into herself forreasons I could notdiscern. “Are you upsetaboutsomething?”Iwouldask, stiffly, and shewouldlook away and saynothing.“It is improper to call

your wife by her name,”

Avremel had warnedduringoneofhis sessions,andIwascarefultofollowhisguidance.TogetGitty’sattention,Iwouldclearmythroat and say, “Um,” or“You hear?” Amongfriends,wereferredtoourwives using only coy andoblique euphemisms. “Thehousehold informed me ofaweddingnextweek,”mystudy partner said, when

notifyingme of a pendingabsence. YitzchokSchwartz was fond ofspeakingofhisyiddene,his“Jewess,”causingheadstoturn at such boldlanguage.

“Is there any news yet?”Avremelaskedwhen I raninto him one day outsidethestudyhall.WhenItoldAvremelthattherewasno

news, he fixed me a lookwith his dark, scoldingeyes. “There should benews by now,” he said.“Whyistherenonews?”Ididn’tknowwhythere

was no news, althoughAvremel came up with areasonsoonenough.“You must be doing it

wrong,”hesaid.Heaskedfordetails,and

Igavehimtherundownof

our routine, parroting thedirections I’d been given:Weperformedthemitzvahevery Tuesday and Fridaynight after midnight,exactlyas I’dbeen taught,alwayswith “holiness andpurity” at the forefront ofour minds. We said thenecessary prayers. Wecovered thewindowswitha quilt.We told stories ofrighteous men. We kissed

twice. And thenwe did itquickly. As if forced by ademon—the vividness ofthose words provedextraordinarilyeffective inkeepingtheactsacredanddevoidofpleasure.Avremel lookedconfused, and then angry.“If that’s the way you doit, then a slice of noodlekugel is morepleasurable!”

I remember feelingconfused. Wasn’t that thepoint, not to experiencepleasure? “No,” Avremelsaid. That was the pointbut also not quite thepoint,becauseiftherewasno pleasure, it wasn’t thereal thing. I was stillconfused,ashestoodtheremaking wild, wordlessgestures and shook hishead in exasperation.

When he spoke again, itwas with palpableirritation.“Forawoman’sbody to

respond,”hesaid,bringinghis five fingers togetheropposite his nose, “inorder for her to create achild, there must beliebshaft.” Liebshaft is theYiddishwordforlove,andit was a strange word tohear,applied toawoman,

from a man who wasotherwise obsessed withguidingmeonthepathtoholiness and purity. I didnot know how Avremelknewthismedicalfact,butI had no reason to doubthim.Yettheideamademeangry.“Loveher?”Iasked.Thenotion seemed ludicrous.“How?”“If the love isn’t there,”

Avremel said, “then youhave to create it.” Heshookhisheadandclosedhis eyes, as if thinkingthrough a complexproblem,and thenopenedthemagain.“Youjusthavetofindaway.”Later that evening, asweateourdinnerof roastchicken and breaded eggnoodles and spoke quietlyaboutthethingswe’ddone

thatday, I lookedatGittyand wondered if I couldlove her. When she stoodup to clear our dishes, Inoticed the curve of herhipsastheyswayedgentlywhen she walked. As shestood at the sink andwashed the dishes, Ileaned on the counternearby, and noticed thecolor in her cheeks, thegentle way she looked at

me when she spoke, thesoftnessofhervoicewhensheaskedwhat toprepareforlunchthenextday.The next evening, aftermy last study session, ImademywaytotheMazelTov Gift Shop, a smallbasement store that soldeverything from Rachel’sTomb needlecraft kits tosterling-silvermenorahs todiamond rings. One night

aweek,afterten,theshopwasopenforonehour,formen only. The proprietor,RebMosheHersh,astockyman in a yellowed andgrease-stained tallis katan,laid several trays of ringsand earrings on thecounter. I looked at theselection, and then lookedatMosheHersh,whostoodwith his hands resting onthe counter, waiting for

mydecision.“What do you think?” I

asked. I had never boughtawomanagiftbefore,andtheselectioninfrontofmewas a baffling array ofgoldandsilverandglitterygems, like a field ofpebbles glittering in thesunlight.Moshe Hersh shrugged.

“You’re the customer,” hesaid.

I studied the items infront of me. As MosheHersh stood breathingheavily, I inspected thepieces one by one andslowly began to noticetheir differences: silverand gold, sleek andintricate, chunky andsubtle.Isettledonasilverring with a scallopedpatternand tinydiamondsinlaid across the top. I

liked its understatedelegance and hoped thatGitty’s tastes weren’tdissimilar.I left the ring in a boxon Gitty’s pillow when Ileft for yeshiva the nextmorning. Under the box Iplaced a folded sheet ofplain white paper onwhich I wrote whatseemed like appropriatesentiments,usingthesame

Hebrew script I used forjotting notes on theTalmudorfortranscribingthe rebbe’s talks. I hopethat our love will grow andlast forever. As if the lovewas already there, andneeded only to be tendedand nurtured. As withfaith, Avremel haddeclared it something onemightwillintoexistence.When I returned home

that evening, Gittywas atthe kitchen counter, herback to me, putting ourdinner onto plates. Shesaid nothing, and so Ithoughtperhapsshehadn’tdiscovered my gift. Ichecked the bedroom, butthe package was not onher pillow. “Did you find… the thing?” I askedwhen I returned to thekitchen.

She nodded withoutturning, and then, almostas an afterthought, said,“Thankyou.”Shemadenomore mention of the gift,and neither did I, and Iwonderedifshelikedit,ifIwasmakinganyprogresstowardcreatinglove.Several days later, she

turned to me bashfully asshe laid our dinner plateson the table. “I’m two

weeks late,” she said, herfaceaglowwithabrighterthan usual smile. It wasalmost as if she weresuppressing a giggle,embarrassed by her owngiddiness. I wasn’t surewhat shemeant, until shesaid, “I’m not certainabout it yet. But I thinkthere’s a test I can take.”The test could bepurchased at the

pharmacy. She was goingtoaskhersister,andifshewasright,wewouldknowtomorrow.Later that night, as weprepared for bed, Inoticed, on her left hand,the polished silver ring Ihad bought, with itsscallopedpatternsandtinydiamonds sparklingagainstthesoftlightofthebedsidelamp.

Finally, there was news.There were so manyquestions and so manythings to talk about—itwasasifweweresuddenlynew people in an entirelynew relationship. Thereticencethathadhoveredfor sixmonths in the tinyapartment at the end ofRooseveltAvenuewasnowgone, almost as if it hadneverexisted.Wetalkedof

babynamesandupcomingdoctor’s visits. We alsodisclosed to each otherhow little we knew aboutwhat it meant to beparents.One night, aswe lay inour separate beds acrossthe room, I turned to her.“Can I ask you aquestion?”She propped herself upononeelbow.

“How does the babycome out?” I asked. Iimmediatelythought,whata foolish question, andtried to explain. “I mean,where does it come outfrom?”This was before Gittyhad gone for her firstdoctor’s appointment,before we’d had a chanceto read any of the booksand pamphlets she would

bring home and pointexcitedly to charts anddiagrams and drawings ofovaries and fallopiantubes, before I’d had achance to go to our localbookstore and whisper tothe cashier that I neededone of the books frombeneathhiscounter,wherethey lay hidden from theprying eyes of teenageboys who made the

bookstore their eveninghangout.“I don’t know,” Gittysaid. “Iwonderedabout itmyself.” She lookedatmefrom across the room, asliver of light from theedgeofourwindowshadescasting a thin white glowacrossherface,andinherexpressionIsawatouchofanxiety. “You don’t thinkit requires surgery, do

you?” sheasked. Ididnotknowwhattosay,becausethat was exactly what Ihadthought.When I asked,hesitantly, before her firstdoctor’s appointmentwhetherwewouldsee thedoctor together, Gittyburst out laughing. It wasa ludicrous thought, shesaid. Men did notaccompany their wives to

thedoctor.“ButI’llletyouknow what I learn,” shesaid.Gitty made an

appointmentattheRefuahHealth Center, animposing building with abeige art-deco facade attheentrancetothevillage.Afive-doctorpracticefromManhattansentonedoctorevery Wednesdayafternoon to attend to all

the pregnant women ofNew Square. It was anarrangement worked outby the wizards of Hasidicpoliticking, throughwhichpatientsonMedicaidwereprovided with world-classmedical services. Theexamstypicallylastedonlya few minutes each, mostof them for ordinary anduncomplicatedpregnancies, so the doctor

was able to see manywomen in a short timeslot, for maximumefficiency.“See the head here?”Gitty pointed breathlesslyone day, showing me thephotos of the firstultrasound scan. “See thehands? The feet?” I sawnothingbutblursofblacksand grays, and felt adistinct pang of envy for

the attachment betweenmother and child, anattachmentIrealizedthatIcouldneverfullyshare.

Gitty neared her due datetowardtheendofsummer.The weeks were hecticwith preparation for theseemingly endlessprocession of major andminor holidays squeezedinto three and a half

weeks: Selichos, RoshHashanah, Tzom Gedalya,YomKippur, Sukkos, CholHamo’ed, HoshanahRabbah, Shmini Atzeres,and Simchas Torah. Ourbaby’s arrival wasimminent, but in thefrenzy of holidaypreparations, it felt to meall but forgotten. Ourrefrigerator was stackedwith aluminum pans of

gefilte fish, roast chicken,farfel,kreplach,andjarsofapple compote. In thefreezer were a dozencontainers of chickennoodle soup. While Gittybakedasurplusofchallahstolastustheentiremonth,I climbeda ladderoutsideour small apartment,assembling wall panels,adjusting nuts and bolts,and putting up rafters on

our eight-by-eight sukkah,the outdoor booth inwhich, during the Sukkosholiday,wewouldeatourmeals, read, schmooze,and,alongwiththerestofthe village, catch coldfromsleepingsevennightsunder the cool autumnskies.“Are you helping Gittyaround the house?” mymother asked me several

times. From the day wewere first married, mymother had made it herbusiness to offer tips fordomestic bliss. “Marriageisnotagive-and-take,”shesaid to me the morningafter our wedding. “It’s agive-and-give.” But Gittywouldbalkatmyofferstohelp. “You can take outthe garbage, maybe?”Even that seemed an

acquiescence, ahalfhearted nod towardmy willingness to makemyselfuseful.“How is she feeling?”

mymotherwouldask,andI would say, “I’m notsure.” “Maybe you shouldask her,” my motherwould say. Iwould ask inthe silence between thehalf grapefruit and thesplit-pea soup at

dinnertime, before we’dstumble yet again onpossible baby names andoccasional bits of gossipthat Gitty gathered fromtheladies’waitingroomatRefuah,“Andhowareyoufeeling?” Gitty, with hernear-permanent blush,would smile awkwardly,unaccustomed to sointimate a question. “I’mfeeling fine,” she would

say,andwhenIwouldaskifsheexperiencedmorningsickness or headaches orfatigue—thingsmymothertoldmetoask—shewouldgiggle demurely. “I don’thaveanyofthose.”“She says she’s fine,” Iwould tell my mother.“Are you sure?” mymother would ask. As ifthe varieties of ailmentsassociatedwith pregnancy

were so many and variedthat Gitty’s claims weresimply a medicalimpossibility. “I feelnormal,”Gittywouldinsistwhen I’d ask her again,after which she’d suggestthat shewas fine to cook,fine to clean, fine to dolaundry, and maybe mymotherwould,ifitpleasedher, stop minding ourbusiness.

Two days before YomKippur, I went to thevillage shopping center,outside of which stood alarge open-air tent, withstacks of plastic cratesfilled with live chickens.Womenandchildrenstoodaround, many of themswingingthechickensovertheir heads in thetraditionalkapparos ritual.The ritual was meant to

transfer the sins of theindividual to thefrightened bird, whichwouldthenbeslaughteredand the sins of its owneratoned for. The chickenwould end up boiled onsome yeshiva student’splate sometimeduring theholidays.The preferred time forkapparos was on the daybefore Yom Kippur at the

crack of dawn, when,according to thekabbalists, a “thread ofkindness” stretched acrossthe cosmos and theheavens were in goodspirits. So instead ofperforming the ritual onthe spot, I paid for achicken and had thevendor place it in a smallcardboard box. I felt itsweight shift into one

corner of the box as Icarried it. When I gothome,Ilaidtheboxonthefloor of my sukkah,openedthelid,andplacedasliceofbreadandabowlofwaterinside.My friend Yakov YosefFreund was to give me awake-up call at 4:30 thenext morning, earlyenough to dress quickly,have a dunk in the

mikveh, rush through thepenitence prayers, and beprimed for the thread ofkindness thatwouldhoverover our village ahead oftherisingsun.YakovYosefand I would take ourchickens, swing themoverourheadsintheprescribedritual,andthenrushtothegarbage-strewn alleybehind the shoppingcenter to join the line of

people waiting for theritual slaughterer to runhisknifeoverthechicken’sthroatat thebackdoor tothe butcher shop. By ourcalculations, that wouldleave us just enough timetoheadbacktotherebbe’shouseandjointhethrongssqueezed into the dankbasement to watch therebbe swing his chickenover his head, weeping

and chanting, “Sons ofman,sittingindarknessandtheshadowofdeath.”

GittyandIwenttobedattwo in the morning. Ashort while later, I heardher calling my name. Ithought it was a dream,until I heard her say,“Shulem,mywaterbroke.”I shot up in an instant.The bedside clock read

4:00AM.Gitty lay onherside with her eyes closed,andagonypouredoverherface.Theonlysoundintheroom was her slow andlaboredbreathing.Isatonmybed and stared at her,unsurewhattodonext.“Call the doctor,” Gitty

said, as soon as thecontraction passed,efficient as ever. I calledthenumbershepointedto

inherlittleaddressbook.Mount Sinai was anhour away, and from thelooksof it, it seemedas ifGitty would give birthmomentarily. “Should wecall an ambulance?” Iasked the doctor. Gitty,wearily,rolledhereyes.“It’s a first baby,” thedoctorsaid.“It’snotgoingtopopout.”Gitty stood up to get

dressedwhileIhadvisionsof the baby being born inthebackseatof the taxiasthe driver, apathetic,cruiseddownthePalisadesParkway.“Call the rebbe,” Gittysaid.Itwas shortly after fournow, and I wondered ifanyonewouldpickup,butthe elderly gabbai, RebShia, answered as usual:

“Yes?”“I’m calling to inform

about a birth. We’releaving for the hospitalshortly.”“Name?”heasked.“ShulemDeen.”“Not your name. Her

name.”“Er—”Mymind drew a

blank. What was hername?“What’s her name?” the

gabbai asked againimpatiently.“Er—Gittel. Gittel thedaughterofChaim.”“Themother’sname!”The mother’s name?Wasn’t Gitty the mother?But of course—Gitty’smother. “Gittel thedaughter of Chava Leah.”It all had to be conveyedjust so if the rebbe’sprayers were to be

effective.“I’lllettherebbeknow,”Reb Shia said. “Goodtidings.”“Call the cab,” Gittysaid, as she struggled toadjust her wig at thevanitymirror.While Gitty waited atthe door, a small suitcaseatherside,Igrabbedsomecashfromanenvelopeinadrawerinourbedroom.As

the car sped along thePalisades Parkway towardthe George WashingtonBridge, I held my smallPsalmsbook,thesameonethe rebbe had used sixyears earlier during hisvisit to our Williamsburgyeshiva. Beside me, in asmallplasticbag,layRezieltheAngelandTheSweetnessof Elimelech, sacred texts Iwas to place underGitty’s

pillow, talismans for easylabor.Gittysatinthebackholding her own Book ofPsalms, her maiden nameembossed in gold Hebrewlettering on the whiteleathercover.Psalms Chapter 20 is a

wonderful aid for easingchildbirth, I had read in abook of esoteric customs.Nine verses for the ninemonths of pregnancy.

Seventy words for theseventy pangs of labor.The310lettersforthe310heavenly worlds of therighteous. Itwastriedandtrue, the book said. Veryeffective.

MaytheLordanswertheeinthydayoftrouble.Thenameofthe

GodofJacobsettheeuponhigh.

MayHesendforththyhelpfromthesanctuary,andsupporttheeoutofZion.

The taxi driver glanced atmyBookofPsalmsseveraltimes but said nothing. Ilooked back at Gittyperiodically with what I

hoped were appropriateexpressions of concern.Shewouldnodandmouth,I’m OK, alternatingbetween her ownrecitations of Psalms andmanaging her breathingexercises.

MayHereceivethememorialofallthymeal-offerings,andacceptthefatof

thyburnt-sacrifice.MayHebestowupontheethedesiresofthyheart,andmayHefulfillthycounsel.

When I finished recitingPsalm 20 nine times, Ireciteditninemoretimes,andthenninemore,untilIhad done nine times nine.We were barely past the

mid-Parkway gas stationandconvenienceshop.

Finally, we arrived at theKlingenstein Pavilion ofMount Sinai Hospital, andGitty was shown to aroom. I looked at her asshe lay on the hospitalbed, her face bathed insweat, her turban askewand showing the edges ofherclose-croppedhair.She

twistedfromherbacktoafetal position and backagainasshetriedtofindacomfortable position. Forthe very first time, Iwanted to reach out andhold her. I wanted to saysomething, if not quitethat I loved her, thensomething very near to it.But I could not touch heror offer any words ofaffection.The law forbade

it. And so, after bringingher several cups of icechips from the visitors’lounge, I sat in a chair inthecornerandturnedbackto Psalm 20, for anotherroundofninetimesnine.“I think it’s best if youstepped out,” Gitty said afew minutes later, facingaway from me. I wouldhavetogosoon,anyway—itwasforbiddenformeto

remain present during thebirth—so I left the roomand paced the hallway,BookofPsalmsinhand.Aman emerged from theroom next door, his faceglowing, as if ready toburst into a grin. Helookedatmeforamomentand then looked away. Ifelt self-conscious in myHasidic garb, alienatingthe strangers who might

otherwise engage me inconversation, other menwho had little to do butstand around and wait,grinning at strangers aftertheir babies weredelivered.The doctor came out of

the roomandwalkedpastmeasifIweren’tthere.“Howisshe?”Iasked.“Fine,” he called from

several paces away,

without turning, as if Iwere some strangecreature, my presencereluctantly tolerated, atag-alongwithnopurpose.The father from the

room next door came outagain,andthenwentbackinto the room. “There’sanother one next door,” Iheard him say. “Is therescreaming?” a woman’svoice asked. I couldn’t

hear his response, andimagined him whispering:It’soneofthoseHasidics.Anursewalkedpastme

andenteredtheroom.Thedoctorcameafewminuteslater. For a long time, Icould hear the nursecounting to ten andshouting, “Push, push!”Then she would scold,“Notnow!Itoldyounottopush!” Occasionally, I

heard soft moaning fromGitty, and wished I couldbeintheroomwithher,tohold her hand and wipethe sweat from her brow.Afteranexcruciatingthirtyminutes, the nurse’syelling stopped and Iheardthecryofaninfant.I felt my throat tighten.The nurse said, “girl,”then, “7:22,” then, “sixpounds,fiveounces.”Ilaid

my forehead against thewall outside the door andletmytearsflow.Twenty minutes later,the doctor left the roomandwalkedpastme.Whenhe neared the nurses’station, he paused, thenturnedback,asiftryingtorecallwherehe’dseenme.“Oh,” he said finally. “It’sagirl.”

I was ravenously hungrywhenIleftGittyataroundtwo in the afternoon. Iremembered the words oftheTalmud:Hewho feastson the Ninth, it is as if hefasted both the Ninth andthe Tenth. Yom Kippuritself, the tenth day ofTishrei, is for fasting andprayer, but before andafter were times forrejoicing. Sins were going

to be erased. Offenseswritten off. The balancesheetbalancedonceagain,and all would be good inthe great heavenlyaccounting.Ifyoursinsarelike scarlet, they shall bemade as white as snow; iftheyareredascrimson,theyshallbemadelikewool.I was all for feasting,

exceptIhadnoideawhereto get kosher food at the

hospital.All I’d eaten thatday was a small slice ofhoney cake in themorning, grabbed from aloafonthekitchencounterjustbeforeGittyandIhadleft for the hospital. Anurse told me that therewas a kosher vendingmachine in the hospitalcafeteria, but I found itwith a large handwrittennote saying, “Out of

Service.” The emptyshelves inside the displaywindows—“TunaSandwich,” “StrawberryYogurt,”“CheeseBlintz”—mocked me and mygrowlingintestines.The specter of YomKippurloomedlarge,andIwasanxiousnot tohaveatwo-day fast. I was alsoanxioustogetbacktoNewSquare. The first of the

penitence prayers was tobe held at four. I wantedtotell therebbeaboutmynewborn child and toreceive his blessings andhis goodwishes. Iwantedto be back among familyandfriends,awayfromthealienating glances ofManhattanites. The lastbus to New Square wouldbe leaving at three, frommidtown, several miles

away. I had one hour,plentyoftimetogetthere,Ithought.Just as I was about to

hail a cab, I checked mywallet:Ihadnomoney.I’d miscalculated. I’d

brought cash for the taxiin the morning but hadfailed to take alongenoughtogethome.Ihada ticket for the MonseyTrails bus, courtesy ofmy

father-in-law,but itwoulddomenogoodifIcouldn’tget tomidtownwithin thehour. I owned no creditcards and carried nocheckbook. I stood at thecurb in front of thehospital, gripped withpanic.It was then that I

noticed: a Yid! He wassitting in the driver’s seatof a car parked several

yards away. He appearedto be a Litvak, with histhick, short payess tuckedbehindhisears,whiteshirtwithnotalliskatanoverit.Not a Hasid, but still, anOrthodox Jew. He wasreading from whatappeared to be a religioustext,andhelookedupasIapproached.Iexplainedmysituation.

Couldhepossiblyloanme

a few dollars? I asked. Iwould send him paymentassoonasIgothome.The man looked at me

for a moment,expressionless. I hadexpected him to offerwarm congratulations andbest wishes for ameaningful Yom Kippur. Iwas certain that he’d helpme out—it wasinconceivable that a

religious Jew would dootherwise.Instead, he stuck hishand in his pants pocketand fished around forsomething.“Take thebus,”he said,and placed four quartersintomyhand.I looked at the coins inmy hand, speechless. Theman turned back to hisbook. What kind of Yid

wasthis?Ithoughtofthewordsofthe old rebbe,admonishing his Hasidimnever to ride New YorkCity’s public transitsystem. Be killed ratherthan transgress, the oldrebbe had said, declaringitacardinalsin.“Please,” I said to theman in the car. “I can’t.”My tongue stuck in my

mouth as I struggled tofind the words, and thenwatched as the manreached with his indexfinger to the windowbutton. He kept his eyesglued to his book as thewindowrolledup,asifmypresence was just anothernoisy distraction in thebustlingcity.“One glance where you

shouldn’t,” the old rebbe

hadsaid,“andyouloseanentire year of Torahstudy.”Protect your eyes. In the

ritual bath. At thesupermarket. On thestreets.Hewhogazesatthesmall finger of a woman, itisasthoughhehasgazedather place of immodesty.How could I possibly ridethecitybus,withsomuchimmodesty on a hot

summerday?Andyet,whatchoicedid

I have? Mournfully, Iremovedmy thick plastic-framed eyeglasses, theworld around me turninginto a blur of indistinctshapes and colors, andstumbled onto a city bus,founda seat,andkeptmyeyesdowncast.The bus to Monsey and

New Square, owned by

SkvererHasidim,wouldbedifferent. It would have acurtain down the aisle toseparate the sexes.Arriving just as the buswas about to leave, Irushedonandhanded thedrivermy ticket, and thennoticed that the curtainwas gathered on its tracktoward the back of thebus. Surely, I thought, theother riders were simply

tootiredafteraday’sworkto bother extending it.Surely, they wouldappreciate if someonewoulddo it for them, so Ilaid my prayer shawl andmyshtreimelonanemptyseat,andsetouttoarrangethecurtainproperly.“What’s your problem?”A man shouted at me.“Isn’t it hot enough inhere?”

He, too, was a Litvak,and I remembered thewords of one of myyeshiva teachers: “Litvaksdon’t care much formatters of holiness andpurity.”Other riders joined in

thechorusofcomplaints.“Who cares about the

curtain?”“It’shotenoughas it is.

Youwantustosuffocate?”

“Whydon’tyoujusttakea seat and close youreyes?”Iwasstartled,confused,

and then angry. “Do youhave no shame?” I shotback at one of the men.“Noconcernforprotectingyoureyes?ThedaybeforeYomKippur,noless?”

By the time the busreached the corner of

Truman and WashingtonAvenuesinNewSquare, itwas four-thirty. Theprayers had just ended,and I watched the swarmofworshipersexittheshul.I rushed inside towait forthe rebbe. He soon madehiswayout fromhis littleroom up front, and Isteppedintothemiddleofthepartedcrowd.“Mywifehadababy,”I

said.“Agirl.”The rebbe slowed as he

extended his hand andshook mine with hisfingertips, limp, as if mymessage carried no moresignificance than thearrival of the day’s mail.“Mazel tov,” he said, hisexpressionunchanged.I stepped aside and

watched as the partedcrowdsclosedbehindhim.

Our joyous occasionsbring the rebbe more joythan they bring ourselves,Avremelhadsaidoverandover during his manyspeeches.NowIwondered:Wasitreallyso?Slowly, I walked to myhome on RooseveltAvenue, feeling sleep-deprived, exhausted fromthe ride, overwhelmedwith a combination of joy

for the new baby andstress from the day’sevents, almost forgettingmy hunger. All I wantedwas to be home, and forthe first time, I foundmyself missing Gitty, andalsomissing thechild thatwas born to us that day,with her clear and alerteyes and the peachy fuzzon her soft head and thestrawberry patch of skin

onthebackofherneck.It was then that I

remembered: I hadn’t yetperformed the kapparos.Myatonementprocesswasincomplete. The chickenwas still outside in thecardboardbox,intheheatofthesun,withoutfoodorwater. As soon as I gothome, I stepped into thesukkah. The chickenmoveditsheadasIpeered

intothebox.Relievedthatit was still alive, I laid aslice of challah carefullyinside the cardboard boxand refilled the waterbowl.ThenIwentintomybedroomand laydownonmy bed, fully clothed. Iwas desperate for sleep,yet forced myself toremain awake. The daywas not over: There wasstill one festive meal

before the fast began, andafterward Iwouldhave torush to the mikveh, thenlight a candle in the shulfor my father’s soul; soonafter,theKolNidreiwouldbegin. Prayers would gountillongpastmidnight.Ahalfhourlater,asIsat

atthetableinmyin-laws’dining room, eating mymother-in-law’s challahand gefilte fish and

chicken soup, I thoughtback to the day’s events:the doctor’s brusqueattitude, the man whoshoved four quarters intomy hand without evenlooking at me, the busriderswho scoldedme formy pious intentions, therebbe’s indifference tomyjoy. Suddenly, Gitty’sunpretentious familyseemed themostbeautiful

thingintheworld.WhenGitty brought ourbaby home a few dayslater, we settled intorooms prepared for us inher parents’ home, aswasthe custom. Mother andbaby were in danger ofbeingharmedbyLilithandherdemonsforthirtydaysand could not be leftalone.Onthefourwallsofour room hung laminated

sheets of mystical texts,namesofprotectingangelsand warnings to all theforcesofeviltokeeptheirdistance.Our baby was laid in a

dresser drawer set upontwo chairs—a cradle orcrib was not to be useduntilthirtydaysafterbirth—andaswe stood silentlygazing at the steady andalert eyes of our infant

daughter, I looked towardGitty and she smiled atme. There was somethingbetween us that at first Icould not identify, acalmness of sorts. Gonewas the anxious tiptoeingaround each other, and inits place came the feelingthat something hadchanged.Soonitwastimeforthe

baby’s feeding, and Gitty

sat down on the bedopposite me, covered hershoulder and chestwith asmall blanket, and undidthe top buttons of herrobe.Aswechattedaboutbreast-feeding and diapersand the relative merits ofpacifiersofvariouskinds,Irealized what it was thathadchanged.Wehadcreatedlove.

ChapterSeven

It was the year of thephoto op, hundreds ofmoments that seemedperfectly staged, waitingfor the click of a camerashutter.Here is Tziri draggingonionsandpotatoesoutofkitchencabinets.

Here is Tziri on thefloor, in each hand atomato, pilfered fromunpacked supermarketbags nearby, her face andnose smeared in red gooandtinytomatoseeds.Here is Tziri standingprecariously with onehand on the trash can,peekingoutfrombehindasmall plastic bowl, nose,forehead, and cheeks

smeared in chocolatepudding, eyes frozenwidewithguilt.Here she is studiously

ripping pages from booksshe’d emptied off thelower shelves of ourdining-room bookcase;here she isonGitty’sbed,reaching for the cordlesstelephoneonthepilloworscribbling furiouslywithafat red crayon over the

“Instruction for Brides”pamphlet that Gitty keptonthenightstand.It was a blessed year.Gone was the angst thathad accompanied methrough my adolescenceand the awkwardness ofadjusting to married life.Yet to comewere the fullburdensofraisingafamilyanditsattendantanxieties,thepressuresofhealthand

finance,negotiatingsiblingdisputes and wardrobemutinies, overseeingschool projects andhomework assignments.Alsoyet tocomewere thetorrentsofdoubtaboutmyfaith and the anxiety overhow to deal with them.Even the nights passedunmemorably; a calmchild, Tziri was sleepingthrough the night by the

ageoffourmonths.There were occasional

frustrations. When I heldTziri inmy arms, I felt asthough I’d borrowed her,as if Gitty, generous withthe precious thing, wasallowing me, under hercareful observation, to bea vice-parent of sorts.Springtime came, andGitty and I would sit onpatio chairs outside our

doorwithTziriinourlaps.Sometimes I’d notice tinygoose bumps on Tziri’sarms and say, “I thinkmaybe she can use asweater.”Gittywouldlookaway,annoyed. Itwasshewho determined whetherthe baby was too cold ortoo warm, whether shewas hungry or gassy, orwhether, as Gitty wouldsometimes say, “She’s just

abadbabytoday.”WhenIoffered once to changeTziri’sdiaper,Gittylookedatmeasifthenotionweretoo absurd forwords. I, ayoung man barely out ofyeshiva, still consumedwith Torah study andprayerandallthosethingsthat were the opposite ofdomesticity, surely wouldknownothing of changingdiapers.

It stung, thenotion thatmychildbelongedmoretohermotherthantome,butI learned to accept it. Iallowed the love for mydaughter towashovermeand felt the indescribable,almost painful, joy overher existence. At times, Iwould not understandwhere those feelings camefrom; they were therewhenIwatchedhersleep,

when I watched her feed,even when she cried, herface scrunched up withwrinkles so fine, herwhimpers like a sweetmelody.There would be more

babies through the years,all of whom Gitty and Iwould love deeply, butwhat I felt with Tziri’sbirth would not repeatitself with the others. It

wasasifTzirihadcometorepair something broken,and then it was fixed andtheothershad lesser rolestoplay.Withmymarriageto Gitty, I felt as if I hadembarked not onmy ownjourney but someoneelse’s, living not my ownpassions but thoseassignedtomebyaworldand a community thatwantedformesomethingI

had not fully chosen buthadbrokenmywillfor.InTziri, I found myconsolation. At the end ofa day of study, I wouldreturn home, and Gittyand Tziri would be outtogether on the patio.Gitty would be feedingTziri baby food,applesauce, or mashed-uppeasandcarrots,andtheywould both look at me,

Gitty with a gentle smileand Tziri with a reflexivewave of her arms and astreamofexcitedbabbles.I remember holding herat sixteen months, inJanuary 1996, when Ibrought her home fromGitty’sparentstogreethernew sibling, Freidy, oursecond child. I rememberthat shehad something inher hand—in my memory

it is an oblong object,vaguelythreatening,likeasoupladleorarollingpin,although it was morelikelyatoyofsomesort—when she spotted thebrand-newinfantdozinginthe portable crib betweenourbeds.Stillinmyarms,Tziri looked at the bundleinthecribandthentomeand Gitty, and thenlaughed a nervous adult-

likelaugh.Tellmethis isajoke, she seemed to say,and she waved the objectin Freidy’s direction, as ifwanting to strike it, thatthing that dared usurp herprideofplace.Gittyand Ilaughed, nervous, but oh,socharmed.It was Freidy whose

birth would make usrealizehowunpreparedwewere. Plump-cheeked and

colicky, she screamedthrough her first twelvemonths. Gitty had herhands full while I wasstudying and praying andattending the rebbe’stischen. Gitty and I werebothnowtwenty-one,withtwo children; before long,we realized that we wereinto something we hadn’tpreparedfor.“Rentisduetomorrow,”

Gitty reminded me onemorning, and that sameevening she waved a pileof bills in front of me.“FINAL TERMINATIONNOTICE,” read a letterfrom O&R Utilities inoversize bold red letters.There was a bill from thephone company andanother from amail-ordercatalog from which we’dpurchased a state-of-the-

art toaster oven for threeeasymonthly payments of$39.99. We owed moneyat the supermarket, at thefish store, and at thebutcher’s. “Mr. Greenbergsaid we need to pay offsomething on theaccount,”Gitty said,and Igrew furious at Mr.Greenbergfornotrealizingthatathree-hundred-dollarcredit limit on groceries

was not enough for afamilyof fourwhoseheadofhouseholdwasstudyingTorahforaliving.

At first, raising andprovidingforafamilyhadseemed simple enough.Everyone did it, more orless, and so I imaginedthere must be a formula,the specifics of which Iwould learn in due time.

The important thing wasto start the process. Iassumedthatthe“system,”the birth-to-death cocoonof institutionsandsupportnetworks available forevery Hasidic person,would take care of therest. There were parentsand in-laws to provide ayear of dinners andSabbath meals and a firstbaby’s needs. There were

Sabbath food pantries forthe hungry, free loansocieties for home buyers,freeroadsideassistanceforcar owners, cadres ofHasidic EMT personnel totendtoemergencymedicalneeds. There were grantsfor marrying off children,aco-opgrocerystorewithdiscounted prices forschool employees andotherswith large families.

Any man could take hismeals free in the yeshivadining room if he chose.There was free coffee intheshuleachmorninganda shower and bath in themikveh,witha reasonablycleantowelandashardofflakysoap.Forotherexpenses—rent

and utilities and the oddpair of pants or theoccasional wig styling—

there was a stipend fromthe kollel, the rabbinical-studies institution thatextended fromtheyeshivasystem, in which everyyoung married male, bycommunityordinance,wastospendthefirsttwoyearsof marriage. I had littlebudgetary sense of myown but was certain thatthe kollel had calculatedthe proper formula and

providedaccordingly.A week after ourwedding, I headed to thekollel’s administrativeofficestoenroll.Themainkollel buildingwas adrabedifice with a gray-and-pink stucco facade thatformedonesideofaquadin the village center,between the mainsynagogueand the rebbe’shome and opposite the

elongated, limestone-covered structure of theGreatYeshiva.Theelderlykollel administratorhanded me a pile ofdocuments to sign as heentered my name andSocial Security numberinto an ancient computer.He then rattled off therules in a drawlingunpunctuated monotone:“Four hundred thirty a

month always be on timefive minutes late onedollar penalty miss asession twentydollars twoexams per week fiftydollarspenaltyformissinganexamthankyouandbewell.”Itseemedplenty:$430a

month. The ordinancerequiredonlytwoyearsofstudy,butIwouldstayformanyyears, Iwascertain.

Oh, itwill be challenging,myfriendsandIwouldsayto one another, but thatwould only prove howworthy the endeavor. Inthegreathallofthekollel,at any given time, onecould see men of all agessparring over nuances ofthe law: from just-marriedyoung men, with peachywisps of facial hair, towizened scholars who

shuffled on their walkersand canes to the senior-citizens’ restroom justoutsidethemaindoor.There were, of course,thosedisinclined towardalifetime of study; theweak-willed, the impious,those lacking the passionor discipline for sacredideals. Those unfortunatesouls who, as soon as thetwoyearswereup,leftthe

kollel to take jobs assupermarket cashiers,deliverymen for thebutcher or the fish store,plumbers, electricians, do-it-all handymen. A fewstarted businesses: sellingchildren’s clothes out ofconverted basements orsetting up child day-carecenters in their livingrooms. One enterprisingfriend started a small

sandwich shop at thevillage’s tiny shoppingmall, where men wouldstop for a bagel and eggsalad after morningprayers.Anotheropenedacraftstore,onlytocloseitseveralmonths laterwhenhe realized that, really,howmanyneedlepointandhook-rug kits did eachfamilyinthevillageneed?If I had given any

thought to what I woulddo past the kollel years,earning money was neverpart of it. My occupationwouldbeofthekleikodeshsort, sacred vesselsthrough which holinesspassed: cantors, ritualslaughterers, scribes ofsacred texts, teachers atthe cheder or the yeshiva.I’d always assumed that Iwould end up among the

last category, or perhapsteaching adults—the dailypage of Talmud, or anevening lecture on Biblecommentaries—perhapseven a scholar of note,teaching other learnedmen.Now I realized thatsomethingdidn’tcompute.After the babies arrived,therewerenewexpensesIhadn’t considered.Our in-

laws bought us a babycrib,butwealsoneededabuggy,astroller,abureau,baby clothes—never-endingstreamsofsoftpinkruffles, Onesiesembroidered withbefuddled-looking teddybears, stretchies withcolorful ABC pyramids.There were plush clothbooks with images offriendly-looking tigers and

giraffes, intended to plantthe seeds of literaryappreciation. There wererattles and baby bottlesand pacifiers and morerattles and all kinds ofother noisemaking devicesthat mothers andgrandmothers assured uswere necessary for raisinghealthybabies.Babydiaperswerebeing

expended with alarming

frequency. Gitty, blessedlyfrugal by nature, wouldpurchase only no-namebrands.“Lookatthis,”shewould point with disdainat packages of Luvsstacked above the fruitsand vegetables at Braun’sSupermarket.“Ninedollarsa pack. Thievery.” She’dcluck her tongue and rollhereyesandturntheaisleto reach for one of the

genericbrands.

“Maybe,” Gitty said onemorning, as she stirred apot of farina with Freidyon her arm, “youwant tolook for a job of somekind?”“A job?”The suggestionsounded offensivelycommon.“It’s just a thought,”Gittysaid.

I knew she was right,though, and so when anotice appeared on thekolleldooroneday,Itooknote: EXCELLENT JOBOPPORTUNITIES. Officework in New Jersey.Training provided. Noexperience necessary.Suitable for kollel menseeking work for the firsttime.It seemed absurd that I

would, overnight, go fromkollel student to officeworker. But as Imulled itover, I wondered what itwould be like to havematerialcomforts,asteadypaycheck, a car someday,maybeevenahomeofourown. Perhaps those thingswould provide consolationfor having abandoned myaspirations. I ripped off ahangtagandstuffeditinto

mypocket.“Therewillbeameetingin the kollel basementtomorrowatseventhirty,”ayoungwomansaidwhenIcalledthenumber.If I had been worriedthat forsaking the studyhall was a betrayal ofmypiousaspirations,atleastIwas not alone. In thecorridor between theadministrative offices and

the large library—theVault of Sacred Books—agroupofmenstoodaroundwaiting. BentzionGrunwald was there, aprodigy who hadcompleted the entireTalmud before hismarriage, finishing theverylastpagerightbeforehewasledtothechuppah.Chaim Yidel Gold wasthere, whowould be seen

in the yeshiva study halluntil past midnight andback again at four in themorning. They all smiledsheepishly, trying in vaintomakelightofitall.“Office work, huh?”Chaim Yidel said, on hisfacealookofresignation.GavrielBlum,saidtobe“the cleverest man in theshtetl,” soon cameskipping down the stairs

with a sprightly bop,windingandrewindinghissidelocks around his ears,which seemed squishedand reddened and madehim look anything butclever. He crooked hishead toward the librarydoorandwefollowedhim,thirtyorsomen,andtookseats around five longtables.Gavriellaiditoutforus:

A telecommunicationscompany in New Jersey,owned by Orthodox Jews,waswillingtohireHasidicmen just entering the jobmarket. All we needed,Gavrielsaid,wastofilloutthese sheets—“rezemays,”he called them—and hetossedapileofformsontoeach of the tables. Myfriend Zundel, sitting nexttome,lookedatthesheets

likeachild studyinga taxform: “What is this,rezemays?”Gavriel explained: InAmerica, before you get ajob, a company needs toknow something aboutyou. Rezemays, he said,save time for everyoneinvolved. “The mainthing,”Gavriel said, “is towrite down your skills.”The English word “skills”

bounced incongruously offhis clipped Yiddishsentences, and the menstaredbackblankly.“Skills?” Zundel askedfinally.“Don’tyouneedtogotocollegeforthat?”Gavriel shook his headnoncommittally. “Notnecessarily. You canwriteifyou’veeverworkedwithcomputers. Or if you’regood at math. Things like

that.” He looked aroundthe room as the menlookedtimidlyattheformsinfrontofthem.“Don’tbemodest,” Gavriel said.“Thisistheplacetobrag.”And so we sat and

wondered what we mightbragabout.Weknewalotabout commerce in first-century Palestine. Wecould write contracts onproperty sales that would

be legallybinding in fifth-century Babylonia. Ahandfulofusknewexactlyhow to slaughter an ox inJerusalem’s ancienttemple, skin it, clean it,and separate the priestlyportions. But this was thefirst we’d heard ofrezemays.Slowly,we began to fillin our names, ouraddresses, and phone

numbersand then tried tothink of what we mightconsideraskill.Excellent English readingand writing skills, I wrotedown.Thatsentencealonelookedskillful.“Excellent English?”Gavriel askedwith a scoffwhen I handed him mysheet.“I’m from BoroughPark,”Isaid.

He laid a hand on myshoulder. “Tzaddik,” hesaid, “youmightbebetterthan these guys.” Hecockedhisheadtothelineof men behind me. “Butcompared to YeshivaUniversity boys, yourEnglish isn’tworth a half-eatenradish.”Iwalkedhomewithmyego bruised, wonderingwhat it would be like to

getajob,towakeupeachmorning and catch acommuter bus and spendthe day in an office. Iimaginedthewhirofafaxmachine, incessant phonecalls,dealingwithirritablecustomers, and, of course,other employees of bothsexes.A few days later, I ranintoGavrielattheshul.Hewas rolling his gartel

aroundhisfingersaftertheconclusion of eveningprayers.“Whatever happened to

thejobthing?”He looked away. “Plan

fell through.” He finishedwinding his gartel andplaced it in his coatpocket. “Not enoughskills.”

Several weeks later, there

was another note on thekolleldoor.Substitute TeachersNeeded. Call MordcheGoldhirsch.Mordchewasoneof theprincipals at the cheder,the elementary school forboys, and I called thenumber as soon as I gothomeforlunch.“Can you come in attwo?”MordcheGoldhirsch

asked. One of the sixth-grade teachers had adentistappointment.The kitchen clock said1:15.Iwouldhavetomisstheafternoonstudysessionat thekolleland incur thetwenty-dollar penalty. Thethree-hoursubstitutingjobwouldpaythirtydollars.“I’ll be there,” I said toMordche.Onhisofficedoorwasa

nameplate: RabbiMordechai Goldhirsch,Principal,Grades4,5,&6,and I walked in to findMordche standing with athin wooden rod over aboy holding his palm outfor a thwacking. Mordchetold the terrified boy towait,andthenescortedmedownthehallway.“Look each of them in

the eye. Don’t let them

scare you,” he said, and Ifelt an instant flash ofterror. I remembered howmy friends and I hadtreatedourown substituteteachers, how one of ourteachers had said, rightbefore he took his two-week summer vacation:“Substitutes are a time totake things easy.” For thenext two weeks, we tookthings easy by sticking

pins up the underside ofthe substitute teacher’schaircushion,pouringsaltintohiscoffee,andspillingbottles of Elmer’s glueonto the vinyl tiles underhisdesk,thenwatchingashe struggled to wipe thestickymess from the solesofhisshoes.From a nearbyclassroom came thesingsong of a Talmud

lesson and from anotherthe sound of boys recitingBible verses. From aclassroomattheendofthehall, I heard laughing andshouting and felt myheartbeat quicken. AsMordche’s hand went forthe doorknob, he pausedand peered through thesmall square window.Inside, boys stood ontables, tugged one

another’s sidelocks, andchasedoneanotheraroundthe room, until one boynoticedusandleapedintohis seat, followed, like aset of dominoes, by therest of the class. By thetime Mordche turned theknob,everyboywasinhisplacewithhisBiblereaderopeninfrontofhim.Mordchesaidnothingtotheclass.Hesteppedaside

to allow me to enter,nodded curtly, and closedthedoor.I sat down at the deskand looked around, mygaze lingering on eachboy, as Mordche hadinstructed. I tried tomaskthe fear I felt as the twodozen pairs of eyesassessedme.The afternoon passedquickly enough, with few

disturbances. I gave alessonontheweeklyBibleportion, told a story of anancient saint, stepped outtwice to get coffee fromthe teachers’ room downthe hall, and three hourslater it was over. In mypocket, as Iwalkedhome,I carried thirty dollars inschoolvouchers.

“Vouchers!”Gittysputtered

indisbeliefwhenIwalkedinto the house andwavedthem in front of her.“What arewegoing todowithvouchers?”Voucherswere the localcurrency, printed by theschool system,withwhichit paid the bulk of itsemployee salaries.Everyone in the villageseemed to have a surplusof them. The vouchers

were redeemable at localshops,whoseownerswerethenpaidindollarsbytheschool,atasteepdiscount.There had been a time

when schoolteachers hadto wait weeks, sometimesmonths, for their pay. Butthat was no longer thecase. The school had amakeshifttreasury,asmalloffice on the ground floorof the boys’ schoolwith a

computerandanoldinkjetprinter,andcouldprintallthe vouchers it needed.Denominations of fives,tens, twenties, still wetfrom the sputtering wheelof the inkjet were packedinto cabinets by a youngfemalesecretary.The vouchers were asource of constantaggravation. Every day, itseemed, one store or

another changed itsvoucher policy. WhenPollack’s Dry Goods Storeannounced that it wouldacceptvouchers,therewasa run for the smallbasement store on LincolnAvenue,anditssuppliesofunderwear, socks, andbaby outfits quicklycleared off the shelves.Einhorn’s Basics andBeyond was forced to

follow suit, whileGrossman’s Books &Judaica announced that itwould no longer acceptvouchers.I thought Gitty was

overreacting. There was alot we could do withvouchers. “We might beable to exchange them forfoodstamps,”Isaid.If vouchers were like a

Third World currency,

food stampswere as goodas the U.S. dollar.Grossman’s Books &Judaica accepted foodstamps without question,as did both dry goodsstores and the small silvershop in the Winklers’basement on JacksonAvenue. At the annualyeshiva fund-raisingdinner, one man afteranother counted out food

stampchecksfordonationsand received appreciativenods. Even the elderlyitinerant vendor, whostood in the shul foyerevery Wednesday eveningwith his refurbishedWalkmans and alarmclocks, accepted foodstamps gladly. Unlike thevouchers, a strictly localcurrency, food stampscould be taken toMonsey

and Williamsburg andpassedonfurther.Soon I had other

substituting jobs, often forseveral weeks, as theregular rebbes took theirtwo-week summervacations. The voucherspiledupinanenvelopeina kitchen drawer, rightnext to the dairy cutlery.We could buy all thegroceries we wanted, or

anotherbundleofpinkandyellowbabyoutfits,butwestillhadnowaytopayourrentortheelectricbill.

ChapterEight

Teaching felt strange tome, vaguely fraudulent. Ithadn’tbeen longsincemyowndaysasachederboy,and it felt as if I was notold enough, wise enough,learned enough to beteachingmyowngroupofcheder boys. Mostly,

though, Iwas reliving thememories of my youth,this time from the othersideoftherebbe’sdesk.Asachild, Ihadbeenadaydreamer—one of theworst offenses, to haveyour mind wander fromyour rebbe’s lesson andyour finger drift awayfrom the text in front ofyou.“SHULEM, VIE HALT

MEN?”Itwasthemostcommon

question ofmy childhood,always, when it came,jarring me out of a sweetdaydream. From firstgrade through ninth, eachrebbe in his own gruffvoice,angry, impatient,orsighing in resignation:“SHULEM, WHERE AREWEHOLDING?”Where we were

“holding”was the specificpassage, line,andword inthe text of our Talmuds,whichweweretoknowatall times by keeping ourforefingers pressed againstthe small square letters,movingalongastherebbeled us through the jungleof dense, unpunctuatedAramaictext,thedigestofrabbinic discourse in theancient Babylonian cities

ofSuraandPumbeditha.Whenever the question

came, my mind, in afrenzy,wouldspinthroughthe haze of my daydreamas I tried to recall apassage,aphrase,orevena word. I would hear thefaintechoesoffragmentedclauses,This passage is notaccordingtoRavSheshes,orRavinaputthequerytoRavAshi, and I would search

frantically through thetext, until—wait, was thephrase in the Gemara ortheRashi?OrIwouldfindnot one but two instances—andwhichwasit?OftenIcouldnotfindthephraseat all and would wonder,grippedwith panic:Was Ievenontherightpage?IfIfailedtoknowwhere

we were holding, therebbe would beckon

silentlywithhisforefinger.Iwouldrise,armsandlegsquivering,andheadtohisdesk, where, at his nodtoward my arm, I wouldextendmyrighthand.Therebbe would grab hold ofmy fingers, then reach forhis rod—the dowel of anoldwooden coathanger—raiseithighintheair,andbringitdownonmypalm.Whoosh. Thwack. At his

signal, Iwould extendmyother hand, and thethwacking would berepeated until, by somearbitrary measure, therebbe was satisfied. Witheach thwack, my palmwould burn and I’d prayforitalltoend,fortherodto break, for my rebbe tohaveaheartattack.The thwacking

happened often, and it

happened to each of us,but still there was theshame, walking back tomy chair, rubbing mybright red palms againstmy blue or browncorduroy trousers. I neverquestionedthejusticeofit,though. If the shape of afluffy white cloud outsidethe open window, or thetooting of an angrycabdriver’s horn, or the

passing siren of a fireengine induced adaydream,itonlyfollowedthat I was to be punishedfor it. If Ravina had aquery to Rav Ashi, itwould behooveme to payattention. Because Ravinahad important questions,asdidalltherabbisoftheTalmud,andtobeapiousHasidicboy,togrowuptobe a piousHasidicman, a

boymust pay attention tothequestionsposedbytherabbis, and so not haveanyquestionsofhisown.

Thesearethelawsyoushallput before them. So saidGod to Moses, who thentaught the children ofIsrael the proper way tobore holes in the ears oftheir slaves (drag them toa doorpost first), how to

treat a slave-girl sold byher father (marry her orsetherfreeaftersixyears),the amount owed to aslaveholder if your oxgored his slave (thirtysilvershekels).Each week, another

portion of the Bible:priestly vestments, thehalf-shekel census in theSinai desert, the goldencalf, the Sabbatical year

for the fields, purities andimpurities.Eleven days from Horeb,via Mount Seir, to KadeshBarnea. I was in the fifthgrade, and the class wasrestless with thoughts ofsummer. At home, mymother packed my trunk:bathing suits, flashlight,laundrybag,cupandbasinfor negel vasser—thebedside washing ritual.

Also, bags of pretzels andpotatochipsthatwouldbecrummy and stale oneweek later. In ourclassroom at the Krasnacheder in Borough Park,Moses was entering hisfinal days; the forty yearsof wandering through thedesert were almost over,and soonwewouldbeoffto summer camp, at theendofwhichMoseswould

die and we, the studentcampers,wouldtakeoffinacaravanofyellowschoolbuses to ride the rollercoasters and bumper carsat a nearby amusementpark.Atcamp,therewouldbe

games and activities, fielddays and color wars, butonlyinthelateafternoons.Until five o’clock, Moses’swordswouldcontinue,and

wewouldstudythemfromour dog-eared volumes ofDeuteronomy, with thesame rebbes as all yearround, with their harshvoices,theirscoldings,andtheir rods. All summer,Moses would berate,chastise, and teach thegreat lessons about lovingGod with all your heartand all your soul and allyour possessions because

those who ceased to loveGodwerepunishedbywarand famine and pestilenceuntil the love of Godwasrestored, and then wewould go swimming orplay kickball out on thegrassyfield.Now,however,wewere

still in Brooklyn, still inthe first week ofDeuteronomy, and Moseswas giving the childrenof

Israel a talking-to abouttheir bad behavior of thepastfortyyears.“Chaim Burich,” the

rebbe called, “what is themeaningofElevenDays?”Chaim Burich blinked,

looked at the rebbe, thenat the rod on the rebbe’sdesk. But Chaim Burichdidnotknowtheanswer.“Shea! What is the

meaningofElevenDays?”

Shea,too,staredbackattherebbeblankly.“Shulem! What is the

meaningofElevenDays?”I did not know the

answer, but there wascomfort in knowing that Iwasnotalone.Onebyone,the rebbe’s question wentaround theclassroom,andeach boy, in turn,remainedsilent.Finally,therebbeturned

to Nusi, the smartest boyintheclass.“A distance of elevendays,” Nusi’s voice rangthrough theclassroom,histoneunbearablysmug.“Nusi, read to us fromRashi!”Nusi placed his indexfinger on the smallrounded letters on thelower half of the page:“SaystheholyRashi,”Nusi

sang as the rest of usfidgeted inour seats,“Thepresence of the Shechinawas so great that youtraveled in three days adistanceofelevendays.Andthen you sinned, and youwanderedforfortyyears.”The rebbe reached forhisrodandwalkedovertoChaim Burich. ChaimBurich extended his palm,the rebbe grabbed his

fingers, and ChaimBurich’s mouth formed asudden O as the rod methis palm and he let out abreathy, muffled shriek.Therebbe letgoofChaimBurich’s hand and movedon to Shea, then to me,thentoSrulYosef,thentoMotty, Berry, Shloimy.Twenty-fourboysgottheirpalms thwacked, twenty-fourboysrubbedtheirsore

palmsontheirtrousersforforgetting Rashi’scommentary on ElevenDays.AllexceptNusi,whosat with a half smile, hischin resting on his arm,while the rest of usstruggledtoholdbackourtears.

Cheder wasn’t all palmthwacking. Aside fromTalmud and Bible studies,

the Krasna cheder had aproper “Englishdepartment.”Fromfour tosix in the afternoon, fourdays a week, we weretaught to read and writeEnglish and elementarymathematics.Most of the studentsscoffed at these studies,taking their cues frommany of the adults, whoconsidered it a waste of

time and a distractionfrom Torah study. Evenour rebbes, the religious-studies teacherswhowerewith us from eight in themorning until four in theafternoon, showed disdainfor“English”byexplainingthat it was a grudgingconcession to the seculargovernment and its laws.Some boys routinely leftschool at four, saying that

theirparentsforbadethemtostudyEnglish,whiletherest of us looked on inenvy, wishing that ourparents, too, were sopious.English studiesbegan in

third grade. My firstEnglish teacher, Mr.Bernstein, was a tall, thinman,perpetuallyred-facedfromshouting,witha tinyyarmulke on his head. He

wouldenterourclassroomeach day, carrying hisshiny black briefcase inhand, promptly at 4:00?PM. He would nodcordiallytotherebbe,whowould nod back in hissuperior way. The smallred-and-blue knittedyarmulke was no matchfor the rebbe’s broad-brimmedblackhat. Itwasoneofourearliestlessons:

smaller hats alwaysshoweddeferencetolargerones.Over time, I came toenjoy those two hours.Daydreaming was littleimpediment to masteringthe correct spelling of catand house. Two plus twoequaled four, therewasn’tmuch to it. This wasn’tsome ancient rabbi askinganotherancient rabbihow

to explain an extra letteror word in the Bible,which, in my mind,seemedneitherextraneousnorconsequential.English studies proved

pleasant for anotherreason:Therewasnopalmthwacking. Englishteachers could shout,stamp their feet, blowtheir cheeks into a brightpurple sheen, but they

couldnotlayahandonus.Still, as was commonknowledge among usstudents, English teacherswere to be despised aspurveyors of profanity—“Aynglish,foy!”wenttherefrain.Once, during morning

recessinthethirdgrade,Ihad the notion to heappublic scorn on Mr.Bernstein by drawing a

picture of him sitting onthe toilet. My fellowclassmates stood aroundmy desk observing myimpromptu artperformance. Mr.Bernstein’s humiliation onthe pages ofmy notebookfeltrighteous.Our rebbe, a humorlessSatmar Hasid fromWilliamsburg, thoughtdifferently. When he

entered our classroom atthe end of recess andfound the class gatheredaround my desk, heapproached and studiedmy drawing. As it turnedout, I hadn’t understoodhis priorities. It was notMr. Bernstein’s honor thatoffendedourrebbebutthefactthatIhaddirtythingson my mind. Bathroomswere tumeh, profane

places,andthethingsdonein bathrooms were alsoprofane, and so theywerenottobespokenaboutandcertainly not to beillustrated in ournotebooks.The rebbe grabbed my

upper arm with his hand,lifted me out of my seat,and, clasping my armfirmly,ledmetohisdesk.“Haltaroisdihant.”

