The Pruning

Chapter 1

Chapter 1There was a knock on Ruth Anasco’s office door. Not a timid knock, but a determined one, demanding, just like the woman delivering it.

“Ruti! For the umpteenth time, you need to get ready!”

Nili uttered Ruth’s nickname not with a soft “r” but with a hard, rolled sound akin to gargling with a dry mouth while trying to say “r” at the same time. When properly done, the spit should be dancing, she had once explained to Ruth, creating tiny bubbles at the base of one’s tongue.

The flat grew quiet, save for the intermittent cracking of joints as Nili—Ruth presumed—leaned in and pressed her ear to the door.

Another creak, a sigh, then, “I can hear you tapping away in there!”

“Nanny Nili, checking on me again, are you?” Ruth’s fingers moved deftly over the keyboard of her IBM Wheelwriter. “I always write with the door closed. You know that.”

Without further comment, Nili Aviva Hasson opened the door and strode into the room, and with her, the pleasing aroma of mint and cardamom wafted in from the kitchen. “Are you telling me you’re actually in the proper mind-set to write—on this of all days?” She wiped her hands on a curcumin-stained dish towel and tucked it in the pocket of her apron.

“Especially on this day,” Ruth said. “Writing calms me. Besides, I’m making good progress on Novel Eighty-Three.”

Nili’s eyes widened. “You’ve written eighty-two novels in the four years I’ve been working for you, or?”

Ruth took secret delight in Nili’s standard verbal idiosyncrasy: finishing sentences with “or?” instead of isn’t it? or doesn’t it? or have you?

“It’s the book’s title, silly.” Ruth pulled the sheet from the platen and placed it facedown onto the pile of papers at the edge of the desk.

“Remember now, perfection is the enemy of done.” Across the room, Nili lowered herself onto the worn leather sofa, sinking low amid a plethora of velvety cushions. “Do you ever stop, Ruti?”

“Stop what?”

“Being busy. Doing. Slogging away.”

“One day, maybe.” Ruth removed her reading glasses, switched off the Wheelwriter, and dropped its creased dust cover over the top. “But until that day, I’ve got to be resourceful—think with my chin up, not down. With your salary to pay and our five mouths to feed, what are my options, hmm? Support from Hector certainly isn’t one of them.”

“Oh, that ex-husband of yours,” Nili said, giving a wave of disgust. “Drives me spare just hearing his name, bloody cad. How could you have ever fallen for—”

“I’ll tell you how.” Ruth got to her feet. “The thing about infatuation is that it makes one do things one wouldn’t ordinarily do. Things one regrets once she has come to her senses. In my case, that would be ten years of a tumultuous marriage followed by a slow, acrimonious divorce. And no alimony, of course, let alone child support, in the five years since.”

Nili’s brow knitted in concern. “You never told me this, darling.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Mmm, so you are.” Nili snatched up a newspaper from under the cushion beside her. “Ah, the Jewish Chronicle, our former partner in crime.” Her deep, throaty chuckle echoed her speaking voice.

“It’s the nineties,” Ruth said, “not the Dark Ages. I see no crime in finding a childminder through an advert.”

“And thank heavens for that. But I’m not talking about me.” She peered over the top of the paper with a mischievous wink, and then straightened it with a whack of her hand. “Well, I’ll be darned . . .”

“What is it?”

“Ruth Anasco, once intrepid seeker of the chemistry-love-solid finances trifecta wishes to announce that she has officially suspended her search for the perfect mate, effective immediately.”

“Quite right.”

“All that running about the globe. And for what?”

“Lemons.” Ruth positioned her fur-brimmed hat carefully over her chignon. “That’s what.”

Nili leaned back, setting the paper aside. “Exactly.”

It seemed almost silly to Ruth now, given the disaster of her marriage to Hector, that she’d gone actively searching for a man in the first place. Blame it on loneliness, her ever-tenuous financial situation, or that her dear children were lacking a father, Ruth had entertained high hopes the JC personal ads would deliver to her the romantic companionship and stability she craved. Unfortunately, after eight or nine rounds and no real contenders—and more than a few damp squibs—she’d recognized the futility of the situation and called the whole thing off.

