(Author: Sandra Braude, Vol. 66, #2, Rosh Hashanah 2011)
My arrival in Israel was something of a culture shock. Things here are very different from Sydney, where life can be described as first-world-laid-back. It’s nothing like that here, where the atmosphere and everything about the place is frenetic middle-eastern. In the first place the environment, which has an aged look about it, is totally different, and that’s just the beginning
It was on the buses that the difference first struck me. I’d been shopping at the local centre and, carrying my parcels, went to take the bus home. A man, bearded, with side-locks, and dressed in orthodox Jewish garb – black trousers, long black coat and black hat – looking as though he was straight out of ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ – was sitting at the bus stop. When I sat down next to him he jumped up and moved away.
After a while the bus came. I was used to Sydney buses, which stop close to the pavement and where, when the front door opens, the bus kneels to make it easier for seniors like me to climb on. After this the driver processes my ticket, and waits for me to sit down before closing the door and gently drifting off on his way. Not here though!
As I clambered onto the bus, clutching my parcels, the driver slammed the door shut and shouted, ‘Shvi! Shvi!’ – ‘Sit! Sit!’ in Hebrew. Then he took off like a bat out of hell, the vehicle rocking and rolling as it wheeled round the many bends in the road. At every stop the doors opened and hordes of school-kids shoved their way onto the soon over-crowded bus, and pregnant women and mothers with prams climbed in the back door, until there was hardly room to stand, let alone sit. The kids pushed and shoved and grabbed whatever seats were available. They sat on the steps and the package racks; swung from the ceiling straps, and jabbered away happily like a pack of baby mynah birds. Three young girls put their feet on the seats. ‘Seats are not for feet,’ I told them. ‘Please take yours off.’ The feet went down. The feet went up. ‘Seats are not for feet,’ I said. ‘Please take yours off.’ The feet went down. The feet went up. ‘Seats are not for feet,’ I repeated. ‘Please take yours off. The feet went down. The feet went up. At that moment I admitted defeat. It was a hopeless battle. Had I asked them to respond to the fact that their shoes were soiling the seats, the answer would doubtless have been, ‘So? Who cares?’ And they might have been right.
And so the bus wended its merry way through the districts of Bet Shemesh, an ancient Biblical town, which has seen Canaanites, Philistines and ancient Hebrews; and where Samson loved and was betrayed by Delilah; and where David slew Goliath. Today Bet Shemesh is set to become the third biggest city in Israel. The lower parts are largely secular, with residents coming from many parts of the world – America, Europe, the Middle East and Africa polyglot people, speaking Hebrew, English, French, Russian and Amharic. Where they come from can be recognized, not only from their languages, but their dress codes: western clothes; high Russian boots; white caftans; women with head-scarves, and men with small crocheted skull caps.
As the bus rises towards the Rama, i.e. the high parts, the pattern changes, and suddenly Yiddish is heard, for the people who live here are extremely religious and regard Hebrew as lashon ha Kodesh, the holy tongue, for use in prayer and not everyday life. Here the garb becomes more specific. Like the man at the bus stop, the men here wear black from top to toe, with knee-long coats, even in summer. They virtually all wear black hats rather than skull caps. Boys over the age of thirteen dress the same way, for they are already considered as having entered Jewish manhood, and can take their place in the community of prayer. Here all the men are bearded, and many wear long and meticulously curled side-locks, for the religion forbids the shaving of facial hair, and there are certain sects that wear the most beautiful streimels – fur hats. The dress is reminiscent of 18thCentury Poland, from which many of these people derive, and it is certainly not suitable for the at times unbearable heat of the Middle East. But the logic behind it is understandable, seeming to be a desire to build a bridge from the present to a past that was hugely destroyed by the Holocaust. The people who live here seem almost to be a reincarnation from that past.
As with the men, there is a great similarity in the dress of the women, who virtually all wear black, including little girls. The outfits are long, loosefitting and enveloping, intended to hide all shapeliness of the figure. Hair is completely covered, with not a strand sticking out. The intention is modesty, for beauty and charm are regarded as being inner qualities, and not for show to the outside world. There are certain differences in the dress of various groups, but they are so minor that only the truly initiated can perceive them.
And so the bus continues upwards, with passengers ascending and alighting until the end of the journey is reached at Ramat Bet Shemesh Aleph, which is mainly Anglo-Saxon, and which is where I live. I climb down, and make my way home through the fruits of the area – the young children who fill the streets, and who indeed constitute the beauty of the place. For this is a young area, and family life is the most important thing of all here.