Whoosh, thwack. Otherhand. Whoosh, thwack.Other hand. Whoosh,thwack. The rest of theclass looked on withprofound boredom as ourrebbe,hisarmcantileveredacross the air from hisshoulder, swung hiswooden rod up and downin an almost roboticmotion, the rod swishingthrough the air and

breaking its course onmypalm while the rebbe,keeping time with hisswing, issuedtheplaintiveadmonition: You. Thwack.Shall. Thwack. Not.Thwack. Profane. Thwack.This classroom. Thwack.With dirty images.Thwack,thwack,thwack.

Itwas now fourteen years

sincemythird-graderebbethwackedmypalmsformyprofane drawing, eightyearssincemyninth-graderebbe slapped me foreating a bag of potatochips during a lesson onliabilities for digging pitsin public places. All thatthwacking and slappingnow came to mind as Itried to teach SrulikSchmeltzer’s sixth-grade

classthelawsofdiscardingleavenedbreadonthedaybefore Passover. The boyschatted throughout thelesson, as if I weren’tthere, some even gettingout of their seats andstrollingaround.“Chaim Nuchem Braun,can you please sit downand keep quiet?” I calledto a skinny boy who hadstood up to look out the

window and shoutedsomething to a friendacrosstheroom.“Chaim Nuchem Braun,can you please sit downand keep quiet?” the boymimicked, thengrinnedathisfriendsashewalkedtohisseatandtheclassburstinto laughter. I could feelthebloodrushtomyheadasmy body froze. I couldnot process any thoughts

beyond the feeling ofhumiliation.Ifeltakindofphysical weakness in mybody,atremorinmyjaws,andIclenchedmyteethtokeep it from showing. Itwas the second day of atwo-week job. I could notimagine how I would lasttwoweeks.ButhowcouldI, a twenty-two-year-oldman, be cowed by a classoften-year-olds?

At 12:45, I walked thetwo blocks home for anhour of lunch, before Iwould return for theafternoon. Along ClintonLane, near the site of anew home construction, Ispotted a “wire” on theground, at the side of theroad. It looked almostexactly like the one myfourth-grade rebbe hadused instead of a rod, a

white length of round,hollow rubber. It was theperfect size, twice arm’s-length,justrighttofoldinhalfandholdatoneend.Halt arois di hant. Iremembered the hundredsof times I had heard it.Hold out your hand.Without thinking, Ipickedup the rubber cord,wrapped it around myfingers, and thenplaced it

insidemycoatpocket.There were the usualbouts of shouting andlaughter across theclassroom that afternoon,and I began to growaccustomed to it. I wouldnot use the wire in mypocket, I decided. IwoulddealwiththeboysasbestIcould and somehow getthrough it. The next day,however, the boys grew

even rowdier; when Icalled to Berry Glancz tostop speaking to the boysitting next to him, hisresponse sentme over theedge.“Ichfeifdichuhn.”Hemuttereditunderhis

breath,notbrazenenoughto say it out loud,but thewords were unmistakable.The language of defiancein the schoolyard, or

among siblings in theirrivalries, a child’s bluster.Ich feif dich uhn. I fifemyhornatyou. Idonot carefor youor for your ordersoryourrequestsordesires,and so I blowmy whistleat you. I shoot a burst ofhot air in your face.Becauseyouarenothingtome.ButIwasnotnothingtothisboy.Iwashisrebbe.I

reached into the insidebreast pocket of my coat,where the rubbercord laycoiled flat against mychest. In a flash, I stoodoverBerry.Foramoment,I intendedtoorderhimto“hold out your hand.”Instead, as if my bodyacted on its own, Idelivered a strike to boy’supper left arm, a hissingsshhwisscchh-thwack! that

frightened even me withits violence. Berry’s handflewuptocoverthespotIhad struck, his mouthforming a sudden, silent“AH!”I could see the anger in

his eyes but did not care.Hecouldfifeandfife,butIwas the one with theauthority to use force, tostrike him, and I watchedas this realization sunk in

andhelookedbackatme,angry but silent. The restoftheclass,too,wassilentasImademywaybacktomy desk. They remainedsilent for the rest of theafternoon, and the dayafter and the day afterthat.Silent andcontemptuous. I hadgainedtheboys’obediencebutnottheirrespect.Ihad

demonstrated not strengthbutweakness,andIsawintheir eyes that they knewit. They had broken me,andIhatedthemforit.In the teachers’ roomdown the hall, the rebbeswould talk about changes.Therebbes inNewSquarewere always more brutalthantherebbesinBoroughPark. I had heard thestories. One rebbe beat a

boy with his gartelmercilessly until the boylay on the floor howlingfor hours. Anotherthwacked a boy’s palmsseveral hundred times,until his welts began tobleed. One of my friendstold me of a first-graderebbewhohadspankedhisbackside so raw that hecouldn’t sit for days, allbecause the rebbe had

accused him of taking asmall bag of candies fromhis desk drawer, only tofind the candies in adifferent drawer a fewminuteslater.Now the punishmentswere more measured.Some only slapped thestudents,insteadofusingarod.“Feelthestinginyourhand,” one fifth-graderebbesaidtomeearnestly.

“If it hurts the child, itshould hurt you, too.”Others thought the rodwas acceptable but thatstrikesmust bemeted outjudiciously. Whipping aboy until he howled forhours was no longeradvisable.BerelEisenman,a teacher for nearly twodecades who was onceknown to be the mostbrutal of all rebbes, had

done a completeturnabout.“Inolongerusearod.NowIuseicecreampops.”Insteadofpunishingfor bad behavior, herewarded for good. Theother rebbes thought hisapproachtoolenient.Eventhe principal shook hishead.“Childrenneedtobehit sometimes. That’snevergoingtochange.”Walking home from

school, I thought aboutBerel Eisenman’s words.Ice creampops, therewasan idea. I didnotwant tohit students. I wantedthem to likeme. Iwantedtobe a “good rebbe,” andso,whenIfinishedthetwoweeks with SrulikSchmeltzer’s sixth-graders,I took on ReuvenMashinsky’s seventh-graders, and had a new

method.“We’ll do things

differently here,” I saidbefore I opened thevolume of Kiddushin onMashinsky’s desk. I toldthem I was splitting theclass into two teams. Iwould pit half the classagainsttheotherandmakethem each accountable totheir teammates. I wouldaward points for good

behavior and subtractpoints for bad. “Thewinning team,” I said,“getsicecreampops.”The boys regarded mewarily, as if assessingwhether this plan was fortheirbenefitormine.Theywereusedtobeingscoldedandslappedandthwacked,notawardedpoints.For thenext twoweeks,Iheldnota rodorawire

but a little green-and-yellownotepad,inwhichImarked down whichstudent earned points forhis team or incurred apenalty. In class, duringprayer time, for passingtheexams,forshowingupon time—everythingmattered. Instead ofscoldingorthwacking,allIhad to do was get mynotepad out.WhenChaim

Greenfeld whisperedsomething to SheaGoldstein during minchaprayers, I could seeShea’seyeballs bulging and hiswords hissing frombetween clenched teeth,“Shh,therebbeismarkingpoints!” Chaim Greenfeldquickly set his eyes backonhisprayerbook.

Mordche Goldhirsch was

pleased. “I don’t knowwhatyou’redoing,butyouclearly know how to holda classroom,” he said. Heknew from lookingthrough the smallwindowin theclassroomdoor thatthe boys wereuncharacteristically wellbehaved for a substitute.And so he offered me aregular position, teachingMishna to fifth-graders

from four to five eachafternoon.This was unlike theGemara, the elaborationon the Mishna, whichcould go on for pagesabout why a certain lawwas the way it was andhow it was known. TheMishnawasbotheasyanddull, a straightforwardcompendiumoflaws.

Twomenclutchacloak.Eachoneclaims,“Itisallmine.”Thecloakmustbesplit.

Aneggthatwaslaidontheholiday:theschoolofShammaisays,itmaybeeaten;theschoolofHillelsays,itmustnotbe

eaten.

Anoxgoresacow,andthecowisdiscoveredwithitsfetusatitsside;theox’sownermustpayforhalfthecowandaquarterofthefetus.

That summer, we studiedthelawsofYomKippuras

they were practiced inJerusalem’s ancienttemple. The childrenlearnedthatnotonlymustthe high priest have adeputy on call in case hebecomes disqualified (“Incase he’s had an impureincident”) but, accordingto Rabbi Judah, he wasalsogivenanextrawife,incasehiswifedied, andheneeded a backup to fulfill

the commandment: “Hemustatoneforhimselfandhishousehold.”I gave quizzes ofmultiple-choice answers,with the wrong onesplayful and silly andobviously wrong, and theboys loved them. Whenthey studied well, I tookthemon“hikes,” strolls inthenearbywoodsuntilwecame to a clearing,where

we’dsitinasemicircleandI would hand out half-meltedicecreampopsandtell them stories of rabbiswhohealedthesick,spokewith thedead,powwowedwith angels, and battleddemons, often all at once.On occasion, I’d split theclass into teams for animpromptu “Mishna Bee,”and toss candies forcorrect answers. Soon the

children were payingattention. Sometimes toomuchattention.

Yomha-kippurimossur.OnYomKippur,thefollowingareforbidden:Be-achilehu-veshtiyeh.Eatinganddrinking.U-virchitzeh.

Bathing.U-vesicheh.Applyingointments.U-vene’ilasha-sandal.Wearingshoes.U-vetashmishha-mitteh.

I hadn’t prepared for thislast one. How was I toexplain “service of the

bed”toten-year-olds?I moved on to the nextpassage:Akingandabridemaywashtheirfaces—“Youskippedone!”BerriNeubergercried.“What?”“You skipped one. Youdidn’t explain tashmishhamitah.”I pretended not tounderstand what hemeant, but he persisted.

“Thereare supposed tobefive things. You explainedonlyfour.”“That last one isn’t

important,” I said. “Itwon’tbeontheexam.”Berrinarrowedhiseyes,

as if he were the teacherand I were the student,andhewascallingmeoutforbadbehavior.Later,afterthebellrang

andtheboysgrabbedtheir

bagsandrannoisilytojointhe throngs of studentscrowding the corridor, Iran into MordcheGoldhirsch.“BerriNeubergerwanted

to know the meaning oftashmishhamitah.”“Nu?”“Iwasevasive.Toldhim

itwon’tbeontheexam.”Mordche thought for a

moment. “Next time, just

give him a really sternlook, like this.” Henarrowedhiseyes,exactlyasBerrihaddonetomeinclass. “You give him thekind of look that says,‘Don’t ever ask a questionlikethatagain.’”I looked at Mordcheskeptically,buthegavemea knowing look andnoddedgravely.“He’ll know. He’ll

understand. Youunderstand?”

Substituting and teachingMishna in afternoonswasn’twhatIhadinmindwhen I’d thought ofteaching,butthereseemedtobenoopeningforafull-time position. Every fewweeks, I’d stop byMordche’s office toinquire.

“Which grade did youwant to teach again?” hewould ask, as if he hadn’tasked the same just lastweekandIhadn’ttoldhimthat any gradewas fine. Ihad no preference. Iwanted a steady position,a paycheck, even thedespised vouchers. Wewere still behind on ourrent, still gettingtermination notices from

the gas company. Freidywasbeginningtowalkandneeded shoes. Even thevouchers eventually foundtheir uses, and now weowed hundreds more atthegrocer’s.“Nothing yet,” Mordche

would shake his head,shuffling papers on hisdesk or fiddling with thephotocopy machine. “I’llletyouknow if something

changes.”

Mordche met me in thehallway one day after myMishna class. He wantedtoknowifIwasinterestedinattendingameeting.“A meeting about

what?”He seemed surprised by

the question, as ifmeetings were to beattended for their own

sake. He waved his handdismissively. “Just ameeting.Gavriel Stein hassomeideas.”The meeting was heldon the first floor of theschool, in a room thatserved as a conferenceroom for village officialsand, each Wednesdaymorning, as “villagecourt,” where a judgeruled on traffic violations

—rolling through stopsigns,orparkingovernighton snow days, or drivingdown Washington Avenueat seventy-five miles perhour to get a last-minutemikveh dip before thesiren announced the startoftheSabbath.Now we sat seven menin the room, six Mishnateachers along withGavriel Stein, the same

one who’d had us fill outrezemays a few monthsearlier.“The government,” he

said, “has a program fortutoring students.” Titlesomething or other.“They’ll pay thirteendollarsanhour.”“Thirteen dollars an

hour?”allexceptmeaskedin unison. The othersseemed to think the

amount was pitiful. Ithought it sounded justfine.Weweregettingonlynine for our Mishnaclasses.“Thirteen dollars an

hour is what thegovernmentpays.Youcanset your own rate and gettherestfromtheparents.”In the corner, a large

American flag hung on apole, incongruous behind

this assemblage of blackhatsandlongcoats.“Isthisascam?”Iasked.Gavriel gaveme awary

glance. “Not at all,” hesaid. “The rebbe doesn’tallowanymorescams.”There’d been problems

in the past, withfraudulent use ofgovernment programs.Four men, includingGavriel himself, were

given prison sentences,ranging from severalmonthstosixyears.Threeother men had fled thecountry to avoidprosecution. We’d learnedourlessons.Gavriellookedaroundto

make sure we allunderstood.“Because this is a

government program,you’ll have to fill out

progress reports,”hewenton, looking around at ourbemused faces. “For eachstudent, you fill out asheet describing how thestudent is doing. You’llneed to be creative.Writehow the student is doingin math, or in English, orsocialstudies—”“We’re tutoring mathand English and socialstudies?”

Gavriel looked atme asif I were a child. “Ofcourse not,” he said. “Butthe government doesn’tpayforreligiousstudies.”I looked at the othermen sitting around thetable, but none of themseemed concerned. I wasterrified. In my mind, Icould see it all unfold. Aknock on the door atdawn. Handcuffs. An ill-

fittingprisonjumpsuit.My options, however,

were few, so I signed upfortheprogram.Fiveboyseach day, all between theages of nine and thirteen.Laws of returning lostobjects. Laws of oxenfalling into pits in theroadway. Laws of theSabbath. Laws of oxengoring cows. Laws ofprayer. Laws of oxen

goringcowsfallenintopitsduringprayer.And then I wrote the

progressreports:Mendy is improving his

multiplication but still hastrouble with division.Chezky’s spelling seems tohaveworsened.Yanky’s penmanship has

vastly improved due to thepracticeworksheets.There were no

multiplication tables, nopractice worksheets, andno improvement ordeterioration in any ofthose subjects. I washandinginphonyprogressreports,withmysignature,gettingpaid for somethingIwasn’tdoing.“How can we be doing

this and not beconcerned?” I asked myfriend Chaim Nuchem,

whooccupied the tutoringroomnexttominewithhisown rotation of students.But Chaim Nuchem onlyshrugged.“You think they’ll comelooking?”heasked.I looked at himdumbfounded. Hadn’t welearned? People weregoing to prison. Otherswere fleeing. Families hadbeen destroyed. The

community shamed in thepapers. Clearly, someonecamelooking.ChaimNuchemlaughed.“Thoseguystookmillions.We’re making thirteendollarsanhour.Youthinkthegovernmentcares?”Still, I hated it. I hatedthat we relied on thegovernmentforsomuch.Ihated thatwe skirted, justbarely, the edges of

legality. That we madesure never to reportearning one cent morethan the official povertylevelsothatwecouldkeepour food stamps and ourSection 8 and our WICchecks. I hated that theeconomics of our villagewere such that allmattersof finance were bound upin deception. “On thebooks or off the books?”

was the big question foreverynewjob.Andstill,themoneywas

neverenough.

ChapterNine

It was a balmy night inmid-autumn, the night ofShminiAtzeres,attheendof the Sukkos holiday. Itwasnearingmidnight,andthe streets were empty. Iwas on my way to therebbe’sGreat Sukkah. Thelast tisch of the holiday

was to begin in one hourand would go untilmorning. Gitty and I hadfinished our dinner early,andsincetherewastime,Itook a stroll downWashington Avenue. Thewords “Yeshiva AvirYakov,” in gold Hebrewletters across the front ofthe yeshiva building,glittered against themoonlight, and I thought

I’d drop in at the sukkahbehind theyeshiva,wherestudents andguestswouldbe having their dinner. Iwould find a friend for achatuntilthetischbegan.Iheardtherushofacar

inthedistance.Iwonderedwho might be driving atthistime,anactforbiddenon the holiday. Perhaps itwas one of the Hatzolohvolunteers,rushingtotend

to a heart-attack victim, achildburnedfromapotofspilled chicken soup, orperhaps a woman inprematurelabor.Ormaybeit was one of the Haitiantaxi drivers from SpringValley,cometodropoffahospice employee. Or,there was always thechanceitwasadriverlostamong the windingsuburban roads. That’s

probably it, I thought.They’ll figure it out soonenough, when they headdown Washington Avenueandreachthecul-de-sacatthe end.Maybe thedriverwould need directions, Ithought, and slowed mypacetolookback.Thecarwas out of sight, but Icould hear it comingtoward the bend in theroad, and I stood still to

watchforit.When it appeared, it

came zooming past thebend, heading straighttoward me. Speeding wasdangerous in the village:the roadswere filledwithchildren, mothers withstrollers,andtheelderly—especiallyduringholidays,when people would strollfreelyinthemiddleoftheroadway.

Ijumpedtothecurbandheld out my arm, wavingitslowlyupanddown.“Slowdown!”Ishouted.But the car didn’t slowdown;itonlyspedup,andin a flash, as it passed, Iheard shouts and saw theangry, hostile faces,through the windows.ThenIheardit:“FUCKINGJEWS!”Wild laughter.And then

they shouted again, evenlouderthistime,nowfromseveralyardsdown.“FUCKINGHASIDICS!”Ifroze.I’dheardtalesof

this. From the verybeginning, when thevillagewas founded, therewere those who soughttrouble, and cries wouldring through the village:“Shkutzim!” Vermin. Non-Jewish hoodlums. There

wouldbeviolence, lessonstaught,fistsandblowsandbroken bones, the meeksensibilities of ourancestors making way fora people who no longerlookedawayinthefaceofaggression.Ihadjustsuchan incident before menow, and I stood facing italone.“Shkutzim!”Itriedtoraisemyvoice

to yell, but my lungsbetrayedme,asifinsistingthattheywouldnotrisetothe occasion. My heartpounding, I looked to thewindows of the yeshiva,but they were dark, nosign of life at this latehour. From the homesacross the street, I couldhear fathers and sonssinging, up-tempomelodies.Andthoushaltbe

joyful within thy festival.Booming masculine voicesmingling with youngsopranos. Hands clappingvigorously, the sounds ofcutlery banging against atableinrhythm.I took a quick deep

breath.“SHKUTZIM!”It came out louder this

time but still feltineffectual. I’d never

before had to yell loudenough for my voice toreach inside people’shomes, through closedwindowsandlockeddoors.“SHKUTZIM!”Thistime,

heads appeared inwindows and doorways.Several people camerunningfromtheyeshiva’ssukkah. The car was nowalmost at the end ofWashington Avenue, its

taillightsstillvisibleinthedistance.“SHKUTZIM!” I was nolonger alone. My shoutswereechoedby thedozenor so men who hadgathered, and otherswerenow running from eachdirection. Withinmoments, the callreverberated through thestreets, and I no longerneeded to shout. Other

men now cried, angrily,hysterically, faces red andeyeballs bulging, as moreand more men camerunning, some with theirshtreimels and theirbekishes, others in theirshirtsleeves and yellowedtallis katans, miniatureprayer shawls flappingvigorously in the night.Womenandgirlsappearedin the windows and

doorwaysallaround.Hereand there, an intrepid girlventured to the edge of alawn.The car turned from

Washington Avenue ontoWilson, out of sight. ButWilsonAvenuewasadeadend. This car had noescape. A sizable crowdhad formed by now, andpeople pointed excitedlydownWashingtonAvenue.

“Shkutzim! Shkutzim!”The chorus of shouts nowcame from all directions,inadeafeningclamor.“There they are!”

someone shouted, and thecrowd tensed up as wewatched the headlightsappear. The car turned,coming full speed, backonto Washington Avenue.As we bent to grab largerocks and other items to

throw,thecar,stillseveralhundred yards away,rolled to a stop, like ananimal cornered. Thosewithin had seen the moband were weighing theiroptions.For a moment, we all

stood frozen. Then, like acharging bull, the caraccelerated with a roar.Themobofmen scatteredto the sides of the road,

and ina flash thecarwasbetween us. A deafeningshout went up and abarrage of rocks poundedthe car. We heard theshattering of glass, and asthecarspedaway,wesawit covered with pock-marks, both taillightssmashed. As it sped pastthe yeshiva building, awrought-iron bench, wellworn fromyears of use in

the study hall, camehurtling off the roof andlanded righton topof thecar,leavingadeepdentonimpact,thenfallingbehindandlandingwithathudonthecrackedasphalt.The crowd charged. A

clusterofmenstoodattheintersection of JeffersonAvenue, and as we ran,yelling obscenities, wewatched a lone figure

sprint toward the car. Itwas my friend MechyRosen, and in his hand,high above his shoulder,wasalongsteelpole.Withperfect timing, Mechysmashed the pole throughthe front passengerwindow, like a savageaiming a spear at a wildanimal. The sound ofshattering glass mixedwith the high-pitched

wailingofawomaninsidethecar.The car skidded arounda bend in the road. Thecrowd pursued frombehind, the clamorreachingabattle-crypitch.Wecouldnotkeepupwiththecar,butstillweraninpursuit. From alldirections,moremencamerunning from their homesand joined the growing

stampede of black andwhite.Thecrowdkeptpursuing

the car, even as itstaillights dimmed, evenwhen we could no longerseeitpastthefinalbendofWashington Avenue. Weran and ran, even as weknew we would nevercatchup.As we turned that final

curve—with the main

road, Route 45, in view—wesawthecarattheend,standing still. Then weheard shouts and screams.Asweneared,wesawthatthecarhadfailedtomaketheturnontoRoute45andhad crashedathigh speedintoanenormousoak treethat stood facing thevillageentrance.TrafficonRoute45was

beginning tobackup,and

drivers were emergingfrom their cars to inspectthe wreckage, just as ourmob,nowseveralhundredmen,camerushingtowardthe intersection. The firstthing I heard was a manshouting obscenities, andthen I got a good look atthe car, smashed upagainstthetree.Ateenagegirl, one side of her facesmearedwithblood,saton

the ground, wailing nearthe open driver-side door.A teenage boy stumbledout of the back, thenlimpedaroundtotheotherside of the car, in a daze.The shouting came fromanother man, who stoodnear the passenger side ofthe car, making wildgestures, pointing at us,themob,now linedupontheothersideof theroad.

He didn’t look injured,onlyangry.AndallIcouldthinkwas:Heismadatus?Our furies had dissipatedin the face of this justpunishment, and I stoodstruck by the man’s rage.Soon came the flashinglights of police cars andambulance sirens, withtraffic on the road backedupas far aswe could see.The teenagers were taken

away in ambulances, andourattitudesweregleeful.We’d taught them not tomesswithus.“Therebbewillbe in tothe tisch in fiveminutes!”someone called, and thecrowd headed back downWashington Avenue. Ashort while later, westood, a thousand men ormore,onrowsandrowsofbleachers, the shtreimels

of the uppermost row ofmen brushing against theraftersoftherebbe’sGreatSukkah. As the rebberecited the kiddush, mymind raced. He who haschosen us from among allpeople, and exalted us fromevery tongue, and hassanctified us with Hiscommandments. Chosen.Exalted. Sanctified. Whatdiditmean?

I thought of thedifference between us andthose who despised us.Thoseteenagersinthecar,I had taken for granted,were common anti-Semites, Hitler’s spiritualprogeny. They would’vecaused us bodily harm ifthey’d been able to, Iwascertainofit.Andyet,whatreally differentiated us?Whatmadeus soquick to

rally a mob and pursue agroupofyoungpeople forwhat really were, in thisincident, no more thanharmlessinsults?Andifwehadcaughtup

with the car, what wouldwehavedonetothem?

Several months later, Ivisited a body shop inMonsey, where a youngmechanic named Matt

worked on my car. As Istood near him, we foundourselveschatting.“You from NewSquare?” Matt asked,readingtheaddressontheworkorderform.Inodded.“Iwas there last night,”he said. He was avolunteer firefighter, andthere’d been a fireemergency that night.

“Realinterestingplace.”“Howso?”He looked up fromfiddling with somethingunder the hood. “Well.You know. I wouldn’t beallowed in New Squareotherwise, so it was justinteresting.”“What do you mean?”There were always peopleinNewSquarewhodidn’tlive there: construction

workers, janitors, taxidrivers, supermarketemployees.I’dneverheardof anyone being deniedentry. By communalordinance, it wasforbidden to sell propertyto anyone outside thecommunity, but NewSquare was a publicvillage, a legalmunicipality. Anyonecouldenteritsstreets.

Matt turned to look atme again, as if he wereteaching me somethingelementary about theworld. “You can’t go intoNew Square if you don’tlive there. You’ll get beatup.”“That’snot true,” I said,

atouchdefensively.Matt straightened up

and leaned a hand on thehood’s latch. In the other

hand,heheldarag,blackwithgrease,whichheheldout as he pointed to mychest. “You,” he said,waving the greasy rag upand down to indicate myHasidic garb, “can go inthere. But if I go in therewithout having anybusinessthere,I’llgetbeatup.”I must’ve laughed,

because I remember Matt

saying, “You think it’sfunny? They’ve got theirownlaws,theirownrules.You go into New Squareand you don’t belongthere,you’reintrouble.”He turned back to hiswork, then looked up atme again. “Don’t get mewrong. I respect allpeople.” He took his ragand wiped somethingunderthehoodofthecar.

“Butifyoudon’tbelonginNew Square, you just stayout.That’sjusthowitis.”

PARTII

ChapterTen

Kolbo’eholoyeshuvun.All who go to her do notreturn.So says the Bibleregarding a woman ofloose morals. So said therabbis of the Talmudregardingheresy.Heretics,therabbissaid,

can never repent. “We donot accept their return,ever,” wrote Maimonides,the twelfth-century sageknown for his rationalistapproach to faith. “We donot accept the repentanceof heretics because we donot believe them. If theyappear to have repented,we maintain they havedonesofraudulently.”Others say that heretics

cannot repent becauseheresy isa forcesopotentthat an individual ispowerlesstocombatit,aninsidious trap from whichthere is no escape. Oneneverknowswhereheresylurks. It can lie in theseemingly innocent wordsofastranger,inknowledgeoutside the Torah, or inthe writings of anyonewho has not been vetted

by the sages of hisgeneration. It can lie in aseemingly innocent tale,when told in the wronglanguage, by the wrongperson, or through thewrong medium, itsnefarious intent so subtleas to pass almostunnoticed.

I was thirteen, during myyear at the Dzibeau

yeshivainMontreal,whenI learned a lesson aboutthis danger. It wasevening,afterafulldayofstudy, nearing bedtime.Yeedel Israel stood at oneend of our dorm roompolishing his shoes, andSenderDavidovitch sat onhis bed clipping histoenails. Moshe Friedman,who occupied the bunkbeneathmine, steppedout

to the bathroom to brushhis teeth. I, too, should’vebeen preparing for bed;instead, I lay on my topbunk reading an English-language book, Akiba, afictional reimagining ofthe life of the second-century sage Rabbi Akiva,by the German JewishauthorMarcusLehmann.The Talmud tells the

story of Rabbi Akiva in

brief. Until the age offorty, Akiva wasunlearned, a poor andignorant shepherd, whotended the flock of theJerusalem aristocrat KalbaSavua.WhenAkiva fell inlove with Rachel, KalbaSavua’s daughter, sheinsistedthatshewouldnotmarry him unless hepromisedtodevotehislifeto Torah study. Akiva

promised, and the couplewas married. Soon after,Akiva left home to studyTorah with the sagesNachum Ish Gamzu,Eliezer benHyrcanus, andJoshua ben Hanania, thegreat masters at theacademies of Lod andYabneh.For twenty-four years,

Akiva remained in thehouse of study while his

wife was home alone.After twenty-four years,Akivareturnedtohiswife,accompanied now bytwenty-four thousandstudents. Now he wasRabbi Akiva, the greatestrabbiinallofIsrael,inallofJewishhistory,perhaps.Rachel, living in povertyand solitude all theseyears,receivedwordofherhusband’s return, and set

out to greet him. Uponseeinghim, she fell toherkneesandbent tokiss thehemofhiscloak.“Get away!” Rabbi

Akiva’sstudentsshoutedtothewomankneelingbeforethe great master. ButRabbi Akiva recognizedher. “Let her be,” he saidto his students. “For allthat is yours, and all thatismine,belongstoher.”

“Whyaren’tyouundressedyet?” an angry voicebellowed.In the doorway stood

Reb Hillel, his unkemptjet-black mustachegrowing over his lips intohis sprawling black beard,ferocious-looking despitehisslightframe.RebHillelwasoneofthemostfearedrabbisat theyeshivas.Hisslaps were legend—they

always came twice insuccession in one fluidmotion, palm striking leftcheek, then returningsharply for a backhandedstrike to the right. Untilthatnight,Ihadstudiouslyavoidedhim.“And what do we have

here?” Reb Hillel asked,pointing his beard at mybook.Outside I could hear

studentsrushingabout,thebathroom door in thehallwaybeingopenedandbanged shut as my dormmatespreparedforbed.“It’s—abiechel,”Isaid.Abook. A little book. Not abook of Torah or itscommentaries but ofgeneral knowledge. Astorybook.“ABIECHEL!”RebHillelcried. “Don’t you know

what the Chasam Sofersaidaboutabiechel?”I didn’t know what the

Chasam Sofer had saidaboutabiechel, although Iknew other things theChasam Sofer had said,chiefly this: “All that isnew is forbidden by theTorah.” All that is newcovered many things,including modern dress,modern speech, modern

names,modernideas.“Biechel, the holy

Chasam Sofer says, standsfor ‘Kol bo’eha loyeshuvun!’”Biechel. Beis, yud, kof,

lamed.B-Y-K-L.KolB’o’ehoLoYeshuvun.All who go to her do not

return.So said the Bible

regarding a woman ofloose morals. So said the

rabbis of the Talmudregarding heretical ideas.So said the Chasam Soferregarding little books—which I imagined meantlittlebooksofacertainkind,books of unknownprovenance, written instrange languages bystrangepeople.ThebookInow held, because it wasin English, not Yiddish orHebrew, looked suspicious

toRebHillel.But the book I was

readingwaskosher.“It’sama’asehbiechel,” I

said. “It’s about RabbiAkiva.”Thetaleofasage.Not Torah, but closeenough.Reb Hillel stood very

near my bed, his flarednostrils right up againstmy face as I lay with myhead glued to my pillow.

RebHillel raised his handandIflinched,butheonlyreachedtotakethebook.Iwatched as he studied thefrontcover,thentheback,then flipped through thepages. I realized then thathecouldnotreadit.Afterafewmoments,he

tossed thebookbackontomybed.He turned brieflyto stare at Sender andYeedel,who sat frozen on

their beds, and turnedback tome: “You couldn’tfind a book about RabbiAkivainYiddish?”

Ifmylittlebookcontainedno heresy, Reb Hillel’spoint was well taken.Foreign reading broughtforeign ideas and foreigninfluences,andbeforeyouknew it, you werespeakingillofGodandHis

anointedone.All that is new isforbiddenbytheTorah,saidthe Chasam Sofer, anAustrian rabbi far fromHasidism’s Polish andUkrainian origins. Hisprinciples had noconnection to Hasidicteachings and, in a sense,ran counter to them.Hasidism, when firstformed in the mid-

eighteenth century, hadcome to liberate theJewish people from aworldview ossified undercenturies of legalisticarcana. Hasidism came toeschew the artificial andthe pretentious and theformulaic. To raise thespirit of the law over theletter of it and to findinfinite layers of thatspirit. To celebrate the

mystical experience overscholarly wrangling. Itdeclared matters of theheartandmindsuperiortopietisticexcess.Yet theprinciplesof the

Chasam Sofer rather thantheBaalShemTovcametocharacterize the modernHasidic worldview. Withthe spread of theHaskalah, the JewishEnlightenment movement

in the eighteenth andnineteenth centuries, newchallenges created newpriorities for observantJews. The teachings ofHasidism, many realized,were quickly becomingirrelevant in the face ofthe devastation wroughtby the Enlightenmentmovement,andsoHasidimralliedaround theChasamSofer’s battle cry and

rushed to carry hisstandard.All that is new isforbiddenbytheTorah.Yearslater,IwouldreadtheworksofMartinBuberand Abraham JoshuaHeschel and Elie Wieseland wince at theirromanticized portraits notonly of Hasidism, theteachings, but also ofHasidim, the people, as if

all those who bore thename surely lived by itsprinciples. In fact, otherthan a small cadre ofmystics and the remnantsof early Hasidic practices—dedication to the rebbeandcommunaleventswithsong and dance—Hasidimin the twentieth centuryseemed to know little ofthemysticism,theecstasy,the melancholy and the

joy of the Baal Shem Tovand his disciples. Instead,it regressed to the heavy-handedness and therigidity thatHasidismhadcometoeradicate.Because of the merit of

three things, Israel wasdelivered from Egypt: theydid not alter their names,their language, or theirdress.Thisisthemidrashicdictum that encapsulates

the ethos of the modernHasidic world, a worldcharacterized by thesimple values of culturalfidelity. The objective isself-imposed ghettoization.Distinct language anddress keep interactionswith outsiders to aminimum and helpmaintain separation fromthe wider world.Restrictions on secular

education and outsideknowledge keep foreignideas at bay. Bans onmedia and popularentertainment keep awaytemptation. And so theHasidim are spared thecalamitiesofmodernity.

“My father used to listento the radio,” my friendMotty confided inme oneday.

Motty, a formerclassmate with whom Inowhadaneveningstudysession, had recentlyboughtacar,ausedbrownDodgeminivan.Inhiscar,awayfromthemeddlingofhis wife, he had begun tolistentotheradio.HehadbeenraisedamongSkvererHasidim in Montreal, andhadmovedtoNewSquareonly for yeshiva studies

andmarriage,andnowhewas trying to explain tome that listening to theradiowasnotallthatbad.“Was my father not

pious enough?” Mottyflashedmea look,as if tosay,howpreposterous.Hisfather,whowokeeachdayat dawn to study Talmudfor several hours beforegoingofftohisoffice,hadbeen a close confidant of

the old rebbe. He gavegenerously to charity andraised a dozen offspring,the majority of themscholars or married tothem. “It’s not the worstsin in the world,” Mottysaid.It was true. Theprohibition against radiolistening was not one ofthe 365 biblicalprohibitions,forwhichthe

theoretical punishmentranged from lashes to thedeath penalty toextirpation. It was noteven a truly rabbinic one,asitwasnotmentionedintheTalmud.Motty gave me asidelong glance. “I thinkyou’d enjoy it too, by theway.” He brought all fivefingerstogetherinfrontofhisface,thensprangthem

apart theatrically. “Opensyour mind.” He describedhowcaptivatingitallwas,news reports flowing intotrafficreports,flowingintocommercial breaks andthen weather and sports,every moment of airtimeperfectly calibrated.“Modern technology. I’mtelling you, you’d beamazed.”Intruth,wealreadyhad

some of that moderntechnologyinourhome.Inour kitchen, right abovethe refrigerator, sat asleek, silver double-deckPanasonic stereo cassetteplayer.WhenIhadfirstbrought

it home, several weeksafter our marriage, in thesummerof1993,Gittyhadfrowned.“Ithasaradio,”shesaid

withanaccusingglare.The device, fresh out of

thebox,layonthechintzyoilcloth on our kitchentable, and Gitty stuck herindex finger at a spot ontop, near the volumecontrol. Tape, AM, FMwereprinted in tinywhiteletters along the ridge ofthe circular switch. Therewasnodenyingit.“We’lldowhateveryone

does,” I had said then,annoyed at the suggestionof impiety. Many of myfriends had cassetteplayers, and when thedevicecamewithabuilt-inradio tuner, there was astandard procedure for it:KrazyGluetheswitchintothe tape-playing position,paste a strip of maskingtape over the stationindicators, and put the

antenna outwith the nextday’s trash. As Talmudstudents,wewerenothingif not resourceful;loopholes andworkarounds were ourforte.I assured Gitty that Iwould disable the radio,but she only shook herheadandwentbacktoherhousework. The cassetteplayersoonwentontopof

our refrigerator, where itwould remain, throughfour different apartmentsand across the births ofour five children, for thenextdecadeorso.But Ineverdisabled theradio. I eitherprocrastinated or I forgotor perhaps I thought ituseful to have in case ofemergency.Still,weneverswitched iton,allowing it

toserveonlyasaphantomdecadent presence in ourotherwise pure and pioushome. The tape playerwould serve mostly toentertain our children,who would haul theirLegos, Tonka trucks, andAmerican Girl dolls outontothekitchenfloor,andthe cassette decks wouldspin an endless spool ofmusical tales featuring

Yanky, Chaneleh, andRivky, good Jewishchildren who spoke nolies, loved the Sabbath,and always, without fail,honoredtheirparents.Few radios were to befoundwhenIwasgrowingup, but I remember oneincident when I wasaround ten. Itwas late ona Saturday night, and myfather was being

interviewed by a Jewishradio station about hiswork,teachingsecularandunaffiliated Jews aboutour brand of Orthodoxy.My mother borrowed aradiofromoneofournon-Hasidic neighbors for theevening, and our familygathered around the tableinoursmallkitchenwhilemy father, in his studydown the hall, gave his

interviewoverthephone.Iremember little of theinterview itself, as I spentmost of the thirty-minutesegment marveling at themystery of my father’svoice being transportedfrom the other end of ourapartment to a studio insome unknown place andbacktousinthekitchen.Iremember also that it feltoddly aberrant. Secular

influences were suchanathematoourlivesthatthe presence of the radioon thekitchen table, rightnext to the silver Sabbathcandlesticks my motherhad just cleared off thedining-room table, wasjarring.Duringmyteenageyears

and the first few yearsafter our marriage, therewere no accessible radios

nearby. Current eventswerelearnedaboutinold-fashioned ways. In theyeshivadiningroom,newsof the failed coup againstBoris Yeltsin in Moscowand Saddam Hussein’sinvasion of Kuwait werepassedalongwithplatesoffarfel and slippery noodlekugel. When Israeli primeminister Yitzhak Rabinshook the hand of Yasser

Arafat on Bill Clinton’sWhite House lawn, welookedupbrieflyfromourTalmuds to listen to thestudent who claimed hehad the news on goodauthority—probably fromthe school’s non-Jewishjanitor—and we promptlyreturned to our studies.Later we repeated thenews at home to ourwives, who carried it

farther to their mothers,sisters,andneighbors.Over time, however, I

came to look up to theradio on the refrigeratorwith longing. By then, Ihad already learned tworulesofradio.TheFMdial,I knew, carried music—secular, vulgar, abhorrent,especially female voices.ThesinwassogreatthatIcouldn’t even be tempted.

It was the AM dial thatintrigued me. I learnedfromMotty that it carriednewsandopinionsandallkindsoffascinatingbitsofinformation about theworld. My curiosity grewnearly unbearable as Iwondered about all thatwas available to me withonlytheflickofaswitch.The more I thoughtabout it, the more the

temptation grew. Mottywas right, I thought. Itwouldn’t violate Jewishlaw but only therestrictions of ourcommunity. Iwould sit atour kitchen table eatingthe dinner that Gitty hadprepared, and my eyeswould wander to the redband on the stationindicators on the deviceabove the fridge. The dial

seemedtohissandbeckoninaseductivewhisper:I’vegot news for you. But IworriedaboutGitty.Ifshecaught me, she wouldscold and sulk at theimpurities I was allowinginto my heart and, byextension, into hers andthoseofourchildren.

Finally, I could no longerresist.Lateonenight,Gitty

and the children asleep inthebedroomsattheendofthe hallway, my eyeswanderedup to the stereosystem. At first, I shovedthe temptation aside, as Ihad done so many timesbefore,butthemoreItriedto suppress it, the greatertheurgebecame.In one of our kitchendrawers, alongside utilitybills and an assortment of

multicoloredrubberbands,I found an old pair ofearphones. Careful not tomake a sound, I movedone of the chairs near therefrigerator, stepped uponto it, and plugged theearphones into the tinyjack. I leaned my elbowson the dust-coveredsurface above the fridgeandbegantwistingthedialslowly, listening with one

ear to the cackle of staticas the white indicatorfloated across the redband, while keeping myother ear tuned for noisesfrom the bedrooms downthehallway.I switchedthedial fromone station to another,commercials for medicalmalpractice attorneys, cardealerships, anddepartment-store blowout

sales filling me withforbidden pleasure. Thestrangejingles,thesmoothtransitions from traffic tonews to commercials,captivated me; the factthat the sale was for oneweekonly,orthatIwasnotcurrentlyontheBrooklyn-Queens Expressway,which, I now heard, wasbackeduptotheBrooklynBridge because of an

accident in the right lane,matteredlittle.Iwaslikeavisitorfromadifferenteraencountering our modernone,captivatedbyitsverymundaneness.Eventually, Icameupon

a talk show.Thehostwasangry, particularly miffedabout the antics ofsomeone he called “AlanDirty-Shirts.” After severalminutes, I gathered that

“Alan Dirty-Shirts” was aliberal, and liberals werebad.Theywereinfavorofsinful things, such asabortions,andwackyones,such as homosexualsgettingmarried. I listenedas caller after callerberated“AlanDirty-Shirts”for intending to uprootconservative values fromthe American heartland.The American heartland,

whatever and whereverthat was, had mysympathy. “Alan Dirty-Shirts”was against peopleoffaith,who,Iwashappyto learn, existed evenoutside my own Hasidicworld.

“Wereyou listening to theradio last night?” Gittyasked the next morning,while flipping a slice of

French toast in the pan. Istooddumbfoundedbyhermysterious intuition. Itried to deny it, but shewasn’tfooled.“You promised you’d

disable it,” she said. “Itstarts with radio, and thenext thing you know,you’re eating trayf anddrivingonShabbos.”I gave my halfhearted

assurance that I would

now disable it. Dayspassed, however, and Iknew that I would not doso.Iwantedtolistenagainto that talk-show host. Iwantedtohearmorenews,more traffic reports aboutcarsstalledintheleftlaneof the BQE, and how weweredoingontheHudsonRiver crossings. Morecommercials for cardealerships in Lodi or

mattress stores inParamus.Several nights later, thevolumenearmute, I spentanother hour on the chairnear the fridge, earphonespressed tightly againstmyears. Once again, Gittyconfronted me the nextmorning.Shewouldn’ttellmehowsheknew.Infact,she wouldn’t say much atall, but the fury in her

expression suggested thatshewasjustaboutreadytotoss the device off oursecond-floorbalcony.But I would not cave. Iwould be a dutiful Hasidin all respects except thisone. Gitty would have toacceptmethewayIwas.

Gitty was right, though.The radio was just thebeginning.

Oneday,Inoticedanadin the local communitybulletin:Usedcar.Excellentcondition.$1,500.Owning a car wasunbecoming for a youngSkverer Hasid, especiallyone with pietisticaspirations. The old rebbehad warned that cars ledto bad things. “One presswith your foot, and youcanbe anywhere,”hehad

said.ButIwasnowoutofthe study hall, concernedlesswithbeingagoodandpiousHasidandcurioustoexplore what the worldhadtooffer.IfIhadacar,I could run errands forGitty,ortakehershoppingon occasion. I could get ajob outside the village. Icouldbegoingplaces.It was a gray 1985

Oldsmobile sedan, with

unfashionablysharpedges,boxy and long. The airconditioning didn’t work,andtheturnsignalsdidn’tlightuponthedashboard,but it was otherwise ingoodworking order. Afterhagglingwiththeowner,aYemenite Israeli carmechanic, I got the pricedown to $750 and drovethecarhome.The next afternoon, I

took the car out again. Ihad a destination inmindbut knew that I shouldresist the temptation. Ithought about the oldrebbe’s words. One presswithyourfoot,andyoucanbe anywhere. But I couldnot resist. Still wrestlingwith the idea, I drove thethree miles to theFinkelstein MemorialLibrary, in nearby Spring

Valley,andturnedintotheunderground parkinggarage, out of sight ofHasidim passing on thebusyroadwaynearby.The library was housed

in a red-and-whitebuildingonahilltopalongRoute 59, the county’smain road, halfwaybetween New Square andMonsey. I had passed thebuilding many times

before and, through thetall windows across thelibrary’s two-story facade,hadseenthemanyrowsofbookshelves within.Stepping insidenow, I feltoverwhelmed. What didonereadfirst?“You can borrow up tofive books from eachsection,” one of thelibrarianstoldme.Thelibrarianshowedme

the list of sections—history, science,philosophy, politics—andwith some quick math, Irealized I could borrowseveral dozen books atonce. This was like beingtoldyoucouldhaveallthedoughnutsinthedoughnutshop, and suddenly youdon’t know what to dowith so many doughnuts,or if you did, you had no

way to carry them home,or a cupboard largeenoughtostorethem.Theprospect of having somany bookswas strangelyparalyzing.I lingered for a few

minutes around the newreleases, and thenwandered into thechildren’ssection,nearthelibrary entrance. In frontof me sat a group of tots

readingCuriousGeorgeandAmelia Bedelia. Nothing tosee here, I thought, readyto move on, and then Inoticed, behind thechildren,alongalowshelf,a twenty-volume set ofWorldBookencyclopedias.Forthenextthreehours,

Isatonatinyorangechairat a low green-and-yellowtable as the pile ofvolumes grew beside me.

Alongside a little boypaging furiously throughTheBerenstainBears,Ireadabout Archimedes andEinstein, about ElvisPresley and Egyptianhieroglyphics, aboutelectromagnetism and thehistory of the printingpress and the productionof avocados in centralMexico.In later years, I would

think back to the headydelight of those first daysat the library. In a worldof Google and Wikipedia,the simple pleasures of abasic encyclopedia can behard to fathom, but theexperienceatthetimewasintoxicating. Suddenly, itseemed as if all mycuriosity about the worldcould be satisfied in thatlittle children’s section of

thelibrary.IthadbeenyearssinceI

hadreadabookofsecularknowledge. I had alwaysbeenareader,butmostofmychildhoodreadingwasabout tales of ancientsages,thetannaimandtheamoraim, the Baal ShemTovandtheGaonofVilna,scholars and saints whobattled the forces of evil,physicalandspiritual,and

helped theirbrethrenwiththeir wisdom andscholarship and theoccasional wondrousmiracle.Occasionally, secular

booksweretobefoundbyaccident. When I waseleven, I discovered anabandoned pile of HardyBoysmysteriesinthebackof a dusty and clutteredvariety shop two blocks

frommyschool.Thebookshad been tossed into alarge black trash bag thatlaybehindastackofboxesof other uselessmerchandise. This wasBorough Park, and theowner must’ve realizedthat those books weren’tgoing to be sold anytimesoon. For several weeks, Ireturned to the store eachdayafterschoolandstood

in the back, in a hollowspace in the cornerbetween theshelves liningthe two adjoining walls,and went through theentire pile until therewasnothinglefttoread.We also had a smallnumberofsecularbooksinour home, most of thembelonging to my sisterChani. Girls did not havethe obligation of dawn-to-

dusk Torah study, and soshewas allowed a limitedamount of secular readingmaterial, mostly booksconsidered to be from amore wholesome era.Often, I would sneak intoher room and take booksfrom the small white-and-pink bookcase near herdoor—Pippi Longstocking,The Little Princess, LittleHouse on the Prairie—and

hidethembetweenmybedand the pine wainscotingof my bedroom wall, andthen read them until lateat night with a smallflashlight.I’d also stumbled upon

books at the homes ofmore worldly neighbors,families who lived withfewer restrictions, whosechildrenplayedsportsandwatched an occasional

Disneymovie.Often, afteranafternoonvisit,whenaneighbor family would beeating dinner, I would behiding in one of theirbedrooms, deeplyengrossed in The Wind inthe Willows orMy Side oftheMountain.Soon, however, I would

turn thirteen, and all ofthatwouldend.Foraboypast thirteen, anything

other than our holy textswasfrivolous,atbest.

Ireturnedseveraltimestothat set of encyclopedias,and the children’slibrarian, a pleasantmiddle-aged woman,began to notice me andsmile when I entered.Suddenly, I felt self-conscious:agrownHasidicman sitting each day on

the tiny orange chair atthe green-and-yellowtables. So I moved on,hesitantly, to the adultsections upstairs, wherethe encyclopedias wereheavier and denser, withfewer illustrations, thedifferent sections like amazeinwhichthepurposewas not to find the wayoutbuttolingerandstrollintoeachdeadendandto

gather as many treasuresaspossiblealongtheway.I do not remember thefirstbooksIbroughthomefrom the library, but Iremember the disquietingsilence from Gittywhenever I broughtsomething home, thecountless times she wouldfinally, after holding it infor hours or days, burstout: “I don’t want these

trayf, goyish books in myhome!”Sometimes she’d say itangrily, and sometimeswith sadness; sometimesshe’dbenearlyconvulsingwith fury, and sometimeswith deep but gentleanguish. The words,though, were always thesame: “I don’t want thesetrayf, goyish books in myhome!”

There was nothingparticularly dangerousaboutwhat Iwas reading.They were mostly booksaboutpoliticsorhistoryorscience or of the variousreligions and cultures ofthe world. I would pleadwith Gitty to understandthat I was doing nothingtrulywrong, and if I was,my religious failings wereon my own account, not

hers. But Gitty would notbeappeased.“Ifyoudon’tapproveof

it, don’t read it,” I wouldtell her, and she’d growangrier and angrier, moreentrenched in her beliefthat I was corrupting notonlymyselfbut thepurityofourhome.Bookswouldsoonbethe

leastofit.Newspapersandmagazines followed

shortly after. To Gitty,theywere an evengreateroffense. When we’d firstmarried, itwas Iwhohaddeclared the evils ofnewspapers. I had refusedto read even the MonseyAdvocate,whichcame freein the mail, half Englishand half Yiddish,published by Hasidim inMonsey. “If it’swrittenon‘newspapersheets,’it’sbad

news,” the old rebbe hadsaid. EvenDerYid andDiTzeitung, Yiddish weekliespublished by the SatmarHasidiminBrooklyn,werenotsoldinNewSquare.Now, with my batteredgrayOldsmobile, I’d driveeach Thursday night to anearby gas station for acopy of the Jerusalem Postand the Jewish DailyForwardandanoccasional

New York Times. In thebeginning, I would readtheminmycar,sittingforhours in the parking lotoutside the RefuahHealthCenter near the entranceto the village. After awhile,Idecidedthatitwasunfair for me to bebanished from my ownhome. At first, I wouldhide the newspapers in abaginoneofmybedroom

drawers, and read themonly in the bathroom orbehind the closed door ofourdiningroom. Itwasn’tlong before Gittydiscovered them, and asshedid,Igrewbolderandbegan to read themopenly. We foughtconstantly over the booksand the newspapers andthe radio. When Iaccidentally left a

newspaper on the kitchentable, Gitty would reachfor it with her fingertips,disgust all over her face,andtossitintothetrash.

The radio and books andnewspapers were just thebeginning.At thehomeofa friend who owned acomputer, I found myselfbrowsing through acomputer mail-order

catalog, and discovered asudden urge to buy acomputer myself. I wasstillworkingwithstudentsat the time, and thoughtthatIcoulduseittocreateeducational worksheets,usingwordprocessinganddesktop publishingsoftware.Several weeks later, I

placed the order, and thecomputer arrived several

days later in a great bigbox. Gitty and the girlsstood in the doorway ofthediningroomas I set itall up on a small desk inthecorner.In the package of

bundled software was a3.5-inchfloppydiskwithalabel: America Online. 30-DayFreeTrial.“What’s that?” Gitty

asked.

I was as clueless as shewas, but the instructionssaid to connect a cord tothe phone line and installthesoftware.Curious,Ididasinstructed,andthefourof us listened to thewheezy, whiny tones ofthedial-upmodem.“Welcome!” a femalevoiceannounced.“You’vegotmail!”saidamalevoice.

Colorful icons andgraphics appeared on thescreen,adizzyingarrayoflinks, each of whichopened up a whole newworld: News. Shopping.Chat rooms. It was all sobrightandinviting,Icouldonly marvel at the worldthatopenedupbeforeme.“Look at this!” I calledto Gitty a few days later.“I’m having a

conversation!”Gitty came and glanced

atthescreen.“Watch,” I said. “I type

something, then this guytypes something, then Itypesomething,andsoon.Anditshowsupinstantly!”I couldn’t contain myexcitement, but Gittylookedconfused.“So… it’s likeaphone,

exceptyoutype insteadof

speak?”sheasked.Like a phone? For a

second, I wondered: Wasthat all it was? But ofcourseitwasn’t.“This is a stranger! A

randomperson!”“Why would you want

to speak to a randomperson?”There was no way that

Gitty would understand.She did not share my

curiosity, did not care tolearn about the world thewayIdid.Allofasudden,I was connected tomillions with whom Icould interact, and soon Idiscovered a world ofpeople entirely differentfrom anyone I knew. IencounteredJewswhoatepork and drove on theSabbath, Christians whodid not appear to be anti-

Semitic, Muslims whoweren’tterrorists.One conversation stoodout forme.AJewishmanliving somewhere in theMidwest, whom Iencountered in AOL’s“Jewish Community” chatroom, shared with me hispassion for Jewishlearning.Hetoldmeofhisregular study sessions inTalmud and Maimonides

withhislocalConservativerabbi.He was not Orthodox.He kept the Sabbathsometimes, he said, whenhe was able, although tohim, keeping the Sabbathmeant not so much livingbytherulesbutsomethingabout “reflection” and“refraining from creativeactivity.” Sometimes themankeptkosherbutoften

did not. His commentswereinfuriatingtome.“You’re not making any

sense!”Itypedfuriously.Ifthe rules were not fixed,thenwhat determined ourobligations? “Do you justpickandchoosethethingsyou like? That’s notJudaism.”“Perhapsnottoyou,”he

said. “But there are otherwaystolookatit.”

I could not understandit. Here was a man whoshattered the narrative Ihad been given. I knewthat non-Orthodox Jewsexisted,butIhadassumedthat they were unlearned,and so they didn’t knowany better. If only theystudied the Talmud andMaimonides and all theother works of the greatTorah sages, they would

see that there was onlyone way to live a Jewishlife.Here, however,was amanwhostudieditall;yethis practice was sodifferent.“Howcanyoustudythe

Talmud and not keepShabbos?” I asked him.“How can you eat trayf ifyouknowit’sforbidden?”The man was patient.

“There is more than one

waytoliveaJewishlife.Ido not think of the Torahas the literalwordofGodbut only as a man-madedocument of divineinspiration.”MaybeGittywasright,I

thought. Speaking topeople outside our worldmademe think toomuch,and, as we all knew, toomuch thinking led toproblems.

Yet I could not resist.Every night, for hours, Iwould log on to AmericaOnline and strike upconversations with peoplefrom outside our world,alwayswantingtoprovetothemthattheirwayoflifewaswrong,butalsomadlycurious about their viewsand the worlds that theylivedin.

WhenIfirstpurchasedthecomputer, in the springof1996, it was a piece ofoffice equipment,considered no more athreat to anyone’s faiththanawatercoolerwithastackofpointypapercups.Certainly noworse than aphotocopier or a faxmachine. As the yearspassed,however,wordgotaround.DVDdriveswould

soon come standard. Thatand a Netflix subscriptionwere all a Hasid wouldneed to access a world ofpopular culture that hadonce been entirely out ofreach.WiththeInternet,aHasid could go evenfurther—not only observeand consume but alsointeract.This was no longer a

piece of office equipment.

