Fiction
Here Comes the Messiah
The phone calls started when I was thirteen. My mother said no, no and no. By the time I was seventeen it was calls every night, my mother carrying the cordless into her bedroom, to whisper and scribble notes.
Moshe Greenberger, she came rushing into the living room to tell me in a breathless whisper. Moshe Greenberger!
I’m not interested, I told her, looking up from my tehillim, tucking my hair off my face. I spoke respectfully of course. But thank you, Ma, for looking into it.
She raised her eyebrows, I thought she was going to say something, like, Tamar! It’s Moshe Greenberger! Do you want to think about it? Maybe we should ask a Rabbi. But she didn’t say anything, she just nodded her head. Sometimes I think she’s a little scared of me. Plenty of other girls in my class don’t get asked – they just get told: You have a date on Tuesday night with Mordche Fried on 47th street’s son. I think it’s the same with her as it is with everyone else. Even though she’s my own mother. Even though I got these giant green cat eyes from her.
I didn’t want Moshe Greenberger, even though every girl in my class would die if the Greenberger’s would even think — just a flicker in the mind! — of them. I wanted someone special. I didn’t want some billionaire’s son. I wanted gadlus. Greatness. Holiness.
You’re so serious, my best friend Miri said to me. We were sitting on my bed, leaning back against the wall with pillows cushioning our backs, our feet dangling off the mattress. We were talking shidduchim. Of course. You’re so serious about how you think about this.
I shrugged. I’m not serious, I said to her. Well, maybe I am – but more I’m rational, you know. I’m here for just a few years on this earth. My job is to serve Hashem, to be a good wife and a good mother. Money is nice, but that won’t help me succeed. I want to use what I have to land the most holy man I can.
Miri rolled her eyes at that. It’s hard for her. She’s a pretty girl, for sure. She’s been dieting since eighth grade, and she’s like a size two, probably. But the baby fat won’t leave her cheeks. And she has frizzy red hair that’s impossible to straighten. Her father’s successful, he sells office supplies. They’re a good family. She’ll get a good shidduch. No Greenberger, of course, but a good boy, a good learner, from a good home with a little money.
When my time came, it didn’t happen with a phone call. One of Reb Yidele’s students came up to my father after mincha. My father ran home – ran, my father! He held his yarmulke to his slippery scalp with one hand as he raced into the kitchen, were I was helping my mother fry the last of the chicken. A flour dusting, a thin coat of egg yolk, toss and turn in the bread crumbs and into the pan.
Gitty! Tamar! Gitty! Baruch Hashem! Baruch Hashem! he exclaimed, panting for breath.
Are you ok? My mother asked, dropping the wet chicken on the counter, hurrying to his side. He was so full of joy he could have hugged her right there, in front of me! His smile, his eyes, they shone. Baruch Hashem, he kept on repeating.
What is it? My mother asked, tell me.
Reb Yidele, my father said, opening his eyes wide and looking from my mother to me, to my mother and back to me. Reb Yidele Rabinowitz wants our Tamar.
My mother took a step back. His son? He wants? Tamar? She couldn’t even finish a sentence she was so shocked. Tears just started pouring out her eyes like a spring shower. I had the biggest craziest grin on my face. I knew it. This was what I knew would always happen for me. This was Hashem’s plan.
Four months later, four months to the very day, actually, we were married. Me, Tamar, and Aaron. Or as he was called by his family, Ar. I called him that, because now we were family. Me and this skinny, shy boy who kept to himself, the first born of Reb Yidele.
Why was I chosen out of the bagillion girls in Boro Park who would have cut off their pinky fingers for the honor of even a date with Ar Rabinowitz, Rab Yudele’s oldest son? I knew why. It was my looks. I didn’t wear heels or makeup, but even with my hair scraped back into a pony tail, my face bare, loose skirts, opaque stockings and flats, I couldn’t walk down any street without every shvartze shlepper freezing in his tracks, his mouths agape. But I didn’t care for the reason. This was where I was supposed to be. I knew it in my soul. I was supposed to be a Rabinowitz. I was put on this earth to have Rabinowitz babies of my own. My children would bear the legacy of the most important family alive.
