I sat with the Rabbi in his plush, Regency room, red cushions, a view of the park. I told him I wanted to convert to Judaism. At school I had sided with the Jewish girls, opted for Jewish prayers instead of Christian, I felt that those beginnings at a private girls’ school on Harley Street had come full circle, it was meant to be. I told the Rabbi I was committed. My feet were bare, he was kind, he said love wasn’t enough of a reason. He sent me away to long for my Israeli in the stark uncomfortable spare bedroom of my mother’s tall, uncomfortable house. I sat at the desk facing the window and made necklaces from beads brought home from an Indian market. I didn’t talk to my family and they didn’t talk to me. Days passed. Weeks of silence. I was unthinkably absent from my surroundings. I was terribly sad. One day, unable to contain the loss, I picked up the phone and rang him. I remember the telephone in its alcove, the carpet beneath my feet, the sudden and unexpected jolt of his voice. I told him I missed him and incredibly I heard him say he missed me too. This was enough, the only invitation I needed, it was like pressing go on a racer who has leant against the starting rope, ears trained for the pistol. I was off. That afternoon I went to a travel agent near the station and bought a plane ticket to Israel. I came home and packed a bag. I imagined a life of headscarfs and simplicity and picked up my sewing machine, too. Money allows for these things; a momentary flick of the switch, a plane ticket bought, no conversations had with anyone but him. I told no one. I took a taxi to the airport, a folded note on the kitchen table for my mother that I thought she’d find at breakfast. It said, Gone to live in Tel Aviv.
5 Comments
3 more comments...No posts
Reading these, feeling so much empathy for the lost girl and her parents, and for my own version of her, and parents. Thank you.
Eleanor have you published this in a printed book format? Or do you have plans to?