It was a mind corrupter,fast catching up with thereigning champion for the“Vessel of Profanity” title—thetelevisionset.Gitty, as was to be

expected, was growingdispleased about theInternetinourhome.“Therabbishavebanned

it,” she took to remindingme.It was true. The rabbis

had banned it just thatmonth,afterthey’dbannedit thepreviousmonth andthe month before that.Banned and banned andbanned, and still, it wassaid,Internetusageamonguswas only increasing, asif with each new banposted on the synagoguedoor, scores of Hasidimrushed to the nearestcomputerstoretoseewhat

thefusswasabout.Gitty agreed with therabbis, evenas sheherselfwas not immune to theInternet’s allure. While Iwas away during the day,shewould log on to AOL,search for shoppingcoupons, for discounts onshoes, diapers. One day,she mentioned somethingshe’dreadinachatroom.“Inachatroom?You?”I

couldnothavebeenmoresurprised.“I only pop in to seewhat people are saying,”she said, defensively, as ifthe fact that she did notherself interact withanyonemitigatedthesin.Yet she found much todisparage.When, in 1997,we learned about PrincessDiana’s death, I showedGitty the reports on the

Internet.NeitherofushadheardofDianabefore,butaswelookedattheimagesthat would become soubiquitous over the nextweekorso,Gittysputteredwithindignation.“What a disgusting

person!”All she sawwere naked

arms and bare shouldersand a bold, shamelessclavicle.

“It’s all shmutz. TheentireInternet—filth,filth,andmorefilth.”“Why do you use it,

then?”“Onlybecauseyoudo.If

youstop,Iwill.”But neither of us

stopped, and soonwehadcorresponding screennames, area codes tackedon as surnames:Shulem914 and Gitty914.

Oneday, she toldmeofaman who chatted her upviaAOL’sInstantMessage,a man I had encounteredbefore in the “JewishCommunity” chat room.He claimed to be a Hasidfrom Brooklyn. “Are youShulem914’s wife?” heasked when he saw herscreen name. When shesaid that she was, hereferencedthefewfactshe

knewaboutme, anddrewherintoconversation.Later that evening, she

told me about theencounter. “He ended theconversation with ‘Kiss,’”she said, and pursed herlipstostifleagiggle.I laughed. “Clearly, you

likedthat.”Sheturnedadeepshade

of crimson. “That’s whytheInternetissobad!”

“Why must you do thesethings?” Gitty asked oneFridaynight,whenwe satalone talking after ourShabbos dinner. Thechildren were asleep. Thecandles flickered at theend of the table, almostburned down, flamesdancingoverwidepoolsofmolten wax in our tallsilver candlesticks. Behindthem stood the computer

cabinet, its doors nowclosed and the computerhidden, locked so that achild would notaccidentally pull the dooropen and spoil theShabbosatmosphere.Ididn’t knowwhy Ididthesethings.Ididn’tknowwhy I could not resistlistening to the radio orreading newspapers orvisiting the library or

interacting with strangersontheInternet.“What would happen if

youstopped?”Gitty was a practical

person with practicalquestions.Couldn’t Imakealistofprosandcons,andsee, as she did, that Iwouldlosenothing?“Maybe you need to

studymore,”Gittysaid.My interest in religious

texts was waning, and Igrew laxwithmyeveningstudy sessionswithMotty.Atfirst,I’dbegunshowingup ten minutes late, thentwenty. Some days, Iwouldn’t make it at all.Soon Motty, too, wouldshowuplateornotatall.Still, every so often,

Motty and I wouldrecommit, tell each otherwehadtotakeourstudies

more seriously. I wouldmake a renewed effort toattend prayer servicesmorediligently, insteadofrushing through them likea chore. And as I’d swayovermyTalmud,orduringprayers, or on thebleachers during therebbe’s tischen, I wouldthinkabout the fact that Iwas allowing new ideasintomyhead.

Biechel. Kol bo’eho loyeshuvun. All who go toherdonotreturn.I would remember thewords of Reb Hillel, andwonder if indeedsomething was changing,and I would realize thatGittywasright.Somethingwas being lost, aninnocence slipping awaywhileIstoodandwatched,one moment reaching out

to hold on to it and thenext moment letting go,onlytoreachoutagainforafinalfutilegrasp.

ChapterEleven

It was a week beforePassover when I noticedChezkyBlum in an alcoveintheshul,surroundedbyfloor-to-ceiling bookcases.Hestoodfacingawall,hisopen prayer book restingon the ledge of a shelf. Itwas nearly midnight, and

the last prayer group wasnowending,themourners’kaddish recited by a lonefigureatthefarendofthesanctuary, the sibilantsounds half-echoing softlyin the cavernous, near-emptyhall:…yiss-borach,ve-yish-tabach, ve-yiss-po’er,v-yiss-romem, ve-yiss-naseh,praised, glorified, andexalted be the name ofkudshabrichhu.

Chezky swayed gently,his string-thin gartelaround his waist,repeatedly bowing andrising, faintly tipping hisheels each time hestraightenedup.Bow,rise,bop, bow, rise, bop.Behindhimweretwolargedouble doors leading tothe foyer, where I washeaded. As I passed him,Chezkyturnedslightlyand

our eyes met. Hiseyebrows rose faintly ingreeting,notafullnodbuta subtle acknowledgment,the easy glance betweenacquaintances duringunexpectedencounters.Something made mestop,andforyearsIwouldthink back to thatmoment. I did not knowhim well, and could’vesimplymovedon,withno

undue violation ofcourtesy.Instead,Iofferedhimahandshake.“Shulem aleichem,” I

said. “Haven’t seenyou inawhile.”He closed his prayer

book and brushed itagainst his lips. “Just gotback from Israel. I’m herefor the holiday, thenheading back.” He said itwithpride,asifourvillage

had little to offer him, aplacetowhichhereturnedonly for brief visits,obliging family and oldfriends but eager to bedonewithitall.Chezky had been an

acquaintance back inyeshiva.Hewastwoyearsyounger than I and hadbeen known as atroublesome student. Heasked toomanyquestions,

they said. He challengedthe rabbisandmade themuncomfortable. Iremembered seeing himoften in conversationwiththe red-bearded RebAnshel, spiritual counselorfor second-year students.I’d never spoken to RebAnshel myself back then,butitwassaidthathewasaDeepThinker,theonetotalk towhen students had

DeepQuestions.Forhours,Chezky and Reb Anshelwould stand in the studyhall corner, with Chezkydoing the talking, hisgestures animated, hisspeech, even whenobserved from afar,seeming well articulated.Reb Anshel would tug onhis long ginger-coloredmustache,mostlysilent.It wasn’t long before I

stopped seeing Chezkyaround the yeshiva. Fromwhat I’d heard, he’d beenexpelled, although thedetails were murky. Toosmart for our rabbis,people said.Too smart forhis own good. Later Iwould hear that he hadbeen sent to study inIsrael.“Whathaveyoubeenup

to?” Iaskedasweheaded

outoftheshul.His initial responses

were vague, as if it wereall too complicated toexplain. Instead,heasked,“HeadingupWashington?”We were going in the

same direction, and aswestrode together across theshul parking lot, hebecame more talkative.“I’ve become involved inkiruv,”hesaid.

I was struck by thatphrase. Involved in kiruv.There was pride in thosewords, an air ofsophistication andworldliness. Kiruv—“bringing near”—was anoble enterprise, theprocess of encouragingsecular and unaffiliatedJews to adopt Orthodoxobservance. Kiruvworkerselicited admiration and

respect. They were savingsouls, rescuing captivechildren.We Skverers were not

involved in kiruv.Teaching those unlike usmeant engaging theoutside world,acknowledging questionsbestleftunasked,lifestylesbestleftunobserved.Kiruvrequired an understandingof outside ways and the

blasphemyofnonbelieversin order to mount aresponse, and we did notwant to understandanything about them. Yetwe couldn’t help butadmire those whoundertookthetask.As we walked, Chezkydescribed a revolution. InIsrael, auditoriums werebeingfilledwiththousandsofsecularJews,who,after

listening to several hoursof speeches, streamedforwardtodonyarmulkes,kerchiefs,andsmallprayershawls. Men cut off theirponytails and droppedtheir gold earrings intolargepilesthatwouldlaterbe fashioned into Torahcrowns. Women steppedforward to donheadscarves and vowed toobserve the lawsof family

purity. Institutions werebeing set up where thenewly observant couldstudy all the Torah theyhadmissed in theiryouth.Former movie stars andpop-culture heroes nowsported full beards andspent hours on hardyeshiva benches studyingTalmudandJewishlaw.Allthis,Chezkyclaimed,

was due to the

reinvigoration of an oldschool of thought:rationalistJudaism.“Heard of Gerald

Schroeder? The nuclearphysicist? He wrote thisbook, Genesis and the BigBang?”He looked at me, as if

expecting a knowingglance, but I only shookmyhead.“OrDovidGottlieb?The

Bostoner Hasid who wasonce a philosophyprofessor at JohnsHopkins?”These people, Chezky

said, were figuring outways to synthesize faithand modernity, althoughI’d never heard of any ofthem—John Gottlieb orDovid Hopkins orSchroeder or Schrodingeror Shroedowitz. But I had

knownpeoplewhoworkedinkiruv.“Myfatherwasinvolved

inkiruv,”Isaid.Chezky gaveme a look,

as if appraising me withnewfound respect.“Seriously?”I told him briefly about

my father’s work, hisorganization thatsponsored classes inJudaism and Hasidism,

and I could tell thatChezky was intrigued. “Ihave some of his lectureson tape. You’re welcometoborrowthem.”Chezky walked home

with me, and stood nearthe kitchen door whileGitty,blushingatthesightof a strange male, lookedup from thekitchen table.Chezky, now the modernsophisticate, affected an

air of courtliness andnodded to her. Gitty,flustered, looked awayquickly.I climbed a ladderthrough a trapdoor to theattic. Boxes of cassetteswere piled haphazardlyalongside sukkah panelsand boxes of Passoverdishes.Igrabbedahandfulof cassettes from one ofthe boxes, headed back

down the ladder, andhandedthemtoChezky.As soonashe left,Gittythrewmealook:whowasthat?“Chezky Blum,” I said.“Meilich Blum’sgrandson.”“Oh,thatone,”shesaid,and thought for a while.“Stillunmarried?”Inodded,andweshareda knowing glance. Chezky

wasacautionarytale.Thiswas what happened whenonewas too different, toosmart, too independent-minded. Prolongedbachelorhood was whathappened.

Not many in ourcommunity would’veappreciated my father’slectures, so I felt pleasedwatching Chezky take the

tapes.WhenIwasachild,myfatherwouldleaveourhome each Tuesday andThursday evening. “I’mgoingtothe‘center,’”he’dtell my mother, and shewould nod and say,Hatzlocho, may you havesuccess.The “center” was a

mysterious place I hadnever visited but where Iknewthatmyfatherspoke

topeoplefromoutsideourworld.Later,Iwouldlearnthat it was a synagoguebasement somewhere inManhattan, a “Center forJewishStudies,”wheremyfather would give classesin Judaism. People whohad first heard my fatherteach at the center wouldoften come to our homefor a Shabbos meal or toattend themore advanced

classesthatmyfathergavein the synagoguebasement. On the men’sheadswere stiffly perchedyarmulkes, which theywould pat to check thatthey were still there. Thewomen wore their hairuncovered.Theywould tellmethatmyfatherwasbrilliant.“I don’t understand allthat he says,” one man

toldme.“Buthesaysitsobeautifully!”“Idon’tevenunderstand

many of his words!”another man said. “He’slike a walking Oxforddictionary!”I knewwhat theOxford

dictionary was. My fatherowned a set—not the fulleleven-volume edition butatwo-volumeboxset,eachpage laid out with four

pages of the original, thelettersreducedtoasizesosmall that they couldbarelybereadwithoutthemagnifyingglassthatcamein a small built-in drawerat the top. The dictionarywaskeptinaspecialroomin our home, the “littlestudy,” which, in contrastto the “big study,” was aroom that my fatherpreferredIdidnotenter.

Bothstudieshadshelvesfilledwithbooksliningallthe walls, but each hadbooks of a different kind.In the “big study,” myfatherhadsacredtexts;theTalmud figuredprominently, as did theShulchan Aruch and theRambam, Judaism’sprimarylawcodes.Alsointhat room were manyvolumes on Jewish

mysticism, including theZohar and theWritings oftheAri.Aten-volumered-and-gold set ofThe Wordsof Joel, the magnum opusof the late rebbe ofSatmar,restedprominentlyon the shelf above hisdesk.The“littlestudy”hadan

air of mystery around it.The books in it weremostly in English; from

theirtitles,Icouldtellthatthey were books aboutother faiths, philosophicalworks, containing ideasfrom outside ourtraditions.Once,myfathercaught me in the “littlestudy,” browsing a bookthat had caught my eye.The title, I remember,hadthe words “Judaism andChristianity,” the latter afaith I knew nothing

about, except that forcenturies it representedthepersecutionofJews.AsI flipped through thepages, I was stunned toreadapassage inwhich itwas claimed that earlyChristians were Sabbath-observant Jews. Just then,myfatherwalkedin.“I don’t want youreading that,” my fathersaid,andhetookthebook

from my hand. “Pleasedon’t come in here whenI’mnotaround.”Myfatherwasagentleman,sowhenhegrewangry,Iknewthatsomethinghadreallyupsethim. He took the bookfrom my hand andreturned it to its place onone of the shelves. Heturned and patted me onthe head, calling meshayfele—little lamb—a

habitthatheretainedfromwhen Iwas very little butthat, by then, feltembarrassing. He said, “Iknowyou’reacuriousboy.Butifthere’ssomethinginhereyouwanttoread,tellme,andwe’lltalkaboutitfirst.”I never did ask him

aboutanyofhisbooks,butoccasionally my fatherallowedme intohisworld

for brief glimpses of hiswork.When Iwas twelve,he took me along to aconference he wasattending at the UnitedNations headquarters. “It’swhat they call an‘interfaithconference,’”hesaid,asthetaxiwentoverthe Brooklyn Bridge intoManhattan.Rabbis,priests,imams,andministerswerecoming together to speak

ofideasthatwerecommonto people of all faiths. Itwas unusual for a Hasidicrabbi tobeattendingsuchan event, and I knew thatmy fatherwas an unusualman. I knew also that Icould not talk about hiswork to my friends or toothers in our world.Engaging the outsideworld, at that time,was anew kind of enterprise,

and they would notunderstand.But Chezky wouldunderstand. Chezky, whowasnowhimselfengagingwith outsiders, wouldappreciate a brilliant andunusual mind like myfather’s.

IlookedforChezkyinshulthe next evening, and wewalked home again

together.“Sowhat’dyouthink?”Iasked.He shook his head andpursed his lips, thenlooked away,uncomfortably. “I have aproblemwith some of thethingsyourfathersays.”Iwastakenaback.Iwascertainthathe,too,wouldsay how brilliant, howinspiring, how erudite

were my father’s words,how beguiling hispersonality.WhenIaskedChezkytoelaborate, though, heturnedevasive.“It’salongdiscussion,” he said. Itwould take a lot ofexplaining. I wouldn’tunderstand.“Can you summarize itforme?”Hehad to get home, he

said. His mother neededhim to kosher the sinksbefore Passover. Hisgrandfatherneededhimtopick up several pounds ofmatzah.He’dpromisedhislittle brother he’d teachhima special song for theFourQuestions.Aroundus,men and boys walkedbriskly, heading homefrom the shul and theyeshiva and the kollel,

rushing to complete thePassover preparations.Acrossthestreet,awomanscurriedpast,as ifrushingfrom her own self in thepresenceofsomanymen.Icouldnot let itgo.Myfather was always spokenof admiringly by all whoknew him, and I had tounderstand Chezky’sobjections. “Just give methe gist of it. We don’t

have to get into it toodeeply.”Chezky paused, bit hislower lip, then looked atmeandnodded.“OK. Your father saysfaithisbeyondreason.”“Andso?”“I disagree,” Chezkysaid. “Faith is fullywithinreason.”

Chezkywasright.Itwasa

long discussion, one wedidnothave time for thatnight. He was also rightthatIwouldn’tunderstandit.Whenoverthenextfewdays we resumed ourconversation, Chezky notonly declared that faithwas fully within reasonbut also that a rationalapproach to faith was theonly one that could workin the modern world. It

was the reason that somany were returning tothefaith.“The people who are

returning,” Chezky said,“areeducated.Theyliveinthe modern world. Theydon’t understand theconcept of blind faith.They don’t care forbeautiful teachings. Theydon’t care for mysticism.They want to know the

truth.Theywantfacts.”Hetapped the back of onehand against the palm ofthe other. “They wantdata,andtheywantsoundreasoning.”Chezky’s people didn’ttell Hasidic miracle tales.Theydidn’tpracticehocus-pocus rituals—swingingchickens around heads foratonement or grabbingleftovers from the rebbe’s

kugel or gefilte fish.Chezky’s people wererational—universityprofessors, philosophers,scientists,menandwomenof sound thinking—andthey needed a differentapproach. Books werebeing written to explainhow the wisdom of oursages was consistent withthe latest advances inscience. Statisticians were

demonstrating how alleventsintheuniverse,pastand present, were secretlyencoded within the Bibletext. Philosophers werepresentinglogicalformulasto prove ancient dogmas.Chezkyhadmetpersonallywithmanyofthem.With as much

enthusiasm as Chezkydescribedthisnewworld,Iprofessedmydisdainforit.

What he described was atonce foolish anddangerous. The sageswarned against this:Filozofia led toheresy andwickedness. Even thescholarly and the saintlywere wary. Four haveentered the garden, theTalmud says. One died,onewentastray,onewentout of his mind, and onlyone,RabbiAkiva,emerged

withhisfaith,hislife,andhis sanity intact. Thegarden was a place ofdangerous knowledge.Faith, to the ordinaryperson, was aboutdiscarding reason andtrusting the transmissionof our heritage. Faithmeant not only to ignorebut to actively suppressthe niggling doubts andthe persistent questions

that called forunderstanding what wasbeyond humancomprehension.“Faith,” said the masterRebMendelofVitebsk,“isto believe without reasonwhatsoever.” Anythingelse leads toanerosionofour pure faith and,ultimately,toheresy.

Chezky ended up staying

in New York. “There iskiruv work in the U.S.,too,” he said. He got aposition on the faculty ofOhr Somayach, a kiruvyeshiva in Monsey. Theyeshiva had been foundedin the 1980s, in a fewdilapidated buildings on asprawling property at thecorner of Route 306 andViola Road in Monsey.Now, in the late 1990s,

with the kiruv enterprisegainingpopularsupport,ithad upgraded to state-of-the-artfacilities,withnew,beautifully constructedstudy halls, dormitories,andlibrary.ThroughChezky,Icame

to know more about thisyeshiva.Ittargetedcollegekids of the MTVgeneration. The studentswere law- andmed-school

graduates fromprestigiousuniversities, with homesandtwo-cargaragesinthesuburbs,contentwiththeirprofessional lives butlookingtoroundthemoutwithabitoftradition.Thisyeshivawas“open-minded,” Chezkyexplained, and to describejust how open-minded itwas, he told me of astudent who was expelled

forwearingahat.“There’s a process,”Chezky explained. “Noteveryone’sreadyforahat.You need the dean’spermission.”This was not a Hasidicinstitution, and it didn’twant studentsgoingoff toexplore streams ofOrthodoxy that it had notitself advocated. Allinquiry must be done just

so.Chezky and I soon

became close friends,although it was not aneasy friendship. Chezky’sviews threatenedmine. Inspite of myself, we wouldoften circle back todiscussions of faith, howbest to maintain areligiousworldviewwithinamodernworld.“I’m afraid that he’ll

change you,” Gitty wouldsay, and I wonderedwhether she was right.There were days when Iwasdeterminedtocuttieswith him. There wassomething powerfullyalluring about his views,and I worried that hisargumentswouldcausemyown convictions to falter.The very possibility thatthere existed a rational

basis for our beliefs wasintriguing, and I couldn’thelpbutwonder:Canfaithclaims really be proved?Can one use logic tocomprehendfundamentallyincomprehensible notions?Could we reallyunderstandGod’sexistenceas a scientific or even aphilosophical matter?Couldonepossiblyprovide

evidence for the giving oftheTorahatMountSinai?ForthecrossingoftheRedSea? I couldn’t imagine it,but if it was possible, asChezky claimed, thenwouldn’titonlystrengthenmyfaith?Apartofmefelta burning curiosity, buttheHasidinmeknewthatit was a muddy path totread; I might come outwith my faith intact but

dirtied beyond realcleansing. My pure andsimple beliefs, stillsparkling and unsoiled,wouldsuffer.Ididn’twanttogothere.

I’d already had a faithcrisisonce.Iwasfifteen,atsummer camp in theCatskill Mountains, inSwan Lake, New York,when I shared the crisis

with my friend MenasheEinstein. Menashe and Iwere best friends, both ofus brooding and dreamyadolescents, anxiousaboutlife andour futures.Oftenwe would head into thewoods behind thebunkhouses, past densethickets of shrubs andtanglesofbrushwood,pastdiscardedandrustingfarmimplements at least a

century old, past steephills and tall cliffs to aclearing of tall grass andbright sunshine. There,we’dsitonalargerockatthe edge of the meadow,hopingtokeepasfaraswecould from the camp’sstudy hall for as long aspossible.Oneday,ItoldMenashethatIwashavingdoubts.Iwondered how we really

knew the thingsweknew,whether heaven and hellreallyexisted,whethertherebbe was truly saintly,whetherMoses really splitthe Red Sea for theIsraelites fleeing theEgyptians, and whetherthose Israelites andEgyptians and Moses everexistedatall.Menashe lookedthoughtful as he ran his

fingers over a blade ofgrass rising from a patchof soil between the rocks.“I read somewhere,” hesaid after a few momentsofsilence,“thatdoubtsarea result of StrangeThoughts.”Strange Thoughts was

howourbooks referred toforbidden lust, and I feltembarrassed during thatmoment because it meant

that Menashe knew I washaving Strange Thoughts,although Menashe hadsaid it casually, as if he,too,werefamiliarwithmydilemma.Iwonderedifhe,too,hadStrangeThoughts.Whetherhe,too,foundthethoughtsenteringhismindduringthesilentportionofprayer, as he prayed forGod to grant us knowledgeandwisdom….Raiseacure

for our maladies…. Returnwith mercy to Your city ofJerusalem and in hismindwould be images of RebChezkel’s twin teenagedaughters, their chestnuthair in tight ponytails,jumping rope outside thecamp’s dining hall. Iwondered whetherMenashe,too,hadasister,like mine, who broughtfriends home, and he

would find himselfthinking about them atnight,when he lay in bedandtriedtosleep.After my conversation

withMenashe,Itriedhardnot to have StrangeThoughts because if theyled todoubts theyweren’tworthit.StrangeThoughtswerebad,butdoubtsweremore unsettling. If onedoubted that the word of

God was indeed the wordof God, if none of it wastrue, then one would,logically, have to becomefrei, which was as bad asbeingagoy,andwhatkindoflifewouldthatbe?So I monitored mythoughts for signs ofStrangeness. Mornings,when I walked the shortdistance between thebunkhouse and the ritual

bath near the camp’sparking lot, I took acircuitousroute.Insteadoftakingthegravelroadthatpassed along the camp’sdining room, wherewomen and teenage girls,wivesanddaughtersofourteachers, wouldcongregate for breakfast, Iwouldedgealong the sideof the woods, behind thebunkhousesandthecluster

of bungalows for thecounselors and teachers,untilIreachedthemikveh.Afterward, I would returnthesameway,andremovemy eyeglasses in case agirl or awoman appearedsuddenly.Atnight,whenIlayinbed,I’dcatchastrayfantasy of my sister’sfriendRachywormingintomy semiconsciousmind, ablurryimageofabouncing

ponytail and a knee-length, pleated navy-blueskirt. I would slap mypalm against the side ofmy head, remind myselfthat I’d gone a full weekwithout waking to a wetreminder of a sinfuldream, and that it wouldbe a terrible thing if I letmy guard down. I wouldthinkof a verse of PsalmsorapassageofMishnaand

hope that the StrangeThought would disappear.Aboveall,though,Iwouldthink of the creepingdoubts and the weaknessof my faith, and I knewthat I must banish theStrangeThoughtsifonlytobanishthedoubts.Strange Thoughts,however,keptuptheirebband flow throughout myadolescence, often

appearing during thestrangest times, creepingthrough the mustyyellowed pages of oldTalmud volumes, througheveningsspentinsongandHasidic tales, throughnights filled with dancingat the rebbe’s tischen—always,inaweakmoment,theyappeared,thoughtsofflesh and forbiddenpassions.

But I conquered thedoubts. Apparently, theywereunconnected.He’emanti ki adaber.

Avremel Shayevitz wouldlater bang his fist on thetable, repeating thewordsof Reb Mordche ofLechevitch: “He’emanti, Iwill believe! Ki adaber,when I speak words offaith!Speakwordsoffaith,and your faith will be

strong!”And so eachmorning at

the end of prayers, as Iwrapped the black leatherstraps around my tefillincases, the smell of Frenchtoast and scrambled eggswafting up from theyeshiva dining room, Irecited the ThirteenPrinciples of Faith, slowlyand deliberately, hoping,praying for the conviction

ofthewords:

Anima’amin,IbelievewithperfectfaiththattheCreator,blessedbeHe,createdandleadsallofCreation….

Anima’amin,Ibelievewithperfectfaiththat

theprophecyofMosesourteacheristruthful…thatalloftheTorahnowinourhandswasgiventohim….

Anima’amin,IbelievewithperfectfaithinthecomingoftheMessiah.And

thoughhemaytarry,stillIawaithim.

Walking each morningfrom the dormitorybuilding to the ritual bathtotheyeshivastudyhall,Iwouldrepeattomyselfthewords: Ani ma’aminbe’emunah sheleimah. Overand over again, like amantra, hundreds,

thousands of times. “Ibelievewithperfectfaith.Ibelievewithperfectfaith.”And then I would speakthe words of the greatmaster, Reb Mendel ofVitebsk:Tohave faith is tobelieve blindly, to demandno proofs, no evidence, nologic. To have faith is tobelieve without reasonwhatsoever.More powerful than

mantras, however, morepowerfulthanthewordsofAvremel Shayevitz, or ofReb Mendel of Vitebsk,wassimplythis:Ifmyfaithfellapart,whatwasItodothen? If I stoppedbelieving, did thatmean Iwould stop keepingkosher? Stop keepingShabbos? Waltz into shulwithout my hat? What,then, would the

matchmakerssay?

ChapterTwelve

MyfriendshipwithChezkywould eventually lead meback to questions of faith,butinthemeantime,therewere more immediateconcerns. In November1997, our daughter ChayaSuri was born. At twenty-four, with three children,

five mouths to feed, andlittle by way of jobsecurity,Icouldthinkonlyabout how to make endsmeet.OnewinterFriday,threemonths past due on rent,our landlord threateningeviction, Gitty and Ipooled our personalvaluables. I brought outthegoldpocketwatchthatGitty’sfatherhadgivenme

after our engagement.Gittybroughtoutthegoldbracelet and necklaceshe’d received from mymother. We estimatedtheirtotaloriginalvalueatabout$3,000.I gaveher one last look

before I steppedout.“Yousure?”Gitty was kneeling by

the fridge, rummaging inthevegetablebins.Freidy,

agedthree,stoodnearher,staringintothosebinsasifthey contained someplaything better than thesecondhand, off-brandpink plastic kitchen setacrosstheroom.“I’m sure,” she said,withoutlookingup.“WhendoIevenwearthem?”“Oneday,Iwillbuyyouthe most expensive pearlnecklacemoneycanbuy.”

Gitty looked up andsmiled, a little sadly, Ithought, as I headed outthe door to a localpawnshop.

“What’s it say?” the manat thepawnshopasked,ashe inspected the engravedinscription on the back ofmypocketwatch.“It’s Hebrew. My name.

And a blessing.” It hadn’t

occurred to me that he’dcare.“What’s the blessing?”

he asked, fingering therough texture of theengravedtext.I wasn’t sure how to

translate it. “For aneverlasting union … Sortof.”The man grunted, and

took the items to a backroom. An elderly woman

with a small dog walkedin. I watched her godirectlytotheothersideofthe counter. For amoment,Ithoughtshewasabrazenburglar,untilshecontinued to the backroom,andIheardhersay,“Did you have lunch,Mor?”Afewminutes later, themanreturned.“Fourhundred,”hesaid.

It was barely a half-month’s rent, but I wasdesperate. The landlordwasn’t very pleased, but Ipromised to have moresoon, and we survived toworry another day,another week, anothermonth. We never knewquite how we did it, butsomehow we managed,alwaysinthenickoftime,barely avoiding the

electricitybeing cut off orthe phone line beingdisconnected.Why did it have to be

thisway?Iwondered.Andhowdidothersdoit?I knew how others did

it:with difficulty.Most ofmy friends from yeshivawere living the sameway,either still studying at thekollel, or teaching at thecheder, and struggling,

making do with whateverthey could—yeshivavouchers, food stamps,Section8.Theywentfromone poor moneymakingidea to the next. Onefriend bought a popcornmachine, set it up in hisbasement, and offeredhome deliveries aroundthevillage.Anothersetupa table outside the shul,selling noise-conditioning

devices for people withsleepproblems.My friend Yakov Mayer

was themostambitiousofall.HewastwoyearsolderthanIandalreadyhadsixchildren,includingasetoftriplets. He, too, wasdesperateforawaytofeedthem all, and his latestidea was selling lifeinsurance.“There’s decent money

in it,” he said, as he triedtosellmeapolicyand,atthe same time, to explainhischoiceoftrade.“Ifyoucansellpolicies,”

I said. He hadn’t sold asingleoneyet.Henodded.“IfIcansell

policies.”Helookedatmekeenly, as if pleading formy approval. “It’s onlybeen three months,though.”

Yakov Mayer had foundhis idea, but I hadn’t yetfound mine. Teaching atthe cheder hadn’t turnedintothecareerIthoughtitwould. I had grown tiredof writing fraudulentprogress reports, tired ofworrying that thegovernment would comeinvestigating, tired ofrunning after parents fortheirshareofthepayment,

andso,inJuly1997,whenmy friendMotty proposedthat we start a businesstogether, I gave up mywork at the cheder anddecided to become abusinessman.Motty had the idea that

wecouldpackagenutsanddried fruits and otherhealthful snacks and sellthem to snack shops andconvenience stores across

the tristate area. I knewnothing about running abusiness, but I likedMotty’s idea, and so Iborrowed a few thousanddollars from several freeloan societies aroundNewSquare and Monsey, andpinned our family’s hopeson popular appetites forsalted cashews andsugaredpineapplechunks.We kept the business

running for about twoyears, and I would latermarvel that we’d kept itthat long. I was too timidto push our product onuninterested customers,too impulsive withpurchasing new officeequipment, too dreamy topaymuchattention to thebusiness of running abusiness and moreinterested in creating

pretty-looking cash-flowreports using asecondhand, DOS-basedcomputer, with its text-based interface andincessant, blinkingcommand-line cursor. Ialso really enjoyedbuyingoffice supplies: desks andfile cabinets and staplersthat worked so well thatyouwanted to do nothingbutstaplealldayuntilthe

staplerbrokeandyouwereforcedtobuyanewone—anelectroniconethistime,fordoublethestaplingfun.InApril1999,Mottyand

I faced the fact that ourbusinesshadyet to turnaprofit.WeputanadinoneoftheYiddishnewspapers,and sold it all—theaccount lists and thecomputer and ourweighing and bagging

equipment and our heatsealers and the Chevycargo van with which wemadeourdeliveries.Afterward, I rotated

through a number of oddjobs.Onejob,ostensiblyasabookkeeper, lasted threedays, until the boss firedme for calling him crazy.He ran a multimillion-dollar operation, buyingand selling photocopier

andfax-machinetonersonthe gray market butrefused tobuyacomputerfortheoffice,preferringanold-fashioned double-entrysystem in an enormous,ancient ledger. I could dobookkeeping as long as Ihad a computer with aworking copy ofQuickBooks. But manual,double-entry ledgers? Ithoughtthatwascrazy.

Forsometime,Imannedthe phone lines for acompany that provided atelephone-directoryservicefor Hasidic businesses.Callers interacted withvoice prompts, unawarethat a human—me—waslistening on a headset,pushing buttons to delivertheaudiolistings.Ifieldedcalls from housewiveslooking for clothing sales,

men looking for Judaicabookstores, teenage boysasking about “lindjerie”shops—probably callingfromyeshivadorms,wherethe most titillating thingwas an automated voicelisting of local storesselling women’s hosieryandShabbosrobes.My passion for study,

piety, and prayer wasmostly forgotten. Now I

wondered only how Iwasgoing to support myfamily. After rotatingthrough a half-dozen jobsin as many months, I feltincreasingly as if I werenot a grown-up but achild. Somewhere,somehow, a decision hadbeen made: Gitty and Iweretoplayactasparents,she as homemaker, and Ias provider. Except, while

Gittyseemedanatural forher role, I was clearly afailure at mine. Gitty fedand clothed and bathedour little ones as ifgroomed for the task herentirelife.Ineversawherhold her head in despairover a burned pot ofchulent. I, on the otherhand, went from job tojob, wondering about allthose years I was taught

the importance of Torahstudy and never a wordabout how to earn apaycheck.

Inmy spare time, I satonthe plastic-covered chairsat our faux-mahoganydining-room table, andstudied computers—howtoworkwiththembutalsohow they worked on theinside. Iwas fascinatedby

their parts, how magnetichard drives workedalongside RAM, connectedvia motherboard, inputand output devices. Butmost of all, I wasfascinatedbysoftware,themindwithinall thatmetalandsilicon.“Why are you spending

so much time on this?”Gitty would ask, as Ibrought home book after

book from the library onthe inner workings ofhardware, writingcomputer code, setting upnetworks. Gitty thoughtthat I should be doingmore productive things,such as inquiring at thefish store about the“CashiersWanted” sign inthe window. Or maybeselling life insurance. Orstarting another business

of some sort. “What’s thepoint of all this computerstuff?”I would shrug inresponse.I’dsayitwasjustreally fascinating and funand interesting, and Gittywouldrollhereyes.WhatIreallythought—afantasyIdidn’tdarevoiceoutloud:I wonder if I might workasacomputerprogrammeroneday.

I didn’t know how onebecame a computerprogrammer, but I couldnot quiet my fascination.The books would pile uparound the house, on thekitchen counter, on thebedsidenightstand,on thelittlewindow ledge in thebathroom. When readingabout the binary numbersystem,Iwasstruckbythebeautyofmathematics,the

symmetry of numbers,concepts I had neverthought about before—we’d studied nomathematics past seventhgrade, which had pleasedme perfectly at the time.But what I was readingnow was fresh andexciting: machinelanguage, overlaid withassembly language,overlaid with “high-level”

languages—C++, SQL,Perl—nested levels ofabstraction built onreusable modules. I wasfascinated by the use of amachine to imitate ahuman brain, to breakdown human thoughtprocesses to their smallestparts and to mimic themthrough concise lines ofcomputer instruction. Likeamechanicallever,butfor

the mind, computer codecould make a machineoutperform humans tonear-limitless degrees—andIwas learningexactlyhowitwasdone.Iwouldbeholdapageofcodelikeaworkofart. Inmapping algorithms androutines, I foundakindofexhilaration that wassimilar to the logicalprocessesofTalmudstudy,

except these processeswere not stretched overancient rules of textualexegesisbutstrictlylogicalpremises. At the mostbasic level, they werestaggeringly simple: Ifbalance is greater thanzero, funds can bewithdrawn. If time is past6:30, sound the alarm. Ifsnoozed, repeat untilunsnoozed. Yet the

possibilities, built only ononesandzeros,onandoff,true and false, wereliterally limitless, allowingthe creation of complexroutines of both beautyand utility. Endlesspossibilities from oneessential binary. In theTalmud, too, there wasbeauty, but here was atrue amalgamation of thehuman and the divine. If

the Talmud was built onthe purported word ofGod, thatword struck youas suspiciously human,with ambiguities andlayers of meaning and allthearbitrarinessofhumanlanguage.Theveryideaoffaith suggested somethingman-made—the idea thatwe must submit toconviction, rather thansimplybeholdtheuniverse

in itsnaturalorder. In theprinciples of logic,however, which formedthe basis of computersoftware, the premiseswere fixed.Truewas true.False was not. There wasno gray, no middleground, no room forambiguities orcontradiction or layers ofinterpretation. Precisionand predictability were

key. Prayer was of littlehelpwhenyourexecutablewas stuck in an infiniteloop.

Yakov Mayer, I soonlearned, wasn’t havingmuch success selling lifeinsurance. When helearned about my interestin computers, he, too,grew curious about them.Yakov Mayer, however,

had never learned to readEnglish well, and had ahard time studying on hisown. The few books heacquired on the subjectdidn’tfeelsufficient,sohewent to look for anotherway.An Orthodoxorganization,YakovMayertoldmeexcitedlyover thephone one day, wasoffering courses in

computer programming atits offices in lowerManhattan. Theorganization, AgudathIsrael of America, was anadvocacy group forOrthodoxJews,andithadset up a division calledCOPE Institute, to trainmen in “kosher”professions: accounting,computer programming,networking.

“How about we go forthe programming course?”YakovMayerasked.He thought we couldbecome realprogrammers,butIlaughedattheidea.Iimagined that one couldnot become an actualcomputer programmerwithout going to collegeany more than one couldbecome an astronaut or abrainsurgeon.At thevery

least, I imagined that oneneeded a high schooldiploma. And really, whatgoodwas a course? I hadtaught myself enoughcomputer programming towrite decent code for atleast a thousand differentbusinessuses.Learningthestuff wasn’t the problem.Finding away to get paidforitwas.“Well,” Yakov Mayer

said. “They’ve got a jobplacementprogram.”

Several days later, YakovMayerandIsatintheverylast row of the MonseyTrails commuter bus toManhattan. It felt like asynagogue—the sightsandsounds were the same:menintheirprayershawlsand phylacteries, eyelidsstill heavy from sleep,

mumbling prayers. Theprayer leader stood in thecenter of the aisle, callingtheendsandbeginningsofchapters: Halleluyah,halleluyah, mumblemumble,AndDavidblessedtheLord,mumblemumble,OnthatdayMosessangwiththe children of Israel,mumblemumble.The men all sat on one

side of the bus with a

curtain drawn down theaisle, beneath which wegot glimpses from theother side: gold-foil flats,fashionable heels,stockingedankles.For the Shmoneh Esreh,weroseandsqueezedintothe aisle, swaying alongwith the jerky motion ofthe bus as it cut betweencars, tractor-trailers, andNew Jersey Transit buses

ontheirwaytotheLincolnTunnel. A man squeezedthrough the throng in theaisle,danglinganavy-bluevelvet pouch between histhumb and forefinger:RabbiMayer,Master of theMiracle was embroideredon the pouch in goldthread. Fromwithin camethe jingle of coins asmendropped nickels, dimes,quarters, to support the

pious men of Jerusalem.For the Torah reading, ascroll was taken from amakeshift ark overhead.Oneman read aloud fromit, his tinny voice losingstrength as it traveledthrough the mass ofbodies, sounding, to us inthe rear, like an overseasphone call with a badconnection.ThemenwereOrthodox,

andyetmostofthemwerenon-Hasidim, workingprofessionals—attorneys,accountants, doctors,investment bankers. Theywore starched button-down shirts and sharpsuits and polished blackshoes.AhandfulofHasidicmen, who worked mostlyas diamond dealers inmidtown or as salesmenfor the Hasidic-owned

B&H electronics store,huddledintherear.Unlikethe others, the Hasidicmen looked shabby, in ill-fitting overcoats, beaverhats speckled with rainspots, unkempt beards.Theseweremypeople,andat first, the others filledme with disdain. Suchvanity! Their shoes sopolished, they sparkled.Their trousers so perfectly

creased, it was as if theyhadpressedthemjustthatmorning. Who had timeforsuchnonsense?Yet they had somethingI wanted. I envied theirsenseofpurpose,thevibesof success they emitted,electric charges of moneyand comfort zapping offtheir power ties and theirshimmering gold metalcuff links. These men, I

imagined, didn’t pawntheir wives’ jewelry tomakerent.CouldIbelikethem?Onlyafewyearsearlier,the thought would’vehorrified me, but now, Iwondered,whynot?They,too, were Orthodox. Theyprayed, they kept kosher,theykeptShabbos,andyetthey lived in the modernworld, engaged with it,

interacted with it, earneddecent livings throughhard work and honestprofessions, and then theycame home to theirfamilies and lived fullyreligious lives. Couldn’tonehaveitall?

Later that morning, in anoffice building on anarrow street inManhattan’s financial

district,YakovMayerandIsat in a room filled withlong tables as a nervouslittlemaninawhiteshirt,his tangled tzitzis fringeshanging from his belt,handedusapileofstapledsheets of paper. This wasthe course’s entranceexam, an “aptitude test,”and it had three sections:English, mathematics, andlogic. We had thirty

minutes for each, and Izipped through thequestionswithease.

Whatcomesnext?16,32,64,128,?

Rewritethesentence:Theirsadogontheporchwithatalebetweenit’slegs.

Trueorfalse?Ifall

keneebelsaregezeebels,thenallgezeebelsarekeneebels.

“Why would they give ussuch a difficult exam?”YakovMayerasked,asweheaded to catch the busback home. “What’sEnglish grammar got towithprogramming?”He’d guessed his way

through most of thequestions,hesaid.Clearly, we experiencedtheexamdifferently,andIwasn’t surprised. AllHasidicboys’schoolsweresubstandard in theirgeneral-studies curricula,but inNewSquare, thingswere particularly bad.Yakov Mayer’s “English”classes had consisted oflittlemore than lessons in

the English alphabet andbasic arithmetic. Histeachers were young menwho had themselves beeneducated in New Square’scheder, and they didn’tknowmuchmorethanthestudents. “Aynglish, foy!”wehadcriedattheKrasnacheder in Borough Park,butnowIfelt thankfulforthose two hours we’d hadin late afternoon. As

disdainfulaswewerebackthen, it gave me a goodenough foundation. YakovMayer hadn’t been solucky. In preparation fortheexam,hehadaskedhiswife to tutor him inEnglish and math, butevenso,hefounditalltoochallenging.

Twodayslater,wegotourtest results. I passed, but

YakovMayerfailed.“I still don’t understandwhat English has to dowith programming,” hesaidtomeoverthephone.Yet he was notdiscouraged. “I can takethe test again,” he said.He’d already begun newtutoring sessions with hiswife.Acoupleofweeks later,heretookthetest,andthis

time he passed—justbarely. There was still acatch, though, for both ofus.Neitherofushadhighschool diplomas, and sowe would have to takeanotherexamthatcoveredsome of the basic highschoolsubjects.“You ready for the nextexam?”Iasked.Yakov Mayer was silentforamoment.“Ithinknot.

I’ll just have to make adiploma.”I was stunned. “Forgeone?”“What else can I do?There’s no way I’ll passthisexam.”A fewdays later, I tookthe bus to the city, alonethis time, and took thesecond exam. Itwasmorechallenging than the first,especially the math

questions. I found myselfstaring at problemsinvolving x’s and y’s, andwasstumped.Simplify:9x+3y*6=24x−2Howdidlettersgetintoamath problem? Baffled, Istared for a long time atthe sheet in front of me.WasitAequals1,Bequals2, and so on? I tried toremember back to my

math lessons as a child.The last lessons we hadwere on fractions, and Ivaguely recalledconvertingmixednumbersand finding commondenominators,butnothingaboutthevalueofletters.This time, it was my

turn to guess my waythrough my responses. Ianswered the questions asbestIcould,andhandedin

my exam. I wondered if Ishould’ve just followedYakov Mayer’s lead andforged a high schooldiploma. But now it wastoo late. Perhaps my firstinstincts had been right.Maybe this course wasn’tforpeople likeme.Maybeitwasmeantonlyfornon-Hasidim, those raised inless shelteredenvironments,who’dtaken

high school math and allkindsofothersubjectsthatour Hasidic yeshivas didnotbotherwith.Tomysurprise,Ipassedthisexam, too.Notwithaperfect score, but goodenough. Yakov Mayer, forhis part, submitted hisforged high schooldiploma, and on ascorching day in July1999, we took the bus to

downtown Manhattan forourfirstdayofclass.

Two months in, YakovMayersatdownnexttomeintheclassroom.“I’ve decided to drop

out,”hesaid.“Istruggletoget through every page.”He pointed to ourtextbook, The CProgramming Language,which lay on the table in

front of us. His tone wasalmost apologetic. Thecourse had turned out tobe more stimulating thanI’d expected, andasmuchasI’dtaughtmyselfonmyown, I quickly learned alot more. Yakov Mayerwas a bright fellow andwas quick to grasp theconcepts when they wereexplained to him. He hadbeen a good student in

yeshiva. He wasdisciplinedanddeterminedand conscientious aboutthe reading and the labassignments. But hisEnglish skills were tooweak.Evenwithhiswife’shelp, he had troublereadingandunderstandingthematerial.Optimistic as usual, heassuredme that itwas forthebest.Programmingjust

wasn’tforhim.YakovMayer’sdeparture

from the class left meanxious—for his sake butalso for that of my ownfamily. Itwashewhohadencouraged me to pursuethis course seriously; yethisownhandicaps,aresultof the educational neglectof our world, kept himfrom pursuing his owncareer aspirations. Even if

I myself had been morefortunate, was this to bemy children’s fate, to beraised not only withrigidly defined roles butdeprived of any ability tostepoutofthem?

ItwasearlyJanuary2000,and the course waswinding down. It was anewmillennium. The Y2Kbug brought no

catastrophes. Hundreds ofInternet-based companieswere going public. Thenational economy was inbetter shape than it hadever been—in less than ayear’s time, outgoingpresident Clinton wouldannounce that the federalgovernment had anunprecedented $230billion budget surplus,with projections of paying

off the national debtwithinthedecade.Hope and optimismcouldnothavebeenmoreinfectious, and it seemedapropos of these goodtimes that I received aphonecallonedayfromawomanabouta job. Iwasin the computer lab,finishing our final classproject, when the callcame. I’d e-mailed my

résumé to a number oflistings on several jobwebsites—Monster, Dice,Jobs.com—and now arecruiter was calling inresponse.“Iwaswondering ifyou

would like to take thisinterview,” she said. Thenameof thecompanywasBloomberg. “They’re amedia company. Theyprovide news and analysis

on the financial markets.”“Bloomberg?” She couldn’treallymean—“Yes, Bloomberg.

They’re a company inmidtown.”“TheBloomberg?”“Yes,” she said with a

chuckle.“TheBloomberg.”It felt surreal. Only a

few years earlier, I hadbeen a kollel student. Acheder teacher. A Hasidic

young man who knew solittle about theworld thatI had to sneak behindmywife’sbacktolistentotheradioor readbooksat thelibrary. Now I faced theprospectofworkingforaniconic New Yorkcorporation.A job interview at an

iconic New Yorkcorporation was differentfrom an interview at one

of our Hasidic-ownedbusinesses. The portlyfellow who sat two rowsbehindme in shul, or thefellow who, like me,soaked a little too long inthe hot mikveh on lateFriday afternoons: theyweren’t intimidating asinterviewers, but aninterview at a major NewYork corporation requiredpreparation.Andsoonmy

way home that day, IdrovetoBarnesandNobleand purchased a yellowhandbook: Job InterviewsforDummies.Onthebusridehome, Ifelt a wave of anxiety.There were Hasidim whointeracted with outsiderswith confidence, evenarrogance, never pausingtoconsidertheirhandicaps—of education, of

language,oftheiressentialalienness from thesurrounding culture. But Ihad never been that way.Just walking down aManhattan street in myHasidic garb made meuncomfortably self-conscious, as did myYiddish accent. I wassuddenly anxious that I, aformer aspiring Torahscholar, would never fit

into a secular officeenvironment. I would saythe wrong thing, or lookthe wrong way, and itwould only confirm whateveryone knew: justanother Hasid, freakishlystuckinamedievalworld,unable or unwilling tomake the necessaryaccommodations tomodernliving.At home that evening, I

stoodinfrontofthevanitymirror and assessed myappearance.Ilookedatmyclose-croppedhair,myun-trimmed beard, thetangledknotofpayessovermy ears. I stared at mylarge boxy plastic-framedeyeglasses, black on topandblendingintoclearonthe bottom, and saw forthe first time howremarkably ugly they

were. I had first begun towear those glasses as ateenager, when payingattention to one’sappearancewasconsideredunseemly. At the yeshiva,there hadn’t been a singlemirror on the premises. Itis forbidden for a man togaze into a mirror, westudied,as hemust not actinthemannerofawoman.Now,however, Ineeded

tomakesomeadjustments.Laterthatevening,Idroveto an eyeglass store inMonsey. The middle-agedHasid behind the countergrinned widely when Ipointedtothedisplaycasewithitsselectionofstylishpairsofglasses.“Time for an upgrade,eh?” He noddedapprovingly when Ipointed to a gold-wire

frame. “Givenchy,” hesaid, removing it from thedisplay case and laying itonthecounter.“What?”“Givenchy,” he saidagain,withanexcitednod.“Abrandname.”Ihadneverheardofthebrand,butIlikedthestyle,and walked out of thestore with a new burst ofconfidence.

The day before myinterview, I stopped intoMen’s Wearhouse, downRoute 59. I had neverbefore been to a non-Hasidic clothing store, butIwasnowoutforaspecialpurchase. I had beenreading through thevarious sections of JobInterviewsforDummies,andI came to notes on attire.Men, the book said, were

towearasuitandtietoalljobinterviews.I had a suit but had

neverwornatie.NooneIknew had worn a tie.Hasidim simply didn’twear them, and yet, therewas no rule against it—and that’s when it struckme: a tie! The perfecttouch to transform mefrom slovenly Hasid tomoderngentleman.

After purchasing what Ithought was a suitablestyle, I brought the tiehome and called to Gittyto have a look. I removedit ceremoniously from thestore’s plastic bag, andheld it across both hands,resplendent in itsgradationsofsoftblueandgray.“Youboughtatiejustto

wearitonce?”

“Maybe I’ll have morethanoneinterview,”Isaidhopefully, forgetting for amoment that theobjectivewas fewer interviews, notmore.It wasn’t only the tiethat Gitty was skepticalabout. She hadn’t beentaken with the wholeprogrammingidea.“Who’sgoing to hire you?” shehad asked throughout the

six-month course. When Itold her about theinterview at Bloomberg,sheonlyshookherheadinexasperation. “Has it notoccurred to you thatwe’llloseourfoodstamps?”Gitty intuited anotherproblem as well. “Do youeven know how to wearit?” she asked. Before Icould respond, she turnedback to the full-color

brochure of prizes forsome local organization’sChinese auction, leavingmetowonderonmyown.I took the tie to the

vanity mirror, turned upmyshirtcollar,andplacedthe tie aroundmy neck. Iwrapped it first one wayandthenanother.Iflippedandpulledandtwistedandwrapped it around inevery conceivable way

until I’d nearly strangledmyself,butall Igotwasasloppybulgeatthebaseofmythroat,whichpromptlyundid itself as soon as Iremovedmyhand.I was nearly ready to

concedethat the tiewasafoolish idea, when, thirtyminutes later, I had theanswer. “God bless theInternet!” I shouted toGitty as I ran from the

computer in the diningroomtothevanitymirror.In my hand, I heldprintouts of all the tie-knotting instructions Iwould ever need, courtesyofhowtotieatie.com.I chose a full Windsor,

practiced in front of themirror for half anhour orso, and then placed theprintouts carefully in mycoat pocket. I might need

the instructions againwhenIgotoff thebus thenext day. I would find acorner somewhere on thestreets of Manhattan, andfasten the tie under mycollar before heading tothe interview. For amoment, I consideredfastening the tie before Ileft home, but quicklygave up the idea. Icouldn’t possibly wear a

tie on thebus. I imaginedmen staring, womencasting nervous glances,children pointing andlaughing: Look! A Hasidwearingatie!But the Bloombergpeople wouldn’t laugh.Theywould be impressed.Look!AHasidwearingatie!Howuncanny—justwhatwewerelookingfor!

Aroundnoonthenextday,I stood at the corner ofPark Avenue and Fifty-Eighth Street, my shirtcollar up, staring at myreflectionintheglasswallof an office building.Aroundme,men in smartsuits and women in tightskirts and fashionableheels strode purposefullybetween buildings, acorporate sheen reflecting

off the many revolvingdoors. Stern, uniformedmen looked out frombehind security desks,guarding the entrances tothesepalacesofcapitalism.It took several tries,

until the tie finally feltright, more or less. Theknot felt a little too wideandalittletooloose,andIwasn’tsurethatIgotitthecorrectlengthdowntomy

belt but decided that itwould do. I couldn’t belatefortheinterview.In the waiting area of

Bloomberg’s headquarters,I sat with my beaver haton my lap and stared atgiant yellow-and-orangeiridescent fish in floor-to-ceiling aquariums.Employeescameandwentfrom a nearby room filledwith snacks and drinks—I

remember a retail-store-style refrigerator filledentirely with Coke cans—and bantered with oneanother in a way that Iknew I never could. Theirspeech sounded like aforeignlanguage.Itriedtosit tall, pursemy lips intothe polite-but-not-too-expressive smile thateveryone else appeared tobe wearing, but I knew

that I was putting up afacade.Tie or no tie, I was aHasid from New Square,andthiswastoostrangeaworld forme.WhenIwasfinally summoned for myinterview,theinterviewerswere cordial andbusinesslike, but I wasn’tsurprised when therecruiter toldme the nextday that I didn’t get the

job.Still, justthefactthatI’dmanaged the interviewmademefeelproud.Iwascertain that Iwas the firstHasidfromNewSquaretobe interviewed atBloomberg. That had tocountforsomething.

A month later, I took thebus into midtown foranother interview, thistime at the offices of a

trade magazine for thediamond and jewelryindustry. I didn’t botherwith the tie. The businesswas owned by anAmerican-Israelibusinessmanwhowasusedto hiring Hasidim. TheownerhimselfwasModernOrthodox,andheadmiredthose who’d honed theiranalyticalskillsonyearsofTalmudstudy.Someofhis

clients were Hasidim, too,longtime diamond andjewelry dealers, and I feltrightathome.On a Monday in

February 2000, I rode the7:15 bus from Monsey tomy first day of work. Itwas an entry-levelposition, creating customsoftware applications forthe staff of a dozen or soemployees.Still,mysalary

was greater than anythingI’d previously earned.Threeweeksintothejob,Ireceived my firstpaycheck. Soon after, asGitty predicted, we lostour food stamps. And forthe very first time in mylife,Ifeltlikeaman.

ThenexttimeIsawYakovMayer, he was trying his

luck again with lifeinsurance. He’d sold acoupleofpolicies,hesaid.“With God’s help, it’ll allworkout.”Iwishedhimwell.“Maybewecansitdown

some time, talk a littleaboutfinancesandstuff?”“Aboutfinances?”“Some life-insurance

policies can be attractiveinvestments.Andalso,you

know, if somethingshouldhappen,Godforbid—”Ishookmyheadsadly.Iwas in no position to buylife insurance. I was onlynowfindingmyfooting inlife. Matters of deathwould have to wait. As itwas, our expenses wereup. Just a few monthsearlier,we’dwelcomedthenewest member of ourfamily.InSeptember1999,

Gitty gave birth to ourfourthchild,our firstboy:Akiva.