***
It was a Thursday night, and Ar was learning in his study with the door closed. He didn’t like me in his study. He actually asked me to never go in there, not even to clean. After I set up the room with a table, a comfortable office chair, a big bookcase for all of his sacred books and red velvet drapes with gold tassels, I never went in there again. Some girls would think that was crazy, but those girls aren’t married to Reb Yidele’s son.
I was mixing a chocolate cake in the kitchen, humming quietly to myself, when suddenly the door to Ar’s study swung open and hit the wall with a bang. I jumped, almost tipping the bowl of batter onto my black skirt.
Ar?!
He stood in the open doorway, his face pale, wet lines of sweat shining on his forehead. He looked like a teenager at that moment, like a scared boy, beneath the fresh beard curling over his cheeks.
My father! he gasped. I have to go!
Is Reb Yidele ok? I asked, a hand at my heart. Should I call your mother?
Don’t do a thing, he yelled over his shoulder, and he ran out the apartment door, without even putting on his hat.
I closed the door behind him with a shaky hand and a prayer on my lips. Please Hashem, make Reb Yidele ok. I took a deep breath, and smoothed my wig with my palms, looking around. The cake. Oh yes, the cake. But something was different. The study door – it was open. Ar never left the study door open. Ever. I’m just going to close it, I thought. He’ll be upset if he knows he left it open. I reached a hand for the doorknob, but I couldn’t help but see a laptop, sitting in middle of his desk, powered on. A laptop! Hashem yerachem! A computer in our home!
I did not falter. I strode right into that room and looked at the screen of that computer sitting in middle of what was supposed to be my husband’s study, his place of Torah study.
There was an email open on the screen. I knew this, Miri had a computer in her house that her father used, and she had shown me a few times how this all worked, computers and internets and emails. There were words in the email, it was a letter, a letter Ar must have been in middle of writing.
Dear Candy, it started. Dear Candy. LOL. Very funny. I’ll meet you there on Sunday. Wear the pink one!!!!!! Or nothing!!!!!!! J Ok! – Arthur.
Arthur. Arthur? Candy?
I sat down on the couch and I waited, my heart beating so loud it filled the quiet apartment. My hands on my lap, so I looked calm. I was cold as stone. As still as a stone statue.
The door opened, finally. Oh, everything is ok, Ar said to me, kicking off his shoes, Baruch Hashem. It was just a scare. The doctor came to the house, but he’s fine, everything is fine. Don’t worry.
I just looked at him. Stayed where I was. Didn’t jump up to offer him a cup of water or anything.
Are you ok, Tamar? he asked.
Candy, I said. Who is Candy?
Do you go in my study? Ar asked me, frowning. I told you never to go into my study.
Are you kidding me? I cried, not caring how disrespectful I sounded. Who is Candy, what – what – what is this?!
Ar folded his arms. It’s nothing, he said, and he sighed. Please. It’s fine. She’s just someone I see sometimes, a goy, actually, I found her on this website, Craigslist, its only, you know, to get rid of my lust.
My jaw flopped open.
Oh please, Ar said, waving a hand at me. Don’t make a big deal. There’s nothing wrong with it.
Nothing wrong? I gasped. He shook his head.
Who do you think told me about this? Who do you think even showed me Craigslist?
Who? I whispered weakly.
My father, of course. He laughed. He even laughed. Although he likes tall redheads he said, shaking his head, I like blondes.
On the way to shul the next morning, a truck smacked into Ar and crushed him under its wheels, smearing his body across the pavement. I sat shiva with his family, and I cried, but I’ll tell you the truth, my heart was hard. I wanted to be part of Reb Yidele’s family, but I did not want some dirty goy in my husband’s life. I did not want to be married to someone who would lie to me about something like that.
She’ll marry Yoni, Reb Yidele proclaimed, after one month has passed. This is the law. It was the law. Yoni was only 17, but I was only 18. An 18 year old widow. They could have gotten so much from Yoni’s shidduch – money, or connections to some other big family. They only had three sons. Now two. But this was the law. I had to marry my dead husband’s brother. I don’t think Yoni minded. He didn’t mind not having to avert his eyes every time I was in their house. He didn’t mind being able to greedily drink me in with his stare, head to toe. I prayed that Yoni didn’t know about Craigslist yet. I put my fears aside. This was Hashem’s plan for me. I was supposed to have Rabinowitz children. This was my place, with this family.