When I arrived in Ramat Bet Shemesh seven months ago I was newly out of an unfortunate marriage. I’d never thought that this would happen to me. Divorce was not a thing to be aspired to, or to be proud of, but there are times when it cannot be avoided and this was one of them. I accepted the situation, and appeared before the Sydney Beth Din, the Jewish Law Court, to accept my Jewish divorce. And I have to acknowledge that that facilitated my entry into Israel.
The divorce hearing was held at the Great Synagogue in Elizabeth Street in Sydney, in a dark and airless room, where the curtains were drawn and the lights dim. I imagined it to have been similar to a scene in the Middle Ages. Three stern rabbis sat behind a table, while several other men clustered about.
‘Good day, Mrs Gordon,’ said one of the men at the table, obviously the senior member of the group.
‘Do you know why you are here?’ ‘Yes’ I nodded.
It seemed superfluous that the Chief Rabbi – because that was obviously what he was – should have to explain the situation to me, but that was what he then did.
‘Your husband has just appeared before this court. He has stated that he wishes to be divorced from you, and that this is his own decision. Do you wish to accept the divorce, and is this your own
decision as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. Please stand in front of me and answer all the questions I ask you with a simple yes or no. Then I shall write the divorce document, and hand it to Rabbi Moses, who is standing here instead of your husband. He will hand it to you, and you must accept it in your cupped hands.’
I did as I was told, accepted the document in cupped hands, raised them to the ceiling, tucked the document under my armpit, turned and walked to the door, then walked back.
The Chief Rabbi took the document from me and slashed it with a knife in three places. He looked up. ‘Very well, Mrs Gordon. You are now divorced. After a period of three months you will be accessible to any man, except for a Cohen. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes. Thank you.’
I turned and walked out of the room. So, this was freedom. This was the way the world ended – not with a bang, and scarcely with a whimper.
‘Marry again?’ I asked.
‘Yes, said my friend. ‘Now you can marry a black cat.’
‘What?’ I was not sure that I had heard correctly. ‘A black cat?’
‘Yes. A black cat. I’m sure you’d do very well as a wife for one.’
I bit my lip and thought. This was something that had never crossed my mind. But who knows? A new country, a new culture, new possibilities. I remembered reading about a woman in America who had married her cat. The ceremony was held in a little chapel in Reno, and it appears to have been quite legal. The bride wore white, and the cat – a Persian of the highest pedigree – sported a black satin tuxedo, white bow tie and top hat. Perhaps such a marriage would also be suitable here in Israel, where it is not regarded as appropriate for a woman to live alone.
Although the thought was initially quite disconcerting, I began to take it seriously. I was lonely, and could do with a partner, and somehow a cat seemed to fit the bill. On the whole I preferred dogs, but certainly cats are less of a nuisance. Dogs make a lot of noise and disturb the neighbours. They bounce all over the place, bring muddy feet into the house, and demand constant attention. Cats, on the other hand, are clean and quiet. They eat minimally and daintily, attend to their own ablutions, and keep the place free from mice. They also have about them an inscrutable air of mystery, something that I find attractive. So I decided that I would look around for a suitable cat, and would approach my rabbi for advice when it came to the marriage.
There was certainly no dearth of potential applicants for the position. Every time I went out into the street I ran into cats – hundreds of them. They streaked past me; sat on walls, leered down at me; and picked through the garbage cans for food. One little ginger cat with a gammy leg sat begging for scraps at the bus stop. And once I came across an unnerving episode of what appeared to be a gang rape, where the female lay crushed on the pavement, whilst eight feisty males squawked and scrabbled for her favours. None of these were what I wanted. Street cats were clearly not for me.
It was for this reason that I decided to consult an expert on the matter. After all, it is an established tenet in the Jewish world that people seeking partners should consult a shadchan or matchmaker, and after asking around I learned that the man most knowledgeable about cats was Dr Schrodinger, and he fortunately did not live far away from me. I phoned him, told him that I was looking for a black cat, a male, the finest of the species, and that I had heard that he was a specialist of the feline species.
In response he laughed, a dry little cackle. He voice sounded old, his accent German. He assured me that he was very fond of cats, had many of them and made a study of them. He would be happy to meet with me, show me his cats, discuss things with me and help me in any way he possibly could.