ChapterThirteen

Itwasthedayofmyson’sbris. The tables across thesouth section of the shulwere covered in whitetablecloths and laid outwith small challah rollsand perfectly sliced

portions of gefilte fishswimming in sweet sauce.Offtotheside,thecatererwas preparing servings ofroast chicken, potatokugel, glazed carrots, andthemostdelectablerollsofapple strudel. My sisterandherhusbandandtheirthree children were herefrom Borough Park. Mybrothers, with their wivesand children, were

assemblednearby,aswereGitty’s parents andsiblings, along with anassortment of aunts,uncles, cousins, and somefamily friends.Mymotherstood in a nearbydoorway, in her arms myinfant son, swathed inlayersofwhite rufflesandlace under the gold-embroidered inscription:Elijah, angel of the

covenant, behold, yours hascomebeforeyou.The rebbe had justfinished the morningprayers, and now therewould be a five-minutebreak,afterwhichthebriswould commence. Therebbe would serve assandek: hewouldhold thechild in his lap as thecircumcision wasperformed, recite the

necessary prayers, andannounce my new son’sname.Mymothersmiledatme

from afar. Gitty, percustom, was at home, acoterie of women keepingher company until ournewborn would bereturned to her, dulyadmitted to the covenant.After the ceremony, themenwouldremain inshul

for the celebratory feast,presided over by therebbe, while the womenwould join Gitty for aseparatecelebrationinthedining room of herparents’home.Zisha Schnitzler,

fundraiser-slash-panhandler for theyeshiva, approached me.“RebShulem,howaboutadonation,inhonorofyour

celebration?”I withdrew a five-dollarbill frommywallet. Zishalooked at the bill, andpulledback,asifinhorror.“Five—for a bris?” Heshook his head resolutely.“No one gives less thanfifty-four—three timeschai.” He held up hispalms, in a gesture ofapology. “Tell you what.Give me thirty-six and I’ll

give you a blessing, mybest wishes for aprosperous future, and totake great pride in yournewborn son. And youknow,” Zisha shook hishead and spread his armswide, as if it were all sotedioustorepeat,butsomepeople were justimpossible, “you knowmyblessingsareeffective.”Just as I was

contemplating acounteroffer—a halfblessing for eighteen,maybe?—the shul doorsopened wide, and dozensof men and teenage boysburst through the doors.Behind them soon camescores more, streamingthrough each of the threelargeentrances,untiltherewereseveralhundredmencomingtowardthefrontof

the shul. The suddenpresenceandtheattendantcacophonyofsomanymenwere disorienting, and ittook me a moment torealizethattheyhadcomenot to celebrate my son’scircumcision.I had nearly forgotten.

Thisdaywasnotonly thedayofmyson’sbris.Itwasalsotheanniversaryofthedeathofoneoftherebbe’s

many illustriousancestors,aratherobscuresagewholived during thenineteenth century in thetown of Skvyra, Ukraine.As custom dictated, therebbe would be handingout cake and wine afterprayers. The crowd, theentire student bodies ofboth the yeshiva and thekollel, were here for thecake. My own family

celebration,elaboratewithculinary delights as itwouldbe,wassubordinateto the greater, moresignificant event:commemorating the deathof the old sage RebHersheleofSkvyra.

I had never liked the factthat private familycelebrations were publicevents. I did not enjoy

being at the center of acrowd, especially whenwell-wisherswere,asoftenas not, people I barelyknew.Therunningaroundbeforehand, arranging thespace and the caterer andnotifyingtherebbeandthegabbai and the shulcaretakerandalltheotherpeople who had to benotified, turned it from acelebration into a

burdensomeobligation.“Why can’t we just

celebrate at home, as afamily?” I asked Gittyonce. “You, me, ourparents,oursiblings,afewcousins. Who needsmore?”Gitty scowled. “Why

can’t you do whateveryone does and stopbeingsocontrarian?”In truth, our past

celebrationshadn’tbeensobad.Ourthreeeldestweregirls, and so theceremonieswerelimitedtothree events each:receiving an apple fromthe rebbe’s hand at theFriday night tisch; beingcalled fora readingof theTorah on Shabbosmorning, followed by arather unceremoniousbaby-naming by the

gabbai; and then thekiddush—a celebrationwithwineandpastriesinacorner of the shulfollowing Shabbosmorning prayers. Threemodest ceremonies tomarkthebirthofafemalechild, and no furthercelebrations until the girlwas engaged to bemarried. It wasn’t toomuchtohandle.

But a boy child—ah,what good fortune! Itwasasifthecelebrationsneverended—and it was not apropercelebrationuntilallandsundryhadtakenpart.Itbeganwiththeshulem

zucher on Friday night,whenmengathered toeatfruitsandboiledchickpeasand great quantities ofroasted peanuts in theirshells, which they would

crack open and pile highonthetable,onthechairs,on the floor, and dragfistfulsstucktotheirshoesastheywentbackoutintothe night, tipsy on toomanyHeinekens.Thevachnachtfollowed,

during which the fatherstayed up all night andstudied Torah, while men—friends, strangers, allwerewelcome—sataround

eating gefilte fish andkugel and drinking greatquantities of OldWilliamsburgwhiskey andleaving even greater pilesof peanut shells for thewomentocleanupafter.Then, of course, came

thebris—morningprayers,the ceremony, thecelebratoryfeast.Threedaysafterthebris

was the shlishi lemilah, a

feast to commemorate theday our forefatherAbrahamwashealed fromhis circumcision wound.More gefilte fish andkugel.Maybenotasmanypeanuts.If the infant boy was afirstborn, there was thepidyon haben three weekslater. Bedecked in goldjewels, sugar cubes, andgarlic cloves, the infant

was laid on a sterling-silvertray,as ifhewerearoasted fowlstuffed intoalight-blue Snuggie with amatching pacifier, whilethe father and a kohen, adescendant of the priestlyclass,playactedanancientnegotiation ritual: thefather offered the kohenfivesilvershekelsinreturnforwhichthekohenwouldspare the child from a

lifetime of priesthood.Afterward, more gefiltefishandkugel.Further celebrations

ensued:forthechild’sfirsthaircut(agetwo),firstdayincheder (age three), firstBible lesson (age five).Andat thirteen,ofcourse,the bar mitzvah—whichcame with its own set ofpre-andpost-events.All these events were

held communally. AmongSkverers, that meant therebbe participated in atleast some of them, andwhenhedid,hetookprideofplace.Beforeandafterabirth, the rebbewas tobenotified.Therebbewas tobe consulted before thechild’s name was decidedupon.Andwhiletherebbemightskipoutonthevachnachtortheshulemzucher,

under no circumstanceswould he miss a bris. Itwassaidthatfromthedaytherebbebecamerebbe,inMarch1968,at theageoftwenty-eight, he attendednearly every bris in thevillage, unless he wasaway on vacation, andeventhen,asoftenasnot,the proud parents wouldtravel with the infant andhold the ceremony at the

rebbe’s vacation home intheCatskillMountains.

Now, I found myself notonly at the center of apublic ceremony but a fargreater one than what Ihad prepared for. Inaddition to family andfriends, there was theusual assortment of thosewhocametotheshuleachmorninglookingforafree

meal and a glass ofschnapps, along with theentire yeshiva and kollelassemblies. They stoodaround,chatting,shouting,shoving, waiting for it alltobegin.“When’s the rebbe

coming out?” I overheardtwo boys talking. Theycouldn’t have been olderthanfourteen.“There’sabrisfirst,”the

othersaid.“Ugh,” said the first, asifhehadsomewheretobeanditwasallthrowingoffhisschedule.Soon enough, the rebbeemergedand tookhis seatontheThroneofElijah.“Kvatter!” the gabbaicried. At the doorway inthe corner, I watched asmy mother handed thebaby to my brother

Mendy,who then broughtthebundledpackagetothecleared space in front oftheHolyArk.“Reb Chaim Goldstein!”the gabbai cried, andMendyhandedthebabytomy father-in-law, whothenhanded it tohis ownfather-in-law, who hadtraveled fromWilliamsburg for theoccasion and who then

handed the baby to aseries of uncles andgreat-uncles and brothers-in-lawandevensomeoftheoldercousins.Thegabbairattledoff their names, givingeach the honor of holdingthe infant for barely asecond before it wasdropped into the arms ofanother.Finally,thelastofthe male relatives hadtheir turn, and the baby,

still contentedly suckinghis pacifier, was laid torestontherebbe’sknees.I couldn’t watch. Off to

the side,my prayer shawlpulled heavily over myhead, I would let theprofessionalshandleit.AllI had to dowas listen formy cue—my child’sscream—after which Iwould recite thecircumcision blessingwith

greatjoy.Therewasnoscream.“Howcould therebenoscream?”IwouldlateraskGitty. “Are you sure theydid it properly?” Shewouldassuremethattheydid. “But he didn’tscream,” Iwould say. “Hedidn’t even cry. Maybe awhimper.Maybe.”My mind must’vestrayed to the wafting

aromas of apple strudel,when the shouts camefrom all around: “Nu!Nu!De brucha! De brucha!”Howonearth—?“Nu!Nu!The blessing!” Flustered, Ifumbled for my prayerbook.Recite with joy! saidthelittle instructionabovetherecitation,andIlookedat all the impatient menaround me and musteredall the joy I could:Blessed

are You, Lord … who hascommandedus tobringhiminto the covenant of ourfatherAbraham.The circumcised infant

was reswaddled in hisblanket, and the rebbestood from the chair andraised a silver goblet ofwine: O Lord, God of ourforefathers. Give life to thischild … Akiva the son ofShulem! Let the father

rejoice with the emission ofhis loins. Let his mother begladdened with the fruit ofherwomb…Asitiswritten:By your blood, you shalllive.Theceremonycomplete,

Mendy carriedAkiva backto my mother, who stillstoodinthelittledoorwayin the corner. Men of allages came to shake myhand,offerbestwishesfor

raisingmynewbornsontobe a pious Torah Jew.Some of the more eageruncleswerealreadysittingat the prepared tables,breakingopenchallahrollsand helping themselves tocucumber salads andgefilte fish and dollops ofshredded beets andhorseradish. I folded mytallis, placed it inside thevelvet pouch, and headed

tothesinkjustoutsidethedoor to wash before themeal. Around me, somemen called, “Mazel tov,RebShulem,mazel tov!” Ismiled in return, wishedthemmertzeshem bei dir—your own celebrations,too, ifGodwills it.Maybethiswasn’tallsobad.I filled a large stainless-steel washing cup withwater.Justas Iwasabout

topourthewaterovermyright hand, I heard acommotionfrominsidethesanctuary.Amomentlater,a gaggle of young menburstthroughthedoor.“Nu!Nu!” they shouted.“Shulem! The rebbe’swaiting!”I had forgotten. It wasnotmydayalone.Irushedback inside. The rebbenow sat at the head of a

large arrangement oftables,beforehimadozenorsoenormoustrayspiledhigh with slices of honeycake.Asthecelebrantofanewbirth, Iwas tobe thefirst to receive one of therebbe’s blessed pastries,and because I was notthere, the crowd of menstood pressed tightlyagainst one another andgazed in silence at the

rebbe, who now satmotionless, casting apeevish pall over theroom.I hurried across to thefront of the shul, pushingmywaythroughthecrowdup front in order to reachthe rebbe, when I felt aviolentshovefrombehind.IturnedtoseeYossiFried,the gabbai Reb Shia’sgrandson, behind me, his

outstretched arm recedingfrom my shoulder.“Making the rebbe wait!”hehissed.A few moments later,the honey-brown slice ofpastryinmyhand,Istoodfeeling crushed as menaroundmepushedforwardto receive their ownportions. As I jostled myway through the crowdsurging against me, I

wondered tomyself:Why,for heaven’s sakes, did Ineedtherebbeatmyson’sbris?

“That’s your friendshipwith Chezky talking,”Gittywouldsayafterward.“I knew he’d be a badinfluence.”“Tell me,” Chezky hadasked me a few daysearlier. “What is so great

aboutthisman?”This man. As if therebbewasjustsomeguy.I didn’t like Chezky’ssneering. If some of ourpracticeshadbeguntofeelinconvenienttome,itwasafailingonmypart,Iwassure. I likedtherebbe, forthemostpart,evenifIwasno longer as great abeliever as I once was.Sometimes I even loved

him. I remembered thedays when I had idolizedhim, watched intently ashe ate from the dishesplaced in front of him atthe Friday night tisch, oron Shabbos afternoon,always the exact sameroutine. For over threedecades now, fifty-twoweeks a year, the rebbeperformed every singletisch according to script:

nine spoonfuls of soup,threebitesofonionkugel,seven forkfuls of chicken,two slices of sweet carrot.Each tisch lasted betweenone and three hours,sometimes longer. Henever stood up in themiddle for a break or touse the bathroom, neverskipped out because ofillness or fatigue. Foryears, I stood on those

bleachers, listening to thetremors in the rebbe’svoice as he prayed andchanted and sang, exactlythe same as the previousweek,thepreviousmonth,the previous year. Wewere attuned to thesubtlest deviations—asmile, a laugh, anunexpected gesture. OnPassover, at the seder,when the rebbe reached

thepassage“untilnow,Youhave stood to our aid, andmay You not abandon uswith Your mercy forever,”those very same words,each and every year,catching in his throat, thesame spell of hystericalweeping,except—thatwasjust it, it was always thesame. And still, we spokeaboutthesmallestsignsofspontaneity. “The rebbe

wept this year more thanlastyear,”oneHasidmightsay, and the other wouldagree.“Butnotasmuchasthe year before.” Thenthey would compare thenumber of seconds. Lastyear, the rebbe wept forsevenseconds,thenafterapause, wept for thirteenseconds more. This year,heweptonlyonce,butfora twenty-three-second

stretch.Untiloneday,Ibegantowonder. Where, exactly,lay the rebbe’s greatness?Washea scholar?Washea saint? Had he evershown anyone anyexceptionalkindness?Howwould one even know it,considering that he wasbarely accessible to hisfollowers, his acts someticulously scripted, his

public utterances limitedto carefully preparedthoughts of littleconsequence, privateaudiencesalwaysbriefandperfunctory, five-minuteconsultations after a five-hourwait?I thought about therebbes of other sects—somany of them, of late,consumed with squabbles.Many of the major sects

were being split intofactions. The once-mightySatmarsweresplittingintothe Aronites and theZalmenites. In Vizhnitz,Mendel and Srultche hadbattled over their father’sthrone, even though hewasn’t to die for anothertwelve years. In Bobov,there would soon be theForty-FiversandtheForty-Eighters, each gearing up

to grab the greatestportionofthegreatBobovempire after the death oftheir very beloved oldrebbe, Reb Shloime. Thesquabbles were oftencoatedinveneersofpiety,but the differences wererarelymatters of principleor ideology. They wereabout power and control.Andrealestate.Millionsofdollars in properties and

institutions and the greatcommunalwealthamassedbyeachsect.“Areanyoftheserebbesexamples for theirfollowers?” I fumed toGitty.But Gitty had littleinterest in the politics ofHasidic courts. “I don’tknow anything aboutthem,andIdon’tcareto.”Our rebbe, she insisted,

was not to be questioned.“Iwastaughttohavefaithintherighteous,”shesaid.Butwhatdiditmeantohave faith in therighteous? Was it to havefaith in their veryrighteousness? There wassomething maddeninglycircular about that—howdidoneknowiftheywererighteous enough to havefaithin?Byfaith?

“Next bris,” I said toGitty, “is without therebbe.”I’dhadenough.

One Saturday night,several weeks later, Gittyand I were in the kitchentogether.Shewasdumpingleftover chulent in thetrash, while I was sortingthrough the day’s mail. Itwas past midnight. Thekidswerelongtuckedinto

bed,andI,too,hadbeguntoyawn.“I think I’m going tobed,” I said, my eyestearing up as they didwhenIfeltsleepy.“What was that?” Gittyasked,cockingherhead.“Isaid,IthinkI’mgoingtobed.”Gitty held up an indexfinger. “No—listen. Whatwasthat?”

“Whatwaswhat?”All we heard was thehumoftherefrigerator.“I thought I heardsomething.”“It’s in your head.” Istoodupandstretched.“Wait!Listen!”ThistimeIheardit,too.A shout. Then camecrashing sounds, likebreaking glass, then moreshouting. Then the sound

of boots pounding thepavement. The poundingcame nearer, until it wasrightbeneathourwindow,and then quickly fadedaway.We rushed to the

window, but saw nothing,and so I stepped out thekitchen door to the sideporch. Across thealleyway,oneoftheblindsin a neighbor’s window

was spread apart, a facepeering out. A momentlater, the blind fell back,and everything was asbefore. Across the road,insects swarmed astreetlamp. A yellow-and-red tricycle lay forgottenat the side of the road. Acurbside trash can stoodwith its cover balancedprecariously over anoversize load of white

trashbags.Nothingout oftheordinary.Gitty joined me on theporch.“Seeanything?”“No.Must’vebeenafewbored bucherim doingsomething harmless.”Yeshiva students wereoften up late on Saturdaynights, after napping forhoursduringtheday.GittyandIwenttobed.In the morning, when I

awoke, Gitty was not inher bed, but I could hearhervoicefromthekitchen.“Meshiguim! Chayess!” shecried.“Morons!Animals!”I headed to thekitchen,whereTziriandFreidysatat the yellow Little Tikestable in the corner, emptybowls in front of them,waiting quietly forsomeone to pour theircereal and milk. Gitty sat

at the kitchen table, thephone to her ear and anincredulous look on herface. I could hear throughthe receiver the excitedvoice of one of her sisters—from the faint pitch, Icould tell it was Bashie,the family’s most reliablesourceofvillagegossip.“Who? What?” Imouthed.Gitty held up an index

finger. I tried to pick upthe conversation from thefragments but couldn’tglean much. In themeantime, I got a box ofCheerios from the pantryand poured them into thegirls’ bowls. Tziri put herhand over her bowl as Iwas about to pour themilk. “Only till themiddle,” she said. Shedidn’tlikeherCheeriostoo

soggy.Finally, Gitty hung upthephone,stillshakingherhead. “Remember thosesounds last night?” sheasked. “They slashedAmromPollack’s tires andsmashedhiscarwindows.”I could tell from hervoice that she was angrybut also reticent, as ifknowingwewouldenduparguing. Amrom Pollack

was a quiet man fromacross the street, severalyears younger than I. Ididn’t know much abouthim, except that, like me,he was originally fromBrooklyn, and that hisfather was the rabbi of asmall Borough Park shul.Amrom and his wife hadhad their first baby boy aweekago, and the rumorshad begun to spread soon

after.“He’sholdingthebrisin

Borough Park,” peoplesaid.“Athisfather’sshul.”Some said it sadly, a

lament—what had wedone to deserve this?Othersreactedwithanger.“The insolence of him!”Avrumi Gold shouted inthe mikveh on Fridayafternoon.Others said it with

disbelief, shaking theirheads.“Idon’tenvyhim,”Chezky said to me as wedrank our coffee fromStyrofoam cups beforeservices on Shabbosmorning. “Hard to believehe’llgetawaywithit.”Later that morning, Isaw the damaged car,parked right at theentrance to Amrom’sapartment. A burgundy

Toyota Corolla, likelypurchased secondhand, allbut one of the tiresflattened, and all fourwindows smashed. Glassshards were spread acrossthe pavement, and ahandful of young boyswere circling, inspectingthedamage.“Thisisinsane!”Ifumedto Gitty later that day.“We’re no better than the

Taliban!”ButGittydidn’tlikethat

kind of talk. Earlier, shehad been outraged, butnow she said that maybethePollackshadbroughtitupon themselves. “Theydon’t have to live here,”she said. “If you don’twant to go by the rules,you can live somewhereelse.”The perpetrators’ names

were well known, threemen in their earlytwenties. Some hailedthem as heroes. Othersthought they’d been rash.“I don’t hold from doingthingsthisway,”saidShiaEinhorn, the leader of thea cappella group thatperformed each week attheFridaynighttisch.“It’snot the Skverer way,” hesaid. “It’s theSkvererway

when there is no otherway,” shot back AvrumiGreen, the mikvehcaretaker. But there wasnoquestionofmakinganyof the young men sufferany consequences. EvenAmrom Pollack knew notto involve the secularauthorities. This was aninternalmatter.Later, the questionwould be fiercely debated

amongsomeofmyfriends:Had the incident beenordered by the rebbehimself? Chezky wouldargue that it must havebeen.Orat thevery least,by the rebbe’s sons. “Andeven if none of themordered it,” Chezky said,“they were definitelypleased.”Ididnotthinkthen,nordo I think now, that the

rebbe ordered a man’sproperty damaged fordishonoringhim.Hedidn’thave to—plenty among uswerewillingtoactontheirown.ButIhadtoadmit, Iimagined the rebbe waspleased,proudof themenwho would take up thespear of Phineas to fightfor his honor. God was ajealous god, and soperhaps in that way, the

rebbe and God weresimilar.Yet it gavemenocomfort to realize that,possibly, just as I hadmisjudgedtherebbe,Ihadmisjudged God, too.Whatdid I knowofGod?Had Iseen Him? Heard Himspeak?Andwhat elsewasI taught to believe,without pausing toquestion it, to ask for itssource, to examine its

logic?

ChapterFourteen

Itwastwointhemorning,on the second night ofPassover, and I stood atthefaredgeoftherebbe’sseder table. Hundreds ofmen in white kittelswatchedas the rebbe rose

from his seder couch andlifted his gold cup towelcome the prophetElijah. The oversize frontdoors of the shul weredraggedopenbyapairofpreadolescent boys inblackkasketels, and a gustofwindblewintotheshul.SpillYourwrathuponthenations, the rebbe cried,and the men on thebleachers swayed

vigorouslyinagreement.I felt a tap on my

shoulder,andturnedtoseeChezky, his arm reachingbetween theheadsofmenbehindme. “I have to tellyou something,” hewhispered. As the rebbechantedon,Islippedawayfrom the crowd, and weretreatedtoacorner.“Afriendofmineloaned

meacoupleofmovies,”he

said.“Ithoughtyoumightbe interested in seeingthem.”Chezky had beenworking forayearnowattheMonseyyeshiva,wherehe continued his kiruvwork.He had new friendsnow, who didn’t thinkmovies were so bad, andone of them had loanedhim a handful ofvideocassettes.Chezkyhad

watched them and foundthem so delightful that hecouldnothelpbutwanttoshare them. He burst intofits of laughter as hedescribed a scene of twothieves taking off with amilk truck full of puppiesstolenfromapetshop.“You just have to see

this.It’shysterical.”“Shh!” Someone hissed

fromthebleachers.

For they have destroyedJacob, and defiled histemple,therebbecried.Chezky lowered his

voice. “It’s calledBeethoven.”“It’saboutmusic?”“No,no,no, it’sabouta

dog. The dog’s name isBeethoven. This familyadopts him, after a bunchof puppies get stolen—it’shard to explain, you have

toseeityourself.”Spill upon them Yourfury,therebbecried.“I have another movie,too. An action movie—although I have to warnyou: there’s a nakedwoman in one of thescenes.”“Oh,”Isaid.“She comes out of abirthday cake. Youprobablydon’twanttosee

that. We can fast-forwardthrough thatpart—it’snotimportanttothestory.”Pursue them with a

vengeance, therebbecried.Obliterate them frombeneaththeheavens!“Come by tomorrow

night,”Chezkysaid.

Chezkyhad leftourworldinmanywaysbutstillhadtheoutwardappearanceof

a Hasid, and we were inmanywaysalike,Hasidim,or quasi-Hasidim,questioning everything,fascinated by the mostordinary aspects of theoutside world. Chezky,too, listened to the radio,read books from thelibrary, and cherishedevery opportunity todiscoversomethingnew.Chezky’s movies

wouldn’t be the first forme.Atageten,IhadseenDumbo at a friend’s homeinBoroughPark,projectedfrom an old-fashionedprojector onto a whitebasementwall.Myfriend’sparents were more laxwith such things andallowed an animatedDisney film on occasion. Irememberbeingsomovedthat I cried throughmuch

ofit.When I was fourteen,

soon aftermy father died,my sixteen-year-old sisterChaniwentoutandrenteda VCR with a televisionmonitor for a day. Myfather was no longeraround to forbid it, andmy mother’s protestationsfell on my sister’sapathetic adolescent ears.She locked herself in her

room with a handful ofvideocassettesshe’drentedfrom VideoRama aroundthe corner—a store I hadpassed hundreds of times,never imagining I couldenjoy its offerings—andallowedme intoher roomto watch The Chosen andselected parts of FerrisBueller’s Day Off. Everynow and then, she wouldshoo me out, declaring

particular segments “notforboys.”I had seen just enoughto whet my appetite formore, and I now acceptedChezky’s invitationeagerly. The next night,after the first days ofPassover had ended, IpickedupChezkyfromhisparents’ home and wedrove to his place. Theyeshiva where he worked

had given him a room inthe dormitory, a long andnarrow two-story buildingsurroundedbyimmaculatelawnsandwell-maintainedshrubbery—a far cry fromthedormswehad inNewSquare. His room was onthe second floor, and thecorridor had a faint odorof moldy rugs, the décorresembling that of a low-grade chain motel.

Chezky’stwin-sizebedwasneatly made. A lowbookcasestoodagainstthewall, and in the corner,sitting atop a compactdesk, was a smalltelevisionmonitor.“They let you have a

TV?” A television in ayeshiva struck me like apirate in a rabbi’s caftan,butChezkyjustshrugged.“It’s notmine,” he said.

“I borrowed it from theoffice.” He had alreadyexplainedthatthisyeshivawasdifferent, but I hadn’trealizedjusthowdifferent.Chezky slipped a

videocassetteintotheVCRslot, and for the nextninety minutes I sat,riveted, from the firstframe of the FBI warninguntil the very last of thecredits. Beethoven was a

comedyaboutpuppiesandgoofy dog thieves (later Iwould know them asStanley Tucci and OliverPlatt)andanall-Americanfamily with handsomeparents who slept in onebedandkissedgoodnightbefore snuggling in eachother’sarms.ChezkyandIlaughed and cried, andwhen it was done, werewound the tape and

watcheditalloveragain.Afterward, Chezky

slippedinthesecondtape,an action thriller calledUnderSiege.Thisonemademefeelasiftheworldhadturned dizzyingly,terrifyinglyintense,withaship carrying nuclearmissiles hijacked by aband of terrorists forreasons I could not quitemake out but that didn’t

seem to matter much. Ihad yet to learn the term“escapist entertainment,”butneverbeforehadIfeltso transported fromreality.Sometime during that

second movie came thescene with the birthdaycake. I didn’t get to seemuch of it. As soon asChezkysawthegiantcake,hegrabbedtheremoteand

pressedabutton.Thiswas,ostensibly, for my sake,the still-semi-pious Hasid.The tape screeched faintlyas the images swished onthescreeninahalfblur.Itwas like viewingsomething underwaterthrough leaky goggles butin fast motion, although Icould easilymake out thenearlynakedblondwomanwho popped out jerkily

fromthetopofthecake.Iturned my head to lookaway,butthecornerofmyeye remained fixedon thescreen, wantingdesperately for Chezky tolet go of the fast-forwardbutton but tooembarrassed to sayanything.

After the movie, Chezkyand I sat in his room and

talked, snackingonpotatochips and Fresca. Wediscussed plot points andmemorable quotes withthekindofenthusiasmweusually reserved fortalmudic texts. Soon,however,wegrewtired.Itwasthreeinthemorning.Ihad told Gitty that I wasgoing to Chezky’s place,without elaborating, and Iknew that if I didn’t get

home soon, things wouldgetunpleasant.I wasn’t ready to leave,

though. When I had firstentered Chezky’s room, Ihad noticed his smallbookcase in the corner,and glanced at the book’stitles.They,too,beckoned,like the movies—exceptthesebooksfeltdangerous.They were books aboutfaith.Notmykindoffaith,

but Chezky’s kind. Therational kind. The wrongkind.AsIwasgettingreadytoleave, I noticed thosebooksagain.Chezky excused himselftousethebathroomoutinthe hallway, and in themeantimeIputonmycoatand shtreimel. A momentlater,Iheardvoicesoutinthe hallway, a

conversation betweenChezky and one of hisdormmates about a leakyfaucet or a clogged toilet.The voices went on for awhile, and now, withsilence in the room, thenight’s featuredamusements finished, Ilooked over to Chezky’sbookshelf. As with thenaked woman in themovie, I knew I should

look away, and yet Icouldn’t.I stepped closer to the

bookshelf. A set ofvolumes caught my eye.TheyweretitledPermissiontoBelieveandPermissiontoReceive.Twoslimvolumes,one blue and one red, bythe same author. I readtheirjacketcovers.Rational approaches to

God’s existence. Rational

approaches to the Torah’sdivineorigin.“You want to borrowthose?” Chezky was backin the room, looking overmyshoulder.I shookmy head. “Nah.This doesn’t make anysensetome.”“Whydoyousaythat?”I sighed. “We’ve beenoverthisalready.”I’d made this point to

him many times. Thethings we believed couldbe sustained only bysuspending our normalfaculties of reason. WebelievedinaGodwecouldnot see or hear. Webelieved that this Godshoweduponefinedayina Middle Eastern desertandsaidtoourforefathers:Hereare the rulesyoumustliveby,foreverandever.We

believed in an afterlife, inthe resurrection of thedead. We believed in themost fantasticaloccurrences as part of ourhistory.God’svoicefromaburning bush. The watersof an entire land turningintoastickysoupofblood.The sudden deaths ofevery male firstbornEgyptian, at the stroke ofmidnight,withoutsomuch

as a sneezing spellbeforehand. These thingscould not be believedrationally, and thinkingtoo much about themcould do no one muchgood.“Read the books,”

Chezky said. “Maybethey’llchangeyourmind.”I wanted to. In fact, I

was burning withcuriosity,buttoreadthese

booksfelttreacherous,likestepping onto a tightropeacross rocky river rapidswith no tightrope-walkingskills. This was exactlywhat the rabbis hadwarned about. Chakirah,they called it. Rationalinquiry. And it led, theywarned,tobadthings.Rational inquiry increasesvanityandleadstosin,saidJacob Emden, an

eighteenth-centuryGermanrabbi.The Greeks, wrote RebElimelech Shapira ofMunkatch,inventedrationalthought. Andwhat did theybring to the world?Darkness!Heresy!God forbid—I shouldbeliketheGreeks?“No, thanks,” I said.“And you probablyshouldn’tbereadingthem,

either.”Chezky shrugged. “Just

rememberthis:whenblindfaith is all you have, youend up slashing people’scar tires for not invitingtherebbetoabris.”

“Tell me,” Chezky said, afewdayslaterinthefoyerof theshul,wherewemeteach week before Fridaynight prayers. “Has it

occurred to you that it issimply an accident thatyouwereraisedwithyourbeliefs? That if you wereborn Christian or Muslimyou’dbejustasconvincedabout those faiths beingtrue? If blind faith is allyou have, doesn’t it makeitallsoarbitrary?”Itwasasimplequestion,

but I had always assumedthat such a question

needed no answer. ThemanygreatthinkersoftheJewish tradition hadalready figured it out, Iwas sure. Who was I tostartaskingtheobvious?Iwalkedhomefromshul

with a mild feeling ofresentment towardChezky. Why was he soinsistent?Whydidhekeepaskingthesequestions?Yetthequestionunsettledme,

like a scab you know notto scratch and yet youcan’thelp it. Indeed,whatwastheanswer?Inspiteofmyself,Ibegantowonder:If I hadn’t been born andraisedintoJudaism,wouldI have chosen it? If I hadnot been taught to recitethe Shema at age two,Torah Tziva at three,prayersandPsalmsatfour,the Bible at five, and

Talmud at eight, would Ihavebelieved in itallas Ididnow?Laterthatevening,whileI recited the kiddushbeforeourShabbosdinner,sang the Sabbath hymnswith my two youngdaughters, and mumbledmyway through bentchen,Chezky’s questioncontinued to bother me.Afterward, as I sat with

friends and studied OhrhaChaim, the classic Biblecommentary by theMoroccan Jewish scholarChaim ibn Atar, Icontinued to wonder:Would I have chosen this,if I had had a choice?WouldIhaveacceptedtheexistence of God, if Ihadn’tbeenraisedwithit?Would I have believed inthe Torah as His word?

WouldIhavechosentobeOrthodox? To be Hasidic?TobeSkver?

ChezkyandIsoonmadeahabit of going out onSaturday nights. Oftenwe’d head to JerusalemPizza on Route 59, whereChezky liked his slicesburned toa crisp, and theowner, a genial VizhnitzHasidwithasilverybeard

and wire-rimmed glasses,would come by and chatfor a few minutes.Occasionally,we’ddrivetoBlockbusterafterward,andChezkywould head insideandrentusamovie,whichwewouldtakebacktohisroom and watch on thesmalltelevisionmonitorhekept borrowing from theoffice. I would never gointoBlockbusterwithhim,

though. New Square’sVaad Hatznius, theModesty Committee, wasknown to come afterindividuals for lesseroffenses.One Saturday night, wesat in my car talking,cracking sunflower seedsbetween our teeth andfillinganemptycoffeecupwiththeirshells.Again,asso often happened, we

cametoquestionsoffaith.Andthistime,finallyworndown by Chezky’sinsistence on his superiorapproach, my resistancedissolved.“Fine,” I said toChezky. “Give me yourproofs.”He looked at me,startled. I’d given nowarning that I was abouttochangemyposition,butI’d been thinking about it

over the previous days,and decided that I wouldhearhimout.“Giveme theproof that

God showed up on amountain and gave theTorah to the children ofIsrael.Givemetherationalview.”Chezky appeared to be

softly biting the inside ofhis lower lip, as ifgathering his thoughts.

“You really want to hearit?”“Ido.”“OK,” he nodded, silentfor a moment. He thenfixed his gaze on meintently. “It’s simple. Youcan’t invent a historicallymemorableevent,unlessitreallyhappened.”I shook my head,confused. “What does thatmean?”

“ThegivingoftheTorahwas amass revelation.Noother religion claims that,and that’s what makesJudaism different. Yousimply can’t get people tobelieve in an event ofhistorical significance ifthe event didn’t actuallytakeplace.”“Whynot?”“Because no one canstandupandtellanentire

people: Your grandparentsonce stood at a mountainand saw God and heardHis voice. The peoplewould turn right aroundand say: I think ourgrandparents would’vementionedit.”There was something

strange about the logichewas positing, as if theclarityofitlayjustbeyondreach,attainablewithonly

a little hard thinking. Itdidn’t make perfect sense,butIwasintriguedenoughtowanttohearmore.“ThinkofJesus,”Chezkysaid. I knew almostnothing about Jesus, butChezky claimed to haveread the New Testament,and was familiar withJesus’s miracles. He wasunimpressed. “There’s areason why Jesus’s

miracles were claimed tohave been witnessed onlyby small numbers.” Hewaved his handdismissively, as if curinglepers and healing theblind were things he didroutinelyhimself.“Same thing withIslam,” Chezky said.“Muhammad claimed thathewasvisitedbytheangelGabriel. So? You either

believeitoryoudon’t.It’snotaveryboldclaim.”But the Jewish claimwasbold.Ittookchutzpahtotellanentirenationthat3millionoftheirancestorswere witness to the mostastonishing event inhuman history. It tooksuchchutzpah,infact,thatit could not be done,Chezky said, unless theevent in question had

actuallyoccurred.I offered the obviousresponses. Every people,every faith, had itsfoundingmyths. Iwasnotan expert in theperpetuationoflegend,butI was pretty sure thathumans were gullibleenoughtobeconvincedofanything if thecircumstances were right.And so, I toldChezky, his

logic failed. As I hadpredicteditwould.It was one of those

nightswhenthehoursflewbywithoutourrealizingitandstillwesat inmycar,talking, arguing, shouting,pleading for the other tojust shut up and listen.Twice we left the car tostroll up and down theparking lot outsideChezky’s dorm, and twice

wehadreturnedtothecarafter an hour in thepredawn chill. Soon thesunbegantopeekthroughthe leaves of OhrSomayach’s pastoralgrounds,andChezkyandIwere still arguing. Tome,it was clear: It was allprecisely as I hadpredicted. Logic will getyou nowhere if it’s faithyou’reafter.

Except, now I couldn’thelp butwonder:What if,infact,weallwerefooled?After all, I’d just spentsevenhoursarguingthatitwaspossible.

Chezky told me later thatthe “proof” he presentedwasanargumentknownasthe Kuzari principle,formulatedby the twelfth-century Iberian Jewish

poet and philosopherJudah Halevi, and nowthatI’dheardit,Ibegantolook up books on thesubject. The more I read,the more I wanted theargumenttowork,andthemore Iwanted it towork,themore its flawsbecameapparent. Iwentbackandforth between thinkingthat the Kuzari principlewas the most ingenious

argumentI’deverheardtobeing dismayed by itsapparent sophistry. Itwasn’t long before Irealized that, whatever itsmerits, it was notstraightforward, and so itwashardtoknowwhetherits complexitywas that ofanelaboratemathematicalequation or of an opticalillusion, fooling theobserver into seeing

something that was notthere.SoonIwascreepingintorelatedsubjects:argumentsfor God’s existence,reconciling talmudicassertions with modernscience, responses to theclaims of Bible criticism.These were subjects thathad never bothered mebefore,butonceIstarted,Icouldn’tstop.

AtItzik’s,aJudaicashopon Route 59, I wouldbrowse the shelves to findmore books on thesesubjects and others. Thiswas a shop unlike theother Judaica stores inMonsey. It carried booksandaudiotapesandvideosnot sold elsewhere, manyof them on controversialtopics: books aboutevolutionandthebigbang

and Bible criticism andbiographies of sages andsaints in which thesubjects were treated ashuman, rather than thesuperhuman legendsproduced by Orthodoxpublishinghouses.Itzik himself, the store’smiddle-aged proprietor,was a blithesome fellowwhose love of books wasmatched only by his

irreverence. AlongsideAleph-Bet jigsaw puzzlesandsilver-platedmenorahswasawallofbaseballcapswith Yiddish-peppered,subtly subversive slogans,which Itzik himself haddesigned:

OfficialLitvakshtreimel.IwishIcouldafforda

Borsalinolikemyson-in-lawinkollel.I’mstringentaboutthingsyouneverheardof.

Oneday,Iwenttolookfora particular book onmodernscholarshipontheBible. I had seen mentionof it on the Internet andthought that perhaps

Itzik’s might have it, butwhenIdidn’tseeitonanyof the shelves, I turned toItzikhimself,whostoodatthecashregisteraddingupfigures in a dog-earednotebook. When Imentionedthenameofthebook, Itzik looked up andfixed me with a stare Icould not immediatelydecipher.“Who are you?” he

asked.“Myname,youmean?”“No,”hesaid,andshook

his head. “Never mind.”Heaskedmetowaitwhilehe headed to his office inthe back. Five minuteslater,hewasbackwiththebook.“Yeah,” he said, as he

swiped my Visa card.“What’syourname?”When I told him, he

nodded, and I could seethat he was storingsomething, my identity,perhaps—my face, myname, the book Ipurchased—into somemental repository. I hadbeen to his store manytimes, for yarmulkes,Hebrew calendars,religious texts, Jewishmusical albums, andnovels from Orthodox

publishing houses, but Irealized that until thatday, Itzik hadn’t seenme.His was a popular store,and I was one of a greatmassofcustomers.Hewasusually too busy shoutinginstructions to anemployee, or answeringthe phone, or helpingsome elderly lady find abar mitzvah gift for hergrandson.

Now,clearly,he’dtakennoteofme.I headed out the door,

the plastic bag under myarm, with the friendly“Itzik’s” logo—the imageofabeardedmaninagolfcapandtzitzis,underneaththe store’s slogan:“BecauseItzik’shasitall!”Soon Iwould return for

other books, and I wouldlearn more about Itzik.

The rabbis in our worldwere fond of book bans,butItzikwasnot. Inback,he kept a closet in whichhe stored items toosensitive for publicdisplay,whichhekept forspecialcustomers.It appeared that I hadjoined the ranks of hisspecial customers, whichfelt like a smallconsolation for the

troubled, feverish inquirythat I had embarked on.What I really wanted wassomething else. Itzik, giveme the book thatwillmakethe questions go away, Iwantedtoplead.Yetinmyheart,Iknewtherewasnosuch one book. Therecould be no authoritativeresponse, no single all-encompassing theory thatwouldexplain itall. Iwas

beginning to realize thateverybookIreadsetoffatempest of conflictingthoughts and ideas, andthis was not something Icouldfindanswerstofromoutside myself. Theanswers were not in abookbutwithin. Iwas onmyown.

Soon I began to spendhours at Chezky’s place,

reading his books,listening to his cassettes,watching his videos.Chezky wouldn’t know ituntil years later, butwhatI was doing then washoping for something toget my faith back—andnow any kind of faith,blind or rational, woulddo. A strange thing hadhappened: once Chezkybegan to present rational

argumentsforfaith,Itriedtodisprovethem,andyetIfound that I was rootingnotformysidebutforhis.IcouldfeelthefaiththatIhadclungtoblindlyforsomanyyearsslowlyslippingaway,anditwasthenthatIrealizedthatIwantedmyfaith to be rational. Ineededittoberational.Asif a switch had beenflipped, I realized that I

had lost the ability tosimply accept what I hadbelieved for so long. Ineeded Chezky’s approachtowork.I came to know ahandful of Chezky’s dormmates, students fromLongIsland and St. Louis andLos Angeles, born andraised in secular homes,with maybe a spot ofHebrew school, a lavish

bar mitzvah, but withotherwiselittleattachmentto Judaism. Only nowwere they coming toOrthodox observance,through the very books Iwas reading and the tapesIwas listening to.As theymoved toward deeperreligiosity, I was movingaway.Thesamebooks,thesame lectures, the samevideo presentations by

philosopher-rabbis—thevery things that weredrawing them close werehaving the opposite effectonme.On Saturday mornings,

instead of heading to theseat in shul that I’dpurchasedfor$2,500—andwasstillmakingpaymentson—I would stand withChezky in the foyer, andwe would talk about the

books we were reading. Iwould argue their flaws,no longer because Ithought my faith superiorbut because his kind offaith was quicklybecoming the only kindthatheldanyhopeforme.Ineededforhimtodefendthem. I needed forhim toprove my own argumentswrong.AsmuchasChezkytried, though, I remained

unconvinced.After shul, we wouldwalk home together, andChezky and Iwould standin front of my home onBush Lane, with Gittylooking out from the sideporch.Unabletoletgo,wewouldstillbearguinglongafter the neighbors couldbe heard singing theSabbath hymns throughtheir wide-open windows,

eating their sautéed liverand p’tcha, their chulentand kishke, and thenretiring for their Sabbathafternoon naps. Tziri andFreidy would comewalkingdownthepathwayfrom the side steps of ourapartment.“Tatti,Mommyis waiting.” But Chezkyand I could find noresolution. The questionshad become too urgent,

the flaws in the answerstoo gaping wide.Eventually, we wouldreluctantlyagreetotakeitup again in the evening,when we would meet atthe shul for the afternoonprayers and the rebbe’sfinaltischoftheday.

ChapterFifteen

Among people who losefaith, I would later learn,many point to scientificknowledge as the catalystfor their changedworldviews. I, too, foundmuch of what I learnedtroubling. Wherever Iturned, I discovered that

ideas Ihadonce taken forgranted, trusting in rabbisandsacredtextstoconveyabsolute truths, weredubious at best. Theuniverse was not sixthousand years old butcloser to 14 billion.Humanssharedacommonancestor with apes—andall living things, for thatmatter—and were not theexalted species created by

God’s hand out of clay oftheearthon the sixthdayof Creation. The sages ofthe Talmud, by ourtraditions infallible, weredemonstrably wrong intheir understanding of thenaturalworld.Two great balls of fire

descendedfromheaven,andtheirnameswereAbayaandRava,saidtheoldrebbeofRuzhin. The two great

masters of the Talmud,their names occurring atleast once every threepages, were not humansbut chunks of divinity.Ballsoffire.Reading the Talmudanew, however, Idiscovered that the sageswereasflawedascouldbeexpected of any ancientpeople. They were miredin superstition and

misogynyandxenophobia,which did not necessarilymark them as villains butoffered troublingindications of ordinaryhumanness.Nothing,however,hada

moreshattering impactonmy faith than therealization that, strippedof religious exegesis, ourprimary religious text, theHebrew Bible, had the

markings of human ratherthan divine authorship; itwas beautiful, intricate,layered in poetry andmetaphor and heart-stopping drama, buthumannonetheless.According to the Zohar,

the eleventh-century workthat forms the basic textfor the Judaic mysticaltradition, God gazed uponthe Torah and created the

universe.TheTorah,divineand eternal, was theblueprintforallexistence.Now, however, I couldno longer see it thatway.The very essence of ourfaith, passed down, itwasbelieved, from generationto generation over 3,300yearswithoutchange,wasmost likely a collection ofancient documentsauthored and compiled

and redacted over manycenturies. This was theview of all modern Biblescholars. I didn’t have totake theirword for it, buttheevidencefortheirviewwascompelling.Suddenly,all the strangeness of thistext, the contradictionsand anachronisms andtroublingtalesoffratricideand genocide and greatfamilydramasandtalesof

wondrous miracles, all ofitnowmadesense—butinanentirelynewway.Seenthrough the prism ofhistory and anthropology,buttressed by studies inarchaeology and laid sideby side with other textsfrom the ancient peoplesoftheNearEast,theBiblewas an endlesslyfascinating window intotheworldofourancestors.

Butasabasisfortheology,tome,itsimplyfellshort.

ChezkyandIbegantodriftapart after several years,when it became clear thathe was not troubled bythesemattersas Iwas.Hehad the answers, he said,andhis faith, rational andsound, was strong. Butwhen I sought that samelevel of certainty, I could

notfindit.At one point, Chezky

gave me the name of aMonsey rabbi to speak to.An unusual Hasid, thisrabbi was said to haveread all the greatphilosophers. He knew ofall the challenges to faith,and he knew the answers,too, Chezky said. When Iwent to speak to thisrabbi,though,inthebook-

lined study of his Monseyhome, he could offer melittle.“Oh,it’sallbeenwritten

about,” the rabbi said,when I asked how amerciful God could orderthe genocide of entirenations and how theessential command of ourfaith—youmustbelieveinthe Torah because theTorah declares that you

must—could be somaddeninglycircular.How is it, I asked therabbi, that ourunderstanding of God—benevolent and all-powerful and lovingly,unfailinglyattentivetoourneeds—so convenientlymirrors the ideal qualitieswe seek in humans? Howis it that we attribute toGod feelings such as

sadness and joy andpleasure, and even wantfor our love, when onewould expect anomnipotent andomniscientbeing tobe farremovedfromthequalitiesthat signify the frailty ofhumans?“Asked and answered,”

the rabbi said, as if, onceagain, I was meddling intheaffairsofgreaterminds

thanmine. “It’sa littlebit… childish,” he added,pausing before issuing hisinsult, “to think that yourquestions are anythingnew.” I could see hispatronizing gaze throughthe veil of his benignsmile. “Go learn. Study.And then, if you lookinside your heart, you’llfindthetruth.”Butthatwaspreciselyit.

Myquestionsdidnotstrikeme as novel or profound,but basic and elementary.The evasiveness thatcharacterized so many ofthe responses, from thisrabbi and others,suggestedthattheanswerswereatangledspaghettiofsophistry meant toobfuscate rather thanilluminate. And always,there were instructions to

look further, elsewhere. Ihadn’t read the rightbooks. I hadn’t spoken tothe right people. I wasasked toplacemy trust inauthorities who had notearned such trust—whohad, in fact, declareddemonstrable falsehoodsas truth, distorted ancienttexts to mean things theyclearlydidnot, and recasthistorical events and

figures to align withcurrentideologies.If you look inside your

heart, you’ll find the truth,that rabbi said, and Ilookedinsidemyheartanddiscovered that there wasno truth, anywhere, notinside my heart and notoutside it, only thescalding furnace in whichmy beliefs were nowsmolderingembers.

“Whathappened?”This would be asked

years later by strangers,who, for one reason oranother, would ask to seemyphoto ID.Banktellers.Bartenders.TheladyattheRite Aid store where I’dbuy my Marlboro Lights.Even a policeman whostopped me for a routinespeeding ticket on thePalisades Parkway. The

photo on my driver’slicense would be of aHasid, but before themwould be a bareheaded,beardless man in seculargarb. Usually, I could tellitwascoming.Theywouldlook at the photo, then atme, then back at thephoto.“Thatyou?”I would nod, and theywould look at the photoagain, then ask, casually,

thewayyounoticeastainon someone’s shirt, or abruised chin, or a badhaircut:“Whathappened?”Did you spill your coffee?Did you have a shavingaccident?Didyouforgettoinstructthebarber,walkedinaHasidandcameoutashaygetz?I would offer a curtsmile. “Life.” Or, “Longstory.” What else could I

say?Sometimes I would

imaginetheconversations.IwouldtellthebanktellereverythingI learnedaboutthe ancient Israelites,about the migration fromEgypt that probably neverhappened, about thewallsof Jericho that existed,according toarchaeologists, centuriesafter the Bible declares

that they had fallen. Iwould tell the cop aboutthe United Kingdom ofIsrael—from theMediterranean to theEuphrates—that neverwas.AboutKingJosiah,inthe seventh century BC,whocementedthefaithoftheancientJudaeans fromCanaanite idolatry toJudaicmonotheism.“Youwanttoknowwhat

happened?” I wouldimagine telling thebartenderwiththegaugedearlobe and the tattoo inthe shape of California onherneck.I’dbesittinginagrungy dive in Bushwickand nursing a Pabst,consideringwhethertotellher aboutWellhausen andthe documentaryhypothesis. About Genesisand all the duplicate

narratives; two creationstories, two Adams, twoflood narratives, and howOccam’s Razor teaches usto seek simplicity—multiplehumanauthors ismore plausible than adivine one who lackedbasiceditingskills.I would imagine theseconversations,but Iwouldnot have them. That’s notwant they want to hear, I

wouldsay tomyself.Theywant to hear whathappened. What was theincident?Themomentthatchanged it all. But therewas no moment, no solidlineacrosstimetowhichIcouldpointandsay:That’swhen I became anonbeliever.I often think back to

particular times—aconversationwithafellow

commuter about localelections, an argumentwithmybossaboutaworkproject, the first time Ivisited a barbershop—andwonder: Was I still abelieverthen?In my memory, it is ablur. I had first becomefriendswithChezkyinthespringof1996,whenIwastwenty-two.By2002, Inolonger thought myself a

believer. But within thatperiod of six years, whenwas themoment Ibecameanapikorus?

My memories themselvesare filled withcontradictions.I remember oneparticularweekwithGittyandthechildrenonararefamily vacation, when wetook two rooms at the

Chalet Hotel in theCatskills. It was asprawling property, itsstructures decrepit, thebasketball and tenniscourtsfilledwithtallgrasssticking up from betweenconcrete slabs that had,over the years, as ifslipping and sliding,shifted out of place,sinking into the ground inone corner, rising several

inchesinanother.Decadesbefore, the place hadservedasavacationresortto a more discriminatingclientele, but now it wasadvertised as a summergetaway for Hasidicfamilies, who didn’t needbasketball and tenniscourtsandwerehappyjustto have gourmet kosherfoodandaritualbathandasmallsynagogue.

It must have been thelackofroutinethatgotmethinking. At home, goingto shul was like brushingmyteethorputtingonmyshoes. It was what I did,without giving it muchthought. But away fromhome,Ifeltasuddenneedfor purpose. I had noroutineforgoingtoalittlebungalowshul,worshipingwith strangers, and using

unfamiliar prayer books,and it suddenly all felt sostrange: I am no longer abeliever. Why am I doingthis?Irememberholdingaprayerbookandmumblingthe words of prayer, andthinking: This is pointless.Thereisnoonelistening.Afterward, in thecommunal dining room, Isat with Gitty and thechildren and looked at all

the other families, eachassignedtheirowntable,amodified version of whattheymust’velookedlikeintheir own dining rooms,boys on one side, girls onthe other, some parentssitting side by side whileotherssatatoppositeends.Theycamefromallover—New York, New Jersey,Montreal, families of five,ten, fifteen, men in tall,

stiff shtreimels, womenwearing their best wigsand elegant Shabbosdresses, children inmatching outfits. Aswaitersincrispblackvestsbrought trays of sautéedliver and egg salad andchulent, I looked aroundand wondered: Am I theonly nonbeliever here? Athome,Icouldn’timagineitotherwise, but here,

among strangers, it mademewonder.Andyet,Irememberthe

nightofShavuosthatsameyear, when it wascustomary to stay up allnightstudyingTorah.Isatfor five hours with myfriendMottyoverthelawsof betrothal, the variousways in which a manmight “acquire” a wife,rising from our Talmuds

onlyas the sun’s first rayscame through the tallsynagogue windows. IrememberonthatShavuosmorning feeling as ifnothing mattered but thewonderful pleasure ofspending hours immersedin the scholarlywranglingof ancient precepts.Was Inotabelieverthen,evenasI sat and studied on thenight we celebrated the

givingoftheTorah?I remember only thehaze of months, thenyears, passing as Idesperatelywished formyfaith to return, even as Irealizedthat,likeabrokenporcelain dish, the piecesmight be glued backtogether and the dishmightholdforawhilebutsoon enough it wouldbreak again, along that

verysamecrack.Losing your faith is notlike realizing that you gotan arithmetic problemwrong. It is more likediscovering your entiremathematical system isflawed, that everycalculation you’ve evermade was incorrect. Yourbank balance is off, yourlifesavingsmightbegone,your business could be in

the red when you’veimagined it to beflourishing. Except youseem to be the only onewhorealizesit,andhowisthat possible? Is everyonecrazy?Couldyoureallybethe only sane one?And iftheentireworldgoesbyaflawed system, doesn’t it,in some odd way, makethewrongwayright?Oratleast, there is consistency;

they’re in sync,zigzaggingtogether, while you walkthe straight line all alone.And yet, you know, youknow that you are rightand they are wrong, andthat you can demonstrateit if given the chance, butthey won’t give you thechance. You cannot speakofitbecauseifyoudo,youwill be like the lunaticwho prophesies end-of-

timesdoomandgloom,orlike the one heraldingsome New Age brand ofsalvation and redemption.Passersby can barely bebotheredtosnigger.

The inner turmoil left medizzy with grief over mylostfaith.Iwanteditback.I wanted the feelings ofecstasy I’d had from

reciting Nishmas Kol Chaior singing YedidNefesh. Iwanted to feel the wordsof Torah as, in the wordsoftheTalmud,blackfireonwhite. I wanted to studythe Hasidic texts I hadoncefoundsomuchjoyin,experience again theeuphoria of singing “God,theMasterofAllCreation”with thousands of otherHasidim,andfeelthenear-

tangible presence of thesublime.Butitwasallgone.The comforts of prayer,

too, were no longeravailable. For some years,Itriedtoholdontothem,evenasIwasn’tsuretherewas value to it, clingingparticularly to themeditative experience ofrecitingPsalms.Yetas theyears passed, I began to

seeinthosewordsonlythemounting frustration ofattempting to retrievesomethingIhadlost,evenwhile knowing it wasfutile.Chezkyhadtemptedmewiththerational,andIhad succumbed to itsallure. The universe, as ifinresponse,said:Youwantrational? Well, here’srational. And it removedfrom me all those

irrational but vitalcomforts.Worst of all was therealization that I had tobuild myself a new valuesystem. When everythingyou’ve ever known issuddenly up for question,what are the values youretain and what do youdiscard? What is themeaning of right andwrong when there is no

guidance from a divinebeing? Andmost of all, ifweareallbutaccidentsofmatter and energy, withnogreaterpurposebeyondour immediate naturalneeds,what,then,wasthepointofitall?

PARTIII

ChapterSixteen

In the dining room of ournew home, two men,employed by the movingcompany, werereassembling thebreakfront. One of them,tall and broad-shouldered,was concentrating on thework, a power drill in his

hand and a handful ofscrews in his mouth,pointysidesin.Thesecondman, short and stocky,looked around, vaguelydistracted. Then his gazefellonthetwokidsaroundme.“Hey, there, little guy,”the man said to Akiva,whowasnowalmostthreeand clasped my hand,vaguelyfrightenedofthese

strangers in our strangenewhome.Inmyother arm, I held

one-year-old Hershy, whowas born in November2001. With five children,we’d long outgrown thetwo-bedroom apartmenton Bush Lane, and werenow moving to a newplace one block away, onReagan Road. Finally, wecouldaffordtobuyahome

of our own, two floors,four bedrooms, two and ahalf baths, and our veryown front lawn, with anewly planted Japanesemapleandapairofwhiterosebushes.Theboysand Iwatchedthemovers go about theirwork.Afewminuteslater,thegirlsstompedin,homefrom school, and droppedtheir schoolbags in the

hallway.“All these kids yours?”

the short one asked, hiseyesopeningwide.“Yep.” I tried to look

proud.“Somebrood,”thetaller

one said.The screwswereno longer in his mouth,and now he, too, lookedup from his work. “Yourichorsomethin’?”“No.Buteachandevery

child isablessing,” I said.That was the line, whenoutsidersasked.The men nodded and

pursedtheirlipswithwhatappeared to be tentativeadmiration.It was true, each child

was a blessing. Yet Icouldn’t tell these menthat if I’d have had myway, things would bedifferent.

