The Café: Is apology on the menu?
The café is empty, dark except by the sun-filled bay window where I am sitting. I close my eyes, absorbing the warm rays on my face as I inhale slowly, air whistling through my nose, trying to be calm.
But I’m not. “Pfuhh!” I exhale and look at my watch. Graduation isn’t over yet. I imagine he’s wearing a black “priest’s” robe embellished with a five-inch-wide woven tippet. I imagine he’s raising both hands above his shoulders, fingers extended like a “W,” the symbol for the Almighty. I imagine he’s blessing the new rabbis, charging them to serve God and the Jewish people in truth.
The waitress asks if I want anything.
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I want an explanation. Why did he tell me– an innocent 16-year-old, that he loved me, that our love was holy? Instead, I say,
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“Coffee, please.”
She asks if I’d like milk.
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I’d like redemption. I’d like him to excise the moral chaos that polluted my soul, turning my young womanhood into a wasteland.
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“No, thank you.”
“Can I get you something else?”
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An apology. I am hoping he will tell me that he loved me but was selfish and irresponsible. I am hoping he will explain what spiritual boundaries he crossed and how he will make up for what he stole from me. I am hoping he will say he is profoundly sorry.
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“Not right now, thanks.”
“OK. Let me know if you want anything.”
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I want to forgive him. I do not want to bring a case against him.
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Through the window I see giddy college kids, backpacks slung over their shoulders, laughing and flirting like blossoming wildflowers. In their shadow, I see a man with rounded shoulders and frumpled pants dragging his scuffed black shoes on the pavement like they are filled with weights. He crosses the street, aiming for the bay window. It’s him. He’s here. My stomach clenches.
He enters the restaurant, head slick with perspiration. He walks straight to my table and sits far from me, opposite the window. He glares at me.
He asks the hostess for ice water. He says nothing to me.
Seeing how sweaty he is, she pours the ice water into a glass and leaves the pitcher on the table. He guzzles the entire glass of water with his eyes closed. He says nothing.
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His silence is unnerving. I need to break the silence.
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“How was the graduation?”
“Not the best class.” Then he says nothing.
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Is this some kind of power game? I don’t want to play. I want to get to the point of this rendezvous.
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“What did you learn from your year of study?”
He gazes at his hands, tightly clasped on the table, and exhales slowly. “I broke one of the Ten Commandments.”
He looks up. A nubile female student bounces by the window in a strappy camisole. His eyes follow her as he says, “I committed adultery.”
When she’s out of view, his eyes drill into me, “It was a terrible thing to do…to my wife.”
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Angry retorts ricochet inside my head: A rabbi for 30 years and you just learned adultery is one of the Ten Commandments — are you kidding me? Are you implying I did this to your wife? Why are you talking to me about your WIFE? You were supposed to learn about what you did to ME, to apologize to ME, to make amends to ME!
Instead of blurting them out, I say,
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“Adultery. Really?” adding, “And what about me?”
“Oh, that wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have.” Then he says nothing.
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But I hear him say, “I never loved you, never cared about you. I always only loved my wife.”
I feel like he’s ripped open my chest and slashed my heart. I can barely breathe.
Now I am resolute.
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“What would you do if a rabbi did to your 16-year-old daughter what you did to me when I was 16?”
His face reddens. He blows up: “I would tear him limb from limb. Then I would bring him up on charges to the rabbinical association.”
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The hurt that seized my chest a moment ago is now pounding rage. Like a fiercely protective parent, I want to leap out of my chair and defend my younger self, pulverize this man who defiled me, as Dinah’s brothers avenged her rape. Forget about forgiveness!
I am about to explode, but restrain myself.
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“I’m just as precious, just as valuable as your daughter. Shouldn’t I do the same thing?”
Little bubbles of sweat erupt on his head and trickle down his temples.
“No, don’t. Please don’t,” he begs.
I ask again, demanding, “Why shouldn’t I file charges?”
“Because I’m important,” he roars, throwing back his shoulders and puffing out his chest, “I still have things to do!”
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More important than I am? We are all made “b’Tselem Elohim,” in the image of God. Who are you to denigrate me? You achieved your position of importance by manipulating and sexually abusing me and using my parents to climb up your great career ladder.
Your “things to do” include defrauding the Jewish community, misguiding future rabbis, taking advantage of teenage congregants.
I have important things to do in my life, too, for me, for my family, for the world. Honest things. Some that I might even be able to achieve if I could overcome what this relationship did to me. I know I missed out on getting married while I was young enough to have a family because of you. Maybe I can have a truthful, loving relationship now. Maybe there are important things I will be able to do for the Jewish community or the world if I don’t have to carry the secret of your transgression, my shame.
Waitress — I want something else. I want him to be accountable. I want justice!
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I stare at him, my face frozen like the ice that fills the pitcher.
He jumps up from his chair. “Please wait! Give me more time!”
The ice in the pitcher cracks. My eyes narrow, boring into him. From my suddenly-fractured chrysalis, from my new-found self— all ties to his love severed, from my molten fury, I speak: “I see through you like I see through your empty glass. You’re a fraud. You’ve had 30 years to right the wrong you did to me and my family, to make amends. You don’t need more time. You need to deal with this – now! You need to face up to me – now!”
Frantic, he flies out of the restaurant, arms flailing, frumpled pants and scuffed black shoes propelled by fear.
*Kayla Tzedek is the pseudonym used by a member of Lilith’s Here We Are cohort.