The next day, impelled by a certain excitement, I rose early breakfasted, sparsely, dressed, and made my way down to the bus stop, where I boarded a number 14 bus.After a twenty minute drive we arrived at the old town of Bet Shemesh. Here many of the residents are Russian, Ethiopian or Moroccan, but although I was usually captivated by their dress and their accents, my mind was on cats. The place where I alighted was down at heel and rather seedy. There were a few shops there. Clothes were set out on the pavement in a colourful display. There was a small makolet or supermarket, the dark interior of which did not look particularly inviting. Outside a small coffee shop two men sat playing backgammon, whilst puffing away at nargillahs.
I walked down the road until I came to the street I was looking for, then turned left into what was little more than a winding lane. A few steps further, and I found myself before a ramshackle old house, with SCHRODINGER hand-painted on the name plate. I pushed open the rickety gate, walked up the overgrown path and knocked three times with the tarnished brass knocker.
After a few moments footsteps echoed inside, and the door opened to reveal a tall, bent, old man. He wore old-fashioned, gold rimmed spectacles, and was neatly, if shoddily, dressed.
‘Mrs Gordon?’
‘Dr Schrodinger?’
‘Come in,’ he said, throwing wide the door. His handshake was surprisingly strong for a man of his age.
The room into which he led her had heavy, wooden furniture. A large metal box stood in one corner.
‘Is this furniture from Germany?’ I asked.
‘From Vienna.A long time back. Now, young lady, I believe you want to know about cats. Come. I will show you mine.’
He pointed to cats that stretched languidly about the room, naming them as he did to. They were all beautiful, sleek, well cared for. It was clear that Dr Schrodinger had a great fondness for them.
‘Do you like them? Does anyone catch your eye?’ he asked.
‘Would you be prepared to sell them?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘I do not sell my cats,’ he said, ‘but on rare occasions, I am prepared to part with one, if the situation warrants it. Well?’
I hesitated. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for a black cat.’ ‘A black cat?A familiar?’ ‘I am no witch,’ I said.
‘No. I can see that. It was just a joke, perhaps not in the best taste. I have only one black cat, and he is not for the giving.’
At that instant a huge, gorgeous cat with silky fur as black as jet crossed my path. He turned, his undulating tail held high, and looked at me with hypnotic, emerald eyes. Purring loudly, he walked towards me and rubbed against my leg.
‘You are favoured,’ said Dr Schrodinger, in a tone of surprise. ‘Mephisto does not take to most people. He is my favourite, and has great insight. Here, Mephisto!’
The old man reached out with his arms and the cat jumped gracefully into them snuggling against his neck.’
It was moment of intimacy, and to hide my embarrassment, I pointed to the metal box and asked,
‘What’s that?’
‘A steel box,’ said Dr Schrodinger.
‘What’s it for?’
He smiled. ‘It is a conundrum. It has its own reality.’
‘Would you tell me?’
‘Of course. There’s a cat inside the box. There is also a vial of hydrocyanic acid, and a small amount of a radioactive substance. If just one atom of that substance were to decay, then the vial would break and the cat would die.’
‘That’s horrible,’ I gasped.
‘You may think that,’ said Dr Schrodinger, ‘but it’s really nothing more than a conundrum, something to demonstrate what reality is. It’s an intellectual exercise really, and we don’t even know what is in the box. Is there actually a cat in the box, and if there is, is it dead or alive? Or is it dead and alive?’ ‘I have to go now,’ I said’.
‘I’m sorry if I have upset you,’ said Mr Schrodinger. ‘But there is always this question about reality. No-one, not even Einstein, has ever understood what I’m trying to say.’ He closed his eyes and stroked Mephisto with sensitive, loving fingers.
Picking up her handbag Fay hurried from the house and up the winding lane to the bus stop.
‘Why did I ever go there?’ she thought. ‘Whatever made me think about cats, and particularly black cats? Well, that’s over for ever now.’
She climbed into bus number 14 that rocked and rolled its way back to the heights of Bet Shemesh, the House of the Sun. She stared moodily and almost unseeingly out of the window at the groups of people on the pavements – at the women, with their uniform head-scarves and shapeless dresses; and at the bearded men, dressed in heavy black suits and wearing either black hats or fur streimels. And in a flash the meaning of the conundrum became clear to her. It was not a black cat that she was after, but a BLACK HAT!
Sandra Braude, a long-standing contributor to Jewish Affairs, is a former lecturer in English at the Goudstadse Onderwysers Kollege. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in a wide array of Jewish publications, locally and internationally.