It was a smaller wedding, but everyone was more determined. Dancing with such energy, dancing as if there was no dead spirit hovering around our manicured hands.
Yoni was different from Ar. He was starving at night. Like I was a piece of candy he was dying to have. But he did something different too.
Is everything ok? I asked, when he did this. He had such a big smile on his face, lying beside me in bed. Like he was in heaven. He nodded. Why did you do that? I asked hesitantly. He turned his head and looked at me. Silly gorgeous baby, he said, messing my hair with his fingers. I don’t want you to get pregnant. He ran his hand over my skin all the way down. Do you know how your body will change? I’ve got a supermodel for a wife, I don’t want you to turn into one of those mothers.
The same, every night he was permitted to touch me, he pulled out of me at the last minute, spewing white stuff all over my clean sheets.
Our marriage lasted six months. He didn’t wake up one morning. It was a brain aneurysm, the top specialist in the world said.
My mother-in-law couldn’t look at me during the shiva. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t feel guilty. This was my place, with this family. This was Hashem’s plan. I held fast to my faith.
We’ll give her Shloimy, Reb Yidele said wearily. He didn’t want people thinking his soul had weakened and he wouldn’t obey the law that paired me with my dead husband’s last surviving brother. Just let him grow up before the wedding. Before he kills her, he might have said, although he didn’t.
I moved back in with my parents. My hair still covered with a wig, but my ring finger bare.
This is my destiny, I know it, I know it. I cried when I prayed this to Hashem. How am I going to fulfill my destiny now? No one will marry me now! I’ll never be a wife. They won’t let me have Shloimy. I’ll never be a mother.
My mother was so worried. She called Rabbis. She even got a computer, for the basement. Maybe you can listen to some classes online, she said. Because I wasn’t leaving the house. I stayed in my room, only coming out for lunch, when she begged me. My eyes were so red, so lined with bags, I wondered if finally my beauty that had always defined me would weaken its hold.
One day, the same as the others, waking early in the dark, praying, crying, asking for an answer from Hashem, without warning, I got my answer. It just came to me in a flash of divine inspiration.
I waited until everyone left the house, then I got dressed and went downstairs to the basement. I turned on the computer sitting there on the table. It didn’t take me long to set up what I needed to set up. I’m not a stupid girl. And I was inspired.
“6 feet tall, bright red hair, beautiful woman seeks fun with distinguished older man.” This is what my advertisement said. Then I went out to get red hair dye from the drug store.
Four hours later I got the email I was waiting for. The email from YRabinowitz@hotmail.com.
I waited for him in the Motel Journeys, picking up the key from the front desk as he had instructed in his email. In the bathroom, I took off my wig and shook out my freshly dyed red hair. I was 5’ 8”, but in the gigantic plastic heels I had bought from a store in Manhattan, I hoped he wouldn’t tell the difference. My face was heavy with makeup, but I knew it wasn’t necessary. He had never looked directly into my face before. I waited, in my lingerie and heels, I waited for my father-in-law. I waited for that moment of union that would give me the Rabinowitz child I was put on this earth to have.
Printable Version
I get the joke, but couldn’t there have been at least a slight attempt at making the plot realistic?
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Once I got the message A grin so wide appeared on my face. brilliantly bringing the story to life! Keep it up!
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Beatiful. I love the idea of rewriting Biblical chapters. k
Keep it up.
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So, I’m thinking, what heimishe girl is named Tamar? Then, since when is levitate marriage practiced nowadays? Once “Yoni” spilled, I “got” it. And you ended it at the perfect moment. Sweet.
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Moe, realism isn’t a serious factor in this tale. Modern rewrites of ancient legends are meant to be amusing, meant to make the reader smile as she/he gets the joke. And this story achieves that.
I like the nom de plume. Of course “Yehuda” is deliberate, but is “A. M.”? Is it meant to channel A. M. Homes, or is that just a fluke?
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excellent piece! for all you zeesa vaiber out there who need to get laid in lakewood or bp, vil’amsburg oich, chnyock at gmail dot com a heimishe yingerman can bring you some joy
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Very nice AMY, very nice indeed! A highly amusing retelling of a familiar tale.
