AN: This is a fun play on the hatward pics from Vanity Fair. Please keep in mind that I have exaggerated the situations and what occurs is not representative of Hasidic practice. I have tried as best as I can to research. I do not own Twilight. Huge thanks to LisaMichelle, Arfalcon, and Hanukah Hairy-Arms for pre-reading and beta-ing.
The Forbidden Touch
I walk down the steps to the subway like I do every day. She's there. She's always there. I am not supposed to notice her; it's not pious, but I do. She's Jewish too; I've seen the Star of David necklace around her neck. She plays with it while we wait for the train, but she's not like me. She's secular.
I steal glances out of the corner of my eye every day. We always stand in the same place – away from everyone else and she stands several feet away from us. I try not to make my ogling too obvious and my cousin Emmett is too oblivious to notice. He's exhausted. Since he and his wife Rosalie married, she has blessed him with two little boys. His youngest cries all night.
"How is the matchmaking coming, cuz," he jokes. It is a joke. My parents have tried to set me up with several of the young women in our community, but they all seem silly to me, many are not even pious enough. Like Jessica Stanley, who is beautiful, but we had gone to summer camp together and she was known to be loose with boys – even kissing them.
My reluctance to marry has sparked concern. I'm 23 years old; I should have been married years ago. My father is the leader of our community. It's starting to make people question him, this apparent inability to marry me off. For a while, I used my education, the time I spent in Israel and my training in Antwerp as excuses. I could have found women in Israel, but I never felt a connection to any of them. I wasn't expecting to fall in love, but I did want to feel something for one of them. I was, and I wasn't the only one, starting to think that there was something wrong with me.
The train arrives and it's crowded. She ends up next to me and I try hard not to touch her, even inadvertently. My fingers lightly brush hers as we both hold onto the pole; she's too short to hold onto the overhead railing. Her skin is as soft as it looks and I want to touch her again. She doesn't look up though and my eyes fall to the ground.
She gets off at our stop – Rockefeller Center - but we head for the left exit and she turns to the right. I try not to follow her with my eyes.
Emmett hits me lightly across the chest and shakes his head disapprovingly at me. We walk a few blocks until we come to our store in the Diamond District. It's been in our family for years and both Emmett and I knew we would be running it one day. The day wore on and we headed back to our community in Brooklyn. Somedays she would be on the same train as us but never the same car. Other times, I didn't see her.
Each day is like this. She's one of those hipsters who have been fleeing Manhattan for Brooklyn. She wears tight pants that are almost like tights but no skirt. When the weather turns warmer, she wears skirts that are too short but no tights. Some days she gets a seat and I get to steal a glance of her bare legs, but I feel guilty for betraying my beliefs and even looking. She's like a magnet pulling me in. I wonder what she's like. She seems similar to the rest of the hipsters on the train – completely consumed by whatever they're listening to with those tiny white headphones. To her I must be another religious Jew: married with a minivan full of children.
It seems like everyone can find their match but me. I vowed to try to curtail my habit of looking at her and it worked for a while, until that dreadful morning. Emmett was sick. He had called the night before to tell me he wouldn't be in. I woke up early and did more Torah study and walked to the subway early, knowing I would miss her. I walked down the steps to the station and swiped my card. The platform was almost empty; I must have just missed a train. It was quiet eerily quiet.
The silence was broken by a scream. I turned to see a small body slip down the stairs. I looked around to see if anyone else had come to the person's aid, but no one was around. I swiftly walked through the gate and knelt down next to the body. She was moaning in pain, but her eyes were closed. I knew that face; it was her.
I'm Shomer Negiah, which means I do not have any physical contact with any member of the opposite sex over the age of 11. It is because women could be menstruating and therefore unclean. It's also to reduce sexual thought, which is the most basic reason for the rule. I hesitate, hating myself for it, but there is no one else around and she appears hurt. I know I am allowed to help her in this situation since the sanctity of human life is the most important of all laws.
I bend down and slowly move my hand to her shoulder.
"Miss, are you okay?" I ask, my voice shaking in uncertainty. "Miss," I call out again. She's so beautiful and I curse myself for leaving my cell phone at the store last night.
Her eyes flutter open, until two deep brown orbs stare back at me. "Are you okay?" I ask again, hoping and dreading at the same time that she will say yes. "I heard you scream and saw you fall. Were you attacked?" My hand hasn't moved from her shoulder.
She slowly lifts her head and tries to sit up. My traitorous hands move to support her back; I rationalize that she could have a concussion or something worse and therefore I am still operating within the right of Pikuach Nefesh, the preservation of human life reigning over any other religious law. Her life is more important and right now I am not sure the extent of her injuries.
"I don't have health insurance, please don't take me to the hospital," she cries.
I stare at her, confused at what to do.
"Make sure I get home, I will be fine," she whispers.
I nod my head and help her up, but she isn't steady on her feet. I lift her up and carry her out of the subway. Any fear I have of being seen holding her, let alone touching a woman, is eclipsed by my desire to get her to her apartment. She shivers in fear and shock, and I worry she is ill.
"Where do you live," I growl. I am hoping it is close by to reduce the chance of running into the judgmental eyes that are always watching.