Gitty and I had talkedabout birth control. Orrather,Ibroughtitup,andGittyalwayshadthesamethree words in response.“It is forbidden.” Herresolute tone declared thediscussionover.I hadn’t known aboutbirth control until yearsafter our marriage. Once,back when we wereexpectingTziri, Iheardan

acquaintance say that, onaverage, Borough ParkHasidim had fewerchildren than otherHasidim. Eight instead oftwelve,themansaid.Iwasbaffled, but tooembarrassed to ask: howdotheydoit?Iknewonlythe barest facts. Sexbrought pregnancy, whichbrought babies, and thatwasthat.Noneofit,asfar

as I knew, was optional.Not even the sex, which,accordingtoJewishlaw,ahusband was to provideweekly—it was all in themarriagecontract.Eventually, I learned

about birth control thewayI learnedaboutmuchofmodernlife:throughtheInternet. I also learnedthat its use was notpermitted. Or permitted

only under specialcircumstances. Orpermitted only by certainrabbis, and our rabbi wasnotoneofthem.After three children, I

thought it would be wiseto take a break, but Gittywouldn’t consider anyform of birth controlwithout rabbinicpermission. Since ourrabbi wouldn’t permit it,

anyrabbiwhowouldwas,ipso facto, not a goodenoughrabbi.After our fourth, I tried

again to reason with her,but Gitty protested thatshewouldfeelnakedifshewasn’t either pregnant orpushing a baby stroller.“People will look at mefunny,” she said, and Isympathized. Who wantstobelookedatfunny?

After our fifth, I finallydeclareditwastime.“Which of them would

yougiveup?”Gittyasked,and we looked at ourchildren, the four olderones around the kitchentable, and Hershy on herhip.WhichwouldIgiveup?We were a family of

sevennow,andIcouldnotimagineitanyotherway.I

loved my children for theways they resembled oneanother,butevenmoreforthe ways in which theyweredistinct.Tziri devoured books.Justlikeme,Iwouldsaytoanyonewholistened.Winsevery spelling bee.Corrects her teacher’sgrammar mistakes. Beatsme at Scrabble. I wasproud when, a year or so

earlier, she leaned in as IreadtheNewYorkTimesatour kitchen table. Ithought she was scanningthe advertisements, untilshe looked up and asked:“Who’s Pope John PaulEye-Eye?” I was proud,though a little concerned.Thepopewas in thenewsbecause of the sex-abusescandals of Catholicpriests, and I began to

worry about what elseTziri might be readingovermyshoulder.Freidy, sixteen months

youngerandeagertostandapart from Tziri, wouldn’ttouchabookunlessitwasabsolutelynecessary—onlyfor schoolwork andprayers.Rosy-cheekedandplump, she was vivaciousand quick with an eagerlaugh. She had more

friends than Gitty and Icould keep track of. “Oh,hello there,niceofyou tovisit again,” I’d say towhatever friend Freidybrought home on Sundayafternoons,imaginingittobe the same as the littlegirl who came last week,and Freidy would hiss atme desperately, “This is adifferentone!”Chaya Suri, five, was a

shy little girl, with big,dark eyes and chestnuthair. She resented beinggrouped with the littleones, but families orientthemselves in naturalways, and such was herlot: earlier bedtimes, thecolorful, cartoon-covereddishes and fat little forks,alwaysbeingshooedawayfrom Tziri and Freidy’scollaborations on arts and

crafts projects orimpromptu danceperformances. Instead,Chaya Suri turned to thelittle boys behind her,showing early signs of atomboyish nature. Later,I’d think of her as aHasidic version of HarperLee’s Scout, skinny andagile and often up in atree, gazing out at theworld from a place in

which no one wouldbotherher.Akiva,three,wasalways

by my side, reaching formy hand, silent, with asmile that could meltstone. A beautiful child,with an angelic face andsilky blond hair, hebrought squeals of delightfrom his dozen aunts andhis many older femalecousins, and often, too,

from strangers on thestreet.Hershy was just atoddler, but within a fewyears, he would show hispersonality,whichwasoneofeffortlessindifferencetoconvention. He was thekind of kid who wouldwear one roller skate butcouldn’t be bothered withtheother,andhe’dgohalf-skating,half-limpingdown

thesidewalk.WhichwouldIgiveup?The thought made mefidget, sending my mindinto a twist for a minute,butof course, therewasadifference betweenpreventingachildthatdidnot exist, andcontemplating which ofour children I wouldrather not have. I wantedthese five, no more, no

less,andnotadifferentsetoffive.Ifwehadasixth,Iwas certain that I wouldlove him or her, as I didthe others; yet the sixthdid not exist, and so Icould imagine lifewithoutit.I tried toexplain this to

Gitty, but she declaredwithfinality:“Idon’twantto talk about it,” andtransferredanotherloadof

laundry from the washertothedryer.If we could not talk

about it, only one optionwas left. The nuclearoption. The Samsonoption. I felt like a badhusband,awronghusband,lacking some essentialmasculine quality. Menwere supposed to wantsex, always, regardless oftheconsequences—that,at

least,waswhatIhadreadon the Internet—andperhaps I wasn’t sodifferent either, exceptthat Iwasnotpreparedtohave another child. I wasno longer a believer, andin some far recess of mymind, I wondered if Imight one day leave thislifestyle behind. I had nosuchplans—itdidn’t seemeven remotely possible—

but I knew that, shouldthat dream become apossibility, having morechildrenwasthefirstthingnottodo.More than anything,though, we simply didn’thave the resources. Eachchild brought newexpenses—food andclothes and school tuitionand extra bedrooms andLego sets and colorful

pencil cases and, soonenough, there would bebar mitzvahs andweddings, exorbitantexpenditures that causedrelentlessanxietyforeveryHasidicmanthroughthreedecadesofmiddleageandoftenfarbeyond.Itsimplymade no sense to letnaturetakeitscourse,soIpresented Gitty with anultimatum. Without a

reliable method of birthcontrol, we would ceaseour twice-weeklypostmidnightamusements.

Whether it was theultimatum itself, or therealization of how muchthis trulymattered tome,Gitty finally relented. If Icouldfinda“real”rabbi—notsomeEnglish-speaking,clean-shaven, university-

degree-holding one, butone close enough to ourkind—she would accept adispensation, if it wasgranted.I called Chezky, whogave me the name of justsuch a rabbi. This rabbihadquiteabeard,Chezkysaid, with not a hairtrimmed,asfarashecouldtell. The rabbi spokeYiddish, too. He had

studied at the finestLithuanian yeshivas inJerusalem, but never, toanyone’s knowledge, hadsetfootinauniversity.“Andhe’seasy,”Chezky

said.“Herulesbylaw,notideology.”Easywasgood,andsoa

fewnightslater,Idrovetothe Monsey address I’dwrittenonaPost-itnote,asmall ranch house on

Calvert Drive, just acrossthe street from the rabbi’sshul.Iwatchedasatrickleof men left after eveningprayers, and then mademy way up the drivewayto the side door. Hangingfrom the doorknob was awhite supermarket plasticbag, in which thereseemed to be a pair ofwomen’sunderwear.“What is the problem?”

the rabbi asked, after heinvited me into hisbasement study andshowed me to a metalfolding chair opposite hisdesk. Large photos ofLithuanian sages gracedthe walls, as if to remindboth rabbi and supplicantwhotherealauthoritywasintheroom.The problem, I told therabbi, was that I didn’t

think it sensible to keephaving children without aresponsibleplanonhowtoprovide for them. I hadspent years struggling tofindajob,andwhileIwasnowdoingwellfinancially,the stresses of providingfor five children wasburden enough. I didn’tthinkIhaditinmeforsix,twelve,orseventeen.The rabbi tapped his

fingers impatiently on hisdesk. “Parnosse kumt funhimmel,” he said. God hasthe financial plan. Thiswas not the concern ofmortals.This was unexpected.

Chezkyhadsaidthisrabbiwaseasy.Thiswasclearlynot easy. I tried to restatethe problem, usingdifferent words,gesticulating foremphasis,

but the rabbi wasunmoved. He shruggedandshookhisheadlightly.“Eh,”hesaid.Therewas something in

hismanner, however, thatsuggested he could betalkedintothis.Heseemedlikeanaffablefellow,withabroadsmile,andIhadavague notion that his curtresponses were deliberate,as if to elicit fromme the

right words. I could notleave without thenecessary dispensation,but what were the rightwords? I rackedmy brainfor the kinds ofcircumstances for whichJewishlawallowedspecialaccommodations. Then itdawned onme:make it ahealth problem. Healthproblems could always becounted on for loopholes

inthelaw.AndsoIofferedalie.“Thetruthis,”Itoldtherabbi, “my wife just can’ttake any more of it. Shefeelslikeshe’sgoingoutofher mind. It’s just toomuch.” I told the rabbithatmywifewassufferingfrom depression and avariety of other ailments,and was emotionally andphysically spent. “She just

…” I paused, and sigheddeeply,hopingtolooksadand convincing. “She …needsabreak.”Nowitwaseasy.“That’s a differentmatter,” the rabbi said,and he shook his headwithagravelysympatheticexpression.“Ifyourwifeisstressed,thatisn’tgoodforthe marriage and it isn’tgoodforthechildren.And

it isn’t good for you,either,” he added with awink and a twinkle in hiseye.He promptly proceededto explain the options.“Condoms are neverpermitted.Butshecanusespermicide gel,contraceptive pills, or anIUD.” He gave me therundown on how they allworked, as if he were a

doctor, describing thebenefits and drawbacks ofeach.“Ifyouusegel,”hesaid,“itmustbeinsertedshortlybefore the act.” The rabbishook his head from sideto side a couple of times,as if considering somethorny legal matter. “Theproblemwithgel isthat itcan spoil the mood. Youunderstand what I’m

saying?”TheGreatSageofJerusalem looked out atmegravelyfromabovetherabbi’shead.Ifeltgleeful,triumphant—I’d tricked the law ontomy side. Just as I wasabouttoleave,though,therabbihelduphishand.“This isn’t for usingindefinitely.”Hewantedtomake sure I understood.“She can use it for a year

or two. Then come back,and we’ll discuss itfurther.”A year or two was astart,Ithought,althoughIdid wonder about theparameters. “How longmustonecontinuetohavechildren?” I asked as therabbi escorted me to thedoor. “What’s the upperlimit?”“There is no upper

limit,” he said. He quoteda passage in the Bible: Inthe morning thou shalt sowthy seed, and in the nightthoushaltnotrestthyhand.“As long asnature allows.Eachchildisablessing.”

AsIdrovehome,mygoodfeelings subsided. Yes, Ihadtherabbi’spermission,butIhadliedforit,andifI was going to lie, I

could’ve lied years ago. Icould’ve just told Gittythat I had receivedpermission from our ownrabbi. Gitty would neverhave known. In her entirelife,shehadn’tspokentoarabbi,not evenonce—thiswas a husband’s job,exclusively.Itoldmyselfthatmylie

was not the same as notgoingtoarabbiatall.This

was a smaller lie. Softerand whiter, and I couldkeep a straight face moreeasilywhenIdeliveredtheruling to Gitty. AlthoughI’d elicited permissionunder false pretenses, thepretense was that it wasforGitty’ssake.Didn’tthatgive it a redemptivequality,maybe?Yet it was no smallcomfort to me when I

realizedthattocontinuetoliveinthiscommunityandwithin this marriage, as Inegotiated my own needsin accordance with mysecret nonbelief, lieswouldbeanecessity.Soonenough, my lies wouldbecome routine, thedestiny of anyone in mycircumstances: I was ahereticamongbelievers.

Late one afternoon in thefollowing year, I wassitting on the MonseyTrails bus on my wayhome from work, hopingforanhourofreadingandmaybeashortnap.Amannamed Moshe Wolf, withwhom I was vaguelyfriendly and had seenaround Monsey, boardedthebusandheadedto theemptyseatbesideme.

“Vus machsti epes, vus?”he asked as he placed hisbriefcase on the overheadrack. “How you doing,how?”HewasaferventSatmarHasid,andhespokewithalinguistic tic commonamong certain Satmars,repeating the firstwordattheendofeachsentence.Howyoudoing,how?What’sup,what?

Anything new in theworld,anything?I grimaced inwardly.Moshe Wolf wassomething of a gabber.There go my readingplans, I thought. And mynap. From my previousinteractions with him, Iknewhe styledhimself anamateur sociologist-slash-political pundit. HisYiddish was heavily

pepperedwith big Englishwords:he likedantithetical(“aunty-tetical”) andideologue (“idyeh-lug”).Hehad a fondness forpolitician-intellectuals,likeSenators Daniel PatrickMoynihan and AdlaiStevenson. I would oftensee him at the Getty gasstationonRoute59,eatinga bowl of chulent whilereadingtheNewYorkPost,

whichwouldbespreadonthehoodofhiscar.Hewasan odd combination ofworldly and pious, andwhile I sometimes foundhim entertaining, I wasn’teagertoengagehimatthemoment.“What are you reading,what?” he asked as hemade himself comfortablenexttome.Heleanedintoreadthetitleat the topof

the page. I flipped thefrontcover forhisbenefit,andhereaditoutloud,inhis heavily accentedEnglish: One People, TwoWorlds: A Reform Rabbiand an Orthodox RabbiExplore the Issues ThatDivideThem.“Whatisthemeaningof

this,what?”As the bus snaked its

way through traffic into

the Lincoln Tunnel, Ioffered a quick overviewofthebook.Asthesubtitleexplained, itwas adebatebetween two rabbis aboutthe merits of theirrespectiveworldviews, theliberal versus thetraditional. The book hadbeen recently publishedand widely written aboutinJewishpublications.MosheWolf’s eyes grew

narrow. “I don’tunderstand,”hesaid.“Thisis interesting for you,this?”Isaidthatitwas.“But you’re reading theotherguy,too,but.”Theotherguy,Iassumed,wastheReformrabbi,andso I explained to MosheWolf that Iwascurious toheardifferentviews.Iwasfascinated by varieties of

opinion.I remember his steely

lookasmywordssank in.He was clearly growingunsettled, and I chuckledreflexively,mildlyamused.To Moshe Wolf, however,this was no laughingmatter.“This is kefireh, this!

Apikorsus!” His voice wasstrangely,alarminglyhigh-pitched. “This is heresy,

this! How can you readthis, how?” His voicerising, he begangesticulating wildly. “Thisis a rabbi, this? How canhespeaktoaheretic?Whodoeshethinkheis,who!”“Shh, quiet down,please.” We wereattracting stares fromother passengers, and Iwasgrowinguneasy.Ihadbeen amused, for a short

moment, but now I wasannoyed. Yet I could notstop him. My responses,clearly, were onlymakingthingsworse.Moshe Wolf’s eyeballsnowappearedlikespitfiresof rage. What had startedas a low insistent whineerupted into maniacalshrieking: “KEFIREH!APIKORSUS! HOW CANYOU READ THIS, HOW?

THIS IS FORBIDDEN,THIS!”The bus fell silent.

Passengers stood up intheirseatstohaveabetterlook. Moshe Wolf,realizing Iwasn’t going toengage him further, greweven more enraged, hisfacebrightpurple.Allofasudden, he was on top ofme, lunging for the book,wrestling me for it, his

longarmsapairofclumsybut furious tentacles. Iheld on to the book, andforafewsecondswehadatug-of-war, like a pair offirst-graders.Thisisstupidand ridiculous and morethan a little comical, Ithought, but Moshe Wolfclearly thought otherwise.With a sideways shove ofmy elbow against hischest, I managed to wrest

the book from his grip,and then grabbed mybriefcase and shoved pasthim into the aisle.Dozensof eyes watched as Iheadedtowardthebackofthe bus, and all thewhileMosheWolfkeptshouting:“KEFIREH! APIKORSUS!HERESY!BLASPHEMY!”I found a seat in therear, and for severalminutes, I could hear

Moshe Wolf carrying ondowntheaisle.“Whodoeshe think he is, who?Reading a heretical book,he is reading! Right infront of our eyes, he isreading it!” Some of theothermenturnedtoregardme, holding my gazeunself-consciously,astare-down of the righteousagainstthewicked.The bus continued past

the New JerseyMeadowlands and up theNew Jersey Turnpike,arrivinginMonsey.I triedtokeepreadinginmyseatin the back—todemonstrate to myself, ifto no one else, that Iwouldnotbecowed—butIwas shaken by MosheWolf’sreaction.Asthebusbegan dropping offpassengers in Monsey, I

realized that I had beenstaring at the words foralmost an entire hourwithout reading any ofthem.At home, over dinner, I

told Gitty about theincident, and she listenedquietly. When we weredone eating, as shereachedtoclearourplatesoff the table, she lingereda moment. Her face

flushed, as when she feltembarrassed,andthenshelookedaway.“Maybe he was right,”shesaidasshestackedouremptyplatesoneontopoftheother.“Maybeit’sbestnottoreadthosebooks.”In the weeks thatfollowed, I wonderedaboutMosheWolf,whomIhad always taken to besomewhatworldly and, in

fact, of above-averageintelligence. This incidenthighlighted something Ihad often thought: themost vociferous advocatesfor unthinking adherenceto principles, the onesinclinedtoprotestloudest,perhaps even to resort toviolence, were notnecessarily those with theweakest minds. In fact, itwas often those with

superior minds whooffered the strongestreactions,asifbydoingso,they closed their ownminds with that force,precisely because theywere more attuned to thechallenges.Zeal compensates for

fear. A soldier is whippedinto a jingoistic frenzybefore battle—becausehow else does one

withstand the fear ofdeath?Thereligiouszealotwho shouts, beats, andkillsisperhapsnottheonewho is secure with hisfaithbuttheonewhoissofearful of the challenges,so aware of the ficklenessof conviction, that he hasno choice but tostrengthen it with thedrumbeat of mindlessfanaticism.

If you don’t belong in NewSquare, you just stay out.That’s just how it is. ThosewerethewordsofMattthecar mechanic, from yearsearlier. I rememberedthem now, and theysounded strangelyprescient, except that itwasn’t just New Square Ididn’t belong in but all oftheHasidicworld.

Several weeks after theincident on the bus, Iheard of a Williamsburgmanbeaten for leadinganInternet group in whichmatters of faith wereraised for discussion. Oneday, the forum closeddown, and the rumorspassedviae-mailfromonegroupmember to another.Themanwas lured into aWilliamsburg office late

one night, and beaten byWilliamsburg’s VaadHatznius, the ModestyCommittee. Was it true?No one knew for certain.Several days later,someone suggested thatthe man was beaten notfor heresy but for sexualindiscretions. But did thereasonmatter?Iknewthatsuch incidents were notoutof theordinary,and it

reinforced what I alreadyknew: I would have tokeepmyownviewssecret.It was hard to keepmyanxiety at bay, though,and over the followingmonths, my mind wentinto a tailspin through agallery of horrors. Iimagined walking downthe streets of our village,or stepping into the largeshulinthevillage’scenter,

and people around mestaring in silence: theregoes the apikorus. Iimagined a letter in themailinformingmethatmychildren were expelledfrom school. I imaginedGitty’sparentsandsiblingsturning away in mypresence, their disgracedson-and brother-in-law. Iimagined a vehicle withtinted windows driving

alongsidemeonthestreet,a group of men, VaadHatzniusmembers,pullingmeinsideandtakingmetoan unknown location forinterrogations. I imaginedGitty discovering that Iwas no longer a believeranddecidingshecouldnotlive with a heretichusband. Estrangementfrom my children wouldfollow, expulsion from the

community,excommunication.On the Monsey Trails

bus towork, Iwould lookaround to see who elsemightbepayingattention.Did anyone notice that Ino longerprayedwith therest of the men? Wasanyone else payingattention to what I wasreading? I tried to tellmyself that no one really

cared, that Moshe Wolfwas an exception, abusybody who pried andintruded but that mostothers were not like that.ButIalsoknewthatinourworld, people paidattention even withoutpayingattention.When my brother

Mendy married in thesummerof2002,Iledhimto the wedding canopy in

place of our father. As Iwalked him to thecourtyard of a Monseyyeshiva that doubled as awedding hall, a braidedbeeswax torch inmy righthand, my left armentwined in his right, Ilooked around and feltsomething I hadn’t fullygraspeduntilthatmoment:Iwasafraud.I saw the faces of those

around me, watching as Iguidedmybrother towardcreatinghisFaithfulHomeAmong Israel, and sawwhat I imagined everyonemust have seen: a liar, aman pretending to bepious, to be sharing theirfaith, when in my heart Iwas an apostate. At thesame time, I imaginedmyfraudtobeineffective,theword apikorus branded on

my forehead, with thosearound me, as a dubiouscourtesy, withholdingcondemnationuntilamoreopportunemoment.

ChapterSeventeen

The deep, dark secretwasthreatening to burst. Ifound myself consumedwith anger and bitterness,thestressesofadoublelifechanneled into day-to-dayirritabilityandresentment.

The Internet provided asmall remedy, atherapeutic outlet throughwhich toexpresswhat feltlike an unending innerbattle over how tonegotiate mycircumstances. Interactingwith others online helpedtosolidifymyidentityasaheretic, lending me theconfidence to accept theside of myself that I had

beensuppressing.Early on, the big draw

was chat rooms, where Ifell into long debates onmatters of religion. Later,when I discovered Usenetnewsgroups, I foundmoreof the same, except thatnowIwouldencounternotonly Jews but alsoCatholics and Protestants,Muslims and Buddhists.Soon I was in steady

correspondence withpeople whose worlds,utterlystrangetome,werealsoutterlyfascinating.It wasn’t long before Idiscoveredmy own fellowtravelers. We found oneanother, scattered acrossvarious discussion groups,and proceeded to createour own: “Hasidic andEnlightened,” “FrumSkeptics.” One Hebrew

forum for raisingchallenging questionsabout faith was called“Stop! We’re ThinkingHere.” All of us werehiding in our homes andoffices, seeking forbiddenknowledge and forbiddenconnections. From acrosstheworld,BrooklyntoTelAviv, Montreal toAntwerp, from all sectsand subgroups, we were

abletosaytooneanother:I,too,amaskingforbiddenquestions.And yet, paranoia

reigned. We stuck to ourhandles, never divulgingidentifying details. Younever knew who was aspy, and the fear ofexposure permeated alldiscussions. Lives couldend in ruin from onecarelesslyslippedremark.

“Youknowanythingaboutthisblogsthing?”Iaskedacoworkeroneday.We were discussing areportinthenews:Google,thesearchgiantstillbarelyfive years old, hadpurchaseda small start-upcompany that created atool for something I hadnever heard of before.Blogs. It sounded likesomethingoutofafantasy

novel, vaguely MiddleEarth-y. Frodo Bagginsmightgetstuckinone.Ormaybefightingone.“They’re like diaries,”

mycoworkersaid.Hewasa fellow programmer, ourworkstations face-to-face,and he always seemed toknow about tech thingsbefore I did. “But they’reonline,” he added. “Sothey’re open to the

public.”A public diary sounded

both strange andintriguing. The journals Ihad kept throughadolescence were filledwith embarrassingruminations,confessionsofenvyandshameandburstsofself-loathing.Iwould’vebeenhorrifiedhadanyoneread them. Yet I wouldwriteasifforanaudience,

crafting careful sentences,adding a literary flourishhere, a flash of humorthere, as if nothing wastruly worth writing if itwasn’tworthreading.It turned out that blogs

weren’t exactly diaries, atleastnottheblogsIwouldcome across. It was early2003,andGeorgeW.Bushwas preparing the nationfor the invasion of Iraq.

“Shock and awe” was thecatchphrase of the season,and debate raged amongbloggers, as amongeveryone else, aboutwhether the militarycampaign was righteous,opportunistic, orfoolhardy. Instapundit, apopular political blog—which soon inspired theIsrapundit and theInstaConfused—

epitomized the trend:ordinary folks bypassingcorporate media andpublishing, the traditionalgatekeepersofourculturaldiscourse, and gainingpopularfollowings.All atonce, therewasa

whole world of them.LittleGreenFootballs,Alasa Blog, IMAO. From theleft and from the right. Incommentary, political

cartoons, angry rants,stories, photography,amateur journalism. Mostintriguing to me was anemergingJewishcornerofthe “blogosphere.” Therewas the Head Heeb(“knocking down 4000years of icons”); AnUnsealed Room (“awindowon life in Israel”);Protocols (three “elders,”“endeavoring for total

domination of theblogosphere”). Theyargued and they kibitzed,and they argued somemore. They had readerswhocommented,andtheycommented on oneanother, and togethercreated a kind ofcommunity.IknewIcouldbeoneof

them.Icouldtellstories.Ihadopinions.All Ineeded

wasatheme.Andreaders.

Ever since I was young, Ihad secretly dreamed ofbeingawriter.Asachild,Ifilled notebooks withfragments of stories,disjointedscenesinvolvingan ordinary Hasidic boywho wanted to beextraordinary. One day, Ihoped,Iwouldstitchitalltogether intoagreatwork

of literature, and itwouldbe sold in all Hasidicbookstores acrossBrooklyn.Atfourteen,Itriedtoset

down the outlines of myautobiography—Iimagined I’d fill it inoverthe years. Throughout myyearsinyeshiva,insteadofTalmudcommentaries, thetraditionalobsessionof anaspiring young rabbinical

student,Iwrotepagesandpages of philosophicalmusings in florid rabbinicHebrew. I would scribblethem on loose-leaf sheets,then stick them betweenthe pages of whateverTalmud volume I wasstudying. I would fill somany of them that, yearslater, they would comeslipping frombetween thepageseachtimeItookone

of those volumes off theshelf, scatteringacross thegleaming hardwoodparquetofourliving-roomfloor.In theearlyyearsofmy

marriage, I wrote Yiddishessays. They were onreligious themes, mostly,and for a long time, Ishowed them to no one,until one day I sent anessay, in longhand on

severalloose-leafsheets,toa local Yiddishpublication,Maalos. I wasproud of the piece. I hadwoven together severaldisparate elements—a taleof an old Hasidic master,several Bible verses, ateaching from a favoritework on Hasidism—andframed them with apersonal situation: I washaving trouble with my

toddler daughter. Inparticular,Iwasfrustratedthatmydaughterpreferredherplaythingstobouncingon my lap. God, too, Iwrote,wisheswe’d come toHim. Butwe humans preferoursillyplaythings.When at first I heardnothing from thepublication, I figured theydidn’t much care for it.Threemonthslater,paging

through the latest issue ofMaalos, I discovered asmallnoticeatthebottomofoneofthepages.Toso-and-so who sent the essayabout his daughter: We’vemisplaced your essay alongwith your contact info.Pleasecallus.WhenIcalled,awomanaskedifIcouldresendthepiece. “It was sobeautiful!” she said, and

offered fifty dollars for it.“Isthatacceptable?”Ihadnotexpectedtobe

paid. I could scarcelybelieve it was accepted.Payment arrived severalweeks later: two third-party checks, along withseven dollars in cash. Theessay was published amonth later with oneminor revision: theyswitchedthegenderofmy

child. I felt chastised. Ishould’ve known that towritesoexpressivelyaboutloving my female childviolated some unspokenmatterofpropriety.Within a year after

purchasing my firstcomputer, I becameconsumed with computertechnology, and I soonforgot the pleasures ofwriting.Ithoughtmyselfa

computer expert, andplaced an ad in a localbulletin announcing that Iwas available to teachprivate computer lessons.A Hasidic man inMonseyhiredmetoteachhimhowto use Microsoft Windowsand Word and Excel. Wesat in his basement officefor several hours, and Idemonstrated how to usedropdown menus, how to

copyandpaste,howtouseprint and save commands.His eyeswere glazed overmost of the time, but hepaid me handsomely, andinsisted that I come backformore.After three dayswith him, the man’s wife,a matronly Hasidicwoman,camedowntothebasement.“YouareShulemDeen?”sheasked.

I said that I was. Shestood at the edge of theroom, maintaining aproper distance. I couldhear the ruckus of a largefamily upstairs. It wasdinnertime, and the manhadtoldmeearlierthathehadadozenchildren.“I’m the publisher of

Maalos,” the woman said.“That piece you wroteseveral years ago—it was

so beautiful! Could youwritemoreforus?”But I could no longerwriteforMaalos. Iwasnolonger sure about thethingsIbelieved,couldnolonger write withconviction about lovingGod, about Torah studyand prayer. I could nolonger quote Hasidic textswith any real reverence.Doubtful of all that I’d

been taught, Iwouldhavenothing to say to readerswho expected moralityfables and homilies onbiblicalandrabbinictexts.

Ablogwouldallowme toget back to writing, but Iwasn’t sure what I couldwrite about. Clearly, Iwould not be offeringreligious messages. For amoment,IthoughtImight

write about politics, ormaybe the Mideastconflict. I could rant, likedozens of other AmericanJewish and Israelibloggers,abouttheworld’sunfair attitude toward theJewishstate.ButnowIfeltconflicted about that, too.When I had firstencounteredtheInternet,Ihad been a staunchsupporter of the State of

Israel.Istilllovedthelandand its people, and yet, Ihad begun to feel uneasy.Decades of Palestiniansuffering and theoccupation of their landscould no longer beignored, justified in thename of security. Icouldn’t possibly offer myopinions, if they werealways changing, stillunformed.

Yet blogs were clearlyan opportunity. Bloggerwas handing them out forfree. The least I could dowastakeone.I created a Bloggeraccount, and named myblog “My Blog.” In thesidebar, I wrote: “ShulemDeen’s Blog.” I placedmypersonal e-mail addressnext to it. And thenpromptly forgot all about

it.

One Sunday in April, thenews spread through NewSquare about disturbancesin Williamsburg. Tensionhad been mounting forweeks. An eruv, thepractice of stringing wiresfrom one pole to anotherto create an enclosedspace, utilizing a loopholeintheSabbathlawstoturn

a public domain into aprivate one, had beenerected around theneighborhood by some ofWilliamsburg’sHasidim.InJewish communities allover the world, fromJerusalem to Montreal toNew Square, eruvs werecommon practice. Thisallowed people to carryitems out of their homeson the Sabbath, on which

it would otherwise beforbidden. Young couplescould bring food homefrom their parents,mothers could take theirbabies out in theirstrollers. The wheelchair-bound could betransported to thesynagogue.The Satmar Hasidim

objected. Their rebbe hadruled thataneruv inNew

York City was forbidden.That week, around noonon Saturday, hundreds ofSatmar men, cloaked intheir white-and-blackstriped prayer shawls,marched throughWilliamsburg crying,“Shabbos! Shabbos!”Bedford and Lee Avenueswere linedwith thousandsof New York police, butthat didn’t stop some of

the Satmar men fromspittingandhurlinginsultsatthosewhoviolatedtheirrebbe’s ruling. Fisticuffsbroke out here and there,and,according to theNewYorkTimes, fivemenwerearrested.This incidentcameafterseveralmonthsofsporadicviolencetowardthosewhorelied on the eruv, andnow I could no longer

containmyself.Outraged,Iturned to my blog. I hadno readers, as far as Iknew, but my intestinesfeltlikeacauldronofrage,andIneededanoutlet.Someone needs to showthe Satmars that theirterrorism won’t work in theland of the free and thehomeofthebrave.Americawas forHasidim, too; andso the eruv proponents,

too,hadarighttopracticetheir religion as theychose, without fear ofharassment by theSatmars.A few hours later, Iforgot about the Satmars.Now Iwas thinking abouthowelseImightmakeuseof the blog. I checkedmyvisitor logs to see ifanyone had readmy rant,but other than my own

visits, the logs remainedempty.Trying to think ofsomething insightful toshare, I wrote in my nextpost.Nothingsofar.Later that day, I wroteabout a book I wasreading.Soonafter,Ihadadisappointing meetingwith a prospectiveemployer. I was supposedtobehired for anew job,

with a significant salaryincrease.Ihadbeenallbutassured of it, but theprospectfellthrough.Theywere not hiring, theydecidedatthelastminute,and I went to sleep thatnight terribly upset. Thenext morning, I bloggedabout how disappointed Iwas over not getting thatjob.Sodisappointed,thatIwas staying home from

worktorecover.Called in sick to worktoday, I announced to theworld. I hoped that myboss wasn’t reading. Ichecked my visitor logs—still empty. My bossclearlywasn’treading,andneitherwasanyoneelse.That afternoon, Ithought back to the eruvdisturbance. I thoughtaboutthewaysourHasidic

societykeptpeopleinline.Wecouldcontrolnotonlythe masses but even theleaders. The eruvwas nota rebellious project by afringe group; it wassupported by prominentHasidic rabbis. As far asanyone knew, they wereGod-fearing men. Except,in that narrow grid,between Lee and Bedford,from Broadway to

Heyward, there was onlyoneway to fear God. TheSatmar way. And theSatmars were willing touseviolencetoensurethateveryoneknewit.But these attitudeswere

notlimitedtoSatmar.Thesame rabbis who were infavor of the eruv werethemselves part of thestructure that demandedconformity on everything

else. In Skver, violencewas used to enforcecommunal norms. InVizhnitzandinGerandinBelz and among so manyother sects, there werealways rumors of similarincidents. It was how ourworld worked. We keptpeopleinlinebywhatevermeanspossible.Whatkindofworldwasthis? And who could

possiblysaveus?

George W. Bush, that’swho.ThatwasthethoughtI had on that Mondayafternoon in April 2003.George W. Bush, I wrote,should’ve sent troops toNew York’s Hasidicneighborhoods. IfAmericans were soinsistent on spreadingfreedom,therewereplaces

closertohomethatneededit. Before we went off tobring democracy toAfghansandIraqis,maybeWilliamsburg and NewSquare could be liberatedfirst.As military campaigns

go, mine was perhapsweakly conceived. Abattalion of U.S. Marinesmarching throughWilliamsburg or New

Square wasn’t likely toimpress the rabbis. Therewere no statues to topple,noinsurgentswithIEDsorRPGs, and no nation-buildingtoembarkon.ButIwasfedup,andIwantedtheworld to know that inour dark corner of theworld, right in themiddleofNewYork, therewas infact very little freedom. Iwanted to shout it to the

world, and I didn’t carewhoheardme.Actually, on secondthought, I did care. Amoment after I clicked“Publish,” I reread mypost. It was fourparagraphs long and veryclearly expressed criticismofmyowncommunity,myownpeople.Mynameande-mail address were rightthereintheopen.

Thisisn’tgood,Ithought.Someone isn’t going to likethis,and I’mgoing toget introuble. I should take myname off, maybe.Anonymity! That was it.Andwhynot?ThiswastheInternet. I drummed myfingers on my desk andtried to think quickly. Ineededaname,anyname.“HasidicRebel.”That’sit!Icanalwayschangeitlater.

Then the readers came.First in the dozens, thenhundreds, and soonthousands.My visitor logsgrew and grew, thenumbers rising, doublingand tripling by the day.Across the Internet, Ifound other bloggers wholinked to me, excitedly,with a discovery theyseemed to thinkastonishing: “Look at this!

A Hasid writing in secretabout his insular world.”Apparently,peoplewantedto read about my world,anditappearedthatIhadacompellingenoughvoiceto bring them back formore.It was magical. Every

day, another link wouldpop up somewhere. TheYada Yada Yada Blog andtheHeadHeebandAllison

inAnUnsealedRoomandthe elders over atProtocols,allofthemwerelinking to the “HasidicRebel.”“Fascinating stuff.” “Aunique perspective.” “Arebelwithacause.”It gave me theencouragement to keepwriting,about thepartsofmy life that I loved andthe parts that frustrated

me to no end. I wroteabout my wife and aboutmykids.Iwroteabouttherebbe. Iwrote aboutwhatitmeanttoliveasaHasid,within and around NewYorkCity,bothaspartofabroader culture and also,tenaciously, grittily,distinctfromit.The anonymity allowedme to be critical, but Itried to write honestly.

There were things aboutmyworldthatIstillloved,and I wrote about themalong with our extremistpractices and thenarrowness of ourworldview,thefrustrationswith which I was nowconsumeddayandnight.Iwroteaboutthestressesoftrying to embracemodernity and aspects ofoutside culture while

living in a world sosteeped in tradition. Iwrote about hidingvideotapes after secretruns toBlockbuster, aboutsneaking my daughtersinto the library, about thewondersofarebbe’stisch,and about Hasidichitchhikers who didn’tapprove of the music Iplayedinmycar.Readers could not get

enough. And yet, I couldnot tell my readerseverything.I could not expressoutright heresy. Mypersonawas still one of abeliever, despite mycriticalviews.Questionsoffaith,Ibelieved,requiredamore solitary struggle, asearch within, not oneaired for publicentertainment and

submitted to the rapid-firebursts of Internetcomments. I believe inGodand the Torah, I wrote inonepost,evenasIknewitwas not true, not really.Even under anonymity, Icould not yet sayotherwise. To declaremyselfahereticwasastepso terrifying and so boldthat I couldnot say it outloud, even to myself.

Apikorus. Heretic. It wassuchanawful,awfulword.Shamefulandwicked.AndI still desperately hoped,deepinsideme,thatIwasnotone.

ChapterEighteen

At first, I told Gittynothing about the blog. Iwanted to tell her, and Iknew that I wouldeventually, but the rightmoment felt elusive. Wehad just barely recovered

from a difficult episode:onlyseveralweeksearlier,I had purchased atelevisionset.It was a shock to Gitty,the day she discovered it.ItwasaSunday,andIhadgone to Costco, where I’dnoticed the tall pile ofcartonsonfourpallets,32-inchmodels,$39.99.Ihadwanted to get one for along time but had feared

Gitty’s reaction. Now Icouldn’t resist. I placed acarton in my cart, andpicked up a package ofrabbit-ear antennas a fewaisles down. I covered itall in a large black trashbag in thebackofmycarandbroughtithome.Ilaidthe television set on thedining-room floor, stillwrapped in the bag, andshutthedoor.

An hour later, Gittywalked into the diningroom. Ten seconds latershe emerged, her facefrozen.Forthreedays,shekept silent. She cookedmeals, fed the kids, didlaundry,butshewouldnotsayawordtome.On the third day, Isnapped. “Stop acting likeachild,”Isaid.She broke her silence

with a scream: “ATELEVISION … IN MYHOME!”It burst from her like a

force of nature. A shriekthat even she could nothave anticipated. For amoment, her facecontorted into somethinggrotesque, and then sheturned away, toward thekitchen sink, a dish towelin her hand. Behind the

sink was a window, andshe stood there, hercontrolled posture frombehind looking almostpeaceful, as if she wasgazingout at thebirds, atthe sky. From the tinytremors of her body andher shoulders, though, Icould tell that she wassobbing. A moment later,she ran from the kitchen,hidingherfaceinherarm,

and locked herself in ourbedroom.

The violence of Gitty’sreaction shook me. Overthe years, she had begunto accept that I hadchanged. We had justpassed a decade ofmarriage. For our tenthanniversary, we spent ararenightout,diningatakosherItalianrestaurantin

Monsey.Wehadlearnedalot about each other, howto stay out of the other’sway when things weretense and draw closerwhen themoodwas light.There was little passionbetweenus,but therewasreal feeling. Andsometimes,evenlove.Still,conflictsconstantly

arose. Barely a weekpassed when our

differences would notstandincontrast,andeachtime, I felt resentment allover again toward thosewho had brought ustogether.“Thisisn’thowImarried

you,” she would say,sometimes in anger butalso on occasion tenderly,hereyespleading.“It’snotfair,”shewouldsay,andasingle tear would trickle

down the curve of hernose.And yet, we’d made it

work so far. I imaginedthat,aswiththeradioandbooks andmovies and theInternet, the TVwould bejust another boundary tocross, not easily butinevitably.I had misjudged.

Television was a taboo soentrenched that to violate

it was nearlyinconceivable. Televisionwas the symbol of all theoutside culture we weremeant to avoid. TheInternet might havebecometherealculpritforcorrupting minds, but thetelevision had been, fordecades, de tumeneh keili.The profane vessel. Soabhorrent that manywould not even utter its

name.

I was almost prepared toreturn the TV to Costco,butafewdaysafterGitty’soutburst,wetalkeditover.She was still angry butalso forgiving. “If youwant tokeep it,”shesaid,“I won’t stop you. But Iwill never watch anythingwith you. And don’t youdare let the children see

it.”She said it as if sheknew what was coming—that once she gave in, Iwould not be content totransgressalonebutwouldtry to get her to join me,and then I’d try to reel inthe kids. This hadhappened before. When Ifirst began to watchmovies,rentingDVDsfromBlockbuster and playing

them on my laptopcomputer in the darknessof our dining room, sherefused to join me. Formonths, I would ask,plead, tease, promise tochoose somethingwith noobjectionable content, nonudity or violence orprofanity, until finally sherelented, even as shesworethatwewouldneverlet our children join us,

ever.The old computer

cabinetinourdiningroomhadbeensittingemptyforawhile.Ihadpurchaseditseven years earlier, withdoubledoorsandalocktohide the computer onShabbos. Now it wouldserve as a home for thetelevisionset.Iwouldkeepit locked at all times, andthe children would never

know.Isoonbegantospendan

hour or two eachnight inour dining room, alonewith the TV. Mostly Iwatched the news, andoccasionally one of thelate-night talk shows, butreally, Iwas fascinatedbyall of it, in the same waythat I had once beenfascinated by the radio. Iwasrivetedbysoapoperas

and public-accessprogramming and late-night infomercials. “Ordernow,foronly$99,andgetthe full set of FrankSinatra videos on VHS!”Whatadeal!As Gitty grew

accustomed to the TV’spresence,Igrewbolder.“Want to watch

something with me?” Iaskedheronenight.

She shook her headcoolly, refusing even toentertainthenotion.Buteventually,shegave

in. One night, as I satalone in the dining room,sheopenedthedoor.“CanIjoinyou?”Herexpressionwasbashful.Fromthenon,each night after thechildren went to bed, wewould lock the doors andwindows, draw the

curtains, and sit togetherinthecornerofourdiningroom in frontof the smalltelevision set, the volumeon near-mute to avoidraising suspicion with theGreenbergs through thewall.We would watch

whatever was on: Friends,Charlie Rose, EyewitnessNews, Big Brother. Therewerenoguiltypleasures—

wewereguiltyforallofit:Masterpiece Theatre andJerry Springer, Nightlineand American Idol.Everything, all of it, waspart of America’s greatcrescendoofprofanity.

Itwasduringoneofthosenights in front of the TVthat I ended up tellingGittyabouttheblog.Ihadimplemented a new

featurethatday:Eachtimea reader posted acomment, I received analertonmycellphone.Aswe sat in front of the TV,watching a rerun ofEverybody Loves Raymond,my phone buzzed, harshlyinterrupting the grainyimages on the screen. Iignored it, and Gitty kepther eyes fixed on the TV.Frank was haranguing

Marie, who washaranguing Ray, who wasalready being haranguedby Debra. All the while,Brad Garrett was musingabout “life’simponderables.” Then myphone buzzed again, andthen again soon after.Gitty finally turned herhead just slightly andraised an inquiringeyebrow.Ishookmyhead

to brushher off, and thenmy phone buzzed twicemoreinrapidsuccession.“Whatisallthebuzzing?”

Gittyblurted.“Nothing.Justalerts.”“Alerts?”“Comments. From …

thiswebsite.”“Whatwebsite?”I turned off the TV and

toldherallaboutit.ItoldherhowI’dalwayswanted

to write, and now I waswriting,andIhadreaders,too,lotsofthem.IwastheHasidicRebel.Sheletoutagrunt,asifto say, Well, howunsurprising.“What do you writeabout?”sheasked.“Just…aboutmylife.”“Do you write aboutme?”“Sometimes.”

I could see in her eyesthatshewasintrigued.“You’rewelcometoreadit,”Itoldher.The next day, when Icamehomefromwork,shesat down and put herhands flat on the table. “Ireadyoursite,”shesaid.I looked for disapprovalin her eyes, awaiting heroutrage.“I kinda like it,” she

said.“Youdo?”“Yeah. I mean, if it

makes you feel better,maybe it’ll do you good.Youknow,liketherapy.”

“Youseemlesstensethesedays,” a friend said tomeone day. I said nothing,although I knew it wastrue. The ability to speakmymindgavemeapeace

I had been lacking foryears. A small communityhad sprung up around theblog, and it gave me asense that there was aworldsomewhereinwhichmy thoughts wereappreciated. Readercomments on my postsoften went into thehundreds.I didn’t know thesecommenters in real life,

buttheirnamesweresoonasrecognizableasmyreal-life friends: Ani Yesheinu,JK from KJ, Susan inQueens.Somecommentersearned followers of theirown. One man went byIsaac, and soon there wasan “Isaac’s Fan.” Theycame from across theJewish spectrum, fromHasidictoYeshivishtotheModern Orthodox to the

Reform. There wereregulars who were non-Jews.SusaninQueenswasCatholic. Evy wasMormon. PadrePaz was aProtestant ministersomewhereintheSouth.

One day, I received an e-mail from a reporter forNew York’s Village Voice.Hewantedtowriteastoryabout my blog. Would I

agreetoaninterview?Severalweekslater,ata

kosher café nearManhattan’s diamonddistrict,oneblockfrommyworkplace, we met forlunch. A small taperecorder lay on the table,next tomybeaver-furhat.Thewriterlookedyoungerthan I’d imagined, in histwenties, with hipstereyeglassesandapolitebut

slightly detached manner.“Can we be friends?” Iwanted to ask him. “Canyou tell me about yourlife?”He was a journalist,though,andIknewhedidnot want my friendshipbut my story. He askedbroad questions, and Ioffered long-windedphilosophical ruminations,which he listened to

patiently, smiling andnodding encouragingly. IimaginedthateverywordIsaidwasimportanttohim,not realizing that out of aninety-minute interview,he would quote me for atotal of about ninetyseconds.The article, titled “TheSharer of Secrets,”appeared in the VillageVoice a month later,

accompanied by an imageof a Hasidic man inprofile, with a bloatedtorso and a long, tangledbeard. The top of theHasid’s hat was slicedhorizontally across, itsupper half raised like thespout of an old-fashionedteapot, a cloud of yellow-and-blue six-pointed stars,the Hasid’s secretruminations, rising from

within.Idislikedtheimageand

disliked the article evenmore. In my blog, I hadtakenpainstowritesimplyasIexperiencedmyworld,subjectively andjudgmentally, but alsohonestly.Ihadwrittennotwith malice but my owntruth.TheVoice, however,had its truth, which wasclearly different from

mine. To them, I was notmerelyacuriosity,aHasidoffering a glimpse of hisworld, but a sensationalcuriosity, a Hasid dishingdirtonhisownpeople.

“Have you heard of thiswebsite, ‘Hasidic Rebel’?”myfriendZurichaskedmeinshulafewdaysaftertheVoice article appeared. Hespoke ina lowvoice,as if

sharingasecret.“I’veheardofit,”Isaid.Zurich didn’t have acomputer or Internetaccess, but he’d heard thenews:arenegadeHasid,anInternetwebsite,anarticlein some newspaper. Hecouldn’t understand it.“Why would someone dosomethinglikethat?”“Do something likewhat?”

“Write about us thatway. Make the non-Jewshateus.”“Whywoulditmakethenon-Jewshateus?”“Well, he’s telling thewhole world how bad weare. And so he’sconfirming what all thenon-Jewsalreadythink.”I quickly changed thesubject.Zurichhadnoideathat I might have

something to do with thewebsite, but there wereothers who had theirsuspicions.“Just so you know,”Yossi Breuer said to meoneday,“Somepeoplearesaying you’re the HasidicRebel.”Instinctively, I openedmymouth to deny it, butYossihelduphishand.“Ihavenoopinion.Just

thought you’d want toknow.” We were in thebasementoftheshul,nearthemikveh,andassoonashe said it, he turned andwalkedpast the largebinsof towels, thick with thesmell of industrial bleach,andheadedupthestairs.Chezky, too, called mewith a warning. He wasone of the very few I hadtold about the blog, and

whenheheardtalkofitinthe coffee room of theVizhnitz shul in Monseyone morning, he grewalarmed. “They werediscussing the HasidicRebel. They were talkingabout hiring privatedetectives, scheming todraw you out. They’regoing to send you e-mailspretendingthey’rewomen.They say you won’t be

abletoresist.You’vegottabecareful.”On the Internet, too, Iencountered hostilereactions. On Tapuz, aYiddish forum, one iratecommenter going by thename of Muzar found hisown creative voice in hiscondemnation:

IhavecomeacrosstheblogofHasidic

Rebel:aloathsomeswine,adisgustingpoisonoussnake,arevoltingoutcast,theshit-coveredassholeofasickdog.Agruesomedeathuponhim….Maythecholeradescenduponhislimbs,mayhebeensnaredwithinthedevil’sclutches,

mayhebeburiedalive,hismendacioustongueskinned,hismadeyesgouged;mayhehang,strangle,andchoke.Maywelivetoseeitspeedilyandwithjoy.

Theviolent imageryshookme, even as it did not

entirelysurpriseme.Ialsofound it perverselyamusing.Maywelivetoseeitspeedilyandwithjoy.Thesame phrase we used forthecomingoftheMessiah.The thing we’ve beenwaiting for forever, andwill likely go on waitingforforever.I did not know whoMuzar was, but Irecognized him, the

maniacallanguageechoingsomuchofwhatI’dheardfromrabbisandteachers.Ialso recognized in himaspectsofmyyoungerself—the swagger, the lazyresort to overstatement. Iknew thatwewerenot asquick to punish offendersas we were to issuethreats; and to declareminorsinscapitaloffenses,only tohavepassionscool

thenextmorning.At the same time, I

remembered the slashedcar tires and brokenwindows of AmromPollack,whenhe chose toperform his son’s brisoutside our village,denying the rebbe thehonors.I remembered the tales

of Mendel Vechter, therumors of how he’d been

strippednaked,beaten,hisbeard forcibly shaved byhis former Satmarcomrades for havingabsconded to their arch-nemeses,theLubavitchers.I remembered the storyof Itzik Felder, a formerSkverer Hasid who left tofollow the rebbe ofRachmastrivka. When hecame back toNew Squareone evening for a family

wedding, he was slappedinthefaceandpunchedinthe gut and instructed tonever again defile ourstreetswithhispresence.I remembered my ownincident with MosheWolfon the bus. I rememberedthe eruv disturbances inWilliamsburg that haddrivenmetobeginwritingthebloginthefirstplace.We must determine the

identity of Hasidic Rebel,findoutwherehe lives,andhold a not-so-peacefuldemonstration, wroteanothercommenteronthesameYiddishforum.“Whatwillwedo,”Gittyasked one evening, “ifpeople find out it’s you?What if somethinghappens?”Ididnotbelievewe’dbeharmed,Itoldher,evenas

Isecretlyworriedaboutit.“Whatifthechildrenareexpelledfromschool?”sheasked.This was more likely.Schoolexpulsionsweretheprimary method formaintaining ideologicalconformityamongparents.“MaybewecanmovetoMonsey. Find a morerelaxedenvironment.”But Monsey wasn’t an

option for Gitty. “Whomwillthechildrenmarry?”This was the Great

Anxiety of our world:shidduchim, the system ofarranged marriages. Goodmarriages were availableonlyforthosewithperfect,unblemished families.Those who would notconform, though, whostoodout inways colorfulor unconventional,

suffered the heartache ofhaving their childrenconsigned to the scrapheap of the matchmaker’snotebook.I reminded Gitty thatoureldestwasbarelynineyears old, but she onlylookedatmeglumly.“It is never too early toworryaboutshidduchim.”

ChapterNineteen

Summer evenings, whenNew Square feltsuffocating, after thechildrenwere in bed, andGitty would join otherwomen on lawn chairsoutside our home for

anothereveningofchatter,and the men gathered atthe synagogue for prayersandseveralhoursofstudy,I would drive my HondaOdyssey down thePalisades Parkway andover the GeorgeWashington Bridge,seekinganescapewithnoparticular destination.Often I would end up inGreenwich Village,

strolling the leafy streets,gazing at its nineteenth-century row houses andNYU campus buildings,observing the vibrantnightlife aroundMacDougalandThompsonandBleecker,and imagineadifferentlife.I was aware that here,

too,theremustberegrets,dreams of youth shatteredby the realities ofmodern

living. Here, too, I wassure, there were unhappylives, stalledcareers, loveslost and lovelessconnectionsmaintainedforall the wrong reasons.Here, too, I knew, therewas the need to conform,with social codes just asarbitraryandstifling.YetIwould return, again andagain, drawn to themystique of freedom, only

anhourfromhomebutsomanyworldsapart.Oneevening,IthoughtI

might visit a bar. Bars, Ihadcometo learn,wereacelebrated institution ofWestern culture, wherehumans went to meetother humans, at leastthose without synagoguesand mikvehs and coffeerooms. But how did itwork? Did one buy a

drink, and then simplystrike up a conversationwithastranger?Wastherea protocol to it? Or didone simply sipone’sdrinkinsilence,andthenleave?I wondered what kinds ofdrinks I might order,whether there were rulesand conventions that Ishould first learn. In ourworld, alcohol wasconsumedwithfewrituals,

cheap whiskeys andvodkas straightup inone-ounce “schnapps cups,” atkiddush on Shabbosmorningoratavachnachtforababyboy.Inmovies,I had seen James Bondorder his martinis,“shaken, not stirred” andseenpeopledrinkbeeroutof tallglasses, thick layersof foam at the top, but Idid not know what

martinis or beers tastedlikeorhowtochooseone.I passed several bars

along Bleecker Street andpeered inside. Some hadTV screens showing sportsgames, others had crowdshuddling over the barcounter, chatting with thebartenders.Others seemedsubdued,couplessittingatsmall tables, chattingoverflickering candles in small

glasscups.I would pick one at

random, I decided, and Istepped inside a crowdedbar near Bleecker andSeventh. The noise wasdisorienting, loudconversation and laughterand shouts across theroom.Didall thesepeopleknow one another? Iwondered.Theseatsatthebar were taken, and the

standing areas werecrowded as well. Iwondered whether Ilooked out of place. I hadleft my hat and long coatinmycar, but still Iworemy yarmulke and sporteda full beard, with mysidelocks twisted up inknotsovermyears.I would order a drink I

had seen in the movies.“Ginandtonic,” I’dsayto

the bartender, as if I’dbeen drinking it all mylife. I had never had gin,or tonic, but it soundedlike something one mightorderinabar.Yetwhatifthis, too, was wrong?What if “gin and tonic”was not a drink but aninside joke of some sort,an allusion I had missed?What if it was likemoonshine,somethingsold

in another place andanother time, and I’dappear foolish for askingforit?My eyes fell on a series

of framed photographs onthe wall. They were ofsmiling men, althoughsomething was odd aboutitall.Theyappearedtobestriking sexuallysuggestive poses. Some ofthe men in the

photographs wore pantswithlargecirclescutopento reveal their buttocks,flashing their backsides tothe camera. Some of themen were grabbing oneanother’s crotches ortucking their hands insideoneanother’spants.Then it hit me. Thismust be a gay bar. Didstraight people go to gaybars? Did my being here

suggest that I was gay?WouldIbeapproachedforgay sex? Before I couldgive it much thought, Ifled,outthedoorandintothe street and back tomycar, back to my home inNewSquare,whereIknewtherules,andwherepantsgenerally covered buttscompletely, at least inpublic, and where aschnapps cup of Old

Williamsburg whiskeycould be had withoutworrying about lookingfoolish.

Still,Icouldnotstayawayfrom New York City forlong, and soon returned,spending evening afterevening searching forentry into this world.Somenights,IwouldheadtoDizzy’s ClubCoca-Cola,

on the fifth floor of thenew Time Warner Center,where, behind the band,through floor-to-ceilingwindows, I could take inthebackdropofColumbusCircle and Central Park,whichgavemethefeelingthatthejazzclubitselfwasinthepark,itsstagelightsiridescent against themoonlight. Sometimes Iwould go for a movie at

Loew’s at Sixty-Eighth, orto Barnes and Noble atSixty-Sixth and Broadway,tobrowse its shelvesuntilthe store’s midnightclosing time, then headaround the corner toStarbucks, where I wouldsit with my laptop andsoak in the pleasure ofsimply being inManhattan. I knew thatthere were other Hasidim

whospenttimeinthecity,tucking their payess upbehind theirears,donninglessconspicuousheadgear,trading in their wide-brimmed hats and longcoats for Ascot caps andshort leather jackets.ButIdidn’t know them anddidn’tknowwhereImightfind them, and so Iwandered the streets ofManhattanalone.