Chnyock, have you learned nothing from the story? Craigslist is your salvation. Make sure you post as a tall redhead with big boobs and a small waist, and you might land R’ Yidele himself!
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” realism isn’t a serious factor in this tale. Modern rewrites of ancient legends are meant to be amusing.”
True, Bethany, and also somewhat realistically depict modern reality.
This piece fails miserably at doing so.
The idea is creative, but poorly executed.
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I hope for her sake that you and/or Reb Yiddele will be as honest as your namesake Yehuda to admit his mistake when this nowadays Tamar is sent to fry at the stake.
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Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.
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Serves you right. Moshe.
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I enjoyed the creativity of giving the ancient story a modern, frum community, context.
I remember in a mussar schmooz one of my many mashgichim saying something like, “Eisav hut gehat a gressere shtreimel fun Yankev’s!” He may have been attempting some subtle humor by way of making a larger point about apperance vs. character, but the incongruity of ancient Middle Easterners dressed as modern chassidim resonated with me, because I had long been aware of just how different modern day frum or chassidishe Jews are not only from the dress, but from the morals, sensibilities, and even religious beliefs, of the avos and sh’vatim.
A comment on the comments: I notice that most are supportive and complimenting, while a couple are critical. When people put themselves on the line creatively, by submitting a piece of writing, I think it’s good to be gentle in our feedback.
Still, those who offer critical feedback (whether on writing or anything else) can help point the way toward improvement, so they play an important role, too.
Yet the critical comments were of a general nature, and focused on what they considered poorly done, and did not offer specific and detailed suggestions for what changes would, in their opinion, make the piece better. If, in the future, critics would take the time and effort to offer detailed suggestions for improvement, their critical comments would be able to be put to use far more effectively.
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HT The idea is creative, but poorly executed.
I disagree. I see a purposeful tongue in cheek mirroring of flaws that are in the original script. I thought that was done with skill.
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“Modern rewrites of ancient legends are meant to be amusing, meant to make the reader smile as she/he gets the joke. And this story achieves that.”
Is that the point of modern retellings? I think you can do a lot more with retellings and adaptations than make a simple point about religious hypocrisy by using two-dimensional characters. It’s kinda like a political cartoon, it can be brilliant and clever, but I wouldn’t call it art, unless maybe the art of propaganda.
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Pen- What are the flaws in the original script that the writer unmasked so skillfully using a tounge in cheek, or better yet,a quill up the rectum approach?
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“Yet the critical comments were of a general nature, and focused on what they considered poorly done, and did not offer specific and detailed suggestions for what changes would, in their opinion, make the piece better.”
Mr. Posner, with all due respect to you, you have not as of yet been anointed moderator/editor of this site.
That being the case, I will continue to express my opinions and critique as I please.
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HT,
Mr. Posner made a gentle suggestion, why the need to jump at him so snidely? Please relax.
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The critical comments weren’t all that harsh*…
…and the comment about the other comments being a little harsh wasn’t all that pushy, just a gentle suggestion.
*esp. not in proportion to the pointed irreverence of the original story.
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HT,
Everyone is, of course, free to express themselves as they wish. Mine was a suggestion–which, by the way, did not mention names–for what is generally agreed on as being more constructive feedback…whether to a fellow writer in a writers’ group, to a colleague at a work meeting, or to a spouse or child at home. To simply say something was “poorly executed,” without offering a suggestion on how it can be better executed, is not offering much useful information. If one’s goal is simply to vent an emotional or aesthetic reaction, without regard to whether it’s of any help to the other party, that’s certainly one’s right–but it’s far from optimal communication.
And none of us has to be the editor/manager of the site to offer a comment on a story or to make a comment on the comments. And we all get to choose, on our own, whether to take each other’s comments seriously. For my part, I try to be polite, but I can only make suggestions to others; I don’t pretend to have any authority on such matters.
Nothing was intended as an attack. I truly think there’s a good purpose for critical feedback. But as mentioned, in order for the writer to learn something, it really helps if the critic makes suggestions for how to improve.
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Funny!