“Thank goodness you came to your senses, Ruti.”

“I don’t know,” Ruth said, wincing at a disconcerting thought. “Maybe it wasn’t them at all. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

“Rest assured, there is, darling—and plenty. For starters, for your thirty-four years, you live too little, eat too little, and work too hard. Working yourself into an early grave, if you ask me.”

Ruth crossed the room, careful to step over the phone cord running between the wall and her desk. She lifted her coat from the arm of the sofa and slipped into it, pulling the collar up around her neck. “That’s what single parents do. Run the rat race, get caught in the daily grind.”

“In which you are now royally stuck.”

“All the better I called off the man search, then. I’m spread too thin as it is. Besides, I think we can both agree there are more pressing matters afoot.” A glance at her watch made her stomach turn. “Speaking of which . . .”

“You seem a little nervous, Ruti,” Nili said, rising from the sofa. “Are you nervous?”

Ruth swiped her handbag from the desk. “Nathan Kalman isn’t exactly the warmest of rabbis, now, is he?”

“On that we can agree. But surely by now he has seen what a genuine Jewish soul you have—how observant you are in your faith.”

My faith. Ruth felt a stab of unease. “Well, let’s hope my genuine soul is enough to convince the rabbi of my sincerity. Keep your fingers crossed for me, will you, Nili?”

“Be’seder. Goes without saying.”

“How do I look?” Ruth brought a tentative hand to her head. “Is the hat too much?”

“Hat?” Nili said with a wink. “Shtreimel! Makes you look like a Hasid. Perfect, I’d say, for such an occasion.”

“Not funny.”

With a determined push, Nili guided her into the hallway.

When they reached the front door, Ruth turned to face her nanny and best friend. “I’m not sure if I’m excited or scared.”

“I’d suspect a bit of both.” Like a pecking bird, Nili right-left kissed Ruth’s cheeks. “Enough. Maspik. Go with God, but go. And come back with only good news. Lehitraot.”

“Lehitraot.”