One day, I received an e-mail from a strangernamedKeaLoha.Shewasaphotographer, she said,with an idea for a newproject. She wanted tophotograph Hasidim.Would I help? she asked.CouldItellhermoreaboutmyworldandwhatitwaslike?I could help, maybe, I

said. More important, I

craved a meeting with anoutsider.Iwantedtospeakto somebody, anybody,fromtheworldoutsidemyown.Afterbloggingforsixmonths,myregularstreamof posts had slowed to atrickle. The attention myblog received had beengratifying, if a littleoverwhelming, but it alsoturnedwhatwasoriginallya casual outlet for off-the-

cuff musings into anenergy-sapping frenzy ofthinking up ideas for newposts, and the growingneed to write with moreconsideration formaintaining readerinterest. The initial burstof satisfaction soondissipated, and what Iwanted now was a real-world engagement withthe outside world, not

merelyavirtualone.KeaLoha and I arranged

tomeet at theBarnes andNoble café at Sixty-Sixthand Broadway. It was aSundayafternoon,and theplacewascrowdedwhenIstepped off the escalatoron the fourth floor. Ihadn’tthoughttoaskhowI’d recognize her, until Isaw someone waving. Shewasayoungblackwoman,

who looked to be in herthirties, and Iwondered ifit struck anyone as odd: ablack woman and aHasidicmanhavingcoffee.I’d been interviewed

several times by then.Aside from the VillageVoice reporter, there hadbeen Pearl, a twenty-four-year-old Columbiajournalism student, whowas writing about

renegade Hasidim for hermaster’s thesis. There wasIsabella, a producer for aGerman-language programonaSwiss radio station. Iclung to these encountersas potential anchors forlife outside the Hasidicworld, although I had toremind myself that thesepeople sought notfriendship but my story.Still, these engagements

offered a glimpse into thelivesofordinarypeople.KeaLoha and I hadmeant to talk about herphotography project, butwe quickly switched totalkingaboutourpersonallives. She had recentlyreturned from severalyears of living in WestAfrica, and she eagerlyshared her experiences.When I described my life

to her, KeaLoha appearedstunned.“You met your future

wife for only sevenminutes?” KeaLoha shookherheadindisbelief.“Andyou’veneverhad sexwithanyone else? Ever?” Shefiredoff thequestionsoneafter the other, sometimescircling back and askingthe same ones over andover again. “Do you love

her? Are you attracted toher?”Thequestionsputmeoffforamoment.Theanswerswereno, to eachone, andmademefidgetinmyseat.I wanted to tell KeaLohathetruth.ThatifI’dhadachoice, I would not havemarried Gitty. But it feltunkind to say it, evencruel,andIdidn’twanttobecruel,andIdidn’twant

KeaLohatothinkmecruel.Why, then, did you marryher?Iimaginedheraskinginoutrage.Howcouldyou?The poor woman. I wasashamed of my ownfeelings, afraid even nowtobemisunderstood.KeaLoha did not judgeme, though, nor did shemisunderstand. She shookherheadandletoutalongsigh.

“Can’t you getdivorced?”I remember seeing

sadnessinhereyes,whichwere unusually large, thewhites visible around heririses. Not pretty butstriking nonetheless. Ilookedatherlonglocksofcurly brown hair and thesoft brown skin of hercheeks and forehead. Andagain those eyes.

Something about themrepelled and mesmerizedme at the same time. Inher voice was somethingbothgentleandinsistent.“Lots of people get

divorced,” she said. “Youcanlivethelifeyouwant.Youhavethatright.”It was all so simple to

her. I didn’t knowhow toexplain that it was nearlyimpossible. How divorce

came with a dreadfulstigma, that the effects onmy children would be soterrible that it felt toocrueleventoconsider.I looked around at theothers in the café. Therehad been a young coupleaheadofmeatthecountera fewminutesearlier, andnow they were sitting afew feet away, leaningover the table, nuzzling

nosesandnibblingateachother’s lips. I wonderedwhatthatfeltlike,tohavetheburningdesiretobesophysically close tosomeone, to have norestraintsaboutbeingsoinpublic. Then I thoughtback to Gitty and toKeaLoha’s insistentquestions.“Wedohavegood sex,”Isaid.

“You have nothing tocompare itwith,” she saidwith a scoff. After amoment, she asked,“Wouldyoueverhave sexwithsomeoneelse?Wouldyou cheat? Would youhaveanaffair?”In later years, I would

learnof the stereotypes ofHasidicmen as patrons ofsex workers of all kinds.Strippers, prostitutes,

dominatrices, even maleescorts. At the time,however, the thoughtwould’ve shocked me. Icould not imagine any ofmy friends being of thatsort.We spoke for almost

three hours. For KeaLoha,this was a project; but tome, the experience had alastingeffect.Fordays,mythoughtswerepreoccupied

with how differentKeaLoha’s life was frommy own. More thananything, though, Icouldn’t get one commentout of my mind: Lots ofpeoplegetdivorced.Youcanlive the life you want. Youhavethatright.

My sister’s husband,Gedalya, had seen mechange, had watched me

go from devout youngTalmud student, obliviousto the ways of the world,towhat Ihadbecome.Hewas a Bobover Hasid,several years older than I.Gedalya and I didn’t seeeach other much, but onthose occasions that Idropped by my sister’sBorough Park home, wewould end up talking forhours.

He was shocked,however,when I told himthat I was no longer abeliever. “You believe innothingatall?”Hethoughtit was perhapsunderstandable to rejectthe Hasidic lifestyle, orbelief in the rebbe,buthecould not fathom how Icould reject the Torah asGod’s word. It was evenharder for him to accept

thatInolongerbelievedinthepowerofprayer.WhenItoldhimthatInolongerbelieved in anyconventional notion ofGod, or of a divinelyimposed order to ouruniverse, he stared at mewide-eyed.“Whatareyou,nuts?”After several hours, hefinally accepted that mybeliefs had changed and

thathewouldn’tbeabletotalk me out of them. Butnow he had a differentquestion.“So why are you stillhere? Why are you stilllivingthelifestyle?”“Because it’scomplicated. I’m married.I’ve got kids. What am Isupposed to do, drop itall?”Heknewaswellas Ithat it wasn’t so simple.

“But who knows? Maybeoneday.”“It’ll never happen,” hesnapped, scorn shootingfrom his eyes like darts.“You’llneverleave.”“Whydoyousaythat?”“You, my friend, don’thavetheguts.”

Those who leave simplycannot resist temptation.This mantra was repeated

sofrequentlythatIfelttheaccusation acutely,whenever the prospect ofleaving crossed my mind,even if only as a fantasy.What was it that I soughtin encounters withoutsiders, in my meetingswith KeaLoha and Pearland Isabella?What was itthatIreallywanted?It wasn’t clear tome atthetime;butlater,Iwould

realize that I wanted nomore than a world inwhich Iwasnot lyingandhiding. I wanted thefreedom to simplybewhoI was, without fear orshame. When caught in aworld where your veryessencefeelsshameful,lifeturns into a feverishobsessionwithsuppressingyour true identity in favorofasociallyacceptedone.

I knew that something,soon,wouldhavetogive.

ChapterTwenty

Ifduringtheweek,Ifoundwaystorelievethetensionof living a double life, onShabbos I had few suchoptions.Worst of allwereShabbosmorning services.For three hours eachSaturday morning, everyadultmalemember of the

community, and a goodportion of its malechildren, packed into thevillage’s synagogue, and Ihad no choice but to takepart.“Tatti, can I come toshul with you?” Akivawould ask. And I wouldsigh, and say, “Not thisweek, shayfele.” I couldn’timagine a three-year-oldenjoyingwhat I, at thirty,

now found excruciatinglyhumdrum.Womenandgirlsdidnot

attend shul except forspecial occasions, but forany male above barmitzvahage,tostayhomewas unheard of. Gittywould be furious if Istayedhome.Thechildrenwould ask uncomfortablequestions. Neighborsmight catch a glimpse of

me through the window,or one of our children’sfriendswouldcometovisitandspotmeandreportmetoherparents.And so I attended eachweek, even as I despisedthe monotonous grind ofbowing and swaying andmumblingandchanting.Inthe summer, with twothousand bodies packedintoonehall,theheatwas

oppressive. The layers ofclothing—small woolentalliskatanwornoverone’sshirt,thelongblackcaftanon top of it, all of itcoveredwithanenormouswoolprayershawl,withitsheavy silver brocadeadornment as a headpiece—madeitevenworse.

One Saturday morning, Idiscovered that the

yeshivabuildingacrosstheplaza was unlocked. Thebuildingwasclearedof itsusual bustle, and Iwandered the corridors,peeringintoemptylecturerooms in which, all weeklong, students gathered tostudythelawsofbetrothaland divorce, propertydamages and court-ordered floggings,sacrificial lambs and

burningredheifers.Attheend of the corridor werethedoorstothecavernousstudyhall,nowcompletelyempty. It was the perfectplace for aheretic to passthe time while everyoneelseprayed.The first few weeks, Ibrought along abook, butsoon I realized I was notalone. In an alcove of thestudy hall, or in some of

thefartherlecturerooms,Ibegan to find other menpassing the time,sometimes in twos andthrees. Eachwas there forhis own reason—somesimplydislikedthecrowdsin shul, others just didn’tcare for prayer—andwithin severalmonths,wecametoformagroupthatgathered each Saturdaymorning.Whiletherestof

thevillagemenspentthreehours praying, readingfrom the Torah, andengaging in the tediouscall-and-response betweenprayer leader andcongregation,I,alongwithYitzy Ruttner, HershyBrizel, the three Dunnerbrothers, and severalothers, would gather todiscuss the importanttopics of the day—general

news, Hasidic politics,community gossip—identicaltothediscussionsone heard in the ritualbath, in the shul’s coffeeroom, or the yeshivadiningroom.There was one

difference: this was oneplace in which I couldspeak my mind. We werealldeviants inonewayoranother, of various ages,

but mostlytwentysomethings.Mostofthesemenwereunmarriedand drifting toward thefringes. Some of themwatched movies, listenedto secular music, andoccasionally sneaked outof the village to playblackjack at Atlantic Citycasinos. They were anintelligent group, andwhile few of them had

given issues of faithmuchthought before, they werenotbotheredbymyviews.The fact that I consideredthepartingoftheRedSeaafancifulmyth,thatIwasfairly certain that ourprayers reached noheavenly ears, that I sawour worldview asbackwardandfanatical—itwasallfinewiththem.

One week, we had anewcomer: Leiby Einstein.Nineteenyearsold,hehada boyish smile and darkchocolate-brown sidelocksframing his mildly acne-riddenface.Leibywasnotastrangertome.Hisfatherhadbeenthe yeshiva dean in mytime,andhisolderbrotherMenashe had been myclassmate and best friend.

Leiby and I weren’tformally introduced, but Inoticed from across thetable that I’d caught hisattentioninsomeway.Hekept looking toward me,throwing me uneasyglances, nervously raisinghis righthand to twirl thebase of his sidelock,sometimes wrapping thelockofhairtightlyaroundhis index finger and

releasingitintoaperfectlycoiled spring. He saidlittle.Every fewmoments,he would bite his lowerlip, as if uninterested inthe conversation butexpecting something moremomentous to happen.Finally,duringalull,whenYitzy and one of theDunner brothers left tofetch coffee from theenormousurninthecoffee

room near the dean’soffice, Leiby came aroundtomysideofthetable.“I’ve been wanting to

talktoyou,”hesaid.We stepped away a few

paces from the group. Hewas interested incomputers and computerprogramming, he said.He’d heard that I workedas a programmer. Couldwechataboutit?

“Sure,” I said. “We cantalkcomputers.”He looked at me as if

unsure where to go withthat. Over in the corner,the group laughedraucouslyoveracommentsomeone hadmade. Leibylooked back nervously,and then turned back tome.“Thereareotherthings.”

He raised his hand to pat

hissidelock,andchuckled.“I don’t know what youbelieve. Maybe you’lldisagree with me.”Looking away, as ifspeaking to some invisiblepresenceofftotheside,hesaid, “Yitzy told me youmight be a person I cantalk to. I don’t believe inanyofthisanymore.”“Don’tbelieveinwhat?”Helookedatmedirectly

now and shook his head.“None of it. God. TheTorah.Thiswholelifestyle.There’s no truth to thethings we’re taught. Wejust accept it, withoutthinking. But none of it isbased on truth.” His eyessearchedmineforasignofunderstanding, his fingersnever leaving his rightsidelock. When I askedhow he had come to all

this, he told me that he’dfound his way onto theInternet several monthsearlier—he’d managed toget himself a laptop anddiscovered an old phonejack in his bedroom, towhichhewasabletohookup a dial-upmodem—andhadbeguntoresearchhowwe knew the things weknew.“I don’t know your

beliefs,” Leiby said again,almostapologetically.“Butit’sprettyclear, therabbishave been making shitup!”Hisvoicenowhadanedge to it, betraying aninner rage that had untilnowbeensuppressed.“Forthousandsofyears,they’vebeenmaking shit up! Andwejustbelieveit!”

The next week, and the

week after, Leiby joinedour group, and each time,hewould callmeaway toshare his thoughts. Heneededsomeonetotalkto,someone who wouldn’tjudge him. I was nearlythirty. I had a job inManhattan. I could readEnglish books. I was theeldermanofwisdom.Finally, one week he

toldme, “Iwant to leave.

This placehasnothing forme.” His father had onlyrecently stopped beatinghim, he said, when herealized that Leiby, atnineteen, could easilyoverpower his paunchyfive-foot frame. Now, hisfather only abused himverbally, calling him a“bum” and a “small-brained am hu’uretz,”illiterate in matters of

Jewishlearning.Leibyhadno interest in stickingaround for more of hisabuse. He already hadplanstoleaveandwasjustwaiting for the rightmoment. Hewas going tojointhearmy,hesaid.As we chatted, Leibyand I moved toward thefrontofthestudyhall.Thewindows faced the shulacross the plaza, and

throughthemwecouldseehundreds of swayingworshipers, the late-morning sunglisteningoffthe silver brocadeadornmentsoftheirprayershawls.“Why the army?” Iasked.“Where else could I go?I want to learn about theoutside world. Goyishculture.Iwanttoseewhat

it’s about.” The army, hethought, would give himthestructureheneededfora soft landing—feed him,house him, and give himaccess to a social life hewould otherwise struggleto find. I was impressedwith how much thoughthe’dgiventothis.Servicesweresoonover,

and through the windowswewatchedasatrickleof

men left the shul.Moments later, the trickleturned intoa seaofwhiteprayer shawls and blackshtreimels.“I might have anothersuggestion.Let’sgetoutofhere, we’ll talk on theway.”Igrabbedmyprayershawl,stilllyingfoldedona nearby table, flung itovermyshoulders,andweheaded out, joining the

masses of men and boysheadinghome.WewalkedalongWashingtonAvenue,alongside the bright blueposters taped ontolampposts and mailboxesdesignating it the “Men’sSide.” Leiby looked at meeagerly as we walked.“What’syoursuggestion?”“Have you looked intogoingtocollege?”HelookedatmeasifI’d

suggested something atoncebrilliantandbaffling.“I—I don’t—” hestammered, but thenlookedasifsomethinghadjust clicked in his mind:“YouthinkIcangetin?”Like most boys in New

Square, Leiby had littlesecular education. He hadtaught himself to readEnglish but could barelyspeak it orwrite it. I told

Leiby what I knew aboutcollege, which wasn’tmuch. My own secularstudies had been betterthan his, and I’d taughtmyselfalotovertheyears,but my education stillcontained vast gaps. Still,in a village where grownmen turnedwithgrudgingadmiration toanyonewhocould read an English-languagenewspaperonhis

own, I was the expert onallthingsworldly.“Thearmyisafineidea,if that’s what you want.Butknowyouroptions. Inthe outside world, mostkids your age are headedtocollege.Lookintoit.”Several weeks later,Leiby told me of hisdecision. He haddiscoveredanorganizationin Manhattan called

Footsteps, which offerededucational assistance toex-Hasidim.Throughit,hefound tutoring help forEnglish and math andassistancewithapplyingtocollege.Hespokeexcitedlyabout his plans, of GEDsandcollegeadmissionsandFAFSAs.Hestillhadmanyhurdles but wasdetermined. ThroughCraigslist,hefoundaplace

to live in Brooklyn, athree-roommate share inBrighton Beach, and wasplanning, as soon as hepassed his GED exam, toenroll in Kingsborough, atwo-year communitycollege.“I’ll probably major in

someliberalartsfield,”hesaid, and when I noddedapprovingly,hesaid.“Youknow what a major is,

right?”“Ofcourse,”Isaid.Iwas

onlyvaguely familiarwiththe term and wasn’t surewhatliberalartswere,butit sounded as though hewasontherighttrack.Irememberpartingfrom

Leiby that day, lost inmythoughts, a powerful pangofenvyhittingme.Leiby’sdesiretojointhearmyhadstruck me as fancifully

adolescent,butcollegewasa different matter. I hadencouraged him, partlydriven by my ownwistfulness for theopportunity. Now that hisplanswere taking shape, Icouldn’t help thinkingaboutmyself.

A short while later, Gittyand I sat down to ourShabbos lunch with our

children.As Iwatchedmydaughtersbringoutdishesof hummus, sour pickles,egg salad, and choppedliver and lay them acrossour dining-room table, Ithought of the chaos thatwould ensue, were I, too,to split from thecommunity.Iimaginedthefriends who would nolongeracknowledgemeonthe street, the shuls in

which I would no longerbewelcome; imaginedmyfamily broken apart, mychildren traumatized bythe knowledge of a fatherostracized from the onlyworld they knew. Iimagined my mother’stears, the pleadings ofmysiblings to reconsider, tosparethemtheshame.Notonly would I become apariah, but my children

would also be foreverstigmatized, the offspringof a heretic, theirreputations blemished bythesinsoftheirfatherandunfitformarriagewiththedevout. Most likely, mychildren would be forcedto sever all contact withme,theonlywayinwhichtoredeemthemselves.We took our seatsaround our dining-room

table:GittyandIateitherend; the girls—Tziri,Freidy, and Chaya Suri—on one side; the boys—AkivaandHershy—ontheother. Together we sangthe opening verses of thekiddush before theblessing over wine, theboys’ voices loud andeager, the girls, lessenthusiastic,mouthing thewords lazily, tapping their

fingerslightlyonthewhitetablecloth. Gitty swayedalongsilently.

AndthechildrenofIsraelshallobservetheSabbath…Thesignofaneverlastingcovenant…Forinsixdays,theLordcreated

heavenandearth,andontheseventhday,Herested,andwasrefreshed.

I cut open the golden-brownchallahsandpassedaround slices. Gittydisappeared into thekitchen and returnedwithplatters of gefilte fish,

jellied p’tcha, and a largebowl of steaming chulent.I remember watching asmy family went abouttheir ordinary Sabbathlunch, watching as if Iwerenotpartofthem,asifthrough the glimmeringsheen of a thick pane ofglassbetweenus.A single sour pickleremainedon adish in themiddle of the table, and

Chaya Suri reached for it,while Tziri and Freidy,forever mothering her,gave her disapprovinglooks.“There are plenty more

pickles in the fridge,” Iremember Gitty saying,with the calm grace thatseemed to envelop her ontheSabbath.I remember how, facing

the girls from across the

table, Akiva held up theedge of one of his ritualfringes and brushed itlightly into Hershy’s ear.Hershy, startled, slappedhisearwiththebackofhishand, as if to drive awayan insect. I remember thegirls laughing, nowforgetting their quarreloverthepickles,andGitty,suppressing a chuckleherself, scolding Akiva,

who smirked, red-faced.Hershy forked a piece ofgefilte fish into a smalldish of beet horseradish,and then, noticing thegirls’ laughter as hebrought his fork to hismouth, barely missed hisnose.Through it all, I couldthink only: How could Ipossiblyleaveallthis?Wefinishedeating,then

sang the hymns for theSabbathmeal,thechildrenfollowing along in theirbentchers, the small hymn-readers passed around asmementos at familyweddings.

BlessedisGodabove,whohasgrantedusrest,Redemptionforoursoulsfrom

sorrowanddespair.

HewillgiverespitetoZion,therejectedcity,

Howlongmustasoulgrieveindistress.

I looked at my childrenaroundthetableandknewthat I could never leave.Leibywould go on to live

a free life, but I wouldremain, in our suburbanAmerican shtetl, its menconsumed with the studyof ritual law, its womenscurrying aside on thestreets so as not to temptthem, its children contentwithout art and science,Star Wars, and videogames.

The call to appear before

the bezdin came severaldays after Leiby’sdeparture. Word traveledfast, and for days thevillagewasabuzzwiththenews that Leiby Einsteinhad left his parents’ hometo“livewithgoyimandgoto college.” Leiby wouldtellmelaterthatbeforeheleft, he visited abarbershop outside thevillage, where his long

dark sidecurls were sweptoff the barbershop floorand into the trash can.Afterhishaircut,hevisiteda nearby shopping mall,whereheboughtapairofjeans,severalT-shirts,anda pair of sneakers. Hemoved out of his parents’homewithout somuch asa glance at his wide-brimmedhatandlongcoathanging in his bedroom

closetalongwithhisblackpantsandwhiteshirts.“Wordhasitthatit’sall

your fault,” my friendYitzy Ruttner told me onthephone.Leiby and I had been

seen together on severaloccasions, and it wasrumored that I’d talkedhimintohisdecision.Evenprior to this, people hadbeguntosaythatIwasno

longer a Hasid, that Iscornedourtraditions,thatI was an apikorus, anonbeliever. My act hadbegun to disintegrate.Until Leiby left, however,the idea that there livedaheretic among themseemedtoostrangetoNewSquare’s residents. “Thereare no real hereticsnowadays,” people wereaccustomed to saying.

Now,itappeared,theyhadchangedtheirminds.

On the day that the callcame from the bezdin, Ihad a conversation withLeiby’s brother-in-law,Yossi Pal. I had beendrivingdownBushLaneinmy Honda Odyssey, ablock from my home,whenYossi,walkinghomefrom the kollel with his

blue-and-gold velvetprayer-shawl pouch underhis arm, was walkingtoward me. Our eyes metas I drove. His eyebrowswent up in a flash ofrecognition,andhewavedformetostop.“Can I talk to you?” he

asked,asIrolleddownmywindow. I pulled my carover to the curb andmotionedforhimtogetin.

He settled into thepassenger seat. When Ilookedathimexpectantly,he paused, collecting histhoughts, and said,haltingly,“You…are,uh,friendswithLeiby,right?”Inodded,andhelookedat me as if trying todiscern whether thisconversation was reallyworthwhile.“Maybe,”hesaid,“there

issomethingyoucando?”His interlocked fingersrestedonthevelvetbaginhislap.Hisvoicewassoft,almostpleading,now.Thefamily was in a crisis, hetold me. Leiby hadrejectedtheirpleastostay.Couldn’t I explain to himthat his plan was nothingbutfoolishness?I watched as boysnearbyrodetheirbicycles,

swerving wildly to avoidgirls jumping rope orswaying with hula hoops.It was at this very cornerthat I’d had my lastconversation with Leiby. Ihad urged him to rethinkthe one part of his planthat I found troubling:severing ties with hisfamily. Why was itnecessary? I’d asked, andLeiby responded that it

waswhatheneededtodo.His family,he said,wouldonlybeahindrance tohisgoals, always after him toreturn to observance. Hisfatherhadbeenabusivetohimallhislife.Hismotherhad experienced severalemotional breakdowns,and he did not think shewas a healthy presence inhis life. He was theyoungestofsevensiblings,

andclosetononeofthem.Leiby was determined todo it his way, and Irealized that there wassomething to his resolvethat went beyond reason.He needed to be free,perhaps, before he couldreturntothem.Now I sat withmy armleaning on the openwindow, while Yossiwaited for my response. I

knew I had to hide myown views, my secretprideinLeiby’scouragetoforge his own path, but I,too, had felt unsettled byLeiby’sdecision,andhere,perhaps, was anopportunity to mend theriftbetweenLeibyandhisfamily before it becameirreparable.“There isn’tmuch I cando,” I told Yossi. “But the

family might still haveoptions.”Yossi looked at meeagerly,whileIthoughtofhow best to make mypoint. I knew I had toweighmywordscarefully,to seekabalancebetweenmyconflictingsympathies.“Meet him halfway,” Isaid. “Focus on theimportant things, insteadof trying to control him

completely.”Yossi’s eyes narrowed

with suspicion. “What areyousuggesting?”“Attendingcollegeisnot

asin.He’llbenodifferentfromthousandsofModernOrthodoxJews. Showhimsome support for hisneeds, and in return, askhim to come home forShabbos.”YossilookedatmeasifI

had suggested somethingtruly awful. Leiby’s familywanted him back, withinthiscommunityandwithinthe lifestyle inwhich theyhad raised him.Compromise hadn’toccurredtothem.“Would you rather heleave and be completelycut off from it all?” Iasked. “He’s an adult. Hehas a plan for his life.

Neither you nor I noranyoneelsecanstophim.”Yossi looked startled byall this. These were ideashe’dnever considered.Wespokefora longtime,andby the end of it, Yossiappeared to understand.Going to collegewas bad,butthingscouldbeworse.Thenhelookedatmeasifithadjustdawnedonhim.“Do you think he’s

already”—he hesitated, asif afraid to mouth theactualword,thengatheredhis strength—“eatingtrayf? Not keepingShabbos?”“I don’t know,” I said.

“But he certainly willsoon, if his family doesn’tcare to understand hisneeds.” Yossi noddedslowly. Then he said thathe thought Leiby and his

familymightcometosomeunderstanding. He wouldspeaktoLeiby’sfatherandexplainittohim.

Later that day came thecall to appear before thebezdin.Bymidnight,Iwasofficiallyexpelledfromthecommunity. As I walkedhomeaftertheappearancebefore the bezdin, thewords of Matt the car

mechanicrangagaininmyears: If you don’t belong inNew Square, you just stayout.That’sjusthowitis.I thought about how IwasgoingtotellGitty,andthen I thought aboutLeiby, and wonderedabout my part in hisdecision.HadIguidedhimirresponsibly? I hadapplauded his desire todeterminethecourseofhis

own life, offered alistening ear and asounding board for hisplans. But Leiby wasnineteen, an adult. Thearmywould’ve taken him,if he’d followed through,sent him out into theworld to make decisionsabout life and death, andto place his own life injeopardy.In our world, however,

adulthood did not exist,not really. Everyone wasinfluenced by someone,who was in turninfluenced by someoneelse. Both good and badbehavior were guided notfrom within but by thebooks and authorityfigures who declared onething forbidden andanother thing virtuous.Self-determination was an

unrecognized concept. Tothe bezdin, it was clear:Leiby’s escape was myfault,andminealone.Later,IwouldlearnthatLeiby’sfatherhadcometothem in the very hoursfollowingmy conversationwithYossi, anddemandedthatIbeheldaccountable.Yossi had repeated tohimourconversation,toldhimhow I had defiantly

declared my support forLeiby’s goals. It was clearto them all that Iwas thestory’smainvillain.Duringmy conversation withYossi, I had hoped toencourage understandingbetween Leiby and hisfamily. In that regard, itwas now clear: I hadfailed.

ChapterTwenty-One

I wasn’t overly upset bythe bezdin’s verdict. Forseveralmonths,Ihadbeentrying to convince Gittythat if I was to continueliving an Orthodoxlifestyle, then, at the very

least, we would have toleave New Square. Gittyhad resisted, though,wanting to remain nearherparentsandhertwelvesiblings.Thiswastheonlycommunity she’d everknown, and she wouldn’tknow how to liveelsewhere, how to engagewithneighborswhodidn’tunderstand people fromour world—people who,

shewas sure,wouldmockherprovincialmanner,herflawed English, heroutmodedfashions.Now, however, we had

nochoice.Thebezdinhadorderedmeout.Unlesswedecided to end ourmarriage, Gitty wouldhavetomovewithme.Over the next few

weeks, as Gitty and Ipacked our family’s

belongings,soldourhouseinNewSquare,andclosedonanewhomeinMonsey,I thoughtbackonanothertime when I had sufferedtheshameofexpulsion.

WhenIwasthirteen,whenI first came to know theSkverers, the Skverersthought they might dobetterwithoutme.At the Skverer yeshiva

in Williamsburg, I hadearned myself thedistinction ofuncooperative student.According to the officialyeshivaschedule,wewereto arrive each Sundaymorning at seven, stay inourthird-floordormroomsthroughout the week, andreturn home on FridayafternoonfortheSabbath.I, however, had

established my ownroutine.On Sunday morning,

instead of waking at sixand rushing through thecold December andJanuarymorningstocatchthebus toWilliamsburg, Iwould stay in bed untilten, then stroll off to theMunkatch shul on Forty-Seventh and Fourteenth,where the ritual bathwas

open late and prayergroups assembled everytwentyminutes.“Youhaveto get to yeshiva!” mymother would cry, but Ihadfewanxietiesaboutit.MostSundays,bythetimeI returned home, ate aleisurely breakfast, anddetermined that it wastime to start the day, itwould be long past noon.No point in going to

yeshiva now, I wouldthink, and then I’d spendthe day lazing around athome.On Mondays, I would

repeattheroutine.On Tuesdays, I would

show up at the yeshivaaroundlunchtime.The Skverer teachers,

unlikethechederrebbesatKrasna, were warm andgentle, scholarly and

pious, lax with discipline.“I am very afraid I willhave to suspend you,”mymorning instructor wouldsay to me, and I wouldnod, sympathetically. Hehad to dowhat he had todo.Intheend,hewouldn’tbother. “Canyoumakeaneffort?”hewouldask,andI would say that I would,knowing that Iwouldn’t. Istudied well, when I was

around, but by lunchtimeon Thursday, I woulddecide I’d had enoughyeshiva for the week. Mytefillin pouch under myarm, I would make myway down BedfordAvenue, to the entranceramp to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, andhitchhike a ride back toBoroughPark.

“I don’t want to use theword expulsion,” RebChezkel, the dean, said tomy mother over thephone. Unbeknownst toeither of them, I waslistening in from anotherextension. “He is a veryfine boy. But if his weeklasts from Tuesdayafternoon to Thursdaymorning, there isn’t muchsense in keeping him

here.”“What do you suggest

we do with him?” mymother asked. Shesoundedsurprisinglycalm,as if arranging a deliveryofgroceries.“Maybeayeshivaoutof

town,” Reb Chezkel said.Thereweremany options.London. Zurich. Montreal.Jerusalem. My heartleaped. I would travel,

make new friends. I wasall in favor. He could usethewordexpulsion,too,ifheliked.

My father was ill at thattime,inthehospitalwithastrange condition. Foryears, following thepractices of obscureJewish mystics, he hadlived a life of asceticismand taxed his body

severely. The practiceswere known as sigufim.Self-punishment andbodilydeprivation.Mysticsof old rolled their nakedbodies in snow-blanketedfields, hammered holesthrough ice-covered riversto immerse in frigidwaters. They spent theirdaysinfastingandprayer.My father did not roll hisbody in snow or break

holes through ice, but heslept little and fastedfrequently.Whenheate,itwaswith such regimenteddiscipline that it wasbarely enough to sustainhim.Breakfastwouldbeatoasted rice cake and acouple of spoonfuls ofplain yogurt. Lunch, abowl of steamedvegetables; supper, a thinslice of specially prepared

ricebreadthatmymotherwould bake for him.Sometimes, he also had atablespoon of peanutbutter.Finally, in the summer

of1987,amonthaftermybarmitzvah, he collapsed,and was hospitalized. Hewassix-foot-two,weighingin at ninety pounds. Hisbody had worn away,unnourished.According to

my mother, he wassuffering froma rare formof anorexia nervosa. Hewasnotonlyphysically illbutpsychologicallyill.“He’s gone crazy,” my

mother would say, and Iwould get angry at her. Ihadalways thoughtofmyfathernotonlyasbrilliantbut saintly. A man whotruly lived forotherworldly aspirations. I

could seenootherway toexplainhisbehavior.“He has become

intolerable,”shewouldtellus,knowingcertain thingsabouthimthatwechildrendid not. Soon she wasdroppinghintsofdivorce.When I argued that she

was being unfair to him,she would growexasperated. “Shayfele,your father is a brilliant

andunusualman.Butheisvery, very sick.” Sheexplained that sometimes,those who practicedextreme behaviors forwhatseemedlikereligiousreasons were reallyafflicted withpsychological conditions.My father, she claimed,was suffering from amental illness that drovehim to treat his body

cruelly. Religion andspiritual practicesprovided the cloak, butunderneath was a terriblemalaise that wasdestroyinghim.My father would scoffwhenI’daskhimaboutit.“Nonsense.Mommymeanswell, but she reads thingsin books or hears thingsfrom doctors and thinkstheymustalwaysbetrue.”

I didn’t know which ofthem was correct, and Iwas upset with it all. Iloved my father, but Iwantedhimtostarteatingand to get better and tostop being crazy and gobacktobeingjustsaintly.Iloved my mother, but Iwanted her to stopberatingmy father and tostop threatening to breakupourfamily.Iknewthey

cared deeply for eachother, but if they couldn’ttakeresponsibilityfortheirown lives, they wouldhave no authority toinstructmeonmine.Whenadults misbehave, Ireasoned, they forfeit theright to tell childrenwhattodo.“When the two of you

shapeupyouracts,”Itoldmy mother, “I’ll shape up

mine.”

The yeshiva in Montrealwas not the panacea thatmyparentshadhopedfor,nor was it the fulfillmentof my own dreams fortravelandadventure.“Nu! Nu! Wake up!

Wakeupfortheserviceofthe Creator!” Reb Hillel,the mashgiach, wouldshout as he walked

through the dorms at sixo’clock each morning. Icouldseehisscowlingfaceeven without opening myeyes. These rabbis werenot Skverers but Satmars.They shouted, theyslapped, they pinched,they thwacked. Therewasnowaytohitchhikehomeon Thursday afternoons.Therewasseriousstudyingand serious punishment.

Thedoorstothestudyhallwould be locked at thebeginning of each session,and anyone who didn’tmake it in time waspunished—either fined or,with repeat offenders,slapped. The yeshiva washeaded by the Ruv, arotund and austere man,thescionofgreat rabbinicdynasties, whose presencein the study hall was so

thick that when he wasaround, the already-highdecibel level in the studyhall would reach aneardrum-poundingpitch.In June, the yeshiva

moved to the LaurentianMountains. Our summercampus was a convertedresort on the edge of asmall lake with a privatebeach, once used forswimming but now

forbidden to us students.Behind several bungalowsthathadbeenconvertedtolecture rooms, past thegravelroadthatledtothemain road, past a largeclearing on a hilltop, apath led into the woods.After a five-minute walk,thepath forked sharply tothe left, where, pasttangles of brushwood andscattered thornbushes,

stood a tremendousboulder, twenty feet high,abutting a wide creek ontheotherside.Aroundthefar side of the boulderwere a series of ridges,whereIcouldclimbtothetopforamagnificentviewof cascading waterfalls ahundredyardsupriver.On that boulder, duringour one-hour lunch breakat midday or during the

dinner break in earlyevening,my friendAvrumYida and I would spendthe time in broodingconversation. Avrum Yidawas from Williamsburg,the Satmar stronghold inBrooklyn, and he, too,came from a family withtroubles. His father, hetoldme,wasadrugaddict,andhisparents,afteryearsof domestic strife, had

recently divorced. Wefound commonality in ourrespectivemiseries.

In July,mymother calledto say thatmy fatherwasin the hospital again andthathewanted to seeme.He’d been out of thehospital for a couple ofmonthsbutapparentlyhadnot been entirely cured.My mother didn’t

elaborate. She said onlythat she’d already madeflight arrangements andspokento theRuv.Oneoftherabbiswouldgivemearidetotheairport.After the flight fromMontreal to New York,after lugging my suitcaseup to our second-floorapartment in BoroughPark,Iopenedthedoortofind my mother standing

in the hallway, waiting.She gaveme a silent hug,then looked at me sadly,hergazesteady.“He’sgone,”shesaid.Myfatherwasdead.

The adults hadn’t shapedup their act. My fatherhadn’t gotten himselfbetter, and my motherhadn’t been much help,either.Beforeshehadtime

to follow through on herthreats of divorce, myfather had died, leavingour family in a state ofturmoil.After the seven days of

mourning, I returned tothe yeshiva, moreapatheticthanever.“Myplan,” I said tomy

friend Avrum Yida, “is toend up a shaygetz.” Ashaygetzdroveasportscar

or a motorcycle. Hecavorted with shiksas. Hewore jeans and leatherjackets. He didn’t botherkeeping Shabbos orkosher. He was, in short,no different from a goy.TheshaygetzdeclaredGodand His laws irrelevant.The shaygetz wasunprincipled—there wasno principle in sin. Forspite, for temptation, for

mindless apathy, for sheerwickedness—the shaygetzdefiedGod,therabbis,hisparents, and all that wasgood and righteous andnoble. I had no clearformula for becoming ashaygetz, but I wasdetermined, in themeantime, to show mygeneralintentions.Reb Mordche would

attempttoputastoptoit.

Reb Mordche deliveredhis lectures eachafternoon,foranhouranda half, in one of the tinyconverted bungalows,where we sat crampedagainst one another onwooden benches around athree-sidedarrangementoftables.Hesatonthefourthside, facing us. My placewas the first to his left,withineasyreach.

One day, all of uswererestless from the heat, thebroken air conditioner ateasing reminder of thecomforts we lacked, andReb Mordche struggled tohold our attention. Tomyleft sat Chaim NuchemAusch. Reaching silentlyfrom behind, I flickedmymiddle finger against hisleft ear. Chaim Nuchemflinched, then looked

angrily toward theboyonhis left:“Whyyou flickingme?”The boy to ChaimNuchem’s left protested,declaring his innocence,and Reb Mordche threwmeasternglance.A plastic straw lay onthe table in front of me,alongside an empty sodacan. I reached for it andheld it between my index

and middle finger,pretending to twiddle itabsentmindedly, while atthe same time, I put asmallpieceofpaperinmymouth and let it soak inmy saliva for a fewminutes. A few minuteslater, I shot a prodigiousspitball across the room,watchingwithdelightasitwhizzed past PinnyGreenfeld’s nose and

landed on YossiHershkowitz’s foreheadwith an audible sprrt. Iremember the laughter,and how it stoppedabruptly just as I saw,fromthecornerofmyeye,RebMordche’sarmjerkupfrom where it rested onthe table, his open palmheaded directly to therightsideofmyface.There were no thoughts

in my head at thatmoment,onlyreflexes,andmy right arm went up toblock his strike. My armstruck his forcefully. Iremember the stunnedlook on Reb Mordche’sface,hisarmstillpartiallyraised in front of him. Iwas aware that the roomhadgonefrightfullysilent.I had committed thegreatest offense possible

for a yeshiva student:strikinganinstructor.My punishment wouldbesevere.IfIwaslucky,Iwould be slappedsenseless.Morelikely,RebMordche would summonReb Hillel, and togethertheywouldbeatmeasnostudent had been beatenbefore.There was only onethingtodo:escape.

I sprang backward uponto the bench. With onearmintheairforbalance,I jumpedtowardthedoor,pushing it with my freearmmidair.The last thingI heard, as the flimsyscreen door banged shutbehind me, was: “All ofyou!Gogethim!”I was fast, and I knew

where I was headed. Bythe time my classmates

had bounded out of thelecture room anddetermined the directionI’d gone, I was alreadyhalfwayupthetrailtothewoods.BythetimeIheardtheir shouts—“Whichway? Where’d he go?”—Iwas halfway up theboulderabuttingthecreek,hidden behind a densethicket,climbingtothetopand settling into the

familiarridge.Theminutespassed,andthe sounds of myclassmates receded. Frommy perch, I watched therushing cascades of thefallsandthepoolsofwhitefoaminthewaterbelow.Iwondered what I wasgoing to do now. Certainpunishment awaited meback at the camp, butwhere else could I go? I

was hundreds of milesfrom home. Mytransportation had alwaysbeen arranged by theyeshiva, chartered busesthat brought all the NewYork students back andforthoverthevarioustermbreaks.Ihadnomoneyforabusoranairplaneticket.Iwonderedwhat itwas

thathadledmetoall thistrouble. Iwonderedwhy I

found myself, over andover again, on the wrongside of adult expectations.Overcomewith self-pity, Ithoughtofjumpingofftheedge and sinking into therushing torrents. But thewater didn’t look verydeep,andIwasn’tlikelytodrown easily. I consideredtaking off through thewoods to the railroadtracks that passed not far

from our camp, andwalking until I reachedsome destination orcollapsedfromexhaustion.I needed to get away, farfrom the yeshiva and itstedious grind of Talmudstudies,farfromtherabbisand teachers, with theirbeatingsandtheirinsistentscoldings and theirbuffoonish piety, far fromthefriendswhosidedwith

a teacher and pursuedmeintothewoods.I checked my watch.Therewerefifteenminutesuntil afternoon prayers,and I realizedwitha startthatitwasmyturntoleadprayers.IfIwasn’tthere,anew offense would bepiledontoallmyexistingones.Ilistenedcarefullytothe stillness of the forestand to the sounds of

rushing water. Here andthere, a bird called andanother responded. Thesounds of my friends hadquieted down, but whoknew if theywere lurkingsomewhere, behind a treeorarock?Thenagain,whatiftheywere?It was unfair that lifepresented only badoptions. It appeared that

whatever I did, I wasboundfortrouble.Iwouldhead back and facewhatever punishmentawaited me. Adults wereoften unpredictable—maybe they’d spare methistime.Stepping tentatively out

of the woods, I lookedaround and saw no one.The afternoon sun beatdown on the trampled

grassaroundtheclusterofbuildings, the two-storydormitory, the study hallanddiningroom,thesmallcottages serving asresidences for facultymembers, who broughttheir wives and childrenwiththemforthedurationof the summer. Fromabove the study halldoorway, set within thetransom, a massive air-

conditioningunithummedloudly, a steady drip ofcondensationfallingonallwhopassedbeneathit.I pushed the door openslowly. My classmateswere all in their places. Ilooked for Reb Mordcheandnoticedthathewasn’tin the room.Neitherwerethe other instructors, oreven the Ruv, whoordinarily sat up on a

platformat theendof thehall, eagle-eyed over hisdomain. Here and there,students began to closetheir texts, reaching fortheir hats, offeringconcluding remarks totheir partners as theyheaded to the sink in thereartowashbeforeprayer.The clock on the wall

read two minutes to four.No one looked my way.

Slowly, I angled my waythroughthemazeoftablesand chairs to the front ofthehall,andtookmyspotat the prayer leader’spodium. I turned and sawmyfriendsattheotherendof the room noticing meandwhispering.Iwatchedtheclock.Themoment it struck four, aside door opened and theRuv walked in, followed

bytherestofthefaculty.Icould not read theirexpressions. The Ruvlooked around at thestudents, then made hisway toward his lectern,opposite the one for theprayerleader,whereInowstood. I watched him, myheart pounding wildly,trying to discern hisintentions, but heappearednottonoticeme.

Perhaps he’s saving mypunishment for later, Ithought.Or, Idaredhope,maybe Reb Mordchedecided to keep quietabouttheincident.TheRuvwasnowathis

lectern,openinghisprayerbook. Clearly, mypunishment was not athand. I looked at him,anticipating his signal,ready to launch the

opening verse: Ashrei….Fortunate are those whodwellinYourhouses.Allofasudden,theRuvturned to face me, thenraisedhisarmandpointeda pudgy index fingertoward the door: “AROISFINDU!”I froze. The hall fellsilent,andIcouldfeelthestaresoffiftypairsofeyesonme.

“GET OUT OF HERE!”the Ruv shouted, louderthistime.“Iwon’ttolerategangsters in my yeshiva!Youarenowexpelled!”For a moment, I wasstruck by the wordgangster, thrown into hisfurious Yiddish. Was I agangster? The word wasmeant to shame me, Iknew, but instead I feltproud. A gangster was

worsethanashaygetz,andso I had achievedsomething.I turned and made myway through the hushedstudy hall. The studentsstepped aside to let mepass, through to the rear,past the last tables,wheremy classmates, theyoungest group ofstudents, stood watchingme. I nodded to a few of

them as I passed, offeringa hint of a smirk, andopenedthemaindoorsandheaded up to my dormroom.A hour later, I finishedpackingmythingsintomysuitcase, but not beforeReb Hillel appearedsuddenly and delivered aslaptomyfacesoforcefulthat theworldwent blackfor a long moment and I

thought I was going tofaint. When I finallylookedup,RebHillelstoodthere in silence, contemptalloverhis face,and thenturned on his heels andlefttheroom.

That night, I slept at thehome of a kind rabbi inMontreal, who offered tolet me stay until I couldget a bus back to New

York. As I dragged mysuitcase into the smallguest room on DurocherAvenue, I felt a sort ofmelancholic emptiness. Ihad been expelled twicenow—firstbytheSkverers,and now by the Satmars.After I had been brandedan outcast, my plans tobecome a shaygetz nolongerseemedsohot.Duly chastised, I began

to rethink my strategy. Iwas a Hasidic boy, and Irealized that I could benothing else. I had beenshown up for my hubris,and what I wanted mostnow was acceptance. Iwanted back at theyeshiva.The next day, I calledReb Mordche and offeredan apology that was assincereasitwasdesperate.

Then I called theRuvandpromised to change myways. Aweek later, Iwasallowed to return to thecampusintheLaurentians.I hunkered down and setmy mind to studying thelawsoftheSabbath,whenand howonemay ormaynot remove olive oil fromalamptoseasonasalad—nearlyawholechapteronthat subject alone. I was

determined to change. Iwould take my dutiesseriously and prove that Ihad what it took toachieve both scholarshipand a pious disposition. Iwould make these rabbisproud.Iwouldbejustlikethem.

I had veered off the path,nearly lost my way, buthadgottenrightbackonto

it. After a year inMontreal, the Skvererstookmeback, and I spenttwo years at their yeshivainWilliamsburg, and thenthree more at theirflagship institution, theGreat Yeshiva in NewSquare.Ihadbecomenotashaygetz but a seriousstudent and later arespectableyoungman.Untilnow,at theageof

thirty, when I had veeredoff the path once again.Thereasonsweredifferentthis time; yet in so manyways, they felt the same,asifIwereachildagain,ateenager, naturallyinclined to rebel againstauthority. Except that thistime, my sins were fargreater. And this time, Ihad no intention ofpleadingmywayback.

ChapterTwenty-Two

A month after the bezdinorderedmeout,Gitty andI and the children movedto Monsey, a nearbyhamlet with a Hasidicpopulation several timesgreater than that of New

Square. In Monsey, therewerenotonlySkverersbutalso Vizhnitzers, Belzers,Satmars,andLubavitchers,all living cheek-by-jowlwithold-schoolLitvaks.Theareawemovedto,ahilly road studded withone-story ranch housesand modest colonials,looked like any othersuburban neighborhood inRockland County:

backyard swimming poolsshaded by dogwoods andJapanese maples,manicured hedgerowsalongpropertyedges,frontlawns so green theyseemed almost painted.Behind thehalcyon facadeof two-car garages andwell-maintainedlandscaping, however,were attitudes not muchdifferent from those of

New Square. The menwore the same broad furhats, thewomenwore thesame wigs covered withhats and kerchiefs, andmany showed the samesuspicion and intolerancefor those who weredifferent, for those whosefur hats just weren’t furryenough, or just the rightheight or weight orhardenedsheen.

Walking home from thelittleshulatthecorneroneFriday night, I got into adiscussionwithaneighborabout the challenges ofsciencetoreligiousfaith.“If science contradicts

the Torah, it is false,” themansaidresolutely.The man’s son, a

chubby, redheaded littleboy, pulled on his arm.“Come already,” the boy

whined. IcouldseeChayaSuri looking for methrough our dining-roomwindow, her handscupping the sides of herface,bettertoseeintothedark.Butthetopicathandburned inside me, and Icouldn’tletitgo.“You can’t say that,” I

said to the man. “Thestudy of science iseverywhere in your life.

It’sinthecaryoudrive.Inthe medicine you takewhenyou’reill.Itisintheproductionofyourfood,inthe manufacture of yourclothes. You rely onsciencewhenyouflyinanairplane,orwhenyouvisityour doctor. Science hasput a man on the moon,forgoodnesssake!”The man remainedunimpressed. “I seeyou’re

an oifgeklerter,” he said.“Only an oifgeklerterbelieves in scientists thewayyoudo.”An oifgeklerter. An

enlightened one. Not aheretic but in many waysjust as bad. The hereticdeclares his godlessnessopenly, and so therighteous can choose toavoidhim.Butenlightenedones are deceptive,

wrappingtheirheresyinaveneer of plainspokeninquiry.Iwasremindedofanold

Hasidic teaching, on theverse in Psalms:God peersdown from heaven to ask:WhereistheenlightenedonewhoseeksGod?Said Reb Noach of

Lechevitch: “Where is theenlightened one who seeksGod? The answer, of

course, is that he isnowhere.” The Psalmisthad asked a rhetoricalquestion becauseenlightened ones do notseek God. They seek onlyto destroy the faith ofthosewhodo.“They merely question,”

one of my teachers oncesaid of the Maskilim, theenlightened Jews and thereformers who studied

science and philosophyand attempted, during theeighteenth and nineteenthcenturies, to create a newJew for the modern era.“In their questions,however, lie theirmalevolent intentions.Theyseektodestroyfaith,nottoupholdit.”

The transition to life inMonseybroughtourfamily

new challenges. In NewSquare,Ihadfeltalienatedfromthosearoundus;nowGittyandthechildrendid,too.I had hoped that the

children wouldmake newfriends.TheMandelbaums,across the road, had threegirls; the Illowitzes, nextdoor, had four; theRichters, a couple ofhouses down, had seven.

During the first weeks inour new home, Tziri,Freidy, and Chaya SuriwouldregularlyheadovertotheMandelbaumhouse,asplit-levelcottagealmostidentical to ours. Afterseveral weeks, I noticedthat they went lessfrequently. Soon theystoppedgoingaltogether.“Those girls aredifferent,”Gittysaidwhen

I asked about it. Theyspoke English instead ofYiddish. They wore morefashionable outfits. Mydaughters were shy,uncomfortablearoundgirlsso unlike them. In NewSquare, they’d beensurrounded by family andfriends, cousins,classmates, children raisedas much in one another’shomes as their own, and

they’d never felt the stingofoutsiderness.Gitty, too, missed her

parents and her dozensiblings, and scores ofnieces, nephews, andcousins. She triedbefriending the neighborsbut, like our daughters,found it hard to blend in.It wasn’t long before shegave up trying, and keptbusy with housework,

scanning theadvertisements in theCommunity Connections,or selling old baby outfitsoneBay.

“Can I ask yousomething?” Gitty askedone evening just as Iwalked in from work. Inherhandwasanenvelope,and shewas readingwhatappeared to be a credit-

cardstatement.“Canitwait?”Gitty slapped the

statement on the kitchencounter.“What’sthis?”sheasked, and jabbed herfinger at one of the linesonthepage:D’Agostino’s.I remembered the

purchase: I had been inManhattan late oneevening,andI’dstoppedata supermarket to buy a

quick dinner of roastedsalmon and a side ofpotatoes from its hot-foodbar.“Was it nonkosher

food?”Gittyasked.ItoldGittythatIwould

notgiveheranaccountingfor a ten-dollar purchasethat could’ve been foranything.She turned furious,

convinced of my guilt.

“Why?” she cried. “Whymustyoudothis?”I didn’t know why.

Salmon and potatoes fromD’Agostino’s weren’t anybetter than salmon andpotatoes from a kosherplace,butInolongerkeptkosherwhentherewerenoneighbors or familymembers to hide from. Isimply no longer felt theneed. Manhattan didn’t

have nearly as manykosher options for a quickdinner,anditseemedsillytogotosucheffortwhenitfeltsopointless.“Would you rather Ilied?”Iasked.“No,” she snapped, herteethclenchedinanger.“Idon’t want you eatingtrayf,period!”

DuringourShabbosmeals,

I sometimes prodded mychildrentothinkabouttheweekly Bible portion innewways.“Doyouthinkitright,”Iasked my daughters oneweek, “that an Israelitesoldier may abduct awoman from an enemynationandforceher tobehiswife?”Tziri appeared pensiveand said nothing, while

Freidy looked up at me,surprised, and shook herhead.“M’fregtnishkeinkashes

oifdeToireh,”shesaid,andwent back to her plate ofchulent and noodle kugel.Atelevenyearsold,itwasasclearasitcouldpossiblybe: one does not questiontheTorah.Freidy needed nothing

more, but Tziri looked as

though she was stillprocessingthethought.Gitty, from the far end

of the table, glowered atme. Over the years, shehad made it clear: shecould imagine no greaterbetrayalthaninfectingourchildren’s minds withheresy. I tried to becareful, to keep my realthoughts well concealed,butsometimesitwashard

toresistanudge.

LateonFridaynights,aftertheSabbathmealwasoverand the children weretucked into theirbedsandGitty, too, said she wastired and went to bed, Iwould sit on the living-roomsofaandread.WhenI sensed that the housewas entirely still, I wouldopen the creaky door to

mystudy,locatedrightoffthe living room. I wouldclosethedoorasquietlyasIcouldandleavethelightoff so as not to alert theneighbors. In the dark, Iwould jiggle the mouse,and the computer wouldcome alive, its lightcasting a soft glow on themessofpapers,theprinter,my bookcase filled withforbidden literature.

Checking my e-mail andbrowsing the Internet, Iwould listen carefully forsounds coming from thehouse. I would press thekeysgently,oneatatime,pecking with my indexfinger instead of touch-typing, anxious not to letthe familiar sounds ofkeyboard typing penetratethe Sabbath silenceof ourhome.

But all the care I tookwas no match for Gitty’sintuition. I neverunderstood how, but eachFridaynight,minutesafterI would sit down at mydesk,thedoorwouldcreakopen, and Gitty would bestandinginthedoorwayinher nightgown. The glowfrom the screen wouldpartially illuminate herface and cast a shadowof

her profile against thewall. In the dim light, Icould see her face ashen,her eyes pleading. “Howcan you?” A cry ofanguish, perhaps even agenuine desire tounderstand: How could Ibe so dismissive of God’slaw?By the glow of mycomputer screen I wouldexplain, yet again, that I

was no longer a believer.The rules weremeaningless to me, myprivate desecrations weremy way of carving out apersonal space of freedomfromaworldinwhichmynearly every move wasscrutinized.Iwassorryshehadtoseeit,I’dhopednottowakeher,butIwouldn’taccept restrictions duringprivatemoments.

Gitty would growoffended and angry. “Youthink you’re so muchsmarterthaneveryone?”In my anger, I would

say, yes, that was exactlywhat I thought. And thenwe would fight, and thenmake up, in an endlesslyexhausting cycle.Afterward,wewouldlieinbed for hours and sighabout where to go from

here and how to make itwork, and always, wewould end with thequestion: What about thechildren?I would feel tendernessfor her in thosemoments,despiteallthatwastearingus apart. But the nextweek, the same thingwould happen, untileventually I grew bolderand would turn on the

light inmy study and tapthe keys without fear.Gitty would still comedown,butitwasnolongerinthedark,andshewouldsit on the floor near thedoor and glare at me andmy desecration of theSabbath.“Whydoyouhavetobeso different?” she wouldcry.“Whycan’tyoubelikeeveryoneelse?”Shewould

come up with the answeronherown: “It’s all thosebooks, and movies, andnewspapers, and theInternet.“Therabbiswere right,”

she would say again andagain.“It’sallthatgarbagethat’schangedyou.”

The tension in our homeonly grew worse. Gittywould continue to scold

me for my transgressions,and eventually, in theinterest of keeping thepeace, I would begin tohide from her, using cashfor nonkosher purchases,hiding receipts andcreating alibis. AtStarbucks, I wouldcarefully calculate mypurchases. A five-dollarpurchase could be for alatte,whichwaskosher.A

ten-dollar purchase wouldgive away the turkey-and-Swiss-cheese sandwichthatI’dboughtwithit,andsoI’drushtofindanATM.Ineeded to stophiding.