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What most of the critics missed, was how the story at first paints a picture of a fictional romantic story, until you realize it’s an old known story thought in school. That is the beauty of it.
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“… To simply say something was “poorly executed,” without offering a suggestion on how it can be better executed, is not offering much useful information”…
…in order for the writer to learn something, it really helps if the critic makes suggestions for how to improve…
Surprise Mr. Posner, I am absolutely uninterested in offering the writer of this piece useful information on how to improve his/her writting.
My comment was directed to a different commentor, and was meant as critique on her critique.
And while we’re at it, for the sake of emotional authenticity and in the name of intellectually honesty, I do want to tell you that I find your previous two comments to be very condescending towards other commentors.
I understand that as per your profession, you might be used to leading and facilitating various support groups.
Unpoius is not one of them. Most of us are perfectly capable of handling ourselves quite well, without the need for professional assistance and support.
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HT,
These are your words directly quoted: “…This piece fails miserably at doing so. The idea is creative, but poorly executed”
Irrespective of who you were directly addressing, you were clearly criticizing the piece without offering specific constructive suggestions. That is your choice; you can say what you like, even if it is gratuitiously dismissive of another’s work. I’m not your father and I assume you’re not a teen-ager; your freedom to say what you want was never in question.
And I, too, can say what I like–including encouraging others to be more specific in their critiques if they want to be constructive. Being a mentch is not limited to a support group.
But, again, you have the freedom to behave as you wish.
Feel free to have the last word on this; I won’t respond further. Let others observe the comment thread and decide for themselves who they think is being constructive, and who unnecessarily argumentative and defensive.
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Farchapt, I agree. That was one of its important creative elements.
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Michael — I for one think your comments were well put, measured and appropriate. Gratuitous criticism is allowed here, so HT or anyone else is free to criticize however they like (we only moderate for personal attacks). But they do so at the risk of seeming petty, immature, and ill-intentioned. To be taken seriously by fellow readers and commenters, respectful and well-intentioned comments usually do the trick.
As an aside, your voice is respected and appreciated — if it even needs to be said.
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HR,
Thanks for the support. I do appreciate it.
And, of course, neither you nor I are trying to score personal points against anyone.
Good writing, good company, and good interactions are what this site is about. I try to uphold the first in my submissions, and the second and the third in my comments.
I respect and agree with your approach of not censoring comments unless they cross the line of extreme personal attack. And I also agree that even if one is not censored by an outside authority, one becomes one’s own most damning prosecutor, in the eyes of one’s peers, if one doesn’t conduct oneself with class.
Thanks again.
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MP, you beckoned and I came.
As an unbiased bystander I followed the progression of the comments, and I couldn’t agree with HT more.
I don’t see how criticizing a literary piece without offering constructive advice is wrong. Hell yeah everybody is entitled to their own opinion and nobody needs you to descend from your lofty throne to grant that to them. You truly are not the father of this site, and I do wonder why your tone is always so paternal. In a way it’s disrespectful to the other noble commentors of this site. You whole attitude is questionable. I get the sense from your writing that you relate to us as stray sheep that desperately need guidance. I speak for many, we enjoy your input, but you badly need to change your tone. Your condescending fashion is not appreciated.
You totally don’t get it. This is not writing school. People post articles with the knowledge that it will be critiqued. Some of it will be negative and some of it will be positive. If a commentor doesn’t like the piece, for whatever reason they can take the liberty to denounce it. There really is no need to elaborate as to why he/she doesn’t like it. Maybe the commentor is unaware why he/she doesn’t like it. Maybe the commentor just doesn’t get the feel of the piece. So what? Does every movie crtic after bashing a film go into details how the movie could-should have been done? NO! That is not the vocation of the critic. All the critic does is grant a thumbs up or a thumbs down. As commentors we are pseudo critics and hence we have the right to critique without going into details, never the less offer advice. Common….
And oh BTW, don’t cop out from responding with the pretence that you transcend petty word spats. You made your remarks, you were challenged, defend your position
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KS or (HT),
Even had I “beckoned” for others to engage me on this issue–which I did not, I simply said that others will observe and make up their own minds–and even if KS is a new person (not remotely related to anything like HT writing under a pseudonym of what was formerly mere anonymity) I still wouldn’t respond substantively to this undignified cross between adolescent belligerence and amateur psychoanalyzing.
