“But I don’t feel anything for her.”
Temimah’s hand stopped scrubbing. She looked at him, her eyes moist under the tight headdress. “Do you feel something for me?”
He didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve prayed for more children of my own.” She glanced at the ceiling. “But your father is a special man. He knows what’s best and I, well, I’m his wife. That’s my duty. But I crave to hold a baby. If not mine, at least yours.” She turned back to the sink.
Lemmy watched her shoulders tremble. What could he say? He wanted to relieve her sorrow, but the thought of standing with Sorkeh under the chuppah made him cringe. “Good night, Mother,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
He locked himself in his room, stretched on the bed with the pack of ice on his buttocks, and began reading The Fountainhead.
Hours later, his full bladder tore him away from the story. He hurried down the dark hallway to the bathroom and back to his room to continue reading. When he finished the book, the morning sun shone through the window above his bed. He closed his eyes and imagined the tall, square-jawed Howard Roark, the architect who defied the masters of his profession, mocking their grotesque imitations of ancient Rome in American cities, their pasting of motifs from a French chateau or a Spanish villa onto modern towers of wealth. Instead, Roark designed functional buildings in furious, brutal objectivism. Lemmy admired Roark’s unyielding integrity, his willingness to sacrifice everything for his beliefs, and his love for Dominique Francon, who loved him back but joined the enemies, who swore to silence his genius.
The Fountainhead excited Lemmy in an unfamiliar way. He could recite from memory full Chapters of Torah and Talmud, which he had studied since the age of three. He loved the scriptures’ poetic beauty and logical wisdom, and until now believed nothing else was worth reading. But here was a book that had absolutely no Torah or Talmud in it, and yet from its pages emerged a universe rich with men and women who fought for their beliefs, suffered for their idealistic goals, and served as the fountainhead of human progress while experiencing pain, love, and physical lust in ways he had always thought sinful.
Chapter 9
During the following days, Lemmy’s bruises prevented him from sitting down. He spent the day on his feet, studying Talmud with Benjamin in the synagogue. When his legs ached, he went outside to stretch out on a bench. At night, he stayed up for hours, lying on his belly with ice on his buttocks, reading The Fountainhead again.
The next Sabbath, after the meal, he ran all the way to Tanya’s house. He circled the wall of sandbags and knocked on the door. She appeared barefoot, in a sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts that revealed sculpted legs.
“I brought back your book.” He averted his eyes.
“You don’t like the way I look?”
He swallowed. “You look the way God made you, but I’m not supposed to see so much of it.”
Tanya laughed and took his hand, pulling him inside. Her hand was dry and cool and pleasant to touch. She placed The Fountainhead on a shelf among other books.
He asked, “Has Ayn Rand written other novels?”
“So you liked it?”
“It’s a good story.” He felt foolish for keeping the real depth of his excitement from her. “America is a great country. I hope to visit it one day.”
“What did your father think of the book?”
Lemmy hesitated. “He didn’t see it.”
“Why?”
“He would tell me not to read it.”
“You always do what your father tells you?”
“Pretty much.”
“And your own desire, it has no meaning?”
“My desire is to obey my father.”
“And what about your mother?”
“She obeys him too.”
Tanya smiled. “You know what I mean.”
“My mother doesn’t expect my obedience.”
“That’s your father’s prerogative?”
He nodded.
She collected a pile of papers from her desk and put them in a drawer. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Tea? Water? You must be thirsty after such a long walk.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Are you afraid my dishes aren’t kosher?” She sat on the sofa. “You needn’t worry. I’m a vegetarian.”
Lemmy wasn’t sure what it meant. He had never heard the term. Did she eat only vegetables? That would make for a very limited diet, especially in the winter, when fresh produce was meager. He wandered around the room, touching the old furniture and the books. A framed photo on the wall showed a teenage girl with light hair and Tanya’s smile. “Who’s that?”
“My daughter, Bira.”
In Hebrew, Bira meant a capital city, but he had never heard it used as a name. “You named her for Jerusalem?”
“That would have been a nice coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
“Where is she now?”
“In the army, defending Israel. Not hiding in the synagogue like the men of Neturay Karta.”
“We’re not hiding.”
“I didn’t mean you personally. You’re too young, anyway.”
“I’ll be eighteen soon.”
“Will you enlist?”
“In the Zionist army?” He rolled one of his payos around his forefinger and played with it. “We defend the Jewish people by praying and studying Talmud.”
“You really believe that prayer and study would protect Israel from three hundred million Arabs armed with the best Soviet weaponry?”
“Torah says: God shall fight for you, and you shall be silent. For the righteous Jew, faith is the mightiest shield from enemies.”
“Do you know the story about the Jew who complained to God that he was so poor that he couldn’t feed his cow?”
“There are many of them.”
“That’s true. Well, this Jew got an answer. God told him that he would win the lottery.”
Lemmy leaned against the wall, watching her.
“A week later, when he complained to God that he didn’t win the lottery, God asked: Did you buy a ticket?”
Lemmy laughed. He paced along the wall, returning to Bira’s photo. She stood against a background of large buildings and signs in foreign letters. “How old is she?”
“Twenty-one. She even has a boyfriend.”
“ Mazal Tov. When is the wedding?”
“It’s too early to think of a wedding. They’re dating, that’s all. Movies, dancing, kissing, you know, being young.”
He examined the photo. The signs in the background were in German. “Is she really your daughter?”
“Excuse me?”