Ruth opened the door and stepped out into another gray March morning in London, her heart carrying equal measures of hope, fear, and anticipation.

~~~

Ruth studied Rabbi Kalman—dressed in the traditional black, lips pressed thin—as he approached the antechamber. Contrary to custom, he wore his beard short. Stylish in its way, Ruth supposed, but the man projected a decidedly aged appearance, despite being no older than Ruth herself.

“Ms. Anasco, please come in.” He gestured with his head for her to step inside his office, while crossing his arms conspicuously behind his back. The Orthodox observed strict rules. Physical contact between genders was reserved exclusively for husband and wife. A handshake, or even the slightest touch, was forbidden. His office door, as a matter of policy, would remain open for the duration of their meeting.

He offered Ruth a chair and took a seat behind his desk. “How’s the family?” he asked in his thin falsetto. “Good, I hope? Keeping warm this long winter?”

In all the years she’d known him, Ruth had never gotten used to Rabbi Kalman’s voice—the result of a childhood tonsillectomy gone wrong, so she had heard. Inwardly, she was giggling like a schoolgirl, almost embarrassed for him. On the outside, however, she remained the picture of poise and decorum.

“Yes, we’re all quite well, baruch Ha’shem. Thank you for asking.”

“Good, baruch Ha’shem.”

Ruth eyed the rabbi’s desk, the surface of which was difficult to locate beneath a multitude of open books, binders, and loose papers. The shelves behind him were similarly crammed with reading material, half the lot piled haphazardly in front or on top of the better-organized sections. The untidiness of it all struck Ruth as odd, and comforting—a welcome contradiction to the rabbi’s rigid demeanor.

“Your call suggested this is a matter of some importance,” he said.

“Uh, yes, I suppose it is.”

For the twenty-plus years Ruth had been living as a Jew, not once had she felt it wasn’t perfectly within her rights to do so. Now, suddenly, at this critical juncture, she felt undeserving, like an imposter. It was a disquieting feeling, to say the least. She took in a long breath to slow her racing heart, while wondering how best to express humility, confidence, and sincerity all at once.

“Ms. Anas—”

“I wish to convert,” she blurted. “Officially.”

Rabbi Kalman stared at her. “You wish to . . .”

“Convert. It’s a surprise, I know,” she added quickly.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “You’ve been a member of our congregation for what—five years?” He leaned forward, peering over his rectangular wire rims. “You’re not Jewish?”

“No, I am.” Ruth’s heart was in full sprint. “Well, I suppose not to some.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It’s complicated.”

“How is it complicated, Ms. Anasco?” Rabbi Kalman drew his hands off the desk and into his lap.

Ruth couldn’t help but regard the gesture as pointed, a silent retreat.

“I never knew my biological mother—or father.” The dreaded words came out in haste, her breaths coming in soft, rapid gasps. “I was born in Antwerp, in a convent. A few months after that, I was sent to an orphanage and adopted by a Jewish couple by the name of Weisfogel—good people.” She paused, clearing her throat. “Sadly, they were killed in an auto accident when I was five.”

“I see.” Rabbi Kalman bowed his head slightly. “And after?”

“I was sent back to the orphanage, where I was later adopted again—this time by a British couple.”

“These people weren’t Jewish, I take it.”

Ruth shook her head. “No.” She decided to leave out the part about Dad and Mum Wilcox being atheists—irrelevant in any case, but especially given that she was no longer in contact with them and hadn’t been for over two decades.

“So, when did you decide to . . .”

“Convert?”

“I’m not certain that’s the appropriate word,” he said. “Marriage, was it?”

A spark of anger ignited in Ruth’s gut. He was testing her, presuming her conversion could be traced back to a romantic relationship. In other words, not an honest conversion, but one made as a starry-eyed gesture, or simple convention and nothing more.

“Before that, actually.” Ruth straightened in the chair, smoothing her gray wool skirt. “It started in my teens, while studying twentieth-century history. However banal it may sound, I was profoundly affected while learning about the events surrounding the final solution to the Jewish question. In fact”—Ruth met the Rabbi’s gaze—“it wasn’t merely that I was affected by these events, so much as I felt I identified with them in some way.”

The rabbi said nothing, leaving Ruth to worry that he might have regarded such an explanation as pandering.

After a moment’s contemplation, she opted to switch the tracks. “Rabbi,” she said, “does Kabbalah not offer the explanation for those such as myself, for us neshamot to’ot, lost souls, Jews born into non-Jewish bodies?”

“You’re referring to Abraham and Sarah’s spiritual children, I take it?”

“Yes, that each time the couple were together a child was born, even if no physical conception and birth, no corporeal form, occurred at the time. We are gilgulim—reincarnated Jewish souls from previous generations who were lost to Judaism and who are now returning to our original people. This feeling I have. My deep connection to Judaism. Could it not be Abraham and Sarah calling me home?”

Too much, Ruti? Not enough?

The rabbi’s blank expression left little to go on. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about your history, Ms. Anasco. Specifically, how it is that you came to practice Judaism.”

“Of course,” she said. “While at boarding school in Spain, I became close with the daughter of a prominent Jewish family. They invited me into their home, treated me like one of their own.” Ruth warmed to think of it. “And for the first time in a very long time, I felt at home, like I was finally where I belonged.”

“You didn’t feel you belonged with your parents?”

Ruth shook her head. “Their relationship with me was”—she searched her mind for the right word—“remote.”

In many ways, Walter and Ada Wilcox had given Ruth a first-class life: lessons in fencing, golf, yachting, and ballet. An international education at the most elite schools. But, in the absence of any real love, or even warmth, Ruth had been pressured to excel at all times, and in all manner, and never, seemingly, for her own benefit, but for that of her parents’ continued status as the upscale snobs they were. That she was able to count the number of times her parents had hugged her said something.

Rabbi Kalman’s expression remained unchanged, which wasn’t a surprise. For the most part, she’d grown accustomed to the man’s taciturn manner. But in this instance, with so much on the line, she found it unsettling.

“This Jewish family,” he said. “They encouraged you to adopt their faith?”

Her mind flashed on the memory of her first Shabbat with the Ferrereses, her hand clasped to Rachel’s—pronounced as a throaty Ra-KHEL—as her father, Don Alonso, said the blessing. The smell of Doña Rosa’s lemon saffron chicken matzo soup. “To think of it,” Ruth said, “they never did. I suppose like most Jews, they didn’t believe in proselytizing. They simply invited me into their lives, accepted me for who I was. Showed me a way that made sense. The rest, my conversion, if I may call it that, was entirely my doing.”

“And you were how old when this occurred?” the rabbi asked.

“Sixteen.”

“And your parents—what was their reaction?”

“They disowned me.”

The tiniest hint of some stifled feeling flickered in the rabbi’s eyes. Respect? Admiration? Or was it merely surprise?

“This didn’t give you pause?” he asked.

“It did,” Ruth replied. “But I had my faith.”

“Yes, of course.” Rabbi Kalman gave a single nod. “Just one more question, Ms. Anasco.”

“Yes?”

“Why now?”

“Why now?”

“After all this time, why only now do you come forward, seeking conversion? What mitigating reason has only just occurred to you?”

If Nathan Kalman was looking to touch a nerve, he’d succeeded.

Ruth fought back a sudden swell of emotion as the faces of her children rose in her mind. “I’ll give you three reasons, Rabbi: Avri, Hadassah, and Orly.”