If you think I’m condescending, I can only tell you that this wasn’t my intent—but if by condescending you mean that I look down at this petty sniping nonsense, then I plead guilty. I definitely do look down on these recent comments. If you choose to read condescension into my earlier words, nobody can stop you. Beyond that, there’s nothing more to be said.
P.S. The true editor of this site has weighed in a couple of comments above you.
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Michael, I implore you not to respond to these trolls. Believe me, it is people like you who make this site a pleasure to visit. And it would be so much more pleasurable for the intelligent readers if HT and her ilk would find other venues to frequent. It’s a free country and nobody can make anyone disappear, but at least don’t take up an idiot’s challenge.
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Chaim,
Thank you for your support, and for standing up for intelligent and civil discourse.
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Michael, I’m with you.
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Baal Habos,
Those are 4 comforting words.
As they say here in Oklahoma, “Ah apprayshiate cha’.”
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Chaim, maybe you don’t enjoy HT’s comments, but I do, immensely. Zee hut a sharfin tzingel, and whether I agree with her or not on any particular issue, I always enjoy her comments, her tone, and how she zuggs arein like only she can. It adds a certain flavor. Actually, I never thought of her comments as biting or “snide”, I just assumed that’s her unique way of communicating, and I appreciated the humor in it. If you don’t that’s fine, but there’s no need to tell her to ‘move on to another venue,’ even though I highly doubt that she needs my ‘backup’.
On the other hand, I haven’t felt the “condescention” in MP’s comments, and I enjoy his comments immensely as well.
So let’s get back to our regular scheduled programming….
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kafhakele, enough! Stop already with the lady-ass-licking, find yourself a nude bar. You keep on doing it so obvious. It makes me throw up.
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Faavel, if I tryly feel that way, is it still considered lady-ass- lickin? And was I lickin’ MP’s ass last week too? Then maybe I’m bi… you just flung me into a sexual identification crisis!
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the discourse has reached new intellectual heights.
i really loved the story it really throws all your preconceptions out the window. i really enjoy getting new perspective on an old story. thank you for putting this out in the world.
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Brilliant!!
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Great piece!
Der rebbe in cheider used to mention that somethings are only “far eltere mentchn”. Being an einikle from Chavah, i could not resist, and ever poked my ears into discussions amongst “de eltere”, hence i was familiar with this story from an early age.
I always knew Reb Yiddle by the surname “Yaakobovitch”, and its was plain for all to see that even red-hot Tamar could not prevent his untimely deflation (or “yeridde”).
Young veil-shrouded Tamar lacked an appendage, thus she needed to enlist the assistance of a male to get her story published. But that Reb Yiddle himself should author this? Wow! Der midas ha’emes is gevaldig!
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Now everytime a yungerman dies unexpectedly it will be blamed on Craigslist. But of course it will drive up the traffic to Craigslist. That Craig sure knows how to market.
You might have delayed the punchline by having tamar complain that the 2nd hubbie seemed not to spritz and I could not understand it. Then later she finds the ad for the product or method used.
As for the story ending at the right moment, I could see so many ways to force Daddy to fess using DNA etc as an add on after she sets up him up for a prostitution arrest.
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I enjoyed this, thanks!
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TRULY INCREDIBLE! Serious genius, from beginning to end. I don’t know how much of it was rewritten, and thus, to whom to give credit, but this blew my head off. I have about 6 other friends I showed it to who agreed.
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Jon — Credit is due to the author only (as is the case with the vast majority of pieces we post). It was posted just the way it came in.
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It was so delightful to come back here and see people’s positive comments. Both as a writer, and an “unpious”-er, it can be frightening to put oneself out there — but there is no happiness greater than doing so and having people enjoy what I have created.
Bethany– A.M. is for “aim”, Hebrew for mother – ie, the mother of Judah. The name is a reminder of where we really come from, our history before it was appropriated and remixed by the people who have lead the religious community these past two hundred years.
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Ah, much better than A.M. Homes, who doesn’t really blend into this “sacred” story anyway. Thanks.
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am what a classic story. i really enjoyed the writting and of course the punch line. what a classic
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