Ineededtostoplying.Butwas there a way to do itwithout shatteringeverything?I would grow frustrated

with Gitty’s unwillingnesstobend.WhenIsuggested

one day that instead ofalways requiring me todriveherplaces,shemightlearntodriveonherown,sheexploded:“WhyshouldIchangeforyou?”MostHasidicwomendidnot drive cars, but still,somedid.IdidnotcaresomuchifGittydrove,butitannoyed me that shewouldn’t even consider it.As a family, we kept

everything in strictaccordance with Jewishlaw. Iwas careful to keepup appearances for thepublic, now even morethanbefore.UnlikeinNewSquare, where I’d hadmysmallcircleofdeviantsonSaturdaymornings, here Ihad no choice but to sitthrough three hours ofprayer andTorah reading,to listen to the othermen

speak without being ableto offer my own realthoughts. Much of it felttaxing and stressful; yet IkeptdoingitbecauseGittywanted it for our family.WasitsomuchtoaskthatwerelaxonminormattersofHasidiccustom?

“Let’s take a vacation,” IsuggestedtoGittyoneday.Ithoughtitwouldbegood

for us to get away. “Howabout Europe?” Gitty hadrelatives in London. IwantedtovisitViennaandPragueandKraków.Gitty, however, hadlittle interest in traveling.Newness disoriented her.Shedidn’t care for foreigncities and the stresses ofunfamiliarfoodsandotherpeople’sbeds.Throughourdecade and a half of

marriage,we’d taken onlyonevacationoutofstate,aweekinFloridatovisitanaunt and uncle near BocaRaton.I persisted, though, andGitty finally relented.“Maybe just a few days.Somewhereclose.”We made arrangementsfor the children to staywith relatives, and GittyandItookathree-daytrip

to Niagara Falls. After wesaw the falls, rode theMaid of the Mist, andpurchased armloads ofsouvenirs, I wondered ifwe might get away fromthe high-rise hotels andthe masses of tourists inBermudashortsandcheapsunglasses.“Look!” I pointed toseveral brochures I foundin the hotel lobby.

“Vineyards! Wine tours!”Gitty agreed to go for awine tour, but in theparking lot afterward, wequarreledbitterly.“Youdrank trayfwine!”shecried.Duringthetour,I had ignored her darkglances, and had drunkfrom the small cupsoffered for tasting—Chardonnays, Cabernets,Malbecs.

Afteranhourofarguing,screaming, and crying,wemade up, agreed to put itbehind us, and drove toournextdestination.Inthenearby town of Niagara-on-the-Lake, the annualShawFestwastakingplace,acelebrationof“thewittyand provocative spirit ofBernard Shaw,” and Ipersuaded Gitty to attenda play with me. The play

wasHotelPeccadillo,basedon a French play byGeorges Feydeau. It was,in the words of onereviewer, “a romp aboutthe respectable middle-class behaving less thanrespectably.”NeitherGittynor I had ever been to aplay before, romp or non-romp. The reviews weregood,andwehadonlyonenight left. I bought tickets

without investigatingfurther.Whentheplaywasover,Gitty stalked out of thetheater ahead of me. No,she said when I finallycaught up to her. She didnot enjoy the play—couldnot, in fact,make out thestory line, but understoodenough to know that itwas dirty and disgustingandvulgarandgoyishand

ifIaskedhertojoinmeinonemoreofmystupidandcrazyandgoyish interests,shewouldneverseemeorspeak to me again, andthen I’d be free to go offonmy own andwatch allthose stupid plays andhave sex with the actors,too,ifIwanted.

In an effort to reason meout of my pleas for

compromise, Gitty wouldremind me that she hadmoved to Monsey for mysake, how unhappy shewas to be so far fromeverything she knew, howunhappy the childrenwere. Iknewthatshewasright; yet I would look atherduringthosetimesandfeel nothing for her. Oldresentments would rise,and Iwouldwonder:Why

werewestilltogether?Theanswer was, for thechildren, of course. But ifthey, too, were unhappy,whatwasthepoint?“I don’t think this isworking,” I said to Gittyoneday.Gitty thought thatmaybewe could still savethings. “Maybe we canmovesomeplaceelse,”shesaid.

“Move again? Towhere?”Gitty looked down,silent.Thereweren’tmanyoptions.“Would you live amongtheModernOrthodox?TheUpper West Side?Teaneck? Flatbush?” TheModern Orthodox allowedthe study of secularsubjects, they watchedmovies, boys and girls

went on dates. Ourchildrenwouldhavemoreopportunities,andIwouldperhaps feel a greatersenseoffreedom.Gitty shook her head.“The children need aYiddish-speakingenvironment.” After a fewmoments of silence, shesaid, “But maybe we canrelaxcertainthings.”“Like what?” I asked.

“You won’t even get adriver’slicense!”“I don’t know.” I could

see her hazel irisesglistening.“WhatwillItellmyparents?” sheasked ina near whisper, her voicecatchinghalfwaythrough.

On a breezy night inNovember, Gitty and Ilookedout in silence frombehind a low fence at the

edgeof theHudsonRiver.The river’s gentle wavesbroke against the stonewall as the wind blewgentlyinourfaces.Amileor so upriver was theTappan Zee Bridge, itslights cutting brilliantlythrough the darkness ofthe skyand the river.Theshopsbehindus,alongthePiermont Pier, wereclosed, and aside from a

lone dog walker up theroad in thedistance, therewasnooneinsight.It was a night ofscheduled intimacy.Earlier that evening, I’dpicked up Gitty on ViolaRoad at the women’smikveh, the ritual baththat she attended once amonth,andwhenwecamehome, I suggested we dosomething.“Wanttogofor

amovie?”Iasked.She said that she was

not in the mood and didnot like movies all thatmuch,anyway.“How about a drive

down to Piermont?” Iasked, after we sat insilenceforawhilelonger.Piermont was a hillside

village ten miles away,rightontheHudsonRiver,known for its trendy art

galleries and restaurantsand a handful of celebrityresidents.Atthishour,thewaterfront would beempty, and I thought itwould be a pleasant placetospendtheevening.“What are we going todothere?”Was there irritability inher tone? I wasn’t sure.Then again, she seemedirritablealmosteverytime

we spoke now. Iconsidered giving up. Icould go into my studyandwatchamovieonmyown,andwecouldjustgoto bed alone. Yet throughthe years, physicalintimacy had remainedimportant to both of us,and I felt it my duty tokeepthataspectofourlifefromgoingstale.“I don’t know,” I said.

“We’ll take a stroll. Lookat the stars. Gaze at thelights.”“Fine,”shesaid.Nowwe stoodwatching

the lights passing in thedistance over the bridge,like colored dots againstthe black backdrop of alow-resolutionvideogame.Shewasdressedinawarmcoat, but she’d forgottenher scarf. She got a tissue

out of her pocket to wipeher nose, and I realizedthat my mustache feltmoist on my upper lip. Ireached my hand behindher arm, then moved totake her hand. Her handswere inherpockets,andIput my hand inside. Herfingers reached for mine,interlocking, although Icouldfeelhesitancyinhermovements. She would

never have allowed it inpublic within our ownneighborhood.I remember thinkingthat itwouldmake a nicephotograph, the two of usagainst the night sky, thelights of the bridgeglistening against theirreflectioninthewater.“Isn’tthisnice?”Iasked.Her shoulders werehunched, her eyes darting

around. Shenoticed that Iwas looking at her, andshe smiled stiffly. After aminute, she said, “I’mcold.”Then,lookingaway,“Iwanttogoback.”It was chilly, notfreezing, but cold forNovember.Still,she’dsaiditirritably,almostasiftheweather was my fault.Frustration, annoyance, atouchofangerfinallyburst

insideme.“For once, canwewantthesamething?”Gitty scowled, and Iregretted saying it, but itwastoolate.“You want differentthings,”shesaid,repeatingwhatshe’dsaidathousandtimes already. “Weird andcrazy things. Goyishthings. All those thingsyoureadinbooksorseein

the movies. I have nointerestinanyofit.”She unclasped her hand

frommine, andwe lapsedinto silence. When shelooked at me, I could seethewetnessonhercheeks.“Maybe you’re right,”

shesaidsoftly.“Maybewejustcan’tmakeitwork.”

PARTIV

ChapterTwenty-Three

OnaTuesdayafternooninDecember, duringChanukah of 2007, Gittyand I climbed two ricketyflights ofwooden stairs tothe meeting room of alocal rabbinical court.The

room doubled as thewomen’s section for aneighborhood shul, andthrough the slats of thelatticework along the farwall,wecouldseedowntothe sanctuary, whereseveraldozenmensatovertheir Talmuds, swingingtheir thumbs and strokingtheir beards. Nearby, in aroom the size of a largecloset, a scribe, feather

quill in hand and inkwellat his side, wrote twelvelinesofHebrewscriptontoa square of parchment. Ashort while later, therabbis, the scribe, thewitnesses, and severalcurious busybodiesassembled.“Thou art hereby

divorced fromme….” Thewords stuck in my throatas I held the square of

parchment in my hand.Gittystoodwithherpalmstogether, open andupward, tears runningdownhercheeks,herbodytrembling. I could barelysee anything but couldonlyhear,asiffrominsidemyhead,thesilenceintheroom. I could imagine therabbis’ thoughts,Nu,finishalready. But I couldn’t getthe words out. It was

fifteenyears,almosttotheday, fromwhenwe’d firstmet, andnow, after I saidthese last few words anddropped the parchmentinto Gitty’s palms, ourbondswouldbe severed. Iswallowed hard, andforced my mind intonumbness. “And thou arthereby permitted to allothermen.”“A beautiful divorce,”

one of the rabbis saidafterward. “Such lack ofacrimony, such genuinetenderness.” Gitty and Ismiled through our tearsand rode home in our cartogether.

Beforewesplit,GittyandIhad agreed that thechildren were the mostimportant thing.Evenings,

as the children slept, wewould talk late into thenight, sweetly, sadly, ofcivility, of continuedfriendship, of cooperativeparenting. For thechildren’s sake, we said,we’ll make this the mostamicable split in thehistoryofamicablesplits.Gitty and the childrenmoved back to NewSquare, while I took an

apartment in Monsey, aten-minute drive away.The children came to myplace twice a week fordinnerandhomework,andvisited every other weekforShabbos,rotatingthreeatatime.IboughtabunkbedfromIKEA,alongwithseveral air mattresses andlots of pillows andblankets inbright,gender-neutral colors, and set it

all up in the extrabedroom, which doubledasmyoffice.Itwasn’tveryroomy,but thekidsdidn’tmind. It felt like camping,they said. I stockeduponbooks, toys, board games.Gitty and I spoke on thephone nearly every day,and with her guidance, Ilearned to prepare basicmeals.Whenthechildrencame

on Shabbos, I kept upappearances, wearing myshtreimel and bekishe fortheir sake. I took theboysto shul, and we ate theShabbos meals and sangtheShabbossongs.ItestedtheboysontheirBibleandTalmud studies, andwarnedmydaughters thatplaying Monopoly wasforbidden according tosomeopinions,as itwasa

simulation of weekdaybusiness practices. Imaintained a strictlykosher kitchen, with twosinks and two sets ofdishes formeatanddairy.Ievendisallowedwatchingmovies—Gittyhadbecomemore strict about it, and Imade it clear that,wherever the childrenwereconcerned,wewouldgobyherrules.

On Saturday afternoons,the children and I tookwalksdownanoldcountryroad a mile from ourhome. At the end of theroad was a pond shadedwith elms and weepingwillows, where we wouldwatch thegeeseswimandcatch glimpses of deer inthe nearby woods. Oncewe spotted two turtlesrestingonatirethatstood

uprightintheshallowend,its bottom half buried inrocks anddirt. The turtlesfaced each other, theirnecksoutstretched,asifina stare-down. For a longtime, we stood andwatched,waiting for themto move, until dusk fellandtheturtleswerebarelyperceptible bumps on thetire’sdarksilhouette.

I was thirty-three. Afterfifteen years of marriage,andfivechildren,Ididnotfeel very young. Still, Itoldmyself, itwasnottoolate tobeginanew lifeasa citizen of the world, alife guided by my ownvalues,nolongerdrivenbythe fear of socialostracism.My job kept me

occupied during the day,

butintheevening,Icouldcatchupon the educationI had missed. I wouldmake new friends andlearnabouttheworld.Thefuture seemed bright. Iwanted tobeawriterandan academic. I would getmy GED, my bachelor’sdegree, my master’s, mydoctorate. I dreamed ofleafyNewEnglandcollegecampuses and ivy-covered

stone walls and a tenure-track professorship. Iwanted to be a scholar ofNear Eastern studies or ofcomparative religion.Or aprofessor of psychology.Or creative writing. Therewere suddenly so manyoptions. For now, Iwouldstart theprocess.Withinadecade, our youngestwould be nearingadulthood; with an empty

nest, I’d have the secondhalf of my life to pursuemydreams.Iwouldcreatepossibilities not only formyself but also for mychildren. I would teachthem that they, too, couldpursuetheiraspirations,tobewritersoracademicsorscientistsorcarmechanicsor circus performers. “Iwanttobeamom,”Freidywouldsay,andIwouldtell

herthatwasafinethingtobe,ifshechoseitherself.None of itwas going to

be easy, but we wouldmake it work. I wouldcontinue to support Gittyand the children, and wewould find a reasonablewaytosharecustody.Soonenough, Gitty would findsomeone to marry. Shehad many good qualities,and I was sure that there

was a man somewherewho would make herhappy.AweekafterGittyandI

moved to our newapartments, I drove to theRockland CommunityCollegecampus,nestledina forested nook at the tipof Monsey. Down acorridorfromthegleaminglobby of the mainbuilding, I found a room

withbrochuresandcoursecatalogs and applicationforms of all kinds. I tookone of everything, andspent the better part of along night readingregistration policies,tuition details, and coursedescriptions.Iwanted to study it all:arthistoryandornithologyand cartooning andcalculus I through III and

automotive technologyand restaurantmanagement. But I couldtake only night classes,andIwasfurtherrestrictedby my lack of a highschool diploma. After twosemesters, IwouldgetmyGED;butfornow,Ihadtostickwith a limited list ofclasses. I chose English101 and elementaryalgebra from the list of

requirements, and addedone class in psychologyand another in generalphilosophy.

During my first algebraclass, after I found a seatin the last row, a womansat down beside me. Shehadchin-length,softblondhair and the clearest skinI’d ever seen on an adulthuman. Her features were

exquisite, almost doll-like.She wore a white jacketand tight jeans and shortwhite boots with furrycuffs. She struck me asvaguely Eastern European.I imagined a Russianaccent.I knew that at some

point, I would want tobegin dating. But now,sittingnexttothiswoman,IdidnotthinkIwantedto

date her, or be friendswith her, or even speakwith her—I only had thevisceral awareness thatnext to me was such anextraordinary presencethatIwonderedhowIwasto concentrate on thealgebra lessons. As theprofessor spoke ofpolynomials and rationalnumbersandfactorization,I could think only of the

woman beside me, herknees nearly touchingmine, the pen in herslender fingers movingsteadily, filling hernotebook with gracefullyloopingnumerals.Were my feelingsnormal? Did other men’sminds, too, freeze into anear-comatose state insuch situations? Iwondered what would

happen if I tried speakingto her. Would sherespond? Or would shecast me a witheringglance?By the end of the first

class, I had worked upenough courage to lookher way. When our eyesmet, she smiled lightly.During the next class, oneweek later, she leanedover and asked if I’d

caught something theprofessorsaid.Ipointedtomy notes, and she copiedfrom them eagerly.Emboldened, I turned toherduring the five-minutebreak. I do not rememberwhat I said, but Iremember beingastonished that she notonly spoke tomebut thatshe was shy and soft-spoken and entirely,

though still exquisitely,human. Her name wasAliona, she said. She wastwenty-six, lived twotownsover,andwasinhersecondyearincollege.I wondered if wemightbecomefriends.

I thoughtIknewallabouttheoutsideworldbynow.Ihadwatchedhundredsofmovies, read dozens of

books,devouredthousandsof newspaper andmagazine articles. Iimagined that thelanguage and the culturalnuances and thebehavioral peculiarities ofnon-Hasidim would cometo me like a second skin,onceIshedmyoldone.I would learn soon

enough:Aworldpresentedonfilmoronthepagewas

not reality. One does notbecome a homicidedetective from readingcrime novels, or a triallawyer from watchingcourtroomdramas.All themovies in theworldcouldnotadequatelypreparemefor living in this newworld. Even without myyarmulke, with my payessshorn off and my wide-brimmedhatandlongcoat

abandoned, I could notshakethefeelingthatIstillcarried the aura of aHasid, emitting vibrationsof alienness to all aroundme.Myattemptstostrikeupconversation with myclassmates felt awkwardand strained; it seemed asiftheirsentencescarriedasubtext I could notdecipher. “Hey, man,” a

classmate said to me oneday in greeting, and Iwondered about themeaningbehindtheidiom.“Man” struck me as astrange form of address.Could one say, “Hey,woman”? What about,“Hey, person”? Thedictionarydidnotsay.Another man pepperedhis speech with “yo,”“dude,” and “bro.” Even

though I knew thesewords, it felt odd hearingthem in real life, and Iwondered whether therewas some crucial elementto living as a non-Hasidthat would prove foreverelusive. I had been toldover the years that myEnglish speech carried aslightYiddishaccent,andInow found myself self-conscious each time I

spoke.My name, too,wasa source of discomfort:“Shulem,”withitsHebrewand Yiddishdistinctiveness, feltwhollyincongruent with theethnically neutral personaInowsoughtformyself.When shopping for

clothes, I found that Icould make little sense ofcontemporary fashions.After I bought a new

sweater and wore it towork one day, anacquaintance from theoffice next door steppedinto the elevatorwithme,looked me up and down,and said, “Preppysweater.” I looked at himfor clues to a deepermeaning, but he lookedaway, hummed a tune tohimself, and stepped offthe elevator. I was left to

wonder:Waspreppygood?Was preppy bad? I turnedto the Internet, but theanswers were elusive.Preppy. Urban. Sporty.Business casual. So manyterms, but how did oneknow what was what?What style suitable forwhom, and for whatoccasion?One day, I came acrossthe term “dad jeans.”Dad

jeans, I came tounderstand,werebad,soIimmediately ran to mycloset and held up thesingle pair of light-bluewashed-out denim I’dpurchased only a fewweeksearlier.Dadjeans!

One day, Aliona told methatshehopedtograduatewith an English degree.She wanted to be a

schoolteacher, she said.English majors likedEnglish, I thought, whichmeant they liked wordsand sentences and strangelanguageconstructions.“Do you know thelongest grammaticallycorrect sentencecontaining only a singleword?”Iasked.She gave me a puzzledlook.

“Buffalo buffalo Buffalobuffalo buffalo buffaloBuffalobuffalo.”She offered a half smilebutlookednolesspuzzled.“What?”I had seen that fact onWikipediaearlierthatday.The word “buffalo,” thearticle said, with itsvarious definitions—as aregularnoun(theanimal),a proper noun (the city),

anda verb (“to annoy”)—made this constructionpossible. I found myselfreading this informationwith such delight that Iimmediately filed it away,hoping for an opportunitytoshareit.“Itmeans—” I began toexplain, then noticed herblank expression. Perhapsoffering random bits ofinformationcollectedfrom

Internetencyclopediaswasnot a good way to makeconversation.“Sorry,” I said, with anembarrassed chuckle. “Iguess not everyone’s awordnerd.”She laughed. “A wordnerd.Ilikethat.”Her laugh encouragedme. Also encouragingwasthat each Wednesdayevening, as soon as I

arrived,shewouldlookupand nod: “Hello, Shulem.”Her voice was like silk,soft and smooth andprecious in its sparseness.Occasionally, she wouldlook atmewith a kindofexpectantexpression.YetIcouldnotthinkofmuchtosay, and my meagerattempts at conversationfizzledintonothingness.

Months passed, and Ifound myself with a kindof loneliness I had notanticipated. For nearlyfifteenyears,mywife andchildren had been rightbeside me. I’d had scoresof friends, hundreds ofacquaintances, and acommunity of thousands.Suddenly unmoored, Ibegantoworry:HowwasIgoingtoreplaceitall?

A small handful of oldfriends still calledoccasionally,buttherewasa chill to our interactions.“So,areyouhappynow?”theywouldask,theirtonesflat,rhetorical.Iwouldsaythat yes, I was happy, orhappier than before, orwhat did it mean to behappy, really? Or I wouldturn the question back atthem—“Areyouhappy?”—

and they would growannoyed. “You’re the onewho made this bigchange.” Thoseconversations wereawkward and stilted. Wewere careful to skirtsensitive issues, questionsoffaith,thedetailsofnon-Hasidic life, whether Ireally no longer kept theSabbath, or if it was alljust theoretical, as my

brother Avrumi had onceasked. Invariably, myfriends would say, “You’llbeback,Shulem.You’llbeback.” They would offertheir best wishes, hopesthat I find myself soon,find peace of mind, findwhatever it was I waslooking for, so that Imight, the sooner thebetter, stop all thisnonsense for the good of

everyoneinvolved.

“We should hang outsometime,”IsaidtoAlionaafter class one day.“Maybe get coffee orsomething.” I placed mybooks into my bag, thenflung the bag over myshoulder and slipped outbetween our seats. I hadhoped for a casual effect,as if the thought had just

occurred to me, as if Ihadn’t prepared thosewords in my head,rehearsed them withdifferent cadences andtones toget theeffect justright.Alionalookedup.“Yeah,weshould.”Did she say it brightly?Did she seem eager? Wasshejustbeingpolite?“We’ll figure something

out,” I said as I took off,not knowing what else tosay.Later, Iagonizedoverit: How will she reactwhen she learnsaboutmypast? What if we havenothing to talk about?Scenarios of rejection—catastrophe!—played outin my head, which soonbecame not onlypossibilities butcertainties, as if they had

already occurred, insteadof the imaginations ofmyfreneticallyanxiousmind.Soontherewasonlyoneclass left. I was dismayedatmy own failure to turnAliona into a friend. Icould not bear to attendour lastclass, so I skippedit and pushed Aliona outofmymind.

Afellowblogger,aHasidic

man in Brooklyn, withwhom I’d been in touchover the years, called meone day. He’d becomeacquainted online with aHasidic woman who hadconfidedinhim.“Shewantstoleave,”he

said. “But she wants tospeak to someone who’salready done it. Someonewhoisnotafuckup.”Was that me—not a

fuckup?I told him to give hermy number, and a fewdays later, the womancalled.Shesoundedoutofbreath.“I’m sorry, I’m—” Iheard her panting, thensilence.Moments later, she wasback.“Sorry, I’m on my wayto the library. I thought I

saw a Hasidic manfollowing me, so I startedrunning.” She soundeddistracted, and I heard agroan. “Ooh—sorry, Ialmost fell into a ditchhere. I think he’s gonenow. Gosh, it’s so dark!”Then she laughed. “Youmust think I’m nuts. I’mnotnuts,Ipromise!”Her name was Malky,she said, and she lived in

Kiryas Joel, the Satmarvillage in Orange County,thirty minutes north ofMonsey. Could we meet?sheasked.We arranged to meet a

few days later, at anApplebee’snearenough toKiryasJoelforhertowalk.No proper Hasid wouldstep into a nonkoshereatingestablishment,soaslong as she wasn’t seen

entering, she’d be safemeetingastrangemale.Iarrivedseveralminuteslate. A middle-aged mansataloneinabooth,eatingdinner.Afewtablesdown,a teenage couple leanedinto each other, side byside, a half-eaten plate ofdessertbetweenthem.Theserver at the door raisedaneyebrow.“One?”“I’m supposed to meet

someone.” I wasn’t surehowtodescribeher.“Haveyouseen…awomanina…?” I raisedmy hands toindicate a covered head.Before I could finish thequestion, the waitresspointed to a corner boothat the far end of therestaurant. Peeking frombehind the high-backedbenchwasaheadcoveredwith a floral lavender

kerchief,facingawayfromtheentrance.Iwalked over slowly. A

Hasidic woman satbundled in her wintercoat,uprightandstiff,herhands folded in front ofher. On the table was anuntouched glass of water.The woman looked up atme,herexpressionblank.“Malky?”Isaid.Her jaw hung slightly

down as she stared. I satdown, and she keptlooking at me, her eyeswide.Finally, she spoke. “Youlook like a regularshaygetz!”We eased intoconversation. She wastwenty-three, she said,married with two littledaughters. She describedhowshehadbeenraisedin

a typical Satmar family,with nearly a dozensiblings and scores ofcousins, and had oncebeenhappilyensconced inher world. Then shediscovered the Internetandbeganinteractingwithothers online, and theworld opened before her.The library was now herplace of refuge. Everyevening,shewouldaskher

husband to babysit theirtwodaughters,sayingthatshewas going to visit hersisterorhermother.Thenshe would walk for thirtyminutes down dark,wooded back roads to thelibrary in the nearbyvillage of Monroe. Herinner life had completelychanged. She wasdetermined to make herway out but had no plan

and still saw too manyobstacles.In the days and weeksthatfollowed,MalkyandIspokeonthephoneseveraltimes, and then began tomeet up regularly. Thepretense was that I,alreadyout,wasgivinghera line to grab, a soundingboard for her own plans.Inreality,MalkymeantasmuchtomeasIdidtoher.

She was all that wassaving me fromwhat wasbeginningtofeellikesoul-crushingsolitude.

And yet, howeverdisorientingmy transition,I knew that I had chosenthe right path. OnSaturday mornings, thoseweeks when the childrenwere with Gitty, I woulddrive to nearby Harriman

State Park and hike milesof crisscrossing trails. Asmorning passed intoafternoon,Iwouldthinkofwhat my children weredoing—at noon, theywouldbeinshul,finishingprayers;attwo,homewithGitty, or perhaps at theirgrandparents’ or withcousins, having theirchulent and kishke andonion kugel and singing

the Sabbath songs out ofwornbentchers.I would think of thosesongs now, and theSabbath atmosphere, andfeelpangsofnostalgiathatwere both painful andpleasing. Steppingcarefully across streams,climbing cliffs, up onemountain and downanother, I would sing thesongs I had sung somany

years during Sabbathafternoonmeals:“ThisDayIs Most Esteemed of AllDays,”“ASabbathDayforGod,” “When I Keep theSabbath, God Will KeepMe.” My favorite trailwent up the PopolopenTorne,where,atthepeak,twinned with BearMountain several milesaway,Iwouldhavea360-degree view formiles. On

a clear day, I could seeHoboken and sometimesevenNewYorkCity.Neara tall cairn, a makeshiftmemorial for members ofthe U.S. Armed Forces, Iwould stick my hikingpoles intothesoftground,take off my sweatybackpack, and get outmyturkey-and-cheesesandwich.It was Shabbos

afternoon, and I wasdesecrating it by hikingand eating trayf. I wouldreflect on the fact thatsuchsimplepleasureswereso meaningful. It feltexhilarating to be able todo what had for so manyyears been forbidden forfear of not heavenly buthumanjudgment.

ChapterTwenty-Four

“Do you think you’ll getmarried again?” Malkyasked me one day. “Doyou want to have morechildren?”We were in the middleof a hike up Bear

Mountain, headed to thePerkinsMemorialToweratthe peak. Malky had toldmethatshewantedtojoinmeonmyhikesbutcouldnotgetawayonSaturdays,so I switched my hikingdaytoSunday.“Not sure aboutmarriage. But children,yes.”“Really?” She looked atme, her ponytail wig

bobbingbehindher.“Iwanttoraisechildren

withouthavingtohidemytruebeliefs.”“Isee.”“I’ll be honest, though.

Part of me feels it wouldbe wrong. Somethingabout it does make meuncomfortable.”She looked at me

quizzically, but I wasn’tsure how to explain. We

fellsilentaswescrambledup the face of a jaggedcrag, stepping carefullyontosharpoutcroppingsofrock to maintain ourfooting. Up on top, afterwe caught our breath andfeltthebreezeoftheopenskiesonoursweatynecks,Malky took off herbackpack and withdrewher water bottle, while Isat down on a large rock

nearby.“Why does it make you

uncomfortable?”Shetiltedher head and fixed mewith a look, her browcreased,as if staringatanobject she couldn’t quitemakeout.“Maybethisisabsurd,”I

said. “But … it just feelsdisloyal. Like the kids Ihave now aren’t goodenough. Like I cherish

them less because of theworld they’re in and needother kids to replacethem.”She edged beside me

onto the rock, andwe satsilent, both of us lost inour thoughts. It had beenan unusually mild Marchday. The sun above acloudless sky hadwarmedus for most of theafternoon. Now, however,

the sun was quicklymovingto thewest,andagust of wind reminded usthat dusk and an eveningchillwereapproaching.We stood up andgathered our packs, butMalky’s movements wereslow,dreamy,asifshewasstillprocessingsomething.“I think I understand,”she said finally, as shereached to fasten the

chest-strap of herbackpack.“Forme,there’sonlyoneoption,though.IfIleave,it’snotwithoutmydaughters.”

The thought of taking myownchildrenwithmehadnot occurred tome. Later,therewouldbe thosewhowould tell me that I hadnorighttoleavebecause—amongotherthings—Ihad

no right to expose mychildren to a worldviewand a lifestyle to whichtheywerenotaccustomed.OtherswouldtellmethatIhad been cruel to leavewithout fighting to takethem,tochangetheirlivesalong with mine. But atthe time, it seemed as iflivingwithGittywastrulybest for the children. Sheloved them, too, and

wantedwhat was best forthem. I was not at allconvinced that the path Ihad taken, this transition,wasnecessarilythepathtohappinessforall.

Oneday,Malkycalledme,nearlyhysterical.“Shulem,myfatherwantstokidnapmygirls!”She’d been at her

parents’ home a few days

earlier, she said, for thehaircutting ceremony ofone of her three-year-oldnephews. While standingin her parents’ kitchen,immersed in the babbleandcheeroftheassembledwomen and girls, shenoticed her husband andher father speakingearnestly in the diningroom nearby, and sheleaned in to listen from

behindadoor.“They were talking

abouttakingmydaughtersaway! Shulem, I am sofrightened!”Severaldaysearlier, she

toldmethatwhisperswerespreadingaboutherinthecommunity. She hadstopped wearing thespecial stockings of beigefabricwiththeseamssewnup the calf. Her husband

noticed that she was nolonger shaving her head.She’d taken to wearingpajamas to bed instead ofa nightgown. Sheconsidered these minortransgressions, but herhusband,towhomshehadonce, in an unguardedmoment, expressed afantasy about leaving thecommunity, reported hertoherfather.

“He can’t possibly beserious,” I said. Akidnapping sounded far-fetched.“Therearelawsinthiscountry!”“You don’t know him,

Shulem.” Her father wasan askan, a klaktier. Anactivist and a politicalliaison.Hedeliveredvotesto elected officials. Headvised rebbes. He stoodat the head of important

institutions. He wasn’taccustomed to beingdefied. “Besides,” Malkysaid,“youknowthisplaceisn’t exactly law-and-ordercentral.”ThenexttimeIsawher,

Irealizedimmediatelythatsomething had changed.She had taken a bus toMonsey to run someerrands, and had only afew minutes for a quick

chatbeforeshereturned.Ipickedherupfrombehinda local shopping center,where she stood waitingbehind an enormousDumpster.After looking around

carefully, she got into mycar. I leaned in for a hug,and for a moment shehesitated, then leaned inandpulledbackquickly.“Ican’t hug you anymore,

Shulem.”She’d spoken to a

divorce attorney, and headvised her to avoid anyappearanceofimpropriety.“Here?” I lookedaround

theemptylot.She shook her head. “I

can’t risk it.” I could seeher eyes glistening.“Shulem,whatam Igoingtodo?”Sheneededtopullback,

she said. We could speakonthephoneoccasionally,butthatwouldbeit.

She wants to meet someonewho is not a fuckup. Myfriend’swordsplayedoverandoverinmyheadasthemonths passed. Itwas thecommon stereotype ofthose who left: fuckups.Troubledyouths.Menandwomen from broken

homes, bad marriages,victimsofabuse—physical,sexual, emotional. Onlythose afflicted with apsychological ailmentwould choose to abandonthe loving embrace of theHasidim.And sometimes Iwondered: Could they beright?On the outside, I

functioned well enough,went to work each day,

continuedmy studies. ButIbegantofeelasmallpartof myself crumble. I didnotregretmychoice;yetIwas growing uneasy.Malky was gone. I hadfailedtostrikeupalastingfriendshipwithAliona.OnFriday nights, when thechildren did not come, Iwouldache fora friendtocall,buttherewasnoone.SometimesIwouldgotoa

movie theater, but themovie would end, and Iwouldhavenowheretogobut back to my Monseyapartment,alone.Itooktodriving into Manhattan towander the streets ofGreenwichVillage,lookingforsomethingbutIdidnotknowwhat.Once, at two in themorning, I strolled past amiddle-aged man leaning

withacaneagainstawallatthecornerofUniversityPlace and WashingtonSquarePark.Hepointedatme with his index finger:“You. You’re beautiful.” Ilooked behind me, buttherewas no one else.Hepointed moreemphatically: “You.” Heshouted an offer for asexualservice,assuringmeof our mutual pleasure,

then chortled as I hurriedaway.Andyet,Icouldnothelp but take smallpleasureinourinteraction.Ihadbeennoticed.Anotherevening,Isawa

man and a womansmokingoutsideadooronWest Houston Street, nearSixth Avenue. For somereason, I slowed as Ipassed.“Looking for the

meeting?” the man asked.“Secondfloor.”Hepointedat the door, then crushedthe cigarette under hisshoe. It was aroundmidnight, thestreets filledwith the clamor ofGreenwich Villagenightlife, women in tightskirts tottering on highheels, men at their sides,hailing cabs, jittery withthenight’spromise.

“Come on,” the mancalled. “Don’t be shy.”Heheld the door, and Ifollowedhimupanarrowstaircase. Upstairs, a signsaid,“MidniteMeeting.”Inalargeroom,severalrowsof chairswere laid out onthree sides, facing a smallplatform. Piles ofbrochureswerespreadouton a table near the door,and from their titles I

realized what I hadalreadyassumed:Thiswasan Alcoholics Anonymousmeeting. Men and womenof various ages, lookingrespectable and earnest,tooktheirseats.Amangotup on the platform, andbegantospeakabouthowalcohol had destroyed hislife and how the “itty,bitty, shitty committee”had interfered so many

times when he tried tosober up. He spoke ofpersevering against theodds, of falling andpicking himself up,repeatedly. Others shared,telling stories about livesof ruin and failedpromiseand picking up the shardsof what was left of them,after their families, jobs,and life aspirations hadleft them. Each one

announced his or herlength of sobriety. Sevenyears. Three months. Fivedays.I returned to thatmeeting several times, onlonely Friday nightswhenIhadnothingbettertodo,nowhere to be, no one tomeet. I was not analcoholic, but I felt akinshipwith these people,eachinhisorherownway

suffering from acombination of badchoices and unfortunatecircumstances. They hadbeen fuckups, and yet,they were not. They werethere, determined to goon.I found a therapist, a

birdlike woman in hersixties.Iwantedhertotellme that there wassomethingwrongwithme,

but she wouldn’t. “Youmadedifficultchoices,andthey led to realconsequences. You’d be afuckup if youdidn’t feel alittlebitlost.”I thought about

Footsteps,theorganizationin Manhattan that offeredassistance to people whohadlefttheultra-Orthodoxworld. Leiby, whosedeparture from New

Square three years earlierhad prompted the bezdintoexpelme,hadsoughtitsassistance. Leiby hadmoved on and waspursuing a degree inchemical engineering atCornellUniversity,buttheorganization was stillaround.In the first weeks afterI’dleft,Ihadlookedupitswebsite and read its

program calendar:education night. GEDtutoring. Résumé writing.Assistance with collegeapplications. I didn’t needthose things; I had a job,had enrolled in collegewithout much difficulty,andmyEnglishskillswerefine.Icalledthenumbertoinquire about any otherservices they offered, buttherewas little theycould

do for me, and so Ithanked the staff for theirwonderful work and putthe organization out ofmind.Now, however, I

realized that I needed thepeople.IfIdidn’tneedtheservices, maybe I couldmentor others, tutor someoftheyoungermembersinEnglish or math. I couldoffer assistance, and

perhaps that alone wouldhelpmeinreturn.

Itwas the secondnightofPassoverwhenIarrivedatthe downtown location.The tables were laid outwithboxesofmatzahnextto piles of pita bread,gefilte fish and sushiplatters, pasta salads,potato kugels, and applecompote.Atableofftothe

side with a “kosher” signhad been set up for thosewho still maintaineddegrees of religiousobservance. As a potluckdinner, though, the foodwas mainly provided bymembers, and most of itdid not appear to bekosher. Most startling tomeweretheproductsthatwere clearly chometz,madeofleaveneddough—

bread, pastries, pasta. Hewho eats chometz [duringPassover] shall be excisedfrom his people, the Biblesaid.Soseverewasthesinthat, before the holiday,Jewish communities largeand small burned allchometz in backyard trashcans or enormouscommunal Dumpsters.During the eight-dayholiday, Hasidim even

refrained from eatinganything prepared outsidetheirownhomes.Butheresat a group of men andwomen exercising thefreedom to choose forthemselves.Amanwholookedtobein his twenties and waswearing a gray AC-DC T-shirtsatdownnexttome.“AC-DCfan?”Iasked.“Huh?”Helookedatme

blanklyasheforkedasliceofgefiltefishontoaplate.“AC-DC.YourT-shirt.” Ipointed at the logo, withits three-dimensionallightning bolt slashingthroughGothiclettering.The man lookedconfused, and then lookedathisshirt.“Oh.Yeah.AC-DC. They’re, like, a band,right?”Ithoughthewasjoking,

until he toldmehewas aformer Belzer Hasid, onlyvaguely aware of popularmusicgroups. “I just likedthe shirt,” he said,laughing. “Someone toldmelaterit’sthenameofaband, but I know nothingabout them.” If I’d seenhimonthestreet,I’dhavetaken him for afashionableacademictype.Hewastallandthinwitha

shaved head and smart-lookingglasses.Heworkedas a truck driver, he said,and was studying for hisGED.Hehopedtogetintocollegeeventually.“Good for you, man,” Isaid.Heshrugged.“It’srough,you know. I’m twenty-four. I have a daughter.And I feel like I’m in thefirstgrade.”

Another man, whosenamewasonceBurichbutwho now went by Brad,told me of his frustratingattempts to make newfriends in the outsideworld. He’d only recentlyjoined this group but hadbeen out for two years.The entire first year, hedidn’t knowhow to speaktopeople.“ThenIboughtabook.”

Hegrinned,withatwinklein his eye. “101 Ways toMakeSmallTalk. Ithelpedme make friends, startconversations on thesubwayor at Starbucksorin a bookstore. Now Imake new friendswhereverIgo.”The themes Iheard thatevening were all toofamiliar. Some peopleappeared broken by their

pasts, when their lives asindividuals had beensubservient to the welfareof family, community,sect, people. Almosteveryone spoke of feelingsuffocated, compelled toact and behave in waysthat were not true tothemselves, until finallythey could take it nolonger, and riskedostracismandalienationin

returnforachancetolivemoreauthenticlives.Manywere still adjusting,struggling with linguisticlimitations, learning basicconceptsabouttheoutsideworld:howtobuyclothes,what to do on a date,wheretobuyaHalloweencostume. One formerChabadwomanmentionedthat she had taken tolistening to hundreds of

rock bands in order tobecome familiar withsecular music. An ex-Satmarmansittingnearbyperkeduphisears.“Vat itmeans a rock band?” heasked.Itwasthefirsttimehe’dheardtheterm.Laterthatevening,Imetsome who had been outfor years and were nowindistinguishable fromother New Yorkers. Many

were college students,pursuing degrees inpsychology, medicine, art,engineering. There wereaspiring filmmakers andwritersandactors.Severalalready held advanceddegrees, with adisproportionate numberof attorneys, especiallyamong the men—yearsspent honing analyticalskillsonTalmudstudyhad

apparently led to lifelongappreciation for thenuancesoflegaltexts.During the months andyears to follow, I wouldmeetmany “Footsteppers”for whom this group hadbecomeasurrogatefamily.Founded in 2003 by aformer Chabad woman,Footsteps was officially aservice organization buthad also built the

framework for a fledglingcommunity. There wereholiday dinners andsummercampingtripsandweekly discussion groups,where members coulddrop in to speak to otherswho had been throughsimilar experiences. Someof the meetings werefacilitated by hired socialworkers, and others werefree-form conversations.

The peer support, Ilearned,wasvaluableeventothosewhofeltasthoughthey’d “made it,” whoalready held degrees andjobs and had lovers andclosets full of secularclothes and years ofsecular experiences. Manymembers had beendisownedbytheirfamilies,andnowtheyattendedoneanother’s college

graduations, celebratedbirthdays and holidaystogether, and, in lateryears, served as best menand bridesmaids at oneanother’s weddings. Soonthere would be child-births, too, and the sparksof a second generationwould glow from thecracks of so many brokenhearts.

One day, during aconference with aprospective client, myemployer looked aroundthe table, and madeintroductions: Eileen.Amber.Jeff.Lisa.Shulem.“The new Shulem!” my

boss said with a laugh.“There once was an oldShulem.Nowthere’sanewShulem.”My coworkers laughed

nervously, while theclients smiled, throwingglances at me, clearlybemused by my boss, asmallmaninaredbowtiewith a big laugh and astunning lack of socialgraces.Severaldayslater,asthechildren ate their dinneraround my small kitchentable, I wondered: Was Inew to them, too? They

had seen me change overthe years. They had seenmy beard grow shorter.They had seenmy clothesgrow increasingly casual,after I traded in my longcoat for a short sportjacket, my large velvetyarmulkeforasmallsuedeone.“Where are yourpayess?” Chaya Suri askedone day, as if she’d

suddenly noticed. Theyhad once been long anddense; unrolled, they hadcome down almost to mywaist. For years, I wouldtwist them into a coiledknotandtuckthembehindmy ears, until I began tosnip them, a fewmillimeters each time.After a year or so, theywerecompletelygone.I tugged on some hairs

at my temple. “They’rehere. I just keep themshort now.” She lookedmore closely at the spot,doubtful,andranoff.“Family hug,” I wouldannounce as the childrenprepared to leave, afterthey were bundled intotheir coats and hats andmittens, and the six of uswould gather near thedoorand squeeze together

inatightcircle.“Kiss,kiss,kiss, kiss, kiss,” wewouldall go, puckering lipsagainst cheeks andforeheads.

The children appeared tobe doing OK, but as themonths wore on, thingsgrewtensewithGitty.“Why do you have towear jeanswhenyoupickthem up?” she snapped at

me one day over thephone.“Istayinmycar,”Isaid.

“No one can see mypants.”“Yougotoutofyourcar

once,”sheshotback.It was true.Once. I had

come to pick up Hershyand Akiva for theweekend. The girls had aspecial event thatweekend, and the two

boys, aged six and eight,had come alone. Theycameoutoftheapartmentcarrying their sleepoverbag between them, eachholdingoneend.Iwatchedas they struggled to carryit, and then laid it downnear the car. I wanted tohelpthembutwaswearingjeans. Through themirrors, Iwatchedas theyopened the back door of

my Honda Pilot, andtogether they lifted thebagintotherear,andthenlookedupatthedoor,nowhigh above their heads. Istepped out of the car,closed the rear door, andin a flash, I was back inthedriver’sseat.It had taken no morethan ten seconds, but astheboysgotintothecar,alittle boy on a bicycle

called toHershy ina loudwhisper: “Who is thisgoy?”

Ididnotwantmychildrento be embarrassed by me.Still, I wondered: Whatwere the limits foraccommodating a child’sanxieties about anonconforming parent?Were children so lackingin resilience that they

could not overcome thetrauma of a parentwearingthewrongkindofpants?The liberal-minded sideof me believed that itserved childrenwell to beexposed to differentworldviews. But perhapsthese were specialcircumstances. I hadassuredGitty that Iwouldmaintain strict observance

of Jewish law in thechildren’s presence.Hasidic custom was of alesser priority, although Ipromisedtobesensitivetotheirlifestyleandtoavoidexposingthemtopracticesthatmightunsettlethem.More challenges arose.

During the intermediatedays of Passover, thechildren and I took a triptoSixFlagsinNewJersey.

After hours of riding thebumper cars and rollercoasters and pirate ships,wetookoutthelunchesI’dpacked,matzahandcheeseand yogurts and otherspecially prepared “kosherfor Passover” foods. Thematzah I brought for thechildren was thetraditional kind—round,handmade loaves—but Isoon realized that I’d

brought along too few,only seven or eight ofthem. The children atethem quickly, and Akivaturned to me and asked:“Do you have morematzah?”Ihadthrowninaboxofsquare, machine-madematzah before we left—fully kosher according toOrthodoxlawbutfrownedupon by Hasidim. Still,

they were kosher, andeven Gitty had allowedtheseinthepastfromtimeto time.Theywerebetter-tasting,andtheycostalotless.“Have some of this,” I

said to Akiva quietly, andhanded him a squarematzah from the boxbesideme.Hershy noticed. “Can I

haveone,too?”

I handed him one, evenas I wondered if thiswasn’t going to causetrouble. For a moment, Iconsidered telling them tokeepquietaboutit,nottotelltheirmother.The next day, Gittycalled, livid. “How couldyou feed them machinematzahs!”I tried to calm her. “ItwasallIhad.AndIgaveit

onlytothelittleones.”She screamed. “You’refeedingmychildrentrayf!”I reminded her thattherewasnosuchthingastrayfmatzah and that notonly was it a minortransgression but that sheherselfhadpermitteditonoccasion. My responsesonly infuriated her, and itwasn’t long before theargumentssnowballed.

“You let them watchtelevision!”Gitty yelled atmeoneday.There was a TV in my

bedroom, and the daybefore, Akiva hadwandered in and asked,“Why do you need acomputerinyourroom?”Itold him it was not acomputer. “What is it,then?” he asked, and Iwouldn’t say, because I

knew the word“television”wouldunsettlehim.“Turniton,”hesaid,and I thought there couldbenoharmifIdidsoforaquick minute. He thenwatched,mesmerized,asaman and woman on thescreen delivered theevening news. Hershy,hearing the commotion,popped into the bedroom,followed by Chaya Suri.

“OK,that’senough,”Isaid,and the three of themmoaned in unison. “Justoneminute longer!”Akivapleaded, as I herded themintothekitchenfordinner,where Tziri and Freidyweresettingthetable.I promised Gitty that Iwould never allow itagain, that it was amomentary lapse injudgment, and that she

was right: I should havebeen more careful, butthey had watched for nolongerthanaminute.“I can no longer trustyou,”shesaidsimply.Andwith that, she ended theconversation.

Several weeks later, thechildren got into the carand Freidy handed me anote, in Gitty’s familiar

script.Iamsorry,itread.Ican no longer be in contactwithyou.Allmessageswere tobe

passed through a thirdparty.She listed thenameofoneofherrelatives.Icalledherimmediately.

“What’s going on?” Iasked.“Icannolongerspeakto

you,”shesaid.IaskedifI’dupsetherin

some way, if there wassomething I could do tomakeitbetter.Sheremainedsilent.“We’ve been doing so

well!” I had been gratefulforherwillingnesstokeepintouch.IfIwasnotthereto see my children eachnight when they camehomefromschool,tohavedinnerswith them and dohomework and take them

shopping and work onschoolassignments,Icouldatleastgetregularupdatesfromher.Howwould Ibeaparenttothemnow?Gitty would not explain

more,andwhen Ipleadedforustohaveareasonableconversation, she saidflatly, “I can’t speak toyou. This is final. Pleasedon’tcallagain.”Ihadastrangefeelingof

loss,akindIhadn’tfeltallthese months. Gitty and Ihad had our difficulttimes, but we had alsogrown close over theyears. We hadn’t foughtbitterly the way otherdivorced couples did. Wecared for each other, andwebothwantedwhatwasbestforthechildren.I called the relativeshe’dindicatedinhernote.

The man’s name wasShragiGreen,arealestatedeveloper in New Squarewith a reputation forshrewdness, although Ialsoknewhimtobebarelyliterate. We had beenfriends in the past; onoccasion,hewouldaskmeto edit some of hisbusiness correspondence,which often reminded meof scam e-mails from

Nigeria, written insubstandardEnglishwithathinly veiled duplicitousquality.“Do you know anything

aboutthis?”Iasked.I could hear him

breathing through thephone,likealongseriesofdeep sighs, as if he hadbeen bracing for the callbut hadn’t preparedhimself fully. Finally,

Shragi said, “The rabbishave advised her on this.You’ve made your choice.Nowshe’smadehers.”I began to protest. The

rabbis had no businessinterfering. This was aprivate family matter.Shragi interruptedme, histone steely. “There’snothing you can do,” hesaid. “You’ve tried toinfluence her and the

children in the past, butthosedaysareover.Sheisnowgettingguidancefromtherightpeople.”I tried to object, but he

raised his voice to speakoverme.“I know it’s hard to

accept. You’re angry now—that’snormal.”Hisvoicesoftened. “Don’t worry,it’ll get easier. You’ll getusedtoit.”

ChapterTwenty-Five

Within weeks of Gitty’snote, Tziri, as if insolidaritywithhermother,stopped speaking to me.She would come alongwith the others, eat herdinner, and then curl up

on the sofa with a bookuntil it was time to gohome. I would ask aboutschool, about her friends,about what she wasreading, and she wouldignore me. Something orsomeone had gotten toher,andIcouldnotbudgeher out of her resolve.Now thirteen andferociously bright, sheshowed the stubbornness

of an ox and theindifference of an alleycat.Weeks, then months,

passed. Tziri remainedsilent.Gittyrefusedtotakemycalls. Iachedfornewsof report cards, parent-teacher meetings, doctors’visits. I had to pleadwiththe children forinformation. I knew onlywhat they told me, and

they weren’t offeringmuch.One day, Chaya Surimentioned a car accidentinvolvingHershy.“Whatcaraccident?”“The onewhere the carranoverhisfoot.”When did that happen?Where?HowcomeIhadn’theard?They didn’t rememberthedetails.Someguy ina

car, right in front of theapartment. Two weeksago, maybe three. Anambulance came. Was hetaken to the hospital?Freidy saidno, andChayaSuri said yes. Wasanything broken?WereX-rays taken? What did thedoctorsay?“Does it look like

anything’s wrong withhim?” Freidy snapped,

looking up from a bag ofchips. Hershy was on thekitchen floor several feetaway, Game Boy in hand,oblivious. Clearly, hehadn’t been badly hurt,but I was furious that noone had bothered to callme.The suddenness with

which I was consigned toirrelevance left mestunned. For fourteen

years, I had imaginedmyself integral to mychildren’s lives. All atonce, it appeared that Iwasnot.When I called Shragi toinquireaboutthechildren,he would not give memuch.“They’re being welltaken care of. There’s noneed for you to worry.”Then he turned the call

into a conversation aboutmy wicked ways. “TheGates of Repentance arenever closed. Return, andall of this can be fixed.”Gittyand Icouldremarry.All would be as before.“’There is no greatermitzvah than taking backan abandoned wife,’” hewouldremindme,quotingtheTalmud.

In the interest ofamicability, Gitty and Ihadn’tbotheredwith legalagreements from thesecular courts. Theyseemed unnecessary. Weknew very few divorcedcouplesand imagined thatfamilycourtswereonlyforthose divorces one heardabout in the news,betweencoupleswhoboresuch relentless grudges

toward each other thattheyturnedtheiracrimonyinto sport while theirchildren were leftirreparably scarred.Trustinginthegoodwillofall involved, I hadimaginedwe’dwork it allout between ourselves.EvenwhenGittyrefusedtospeaktome,whenIknewthatshewasbeingadvisedby those with less than

noble intentions, I stillhopedwecouldfindawayback to the open heartswe’d had just monthsearlier.

Thesurprisingthingaboutthe final unraveling wasthat it was precisely thething I had feared; yetwhen it came, I wasneitherpreparedfor itnorcould Ihave imagined the

psychic devastation Iwould experience in itswake.Gittybroughtourmatter

in front of a family courtjudge, where her attorneyexplained the many waysinwhich Iwasunfit tobea father to my children.Shragi sat behind Gitty’sattorney, whispering intohisear.“Mr. Deen has changed

his beliefs,” the attorneytoldthecourt,andlaidoutthe many ways in whichmy new ways weredamagingtothechildren’swell-being:My clothes were thewrongkind.My haircut wasoffensive.My yarmulke was toosmall.I had a television and

theInternetinmyhome.“And,” the attorney

concluded,“hehasbecomeanatheist.”And so theywantedme

outofthechildren’slives.“Is your client an

atheist?” the judge askedmyattorney.“No, he is not,” my

attorney said, withoutmissing a beat, and thejudge looked relieved. I

was stunned that mypersonal beliefs wererelevant to the case, butmy attorney clearly knewthattheywere.When I asked for the

court’s permission to takemy children on a daytimetrip during theintermediate days of theSukkos holiday, as I haddone every year for thepastdecade,Gittycouldno

longercontainherself.“He’ll take them to

atheist places!” she cried,and Shragi noddedvigorously behind her. Icould only surmise thatshe meant a naturalhistory museum or publiclibrary.

At first, I wasn’t veryconcerned. A family courtjudgecouldnotruleonthe

basis of religion, Iimagined. But when thejudge ordered overnightand weekend visitationrescinded and reducedvisitsfromtwiceweeklytoonce a week, I grewalarmed.“It’s only temporary,”

my attorney explained.Untilitwenttotrialandapermanent arrangementwasdecided.

“How long until thetrial?” I asked myattorney.“Hopefully, within the

year.”In the meantime, there

would be no moreweekend visits, no morelong meals and lazyShabbosafternoonsduringwhich we would singsongs and tell jokes andstroll to the pond and

watch the geese and theturtles, or, on rainy days,play Scrabble or brokentelephone and sit aroundresolving arguments aboutwho stole whose toys andwho was hogging theCalvinandHobbescomics.I would still have two

hours with the childreneach Sunday evening. Itwasn’t a lot of time, notwhen there were five of

them—andIdidthemath:after subtracting the tenminutes’drivingtimeeachway, I was left withexactlytwentyminutesperchild. But we could havedinnertogetherandplayagame or two, and maybehave some time forhomework.Within a year,I would get our oldarrangement back, I wascertain. We would be a

familyagain.

Icouldnotmakeanysenseof Gitty’s sudden change.TheanswerIcameupwitheventually was thatsomething had snapped.The seeds of herresentment were notreligious but personal.“You’relivingthegoodlifewhile I’m stuck here,” shehad said bitterly, several

weeks before cutting offcontact. “You’re outhaving fun, partying withyour goyish friends, livingwithout restrictions. Youprobably have a milliongirlfriendsbynow.”It was an odd

accusation, not onlybecause itwasso far fromreality but also because itbetrayed what I had longsuspected: a glimmer of

envy. As if underneath itall, those who begrudgethe godless theirgodlessness do so notbecause the godless aresinnersbutbecausesinnershave more fun—and howdarethey?

The months dragged on,with complaint aftercomplaintfiledincourtonminor matters of Hasidic

custom. I had fed thechildren machine matzah.Iwaswearing jeans. Theywere traumatized by thetelevision in my home. Icould not be trusted toabide by the laws ofkosher food. My veryappearance was having anegative influence onthem.I thought that theseissues would be declared

irrelevantbythejudgeandthat a secular court couldnot be swayed by suchconcerns, butmy attorneyassuredmethatitwasnotso.Everythingwasrelevantin family court, especiallyin a county like ours,where judges werebeholden to powerfulconstituencies with veryspecialinterests.The complaints were

formallyfiledbyGitty,butI knew that, aside fromShragi, other community“experts” were involved. Iheard through friends thatthousands of dollars werebeingraisedtopayforthelegal costs necessary tokeepmeaway.Iknewhowthesethingsworked.Ihadseen the flyers over theyears, on lampposts andsynagogue doors in New

Square and Williamsburgand Monsey, calling onpeople to “save thechildren from a parentgone astray.” Commontropes were used to stirhearts—most often, theimage of a young Hasidicboy,scissorsPhotoshoppedmenacingly over hissidecurls.MybrotherMendycameby one day, and told me

somethingShragihadsaidto him when he ran intohim in shul one morning.“Wemaynothavea legalcase,”Shragisaid.“Butwecan beat him downemotionally andfinancially. He’ll have togiveupeventually.”I remember laughingwhenIheardit.Itsoundedludicrous. I was unawarethat even with a strong

case,custodybattlescouldcost tens of thousands ofdollars. I was unawarethat, when held inRockland County, custodybattles in our communityrequired rabbis,community leaders, andOrthodoxfamilytherapistson your side. I wasunawarethatfamilycourtswerealsopartof the localpolitical machinery and

that elections were neverfar from a judge’smind. Iwas unaware that myrelatively meagerresources were no matchfor a powerfullyresourceful communitywith an ideological stakein the future of mychildren.Mostofall,Iwasnaive about the power ofreligious extremists tocontrol even the minds of

children.

