Sotah by Naomi Ragen Read Free Book Online Page A

dreams. In her imaginings she was constantly unfulfilled and constantly searching. Nothing was too dangerous, too wicked. She allowed herself complete freedom of thought, entering the churning chaos below like a ghost through the soft mist of dreams. Like a glass blower, she breathed her own living breath into her fantasies, giving them unique shapes and lovely iridescent colors. She had both worlds, she told herself. She was utterly safe, utterly protected. And wasn’t it delicious, to explore new worlds without actually being strapped in on top of that exploding rocket launcher; without feeling your body vibrate, your ears deafen, your stomach lurch. In dreams you could edit all that out, leaving only the unearthly calm of floating in space, the glorious adventure of painless, dangerless discovery.
    She finished her prayers, bowing with deep reverence and an even greater sense of guilt than usual. She knew G-d had read her mind. The sense of nothing being hidden was part of her faith. And yet she had somehow constructed a small, private trunk that could be firmly locked where she hid all she was ashamed of feeling and imagining. She did this even though she felt G-d was kinder than her teachers, more open than her parents. If someone had to read her thoughts, she would prefer it was He rather than anyone else she could think of. He would realize that it was just dreams that brought her inside the hot, heavy metal of tanks in a green khaki uniform; just dreams that put her in tight jeans inside the campus of the university. Reality was Ima and Aba . And being inside this classroom. And Dvorah’s being married to fat Yaakov Klein. She looked around the classroom.
    Of the thirty-five young women in Dina’s senior class, two were married and eight already engaged. It was only October. By June another ten would also have announced dates for weddings. In this they bore no resemblance to any other group of girls their age in the entire city or country. Except for other branches of Beit Yaakov, and schools run by Hasidic groups like Lubavitch, Belz, or Satmar, there were no other high school classes in the city or country where this was considered normal, or even acceptable.
    When she stopped dreaming and looked at reality, she saw that this too was what she wanted, longed for. To be one of the first to be married. It was prestigious. To come to the graduation ceremony with a married woman’s wig in maternity clothes was like being valedictorian elsewhere. It meant that you came from a fine family, that you were pretty and good and most desirable. It was like winning a beauty pageant or being chosen Miss Universe.
    Dvorah’s words often came back to her as a small, tingling chill that rose up her spine. It had taken Dvorah so long to be chosen! There was no money. There was a taint on the family name.
    The modesty of her outlook, the high ridicule in which vanity was held, the near contempt in which the physical, material world was viewed, kept her from gaining any comfort from her lovely face, her exquisite body. Had she been a girl in jeans and a sweatshirt across the street, the knowledge of being a beautiful, desirable woman would have come to her as a fact, like the inevitable rise of the moon in the starry sky. It would have filled her with subtle female understanding and that deep confidence that makes a beautiful woman carefree and careless and happy.
    She did not know that she was beautiful. So she worried and ached and despaired about who would ever be willing to marry her. She thought of the years passing, of having to go out to work as a teacher of small children and everyone looking at her, as they had begun to look at Dvorah, with that sly, pitying curiosity. Im yirtza Hashem by dir, “G-d willing, it will happen to you”—hated phrase!—would rain down upon her head like little pelting stones every time she went to a wedding or engagement party or circumcision ceremony.
    Yet, marriage! She felt it was so big,