~~~

A blast of warm air hit Ruth’s face as she pulled open the heavy, wood-framed door and stepped inside the Brolley House pub near St. John’s Wood Station. At five after three—the lull between the lunch hour and the after-work crowd—the place was mostly deserted, save for a bored-looking middle-aged businessman nursing a pint at the counter and a man and woman, thirtyish, munching fish and chips in one of the booths along the opposite wall.

Ruth strode past the couple, nodding politely and noting their American accents, as she made her way to her usual booth in the back, near the public telephone. She flung her coat onto the nearest seat, along with her hat—it kept her head warm but gave her a headache—and slid onto the matching gold upholstered bench on the other side of the table.

After leaving shul, Ruth had roamed the neighborhood for a time, going over and over her conversation with Rabbi Kalman. He never did give a clear indication of his feelings about her story, offering only that converting was a serious, often laborious process, and one ought to give it a great deal of thought before embarking on such a path.

Ruth had been stunned—not to mention, insulted. She had lived her entire adult life as a practicing Jew. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was she who had insulted him in some way. As she’d stood to leave, Rabbi Kalman told her only that he would contact the London Beth Din and request a formal meeting for her to make her case.

“It could be as long as a few weeks,” he’d warned. “Possibly a month.”

Ruth sighed and looked toward the counter, catching the eye of the twentysomething barkeep, whose name she’d forgotten.

He strolled over. “Good afternoon, Rhonda. No, wait—Ruth, was it?”

“That’s right.”

“Sauvignon blanc, right?”

Ruth nodded. She was in no mood for talk, small or big.

But the kid was like a puppy—always wanting to play, if only for a while. “By my count,” he said, “this is the third time you’ve been in here.”

“Actually . . .” She tilted her head. “What was your name again?”

He flashed an arrogant little smile. “Nigel.”

“Right. Actually, Nigel, I’ve been here at least five times.”

“Ours becoming a home away from home, is it?”

“Of sorts,” she said. It was true the place had become somewhat of a refuge, from motherhood, work-related woes, and, most recently, a succession of failed romantic entanglements.

Nigel leaned against the booth. “May I ask what it is you do?”

Egad, the puppy is asking the mother of all questions. Ruth didn’t answer right away, just looked at him, her mind gone temporarily blank. “I’m . . . a researcher,” she finally said. “Well, more of a searcher. Yes, there. I search.”

“I do a bit of that myself,” Nigel replied. “What do you search for, then?”

“I search to find.” Ruth spoke the words softly, almost tenderly, as though having an intimate moment—with herself. “I seek what is missing. For what got lost. I seek attachment to what is real and authentic. I seek for what matters. For what should be there, but isn’t.” She looked up at him. “For what got taken away.”

Nigel chuckled nervously. “That’s not a business, it’s a philosophy—or some kind of personal quest.”