I did not lose in court.Instead, I lost mychildren’shearts,andwiththem, very nearly, mysanity.Soon after the courtproceedings began, thechildren changedmarkedly. They grewwithdrawninmypresence,eating dinner in silence

andshowingnointerestintheir favorite games andbooks. They began tospeak to one another inhushed tones, theirmanner subdued, lookingat one another awkwardlyand at me barely at all.They began to inspect thelabels on food productsandpickedattheirdinnersreluctantly. When I askedwhat was wrong, they

looked at the clock,anxioustoleave.“Has anyone been

saying bad things aboutme?”Akiva shook his head

vigorously, while ChayaSuri’s lids turned redaround her large glassyeyes. Only Hershy lookedme in the eye, and said,“Mommysaysyouwanttoturnusintogoyim.”

I turned to several rabbisfor help, but few weresympathetic. “Don’t youagree that your childrenare better off withoutyou?” one rabbi asked,eyeing my too-smallyarmulke and my shavedbeard.When I turned to the

local, Hasidic-run mentalhealth clinic for assistancewith getting the children

counseling,IlearnedthatIwas too late. Gitty hadalready come by, I wasinformed. The clinic hadassigned one of its staffpsychologists, a youngOrthodoxwoman, to issuea letter to the court withits advisement. The letter,I would later learn, urgedthe court to forbid me tobringmychildrenintomyhome. It also urged that

my visits be reduced toonce a month, and thatthey be supervised by amember of the Hasidiccommunity.“Shouldn’tyouhavemetwithmefirst?”Iaskedtheyoung psychologist, whenshe finally agreed to seeme. Her supervisor, aHasid whose stomachbulged over his trousers,passed by in the hallway.

She glanced at himthroughthehalf-opendoorand looked back at me.She appeared lost, bothcontriteanddefensive.“You’re right,” she said,her voice faint. “I didn’tthinkofit.”Hersupervisorpassed by again andlooked through the opendoor. The woman rosefrom her chair. “I hopethingsworkout,”shesaid.

“My children will neverreject me,” I had said tomy brother Mendy whenhe told me what Shragihad said. My childrenadored me, but I soonrealized that it was morecomplicated than that.Whenachildistaughtthata parent is wicked, thechild’s love for the parentdoes not subsideimmediately. What the

child feels instead isshame. Shame over herown feelings of affectionfor someone she has beentold is a bad person.Shame over her biologicalassociation with that badperson. Embarrassmentover what people wouldsay, were they to observeor think about herassociation with this badperson. It is only natural

that the child then wantsnothing but to withdrawfromthesourceofall thatshame.Tziri stopped coming,and Freidy followed suitsoon after. It was April2009; Tziri had turnedfourteen the previousSeptember, and FreidyturnedthirteeninJanuary.I didn’t want to fight myown children, but their

changewassosuddenandso inexplicable that I feltsocked in the gut justwhen I needed clarity ofmind.Iknewthat itcouldnot be the children alone.A parent for fourteenyears,Iwasaccustomedtomy children’s pendulousmoods,butthis—completeand determinedwithdrawal from one dayto the next—was

something else. It had allthe hallmarks of bearded,sidecurledpuppeteers.And so I brought thematter into court, and thejudge, blessedly, orderedthemback.Mytwoeldestdaughtersweredeliveredtomydoorthe next day by Shragi.They brought along theirown books to read, nolonger trusting the

amusements Imight offer.Themoment theyentered,they set themselves downontheedgeofmycharcoalgray sofa and kept theireyes in their books orstaredatthewalls.“How about a game of

Cranium?”Tziri turned a page in

her novel. Freidy crossedandrecrossedherlegs.“Hey,youwanttomake

mac and cheese? Freidy,youlovemacandcheese.”For two hours straight,theyrefused toeat, speak,play, or even meet mygaze. Every fewmoments,I would catch Freidyglancing at me, butwhenever I looked at her,she averted her eyesquickly. She sat slouchedin a corner of the sofa. Igot the sense that she

wantedforustospeakbutwas being held back bysome invisible force.Tziri,suffering no such doubt,sat stiffly the entire time,her back like a rod, herarm never touching theside rest, poised to leave.Only occasionally wouldshelookupfromherbooktowardFreidy,andintheirglances I could see somepact remembered, their

resolvereinforced.I blamed the family

court judge most of all.Spiteful ex-spouses andreligious minds can beexpected tohave lapsesofreason, but the judge hadno such excuse. With asingle careless thought,under the guise of“temporary,” he haddeclared me a “visitor”rather than a father, and

thechildren’sattitudeshadchangedimmediately,asifthe courts had confirmedGitty’saccusations.Nowitwas my job to convincethemotherwise.“Try to speak to them,”mytherapistadvised.“Askthem if they have anyconcernstheywanttotalkabout.” I pulled over achair and placed itopposite the coffee table,

and looked at my silentdaughters and cleared mythroat.“Is there anything youwanttotalkabout?”My words reverberatedagainst the apartmentwalls,whilemy daughterspretendedthatnoonehadspoken.“Youknow this can’tgoonforever,right?”I crossed my arms and

stared at them. I told ajoke or two, hoping toelicit a laugh. I stood onmy head. I pulled out apack of cards andperformed a couple of oldmagic tricks, which theyhad loved watching whenthey were younger. Butthey refused to beentertained. And so I satwiththeminsilence,untilwe heard the honk of

Shragi’shorn.

The three younger oneswere now visitingseparately from the oldergirls, although they, too,appeared lost,warming tome during one momentand declaring theirunwillingness to visitduringthenext.WheneverI went to pick them up,only Akiva and Hershy

wouldcomeouttothecar,andI’dmakethemgobackand get Chaya Suri, whowould emerge wiping hertears. At my apartment,Hershy got into a newhabit. To every remarkthat I made, his responsewas, “When can we gohome?”Their visits left me

emotionallydrained.Later,I would berate myself for

taking it to heart as I didand fornot thinkingmoreclearly;therewerethingsIcould’ve done, perhaps.But at the time, I feltdestroyed. My childrenlovedme,Iwassureof it.Yet they were living in aworld that could nottolerate difference, and Iwas beginning to realizethat I was powerless tofightit.

“I shouldn’t have letthose little shits controlmyemotions,”Iwouldtellafriendlater,inanger;butat the time, that’s exactlywhat I’d done. After theywouldleave,Iwouldsitinmy empty apartmentstewingwithanger.Icriedsomuchthosedays, it feltas if my tear ducts wouldclog, but I wept still,unceasingly, in anger and

indespairand inyearningformy children to return,but all I got in responsewas the rustling of leavesoutside my window andanother exorbitant billfrommyattorney.Tziri and Freidy’s visits,

especially, took anemotional toll that Iknewwould breakme if I let itcontinue.Shragicalledmeseveral times to tell me

thatthegirlswerecausingGitty untold grief abouttheir forced visits. Theycried. They threwtantrums. They pickedfightswiththelittleones.Ibelieved him andwondered whether it waswise to keep forcing theirvisits.During their next visit,while they sat in silence,asalways,Iturnedtothem

earnestly: “Do you reallynot want to comeanymore?”For the first time inmonths,theyspoke.“Yes,”theysaidinunison.I asked and theyanswered.Itoldthemhowmuch it hurt for me tohear it, but they showedno reaction. For everyquestion that wentunanswered, every remark

unacknowledged,thebrickin my throat grew largerand lodged itself deeper. Icould not let my childrensee me cry, and yet Iwantedonlytoscream.Instead, I said I was

sorry. I said that I wouldfix it—say the word, andI’m on it. If only theywould speak, and tell mewhat it was they wantedmetodo.

Tziri ignored me asbefore, but Freidy lookedup. For a moment, itseemedasifshemightsaysomething.Thensherolledhereyes.In that eye-roll lay theanswer, I realized. Howconceited of me to thinkthat I could impose amonumental change andthenaskthemhowtofixit.My daughters were

rebuking me in the onlyway children know how.Thiswasnotaboutfaithorvalues or lifestyle choices.Children, I would realize,do not have philosophicalproblems but onlyemotional ones. Whatmattered was not what Ibelieved,ortheparticularsofhowIlived,butthat,bymy own choices, I hadplacedmyself in thecamp

of those they were taughtto shun, and so I hadshamed them, shamedourfamily, shamed all of us.What they wanted was afather who did notrepresent the wickednesstheyweretaughttoabhor,but I could only be thefather I was, and that,clearly, was not goodenough.I told them then that I

lovedthem,thatIcouldn’thelp it, and that I couldnot imagine life withoutthem. And that regardlessofwhathappened,Iwouldalwaysbethereforthem.Tziri’s face remained amask of contempt. Freidy,who was often quick totear up, swallowed hard,butwhen I looked at her,hopingthatmyeyeswouldcarry my plea, she was

busy fingering a spot onher tights,a tinyclumpofthread on her kneewhereariphadbeenmended,asif suddenly overcome bytheintricaciesofnavy-bluethread.“And if you really don’t

want to come, I won’tforce you.”Moments afterthewordsleftmymouth,Iregretted them. I thoughtthat by sympathizingwith

them,byeasinguponmydemands for theiraffections, theywould feelfreer togrant them,but,asplit second later, Irealized itwas unlikely tohappen.We sat in silence for awhile longer, until weheard Shragi honking thehorn of his minivan. Thegirlsheadedtothedoorinahurry,butIwasaheadof

them.“Familyhug?”Iasked.This was the ritual ofonlymonths earlier,whenthe six of us would wrapour arms around oneanothergiddily.Thistime,the girls held themselvesstiffly,whileIwrappedmyarms around themanyway, and held themclose. I could feel theireagerness to get out from

my embrace, to be done.All Iwantedwas never toletgo.

Icouldnotknowthenthatthis was the last I wouldseeofTziriandFreidy fora long time. I could notknow then that my manyphone calls and letterswouldgounanswered,mymessagesunreturned.Thatfor years, I would not

know whether they evenreceived my messages, orwhether they wereintercepted and discardedby those tasked withkeepingtheirmindspure.I could not know thenthat four years later, Iwould hear of Tziri’sengagement to a boy shehad met for only a fewminutes,justasGittyandIhad met twenty years

earlier, that I would waitinvainforaphonecallora letter invitingme toherwedding, or that on thenight of her wedding, inFebruary2013,IwouldsitatmydeskinmyBrooklynapartment snacking on abagofchilicornchipsandbrowsing the Internet,chattingonFacebook,as Idid on so many otherordinary nights, trying

desperatelynottothinkofthe wedding taking placeone hour away and theyearsofmychildren’slivesIhadmissed.Icouldnotknowallthis

then,butas Iwatchedmydaughters leave thatevening, watched throughtheblindsastheygot intoShragi’s minivan andswung the door closed, Iknew that something had

ended.The next week, Shragi

called to say that thegirlsrefusedtocome.I had said I wouldn’t

force them. They wereholdingmetomyword.

In December 2008, nearlynineyearsafterIhadbeenhired,my employer calledfromhisofficeinTelAviv.“I’m sorry, Shulem. But

wearegoingtohavetoletyougo.”I wasn’t surprised. Thecompany had begunoutsourcing itsprogramming needs toIndia. I thought I wouldquickly find employmentelsewhere,butthecountrywas in a full-blownrecession, and jobs werebecoming scarcer by theday. New York City was

crawlingwithunemployedprogrammers, many ofthemwithmaster’sdegreesin computer science fromprestigious universities.Unlike nine years earlier,when computerprogrammers werepractically hired off thestreet and when I hadrelied on the Orthodoxcommunity’s supportnetwork to find my job, I

was now trying to find atechposition inNewYorkwithoutevenahighschooldiploma to show on myrésumé. I couldbarely getinterviews, and when Idid, employers quicklydetermined that Iwas notqualified.I drew money from my

unemployment insuranceandsentitalltoGittyandthe kids, while I tried to

scrape by on my meagersavings. Gitty and I weretrying to sell our home inMonsey, but with thedownturn of the housingmarket, it couldn’t beappraised for more thanthree-quarters of what weowed on the mortgage,which was soonforeclosed. My car costmore than I could afford,and I owed my landlord

several months in backrent. I had no money leftto pay for my collegeclasses and decided todiscontinue school untilthings stabilized. I neededto focus my energy onfinding a new job. I hadalready spent tens ofthousands of dollars onlegal fees, my reservefunds were quicklydepleting, and I was

sinkingintounmanageabledebt.

Ihadbeenmanythingsinadulthood—a husband, anentrepreneur, a computerprogrammer, a blogger—but for fourteen years,fatherhood defined memost. Now, I no longerknew who I was. Aftermonthsofharrowingcourtappearances,Ifeltdrained.

I came to a low place,depressedandsuicidalandangry at the world andmyself. Most of all, atmyself. I could notunderstand how it had allhappened. I could notunderstandhow Ihad lostmy children before thefight had even begun. Iblamed myself for nothaving foreseen it, fornotbeing better prepared, for

lack of cunning andcraftiness to match thequalities sodeftlyusedbytheotherside.In June 2009, I spent a

week at the FrawleyPsychiatric Unit at GoodSamaritan Hospital, aftermy therapist determinedthat my suicide ideationwas more than just apassingnotion.IhadfallenintoadespairfromwhichI

could not see myself out.Perhaps I hadn’t evenknown until then howmuch my children meanttome,butnowIcouldnotimaginelifewithoutthem.For more than a decade,their voices had been thefirst thing I heard when Iwoke each morning, therhythmofmydaysguidedbytheirneeds,evenwhenwe were not physically

together. The realizationthatIhadlostmyroleasafather, not by the courtsbut because my children’sminds had been turnedagainst me, sent metumbling into anemotional sinkhole. Iyearned for some way toshut down my mind andwas gripped with theincreasing conviction thatdeathwastheonlywayto

doso.When I was released

from the hospital, mystackof antidepressants inhand,Ifeltlighter.Grief,Ilearned, blessedlydiminishes over time, andsoon the pain wouldlessen;itwassomethingtowork toward and to lookforward to. I also forgavemyself for some of myfailures. I knew that the

choices I had made hadseemed the best at thetime and that if myjudgmenthadfailedmeatcertain points, I could notremain angry with myselfforever.But my resolve hadweakened. My fight wasgone.We can beat him downemotionally and financially,Shragihadsaid.

Hehadsucceeded.

We met at a local park,three miles down fromNew Square. A group ofHasidic kids twirled on amerry-go-round nearby,while Shragi and I satacrossfromeachotheratapicnictable.Shragi shook his head.He wanted to clear up amisconception.“Wewould

neverkeepchildrenfromafather.” He was so verysurprised, he said, that I’dthought otherwise. “Thatwouldbeincrediblycruel.”I asked what he had in

mindforanagreement.“What we would like,”

he said,with a salesman’sflourish, “is foryou to seethechildrentwiceayear.”I stared at him in

disbelief, while he offered

some vague explanationfor why this was reallybest for the children. Ithought I had beenprepared to takewhateverI got, but I could notacceptthis.“You are aware that

theydon’twanttoseeyou,yes?”When I saidnothing,he

thoughtforabit,andthenofferedfourtimesayear.

Iaskedforsix.“Fine,” he said. He

offered his hand but thenpulled it back. “But onlythethreelittleones.”I bit my tongue, and

nodded.“And only until they’re

thirteen,” he said. “Later,it’s difficult. Especially forthe boys, after barmitzvah. You understand,ofcourse.”

I didn’t understand. Itdidn’tmatter.

The last time I saw myfather, he was in themiddle of morningprayers. It was spring1988. He was home fromthe hospital but still in aweakenedcondition,soheprayedathome insteadofgoing to shul. I had been

home then for Shavuos,the celebration of thegiving of the Torah, andwas heading back toMontreal that morning.Thebuswas to leaveverysoon, and I was runninglate. My father waswrapped in his prayershawl and his tefillin,reciting the portionbetween the Shema andtheShmonehEsreh.

God,yourLord,isTruth.I stood near the

doorway and watched ashe enunciated each word,stressing each syllable, ashe always did. One mustpray the way one countsprecious gems, the Talmudsays,andIhadneverseena more exemplarydemonstrationofit.Fortunate is themanwho

hearkens toYourcommand,

whoplacesYourTorahuponhisheart.I had to say good-bye

because the bus would beleaving shortly; but forsome reason, I stood andwatched my father. Hewas turned slightly away,the edges of his tallispartly obscuring his face,andIwasn’tsureifhesawme.You have redeemed us

from Egypt, God, our Lord.You split the sea, drownedthewicked,ledYourbelovedacross, and let the watersbedecktheirfoes.I had to go. In only a

few seconds, my fatherwould rise for theShmoneh Esreh, the silentportion of the prayer,during which his eyeswould close and his mindwould go elsewhere. I

didn’t want to interrupthim,butIhadtogo.Rockof Israel, rise to the

aid of Israel…. Ourredeemer, the Lord ofHostsisHisname,theHolyOneofIsrael.“Tatti,” I said softly. “I

havetogo.”He paused, startled. He

didnot turnhis head, butwhenIcameclose,Icouldtell he was giving me his

attention.Hedidnotspeakor even offer a hug or ahandshake, but he smiledand nodded faintly. As Ishutthedoorbehindme,Iheardtheconcludingversego faintashe rose for theShmonehEsreh.Blessed are You, God,delivererofIsrael.

Two months later, whenmy mother told me that

my father was dead, afterthe first spell of tears andthesinkingrealizationthathis death was forever, Icould not get one thoughtout of my head: he neversaid good-bye. Yet in theweeks and months aftermy father’s death, I didn’tthink I missed him. Iremember making all theright gestures and sayingthe right things because I

knew it was expected ofme.“It is very sad, but God

hasaplan forallofus,” Isaid to the adults wholooked atme, and then atone another, at oncecharmed and bewildered.“We don’t understandGod’sways,butwecannotquestion Him,” I wouldsay,notmeaningawordofit. “My father’s time had

come. He must haveaccomplished all that wasdestinedforhim.”The adults nodded and

smiled and patted myshoulderandtoldmehowimpressedtheywere,thatIwas so strong, that Iwould’vemadehimproud,that I’dbetherockofourfamily, being the eldestson. They didn’t realize Iwas saying what I knew

they wanted to hear. Itwasn’tdifficult.Perhaps it is hard to

truly miss a parent whenyou’re a child—or at leastto have the awareness ofit,tounderstanditassuch.During childhood, parentsare resources. They giveand withhold, and youcome to tolerate whatseem like arbitrarydecisions and you can’t

wait tobeout fromundertheir rule.Youdon’t quiteunderstand what it meansto love them and to missthem when they’re notaround, but youmight beold enough to understandthe language of it and tospeakasifyougraspitlikeanadult.Youhavefeelingsabout it, but the feelingsdon’t match the wordspeople use, and you

wonderifsomethingmightbe wrong with youbecausemaybe you’re notfeelingtherightthings.And then came thedreams.A rabbi who was closeto our family asked meonce, severalmonths aftermy father’s death, “Doesyour father appear to youindreams?”I understood his

question in the context ofJewish folklore. Therewere many tales ofdeceased loved onesappearing in dreams,bringing preciousmessages.Go to the bridge in

Kraków, and find thetreasure.My soul wanders in the

heavenswith no rest.Recitekaddishforme.

Don’tletTzeitelmarrythebutcher.So many stories. The

dead returning to revealsecretsorprovidevaluableguidance. Especially thesaintly—they were theones who knew the most.Thisrabbiwantedtoknowif my father, too, hadappeared to me. Did Iknow any otherworldlysecrets?

“Yes,” I told the rabbi.“Hecomestome.”“And what has he told

you?”therabbiasked.I pretended to be too

shy to offer the details,andtherabbididnotpressfor more. He only shookhis head and said, “Pssh.Such a holy thing. Hecomesinthedream,eh?”My father,however,did

not appear to me in

dreams.Or at least not inthewaytherabbimeantit,as an apparition at mybedside with secrets fromanother world. Rather, Iwould dream that myfather was alive again. Inmy dreams, which wouldrecur for years, my fatherwouldbeinthekitchenofourhome,gettingacupofyogurt from therefrigerator, or sitting on

our back porch with aglass of tea and speakingto one of his students, orpraying at the shul in hisusual spot in the last row,carefully enunciating eachsyllable. I would see himand smile and say, “Oh,you’rehere!I thoughtyouweredead.”Andhe’d say,“Oh, no. I was justtraveling. I’m back now.”Inmydream, Iwould feel

an unusual sort ofhappiness, the kind thatcomes after hearingterrible news and thenhearing thatno,amistakewas made, that terriblething did not happen, itwas all an unfortunatemiscommunication.Then Iwouldwake andrealize it was a dream.Therewasnomistake.Myfather really was dead. I

wouldlieinbedforalongtime, trying to go back tothat place, where mystrange and erratic andbrilliant and loving fatherwas back, perhaps evenscoldingme, or just beingimpatient because he wasbusy and had to getsomewhere and I wasgettinginhisway.And that’swhen I knew

that I really, truly missed

myfather.

ChapterTwenty-Six

On a Tuesday inSeptember2009,IrentedaU-Haul truck and packedup my things. I left mylong dark coats andbeaver-fur hats to gatherdust in a friend’s

basement, along with mysmall collection ofreligious texts andaudiocassettes of oldTalmudlectures.Itookmytallis and tefillin and myshtreimel with me, toosentimental to part fromthem, and moved to anapartment in Bushwick—Brooklyn’s newest bastionof hipster fauxbohemianism. I moved to

be closer to friends,manyofwhom Ihadmadeoverthe past year, collectingthem like seashells, oneleading to another andthen another, cherishingeach one, after havingspentmy first year out innearsolitude.It was an odd thing, to

live suddenly amongsecular people, Jews andnon-Jews, where there

were few synagogues andnokoshersupermarketsorlargefamilieswithboysinyarmulkes and sidelocks,girls in long skirts andlong-sleeved blouses.Instead, there was acolorful variety of types:young postcollege hipstersand settled yuppies livingside by side withDominicans and WestIndians.

I tried to forget theevents of the previousyear. Imetmorepeople. Ihosted parties. I smokedpotandtriedMDMA,and,once, a spot of cocaine. Ilearnedhowtoaskwomenon dates, and fell in andoutoflove.ItookatriptoSpain and Greece,traveling on my own forthefirst time.Forawhile,in an attempt to try on a

new persona, I went by anew name: Sean. I soonrealized that an ex-Hasidwith an Irish name doesnotanIrishmanmake,andrevertedbacktoShulem.Schoolingnowseemeda

luxury I could no longerafford. During my onesemester in college, I hadpaid my own tuition, butnow,withmy job securitygone, all I could focus on

were my child-supportobligations and my ownbasiclivingexpenses.Overtime, I found sporadicfreelance programmingwork, and soon I wouldreturn to writing as well,publishing articles andessays relating to Hasidiclife and the journey awayfromit.My mother and mysiblings had not rejected

me, and I remainedgrateful for theiracceptance. My brotherMendyandhiswifewouldinviteme to theirMonseyhome for Shabbos meals,without asking questionsabout how I got there,even as they knew that InowdroveontheSabbathand probably parked mycaronlyashortwalkfromtheir home. My sister,

Chani, too, would inviteme to spend time at herhomewithherfamily,andinsistthatItakepartwhenher own daughterscelebrated their marriagesandthebirthsoftheirownchildren.MybrotherAvrumi,who

had followed me to theSkverers when we wereteenagers, would callfrequently, and ask

whether and where I hadprayed that morning.WhenIwouldremindhimthat I no longer prayed,he’d say, good-naturedly,“Eh,I’msureyoudowhenno one’s looking,” andthenhe’dinformmeofallthe births, marriages, anddeaths among the peopleof New Square, where hewasstillamemberingoodstanding.

My mother, who hadmoved to Jerusalem adecadeearlier,waspainedby the path I had takenbut even more so by thefact that Gitty would nolonger allow the childrento see or speak to her.Gitty, I would learn,sought to punish mymother for not havingraised me right, even asmy mother remained as

devout as anyone Gittyhadeverknown.

In January2010, I startedan online journal withsome friends.We called itUnpious, a play on theYiddish phrase uhn-payess—“no sidecurls”—and wepublished stories andessays related to thefringes of ultra-Orthodoxsociety. Slowly, a

community rose from themany who had made thejourney out, the numbersexploding in recent years—mostly because of theInternet and the existenceof Footsteps, whichprovided an anchor forhundreds who mightotherwisehavedriftedintoa strange world with fewresources. Every fewmonths, there would be a

new crop, finding oneanother throughinterconnected networks:blogs,Facebookgroups,orunderground gatheringsaround Brooklyn andManhattan.Within our fledgling

community, there werethose who wouldundertake projects aroundissues related to both theworld we came from and

the community to whichwe now belonged. Ex-Orthodox activists set upnew organizations toadvocate for educationreform in Hasidic schools,for Orthodox victims ofchild sexual abuse, forwomen trapped in forcedmarriages, for gay andlesbian members of theOrthodox community wholoved their communities

and traditions but werenotaccepted forwho theywere. We would writearticles and appear in TVand radio interviews,speaking out about ourjourneys and ourexperiences, what we hadlearnedandwhatwecouldsharewithothers.

Malky, too, had made itout. We had first met in

April 2008, and, finally,nearly two years later, Iheard that she had left—and had taken herdaughters with her. Herfather and her thenhusband’s threats hadturnedout tobeempty.Agroupofusweregatheringfor Friday night dinner,and our host had invitedMalkytojoinusandspendtheweekendinBrooklyn.

When I walked in andsawheragain,forthefirsttime in two years, it wasmyturntobestunned.Herhairhadgrowninandshenow sported a short bob.Gone was her tightkerchiefandherskirtsandlong-sleeved blouses, andin their place were slimjeans and a fashionablesleeveless top. “You looklike a regular shiksa!” I

said, as we hugged andlaughed.Soonweweresittingfor

dinner, a dozen friends,menandwomen,allofusformer Hasidim who’dfinally made it out. “Let’sdrink to this!” someonesaid.“Let’s do picklebacks!”

someone else said. He’dlearned it from hipsterfriends. We were in

Williamsburg, America’scapital ofhipsterdom,andso we were often thebeneficiaries of itsconcoctions.Therestofushad never heard ofpicklebacks, though, andour friend explained. “Ashot of Jack Daniel’schasedbya shotofpicklejuice.”“Pickle juice?” Thestrangeness of the outside

world still took us bysurprise.“Regular store-boughtpickle juice. The stuffthat’s left in the jar afteryoueatallthepickles.”Wefilledshotglassesofwhiskey and shot glassesof pickle juice, and heldthem up. To freedom! Tochoice!Toopportunity!Tofriendship! We did oneround and then another,

andthecheer in theroomrose. Soon we weresinging, banging fists onourhost’s table in time toHasidic songs from ouryouth, from Chabad andBelz and Vizhnitz, abouttheGodwedidnotbelievein and the Torah we didnotfollow.Thesongswerestillbeautiful,andweroseand rested our hands onone another’s shoulders

and swayed to oldfavorites, as if we werestillinthesynagogueorattherebbe’stisch.

Atasakumterachemtziyon.

RaiseupandhavemercyuponZion.

Kivamo’ed.Kivamo’ed.Kivamo’ed.

Forthetimehascome.Forthetimehascome.Forthetimehascome.

We’d made our choicesand were proud of themand, despite thechallenges, lived with fewregrets.The hours passed, andMalky and I found

ourselves talking on thesofa. We had so much tocatch up on. In a flash, itwas six in the morning,and Malky walked me tothe door as I prepared toleave. From the kitchencamethesmellofchulent,stewinginaCrock-Pot—orwhat was left of it, afterwe’d raided the pot hoursearlier. In the next room,Malky’s daughters, aged

three and five, were fastasleep.At the doorway, Malky

pulledmetowardher,andput her arms around me.“Shulem,”shesaid.“NowIcanhugyouagain.”

And yet, through it all, Icould not forget what Ihadlost.“Don’t you miss your

children?” some friends

wouldask.I would shrug and say,“Itiswhatitis.”“I suppose you get usedto it,” they’d say, and I’dsay,“Yeah,prettymuch.”Iwouldn’t tell them that,no, in fact, you don’t getused to it at all, at leastnot for a very long time.So many memories weresparked by sights andsounds around me—a

motheranddaughteronamoviescreen,afatherandson playing catch in thepark,parents and childrenon the subway. Thesesmall moments wouldevoke feelings I did notknowwerepossible,akindof grief that would, attimes, strikemewithsuchforce that itwould impairmy daily function,throwing me for hours,

days, into a nearlycatatonicdepression.The once-insignificant

moments of day-to-daylife, snippets ofconversation, wouldsuddenlycomealiveinmymemory.Iwouldtrytoputthemoutofmind,but thespool of them wasrelentless. All I could dowas closemy eyes and letthem wash over me,

painfulastheywere.I would remember

weeknight evenings, whenI’dgethomefromworkateight,andTziriandFreidywould be at the dining-room table doinghomework. The little oneswould be in bed, and Iwouldheadupstairstokissthem good night. ChayaSuriwouldhugmeclosetohersmallframeandrefuse

to let go. “Stay,” shewould plead, and I wouldlienexttoherinsilenceasshe wrapped her armsaroundmetightlyandtoldme about her day, untilfinally I’d kiss her goodnightandprymyself fromhergrip.Downstairs,Tziriand Freidy would bringtheir schoolbooks and sitwith me at the kitchentable as I ate my dinner,

and as we reviewed theirstudies, they’d pick foodfrom my plate, alwayscomplaining that I gotbetter dinners than theydid.I would remember theFridaynightsandSaturdaymorningsinMonsey,whenI would take the boys toshul, their companyprovidinga smallmeasureof relief in an otherwise

tedious routine. Akivawould sit by my side andmove his index fingeralong the lines in hisprayerbook,whileHershyranoutsidewith theotherboys. Later, we’d walkhomeslowly,Akivaalwaysholding my hand, andHershyrunningahead,andwe’dgazeatthefullmoonandoccasionallycatch thefleeting silhouette of deer

passing behind the trees.Then we’d hold handstightly as we crossed thebridgeoverthelittlebrookonthepathhomefromtheshul.I would remember

Saturday nights in winter,when nightfall came earlyand the Sabbath ended,and we would order inpizzaandFrenchfriesandthe seven of us would sit

around the fireplace, thecrackling logs competingwiththesoundofthewindhowling outside. I wouldrememberhow,aftereverysnowfall, the children andI would bundle up in ourcoatsandbuildthelargestsnowmanontheblock,thesnowballs of its torso solarge that the three girlsand I would have to liftthemtogether.

People would ask,“Don’t you ever feelguilty? For leaving themlike that?” And I wouldwonder about thequestion, about theirassumptions, casting it allinto the inglorioustradition of maleirresponsibility.AndthenIwouldgoon,andplanthenext Friday night dinner,because what else was

theretodo?I would often think ofGittyand thehardshipsofraisingfivechildrenalone,and I’d feel badly for her,and then I would feelangry.Shewasraisingfivechildren alone, but shedidn’thaveto,notthewayshe had chosen. When Iheard, in 2012, that shehad remarried, to a goodman, a pious and kind

Hasid, a scribe whomadehis living writing sacredritual texts—Torahs,tefillin, mezuzahs—andwho took my sons to thesynagogueonShabbosandtreated them kindly, Ihoped that itwould allowGitty to forgive me forsome of the pain I hadcausedher.

In the summertime, asBrooklyn simmered in theheat and Bushwick filledwith block parties andbackyard barbecues, agroupoffriendsdecidedtotake a break from ourfrenzied urban lives andparticipateintheRainbowGathering,anannualeventof living off the grid forseveral days with peace,love, and thousands of

unshoweredbohemians.We were sixteen menand women in four cars,driving along a dirt roadthrough the AlleghenyNational Forest inPennsylvania. Our carswhipped clouds of dustaround barefoot,dreadlocked passersby,who allwaved, flashed uspeace signs, and shouted,“Welcome home!” and

“Loving you, brothers andsisters!”We planned to stay forfourdays.Wepackedforamonth: massive amountsof food, towels, bottles ofsoap and shampoo,swimming attire,plasticware, rolls ofaluminum foil, beachchairs, a portable shower,andgallonsandgallonsofbottledwater.

Amanwithlongflowingwhite hair in a colorfulunbuttonedshirtsatatthehead of the trail to themain campsite. He staredat us unself-consciously,with his sagging abdomenandhischestofwhitehair.“Welcome home,brothers and sisters!” hecalled in a thick Southernaccent, and looked at ourbags. We were hauling

carry-ons, suitable forairport corridors and trainstations, less so for steephills of eroded soil andbumpy clots of exposedtreeroots.“Haven’t y’all heard of

backpacks?” the manasked with a laugh.“Which campy’all headin’to?”“The Jewish camp.” If

we were going to hang

withhippies,wepreferredtheChosenvariety.Afteramoment,hesaid,“Downthistrail,acrossthemain meadow. Then takethe trail to the right. TheJewish kitchen is called‘ShutUpandEat It.’Can’tmissit.”We found the campeasily. There wereBreslovers with flowingtzitzis mingling with

former Israeli soldiers,religious and secular Jewstogether dragging massivebottles of water, half-naked girls workingalongside women in longskirtsandheadscarves.After we set up ourtents,weheadedouttothemeadow, where drumcircles formed throughouttheday, and the crowdofseveral thousand rocked,

danced, and twirled.“Welcome home!” peoplecalled.“Lovingyou!”

The atmosphere atRainbow brought backmemories of my firstexperience at the tischamong the Skverers, theenchanting songs and thewarm welcomes frompeopleIdidnotknow,thestrange boys my age who

shookmy hand andmaderoom for me among themonthebleachers, thegruffmiddle-aged men whooffered me plates of roastchicken and potato kugeland bowls of applecompote, insisting that Ieat,eat,becausetherewasplentymore.That tisch had changedmy life, and over thefollowing decade, as my

attachment to Hasidicteachings deepened andmy religious viewsmatured,Ihadcometoseethe tisch not merely as aplace for song and dancebut as a vessel forexperiencing what thepsychologist AbrahamMaslow called “peakexperiences”—thetranscendent moments ofclarity when the whole

cosmic mess we call ouruniverse is suddenlybeautiful and orderly andone’s place within it isstunningly clear. In thosemoments, our veryinsignificance ismagnifiedin such away that allwecandoistrembleinaweatthe wondrousness of ourexistence.InthelastyearsbeforeIleft, when I was barely

holding on to my faith, Iwould still sometimesattend the tischen,yearning for the feelings Iremembered from myearliest days in NewSquare. I would head tothesynagogueonSaturdayevening for the third tischof the week, traditionallyheld in the dark in thefinal moments before theSabbath passed into

weekday. Those finalmoments, the kabbaliststellus, are timesof ra’avadera’avin, a time ofexpandedconsciousnessofthedivine.But I had no longer felt

it—the experience nolonger moved me. Thewords of “Benei HeikhalaDikhsifin,” the hauntingpoem by Isaac Luria thatspeaks of the unveiling of

cosmic light that comesatthat particular time, nolonger made the hair onmy arm stand stiff. Therebbe’s chanting nowsounded irritatinglymournful, whiny, like thesobs of a petulant child.The words were stillbeautiful but carried onlya dim reminder of theecstatic heights they hadoncetriggeredwithinme.I

had developed resistanceto their effects, and—heretic that I now was—theexperiencefellflat.Soon I would lose myfaith entirely—not only inHasidic teachings but inthe concept of the divineor the sacred, or even theidea that we, as humans,canintuitanythingbeyondthe empirical. Still, thememories of the tischen

lingered, and as Itransitionedtothelifeofasecular New Yorker whodidn’t observe theSabbath, didn’t keepkosher, didn’t attendsynagogue or pray orperform any of thereligious rituals that had,in my earlier years, beenso meaningful, I couldn’thelp but wonder: Wheredid secular folks go to

experiencewhatIoncefeltatthetisch?Atonepoint,Iwonderedifa rockconcertmightdoit. My mother wouldeventually tell me of herexperiences as a teenagerlisteningtoBobDylanandthe Beatles, of being atWoodstock, and theintensity of thoseexperiences, to which shewould later credit her

religious awakening. I’dheard from Grateful Deadfans who described theirexperiences as beingsimilartowhattheywouldlater feel at a tisch. Butwhen I sought out suchevents, they evokednothingatall.

At Rainbow, however, theenergywaspalpable,andIwondered if, finally, Ihad

foundit.Haiyana,hoyana,haiya

na, the crowd sang as asmall group sat on theground and banged ontheir bongo drums. Thesteady rhythm ofpercussion instruments ofvarious shapes and sizesattractedagrowingcrowd,untilthegroupofthreeorfour turned into severaldozen.Acrossanenormous

meadow, several thousandpeople in circles like thisonewavedtheirhandsandshimmiedtheirhipstothecacophonous symphony ofdrums, rattles,tambourines, and everyother conceivablenoisemaking device,conventional orimprovised.Haiyana,hoyana,haiyana, the crowd kept

repeating, and after everyrepetition, they chanted aline or verse about theelements of nature, thetrees, the mountains, therivers, the sun, themoon,and the sky. A barefootyoung woman, olive-skinned with delicatefeatures,wearingaflowingwhite sleeveless dress, ledthechanting:

Theriversareoursisters,wemustflowwiththem,Thetreesareourbrothers,wemustgrowwiththem.

Andthecrowdswungbacktotherefrain:Haiyana,hoyana, hai ya na!Hai yana,hoyana,haiyana!Itwasamantra both

incomprehensible andmesmerizing, and I staredat those around me, eachof them smiling at nooneinparticular, someclosingtheir eyes and shakingtheirheads to therhythm,waving their hands in theair, back and forth, backandforth.Onemansatonthe ground in the circle’scenter, swaying like aHasid in prayer. Most

others were standing,shifting their feet in ashuffle dance. Suddenly,all I wanted was to jointhiscircleandbepartofit,to dance with thesepeople, to feel what theywerefeeling.

Weareonewiththeinfinitesun,foreverandeverandever.

Haiyana,hoyana…..

But I was no longerthirteen,no longerable toembrace such experienceswithout feeling cynical ordetached. Though Iwantedtojointhem,Ikeptwondering: “We are onewith the infinite sun”? “Theriversareoursisters”?Whatdo these things even

mean?Theconceptsdidn’twork forme, even on thelevel of metaphor. Astouchingasthesentimentswere, Iwasn’t surewhat IwoulddowiththemonceIgot back to Brooklyn, toalternate-side parking, tomy cable bill, and to theperpetually unreliable Gtrain. I now lived deeplyand fundamentallysuspicious of any hint of

dogma or ideology, ofsubjectivevaluespresentedas Great Truths. While Iwantedtocaremoreaboutthesunandtheriversandthe sky, about loving myfellow humans radically,and about finding thesacredwithinouruniverse,I found that I was notmoved enough to givethese issues furtherthought.

And so I watched thosewhosanganddanced,andwhen night fell, I creptback to my tent, where Icouldstillhear thesoundsofthedrums,thecracklingof a nearby campfire, thelaughterofthedozenorsopeople near our tent whocalled themselves “GoatCamp,” amotley group offreight-train riders whopicked up every stray dog

andcatalong their travelsandendedupencampedinthe woods next to ourgroupofex-Hasidim.Soon I was back inBrooklyn, no longersquatting over a ditch inthe woods to relievemyself, no longer bathingin the stagnantwater of ashallow creek, no longersmelling unwashed bodiesin a cramped tent, and,

over the days and weeksthat followed, I thoughtoften of that weekend. Iwonderedaboutthatcircleof hippies and my oddattraction to them, and Irealized,afteratime,whatit really was: what Ilonged for was not thetisch of my past but areturntoa timeandplacewhen ideas moved meeven if they didn’t make

perfectsense,atimewhenI allowed myself to befired up with passion forsomething, anything,because it held a “truth”that had made itselfevident during a momentofinspiredconsciousness.Sometime later, I

accepted the invitation ofa friend to attend a non-Orthodox Sabbath serviceat a synagogue on

Manhattan’s Upper WestSide. I thought I hadprayedenoughtolastmealifetime, but I had neverbefore experienced amusical service, andwhenthe congregation sang the“Song for David,” I foundmyself unexpectedlymoved. When the crowdrose to dance for “Come,MyBeloved,”Irecalledthedancing at the rebbe’s

tisch, the endless circlesnaking around the largeshulforhours.The congregationquieted down for theAmidah, the silent prayerintowhicheachworshiperdisappears into his or herprivatemeditations. Ithadbeen years since I hadrecited it, and I foundmyself tripping over someof the words, surprised at

my loss of fluency,howeverminor.Atah kidashta. You have

sanctified the seventh dayfor Your Name … the endgoalofCreation…blesseditofalldays,andconsecrateditofalltimes,asitiswrittenin Your Torah.Vayechulu….I imagined a primordial

world in which God,Adam, and Eve had only

one another for company,and the two solitaryhumans looked at the sunand the rivers and thetrees and the sky, anddeclared, as the Talmudtellsustheydid:Mahrabuma’asecha Adonai, howwondrousareYourworks,OLord.And for the loss of my

faith, for being unable tofully embrace the mythic

beautyof thosewords, formy detachment from allthose things that I oncehelddear, I let the streamof tears fall over theopenpagesofmyprayerbook.

Epilogue

AkivaandIsitonacoupleof large rocks near ashallow stream, the watercascading over tangles ofbranches and fallen treetrunks. Akiva has asandwich that Gittypacked for him and awater bottle. I have a hot

dog and a container ofsautéedchickenliverfromMechel’s Takeout inMonsey.Hershywas supposed tocome,too,butthistimeheisn’twithus.Sixtimesayear, Icomeup from Brooklyn to seethe boys. Earlier thismorning, I took the trainfrom Penn Station toSuffern for my single

summertimevisit.Afriendpicked me up and loanedme his car for theafternoon, and beforeheading to New Square, IstoppedataphotostoreinMonsey to print photoswe’dtakenonourpreviousouting, during theintermediate days ofPassover, at BearMountain State Park.Outside the store, while I

smoked a cigarette andwaitedforthephotostobeprinted, Shragi appeared,outofnowhere.“Amazing to meet youhere,” he said. “I’d beenmeaningtocallyou.”He’dmeant to but didn’t, forunspecified reasons. “Iwanted to tellyou, just soyou’d know, that Hershydoesn’t want to cometoday.Ithoughtyoumight

want tomakeotherplans,but, well, you’re herealready, so I guess itdoesn’tmatter.”Doesn’tmatter?“Whydoesn’thewantto

come?” I asked, themessage like ablunt knifescraping against my skin,causing a minor bruise,annoying but bearable. Itis what I’ve come toexpect.

“I’m not sure,” he said,avoiding eye contact.“Doesitmatter?”I felt a rising sense of

fury.Does itmatter? Itwaseight weeks since I’d lastseen the boys. Severalyears since I’d seen Tziriand Freidy—and evenChaya Suri stoppedcomingsoonafterImovedto Brooklyn, after sheturned thirteen. I wonder

often what their lives arelike, whether theirinterests have changed,whether they lookdifferent, but I can barelyimagine it. My calls andletters continue to gounanswered. The cellphones I bought themmust never have beencharged, always goingstraight to voicemail, mymessages unreturned. In

the beginning, Akivawould call on occasion,but now, even he nolonger does. I can sense,with each visit, thegrowing distance betweenus. Soon, I am all tooaware, the boys, too, willturnthirteen.Isuggestedahikeinthe

woods, to see thewaterfalls a mile up thePine Meadow Trail, off

Seven Lakes Drive.Walking along the trail,Akiva eagerly pointed outtheblazesofredcirclesonwhite rectangles thatmarked our way, jumpingover knobby tree roots,which, because of theerosion of soil, rise inchesabovetheground.Itisoneof the most popular trailsinthepark.Now, as we eat, I

explain the history of thetrails,theearlyhikerswhomapped out the hundredsof miles of crisscrossingpaths. I answer Akiva’squestions about who putsthe blazes on the trees,builds bridges overstreams, cuts away fallentree trunks that block thetrails. I make him sit stillandlistentothesoundsofthe forest, the chirping of

birds,branchesswayinginthe wind, the rustlingshrrrip shrrrip of a deertaking off at the sight ofus.Hedoesn’taskaboutmy

life now, and I don’t offermuch, although Iwant to.Whenever I do mentionsomething—my apartmentin Brooklyn, my newfriends, the articles that Iwrite—he goes silent. I

knowthatinsidehimmustbe amountain of turmoil;yet I feel powerless to doanythingaboutit.AllIcando is show up and payattention.Wetrekbackthemileor

so to the parking lot,where a soda vendingmachinestands.“Iwanttobuyasoda,” I say,andheregards the machine withhungrycuriosity.

“Can I put the moneyin?”heasks.Ihandhimadollarbill,butitdoesn’ttake.“It’s spitting it out.” Helaughs.Igivehimanotherbill,acrisp one. This one takes,and he pushes my handaway when I reach in tomakemyselection.“Let me press it,” hepleads.Aboy forwhoma

sodavendingmachineisanovelty.Aswedrivehomeonthe

Palisades Parkway, hespeaks eagerly aboutschool trips andneighborhood news. Henotes the speed on thespeedometer,70mph,andthen the 55 mph sign.“Farchap yeneh car,” hesays, and points to a blueHonda Civic ahead of us.

He grins as I switch lanesandpressdownonthegas,andIwonderifI’msettingabadexample.The light after the exit

rampisred,andItaketheFotomat envelope lyingnear thegearshift.“Iwantto look at these again,” Isay, and he leans over,stretching his seatbelt tolookat themwithme.Welaughat the sillyposeshe

andHershyhad struck forthecamera,until the lightturns green, and I shovethephotosintomylap.“Are you going to look

at the rest at the nextlight?” he asks. The nextlight is the last beforeweturnintoNewSquare.“Ifit’sred,”Isay.He points to an empty

parking lot at the side ofRoute 45. “Or maybe you

canturninthere.”Hesaysit as thoughhe’s trying tobehelpful,buthisconcernis obvious. He doesn’twantmelingeringinfrontofthehouse.ItellhimI’llpull over near the busgarage, right after theturn,and I sensehis reliefashenods.“Where should I drop

youoff?At theBrauns’orathome?”TheBrauns are

cousins who live a blockaway. Sometimes he askstobedroppedoffthere,forreasonshewon’telaborateon.“Doesn’t matter.

Wherever’s easiest.” Aftera moment, he says, “Nearhome, you know, at thecorner is fine.” As if hedoesn’twanttotroublemetogoalltheway.Isensehisuneaseaswe

approach, his eyes shiftyand alert. A group ofwomen stand at thecorner,mothers inturbansand housedresses withbaby carriages and youngchildrenattheirsides,andI see his glance fall onthem, anxiety all over hisface.“Betteratthehouse,”he

says,andIhearanervoustremorinhisvoice.

Atthehouse,Ileanintohug him, kiss him on hisyarmulke,buthe’salreadygrabbedhislunchbagandis fumbling for the car-doorlatch.“Here, take thephotos,”I say, and he grabs theenvelopequickly.“Bye,” he says withoutturning, his eyes scanningwarily for passersby. Hecloses the car door and

steps onto the curb, thenturns back briefly,unsmiling. I wave to him,thenwatchhimrunupthepathway. The door to theapartment slams shutbehindhim.I pull away, steppinglightly on the gas. Justthen, I notice a familiarblur passing behind aparkedcar.ItisHershyonhis bike, zooming down

Reagan Road with all theenergy of an eight-year-old, oblivious to mypresence. I think to honk,but before I have thechance, he’s alreadyzoomedpast.Icanseehimin the rearview mirror,stillgoing full-speeddowntheroad.I drive ahead a short

distance and make a U-turn. Then, coming back

downReaganRoad,I lookfor the familiar roundshape of his head, hispayess trailing behind, hisarms in that outwardswagger I’d seen so manytimes before. He is notoutsidethehouse,nordoIseehisbikeatthedoor.Atthecorner,agroupofboysof various ages rest ontheir bikes and huddle inconversation. I scan their

faces for Hershy, but heisn’t among them.Hewashere a moment ago, andnowheisgone.

Author’sNote

Each of us has a story totell. Rarely, however, areour stories ours alone;typically, we share themwith family, friends,colleagues,andsoon.Andyet, our subjectiveexperiences remainunique. This is true of

everyday events, but eventruer of contentiousmoments. When we feelaggrieved, we stew in thepassions of our ownrighteousness, our veryexperiences often leadingus to see only what wewanttosee.Inshapingournarratives, we select factsto our advantage, even ifonlyunconsciously.Throughout the writing

of this book, thesethoughts were never farfrom my mind, hoveringlike a gray cloud in themiddle distance,reminding me that mytruth was not the onlytruth. I am all too awarethat some people in thisbook,either individualsorgroups,mightofferdetailsand perspectives that Ihavesurelymissed.Ithink

particularlyofmyex-wife,withwhomIsharednearlyfifteen years of marriageand who doubtless has acompelling story of herown to tell, perhaps evenan altogether differentstoryofourmarriage.Additionally, there arepeople described in thisbookwhobehavedinwaysthat are, tomymind, lessthan admirable. And yet,

laying blame and castingstones isanuglybusiness,especially when dealingwith people who wereonce dear to you.However, this story couldnot be told without ameasure of castigation,overt or implied. I havetaken pains to describecharacters in this bookfairly even when I didn’tfeelentirelyinclinedtodo

so. I offer this not toabsolve myself of theresponsibility to offer anaccurate telling of events,or to excuse any errors offact that have slipped in,but to acknowledge thevery real challenges intryingtopresentafairandhonestportrayal ofdeeplypainfulevents.Memoir,ofcourse,isnot

history, nor is it, strictly

speaking autobiography.More than simply acollection of facts, it is arendering of personalhistory along with anattempt to find meaningwithin that history, toweave together narrativethreadsthatmight,bothtothe writer and reader,illuminate aspects of thenarrator’s life, and by sodoing,impartsomethingof

value to the reader. Thatwasmysoleobjective.

AVeryBriefReadingList

Thisbookdescribesacrisisoffaiththatunfoldedovera number of years, alargely internal process ofinquiryandexamination.Irelate here mostly theexternal, more

demonstrably dramaticaspects of that process,and the observable effectsupon me and those closetome.Myintellectualandphilosophical journeys,however, while internallydramatic, do not lendthemselves to narrativeform in the sameway. Bynecessity, therefore, theyhave been offered only incollapsed form within the

book’s main narrative.Furthermore, this book isnot intended as anargument againstOrthodox Jewish beliefand practice broadly, andshould in no way be seenassuch.I am aware, however,

that some readers mightwant to further exploresome of the faith-relatedtopics presented in this

book.Iofferthelistbelowas a modest attempt atsharingsomeof theworksthat have contributedmeaningfully to my ownintellectual journey, inthehope that others mightfindthemuseful.This list includes avariety of works, both infavor of and againstaspects of religious faith,from popular works to

recent classics. Most ofthem are accessible andilluminating even to non-scholars. They arepresented here in theapproximate order inwhichIencounteredthem,and correspond loosely tothe trajectory of my ownjourney.

TheNineteenLettersofBenUziel:BeingaSpecial

PresentationofthePrinciplesofJudaism,RabbiSamsonRaphaelHirsch

PermissiontoBelieve:FourRationalApproachestoGod’sExistence,LawrenceKelemen

PermissiontoReceive:FourRationalApproachestotheTorah’sDivineOrigin,LawrenceKelemen

GenesisandtheBigBang:

TheDiscoveryofHarmonybetweenModernScienceandtheBible,GeraldSchroederTheViewfromNebo:HowArchaeologyIsRewritingtheBibleandReshapingtheMiddleEast,AmyDockserMarcusGodagainsttheGods:TheHistoryoftheWarbetweenMonotheismandPolytheism,Jonathan

KirschTheReligionofIsrael:FromItsBeginningstotheBabylonianExile,YehezkelKaufmann

HowtoReadtheBible:AGuidetoScripture,ThenandNow,JamesKugel

WhoWrotetheBible?,RichardElliottFriedman

TheBibleUnearthed:Archaeology’sNewVisionofAncientIsraelandthe

OriginofItsSacredTexts,IsraelFinkelsteinandNeilAsherSilverman

WhatDidtheBiblicalWritersKnowandWhenDidTheyKnowIt?WhatArchaeologyCanTellUsabouttheRealityofAncientIsrael,WilliamG.Dever

TheBlindWatchmaker:WhytheEvidenceofEvolutionRevealsa

UniversewithoutDesign,RichardDawkins

Acknowledgments

Phin Reiss has been abetter pal than any mandeserves to have—or, atanyrate,haspaidformoreglasses of Johnnie WalkerBlack than any mandeservestodrink.Iremainforever grateful for hisfriendship, his wisdom,

andhisgenerosity.From Netanya to CapeTowntoWilliamsburg,JillSchulman has heard it allmany times, and stillcontinues to listen. Herinsight, humor, andcompassion have beeninvaluable to me. Muchlove.I am indebted to RickiBreuer, Zalmen Labin, Y.M. Schwartz, and Itchie

Lichtenstein, withoutwhomthisbookwouldnothave been possible. Also,those who can be knownonly by their noms deguerre: “Shtreimel,” fellowblogger, friend,inspiration. “MendyChossid,” baal chesedextraordinaire.“Hoezentragerin,” forgiving me the strengthwhen I felt depleted.

Thank you, Avi Burstein,Emily Cercone, MeghanBechtel Lin, Frieda Vizel,Judy Brown, Samuel“Ushy” Katz, and EveSinger for your manyformsofassistance.I am fortunate to havebeenapartofFootsteps,asmall organization withenormous impact. Thankyou,MalkieSchwartz,LaniSanto, Michael Jenkins,

Rachel Berger, BetsyFabricant, Chani Getter,and all other current andformer staff and boardmembers. Special thankstoAdinaKaddenandLeahVincent, fellowparticipants and boardmembers, for theirdedication to ourcommunity’s needs. Manythanks also to Ella Kohn,Anouk Markovits, Alan

Lerner, and Monette deBotton for theirgenerosityand support to OTDfamilies.To my friends in the

OTDcommunity:Youhavegiven me hope, strength,and love. Together, wehave formed thevanguardof a movement. May wecontinue to grow, toinspire others, and to tellourstorieswithclarityand

strength.I am enormouslythankful tomyagent,RobMcQuilkin, forhis faith inthis project; I could nothave hoped for a moretireless and fearsomechampion. Thank you,Hella Winston, for theintroductions. My deepestgratitude to my editor,Katie Dublinski, for herremarkable patience,

insight, and guidancethroughout.ThanksalsotoFionaMcCrae,ErinKottke,and everyone else atGraywolf; I feel humbledtohavebeenacceptedintothe“den.”Mymother, BrachaDin,

has endured much in herlife,buther spirit remainsone of the strongest,noblest,andmostgraciousIhaveknown.Mysiblings,

Chani, Avrumi, andMendy, have shown menothing but love andacceptance. I know itcouldn’t have been easy,and I am grateful all themore for it. Much love toyouall.I cannot knowwhatmy

fatherwould’vesaidaboutmy path in life, had helived. No doubt, hewould’ve been troubled.

No doubt, he would’velovedmeas fiercely as healways had. He would’vecalled me shayfele, evennow. His memory isalwayswithme.

Shulem Deen, a formerSkverer Hasid, is thefounding editor of thewebsiteUnpious.HisworkhasappearedintheJewishDaily Forward, Tablet, andSalon. He lives inBrooklyn,NewYork.

Book design by AnnSudmeier. Composition byBookmobile Design &Digital Publisher Services,Minneapolis, Minnesota.Manufactured by VersaPress on acid-free, 30percent postconsumerwastepaper.

TableofContents

HalfTitlePageTitlePageCopyrightNoteontheUsesofYiddishandHebrewPartI

ChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThree

ChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNine

PartIIChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteen

PartIII

ChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteenChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-OneChapterTwenty-Two

PartIVChapterTwenty-ThreeChapterTwenty-Four

ChapterTwenty-FiveChapterTwenty-Six

EpilogueAuthor’sNoteAVeryBriefReadingListAcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthor