Jephte's Daughter Read Online Free

aerialist in a circus performing without a net.
    Rabbi Silverman, patient man, teacher of girls, was not used to vigorous questions, to challenges where his ready answers were not accepted. “It is such a great blessing to be able to reach spiritual heights, that it was worth it,” he repeated somewhat lamely. “Now let’s go on to something else.”
    “But,” Batsheva persisted, “what was the point—?”
    “Batsheva,” he said, a little more loudly than necessary, “we need to go on.”
    She slumped forward in her seat, tapping a sharp pencil in rhythm on the desk. The question of existence was occupying her lately, along with her need for a new spring wardrobe and a haircut. She was at the age when her mind pondered everything—from the meaning of the universe to the cause for certain pimples—with equal interest and urgency. Partly she was interested in Rabbi Silverman’s explanation, and partly she enjoyed exercising her privilege of baiting him. The other girls, most of whom lived within a few blocks of the school, had parents who were called in regularly if a girl acted up. Being a boarding student allowed her to do pretty much as she pleased, even though on occasion (like the time Rabbi Fuchs found the copy of Women in Love hidden in the Hebrew grammar text during class) they resorted to long-distance phone calls. But her father usually backed her up anyway.
    He was in favor of scholarship and when she had explained Women in Love was a classic, even though it was written by D. H. Lawrence, who had also written Lady Chatterley’s Lover , he had told the school that his daughter was getting special tutoring in English and not to worry.
    School was ending. The air was thick with the heat of promise. She slipped her hand discreetly inside her collar and caressed a downy shoulder. She was a woman. She had carried that secret around with her quietly for some months, almost bursting with it, not knowing what would happen, but positive it was a bomb, or fireworks, ready to go off. She looked at the girls around her with affection, and a little contempt. Most of them would be married by this time next year, to short local boys who wore black-rimmed glasses and black felt hats. They would work to support their husbands, allowing them to study all day in the yeshivah until the children came. Then their husbands would find work as rebbes in Brooklyn yeshivahs, or join the family business. They would never leave Brooklyn, except, perhaps, for the Bronx or Queens. She felt her eyes moisten with sadness. They would never see California.
    She, too, would marry. But not so soon. She had so much to do, to learn. And the man she married would be…she shivered. She could not imagine. But special, so special.
    Batsheva Ha-Levi. She was the one exception to the rule. Her intelligence, her beauty, her sweetness of character (her father’s money) would save her from their fate.
     
     
    There had never been a time in her life when Batsheva Ha-Levi hadn’t felt herself special—not necessarily better—but simply irreconcilably different from everyone else, even those who shared her religion and friendship. It was a feeling that grew strong within her long before she understood anything about wealth or beauty or any of those things that set one human being apart from others as an object of envy or admiration in any society. Perhaps it stemmed from her mother’s unconditional, solicitous love; her father’s assumption that she was not like other daughters, other girls. Or perhaps it was simply a condition unavoidable to any American-born, Orthodox Jewish girl living within and yet totally outside of the culture and norms of the country of her birth.
    In the bustling New York neighborhood where she had spent the greater part of her childhood, Orthodox Jews were a significant minority. There were synagogues and shteibels on every street; Orthodox day schools and yeshivoth; strictly kosher bakeries, pizza shops, and butchers