She supposed it would have been more kind, certainly less uncomfortable, had she given him a short, straightforward answer. “Anyway, Nigel,” she said. “How about that drink. Do you mind?”

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” He hurried away, returned with her wine, and then busied himself at the bar, occasionally throwing a bemused glance her way.

After a few sips, Ruth rummaged through her purse for some change. She slid out of the booth and stepped around to the pay phone, dialing the number for home.

After three trills, Nili picked up.

“Hello,” Ruth said.

“Ah, Ruti!”

Ruth pulled the receiver slightly away from her ear. Nili was a screamer. “How is everyone?”

“Fine,” Nili replied. “Ha’kol be’seder.”

“Mummy-ima!” Ruth’s youngest, four-year-old Orly, cut in. “We found Moishele!”

“Oh?” Ruth said. “Lost, was he?”

“Only slightly,” her daughter replied with a giggle.

“Naughty little hamster gave us a bit of a scare,” Nili explained. “But we found him in the hamper, right as rain.”

“And we bakeded biscuits!” Orly said again, no doubt yanking the phone from Nili’s ear.

“Baked, O-O,” Nili offered gently. “Now, run along and let me talk to Mummy.”

“No accidents or missed school buses today?” Ruth asked. “No surprises?”

“Well, if you must know . . .”

“Oh dear. What?”

“Your shnoyms made me a Play-Doh badge,” Nili said. “It’s sort of a promotion. I am henceforth to be known as Nili Poppins.” She roared with laughter. “The vote was unanimous, I’ll have you know.”

“I have no doubt.” Ruth was all giggles. “And that’s an impressive career move for a former member of the Israel Defense Forces.”

“I’ll say,” Nili replied. “Why would I want to be a sgan aluf when I can be a pet-rodent investigator?” There was a weighty pause on the other end of the line. “Sure made something of myself, or?”

Ruth knew all too well what had triggered the sudden mood swing. Even so, she continued playing along. “Let’s not forget your talents as a couscous wizard, or your scrumptious shakshouka.”

“By all means, let’s not forget about that.” Nili moaned. “As long as I can crack eggs into tomato sauce and rinse semolina granules, I should count my blessings.” Another moan and a sharp inhale. “The pain is bad today.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ruth said. “Will you be okay until I get home?”

“It’s funny,” Nili said, ignoring the question, “how we see ourselves living a certain life. I always thought that by forty-seven, I’d be a wife, a mother, maybe working with the diplomatic corps. Instead I’m none of the above, bereft of both my career and my ambitions, but with a whole lot of MS.”

Ruth could practically hear Nili grimacing. The smaller the sigh, she’d learned, the greater the discomfort. Ruth always felt helpless in these moments, and in this particular moment, she felt small. Her problem, by comparison, seemed insignificant.

Still, it nagged at her.

“I’m realizing,” Nili continued, “that often, when things in my life have changed—when life as I knew it stopped—the change was unexpected, abrupt. No warning, no dress rehearsal. And in this case, irreversible.” She paused, clearing her throat. “But I digress. How is my Ruti? How did it go?”

“Hard to say.” Ruth reached over the back of the bench and lifted her glass from the glossy dark wood table.

“I take it Rabbi Kalman was his usual self, then?”

“Mmm,” Ruth replied, taking a sip.

“Ah, Ruti,” Nili said, “don’t take it to heart. Al tidagi. He’s just doing what rabbis do. You could have just as easily continued the charade, but you made a decision to come forward and open your heart, with the intention of authenticating your place within the faith. The work you’ve done—the work you do, rather—surely the rabbi sees this. Somewhere under that frigid veneer he must know how committed you are, especially where your children are concerned.”

The children. They had become her lifelines. Then again, hadn’t they been for the better part of a decade? Rabbi Kalman’s indifferent response notwithstanding, Ruth felt a sudden, however fleeting, twinge of optimism. Surely the Beth Din would honor her commitment to raising her children in the faith.

Wouldn’t they?

“Ruti?” Nili said. “You still there, darling?”

“I’m still here.” She downed the last of her wine. “Still standing, as they say.”