The Devil in Jerusalem by Naomi Ragen Read Free Book Online Page A

could do no wrong. Heiress to a flourishing family-run business, Elizabeth Auerbach lived in a stunning mansion in the most expensive area in the city. All her life she had been coddled and pampered by a doting husband and handsome, clever children. The blessings of her charmed life had made her warm and loving and generous, and there was no one in the world she loved more than her only granddaughter, Daniella. Ever since Daniella was a baby, there had been this special bond between them. Perhaps because the girl was the opposite of her mother, Claire, whose own reaction to her good fortune was to guard it jealously, becoming shrewd, demanding, and greedy.
    â€œDon’t let your parents discourage you, Daniella. Not all marriages turn out badly.”
    â€œI won’t, Granny,” she said, hugging her, buoyed by her warmth and optimism.
    â€œDaniella, my baby. A bride! I can’t believe it. And she’s going to make me a great-grandmother, of sabras, no less, dear little brown babies born in Israel! Are they going to wear those side curls and the long dresses? Are you going to wear a wig?”
    â€œI don’t know, Granny. Maybe.”
    â€œJust don’t get too fanatic. Promise me?”
    â€œNever!”
    The truth was, she wasn’t sure of anything. All she had was the broad outlines of a life imagined in uncomplicated, youthful passion, a life of total, uncompromising commitment to ideals. Some of her ideals were religious—a love for spiritual purity, for sanctity, for truth and goodness—and some were half-formed visions drawn from books, movies, Zionist youth groups, and summer camp. But it was all so abstract. She had no idea what that kind of life would actually look like, or where it would take her, when put into practice.
    Only one thing filled her with absolute certainty: she wanted to be a mother. Her youthful passion to help others, to save lives, she now poured into her desire physically to create and nurture life. That was now her highest ideal, the purest way she could imagine to fulfill both her destiny as well as her womanliness: to be the person whom God had intended her to be. Her entire education at the hands of kind, learned rabbis and rebbetzins had reinforced that longing, and her relationship with Shlomie cemented it as the cornerstone of their lives together. Motherhood was the ideal of Jewish womanhood, Shlomie often said. After having failed at her studies, she allowed herself to agree.
    Although in her younger years she had felt just the opposite, now when she looked at photos of haredi women and their numerous children—all beautifully dressed for the Sabbath and the holidays, the mother herself in her finely coiffed wig wearing designer dresses, calm and smiling—she saw the face of God.
    She would be nothing like her own mother, she convinced herself. Her kids would have fun. There would always be time to read stories, and comb dolls’ hair, and play catch. She didn’t want to be admired for her medical degree, beautiful house, jewels, clothes, accomplished husband, she told herself. She wanted to be called a great mom.
    That’s why it didn’t matter about college and birth control, she told herself. She would have no profession other than mothering, no outside interests that would interfere with taking care of her children, every one a precious, multifaceted gem that she would fashion and polish, bringing out their full potential for godliness.
    She fingered the material of her wedding gown. It was fancier than she’d wanted. She would have been happy getting married the way they did on a kibbutz: in a white cotton dress with a garland of fresh flowers around her head, followed by a ride on a hay wagon and a picnic. Instead, it was going to be black tie in some ostentatious hotel with obscenely expensive kosher catering. Her mother and even her understanding granny had insisted. And everyone would have to be dressed just so .