"Just… just around the corner," she murmurs into my neck. Her breath is sweet against my skin and I am tingling all over. Her head rests against my shoulder lightly grazing my payos. "Who are you? You're like Superman, but Super Jew..." She covers her mouth, afraid that she has offended me.
"What if I'm not a superhero? What if I'm the bad guy?" I reply, trying to be funny, but she stares at me blankly and doesn't respond. Apparently my attempt at secular humor is a lost cause.
We turn the corner. "That brick building. My keys are in my pocket."
I watch her, waiting for her to reach to get them but her eyes are closed. This isn't good.
"Miss…" I shake her a little. I know I have to keep her awake. "Miss… I am going to set you down now. Can you hand me your keys?"
I set her down but she is unsteady on her feet. I reach out and grab her as she wobbles back and forth, struggling to find her keys. She reaches into the front pocket of her bag and pulls them out. They hit the floor with a loud clang and I have a split second to react. I reach out and grab her as she goes limps in my arms.
I set her down on the ground for a brief moment as I open the door to her building with the largest key on the chain, before scooping her back up.
"You need to wake up… Miss…" I didn't even know her name. She looked beautiful in my arms, so small, so delicate. Her eyes flutter open. "Can you even tell me your name?" I ask.
"Bella," she says in a hoarse whisper.
"Bella," I try the name out and saying it brings warmth to chest. "What is your apartment number?"
"1C. It's downstairs."
I look around and find the staircase leading to the lower level. I carry her down the steps, she is in no condition to walk. I fumble around trying to hold her and open the door. I finally fling it open. Her apartment is a small windowless studio. This beautiful woman I have been admiring lives here? It doesn't seem fitting. I set her down on the futon that is also serving as a bed.
"Is there someone I can call to stay with you?"
She shakes her head and crumbles into a worn blanket that is sitting on the futon. This must be her bed. I stand.
"I don't even know your name," she mumbles.
I can't believe how rude I'm being. I have admired her from afar for so long, but yet she doesn't even know my name. "Edward. Edward Cullinsky," I say. I look around for somewhere to sit, but the futon seems to be it. She doesn't even have a desk chair or a kitchen table. "So, do you have any friends or family nearby? You can't be all alone." I sit on the end of the futon as far away from her as possible.
"Is it so hard to believe that in this city of millions I don't have anyone? My mom is in Florida and my dad is on the west coast. I guess for you it would be hard to believe that I'm all alone. You must have a wife and children, right? You probably should get home to them."
"No. No, No." I shake my head and look over at her. She looks confused. "I'm not married yet. How can you not have any friends? I see your type all around the neighborhood hanging out with friends going to bars and nightlife."
"I work as a freelance writer. It doesn't afford a lot of opportunities to forge deep and meaningful friendships at work." She yawns. It's over exaggerated. "I'm so sleepy," she says, stating the obvious.
"No! So, you're Jewish?" I try to keep her talking.
"How'd you know?" she asks, trying hard to keep her eyes open. I don't say anything, but instead eye the Jewish star necklace hanging from her neck. She follows my eyes and looks down. "Oh. Most people don't think of me as Jewish. I had a nose job when I was in college to fix a broken nose and my great-great-grandfather shortened our last name from Swanovitz to Swan when he immigrated."
I try to think of something to say to her. I can't exactly discuss my Talmudic studies with her or the diamond business. I decide to have her continue to talk about herself. "If you're freelancing how come you get off at Rockefeller Center every day?" Oy, I sound like a stalker. "I've noticed you before – I get off at the same stop to go to my store in the diamond district," I explain.
"I've been working at NBC for a few months now; they keep renewing my contract. Is that why you don't have a beard?"
"Yes, it is dangerous when I cut diamonds, so I must shave." I continue to tell her about my travels and my time spent in Tel Aviv and Antwerp learning the trade.
"Is it true that the you have sex through a sheet?" She immediately turns a beautiful shade of pink as the words leave her mouth and she realizes she has said those words out loud.
"Well, I haven't ever had… but no, that is one of those bubbe meises. It's completely false, at least to my knowledge." I smile a little and she smiles back and we sit in silence for what seems like eternity. I ask her about her life.
She tells me about her education and her family. She offers me fruit; I eat fruit while she eats leftover pizza and by nightfall I feel like I know so much about her. She never falls asleep and I'm almost positive her concussion shouldn't pose much or a health risk.
"I should go," I say, knowing that my family will be looking for me.
"Edward, I hope you say hi to me tomorrow when you see me."
"Bella, we shouldn't be friends." She looks like she's going to cry. Apparently, I'm the first person to be kind to her since she moved here. "We come from different worlds. I didn't say we couldn't be friends. I just said we shouldn't," I want to kiss her and wipe the tears from her face, but instead I walk to the door.
"What does that even mean?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say as I open the door and leave. As I walk down the street, returning to my parents' house, my heart aches for the lonely girl.
The rest of the week I try not to make eye contact with her when we see one another. When our eyes do meet, I nod and give her a slight smile, I try to keep my hat down to shield my face.
On Friday night for Shabbos I attend the Chabad House. The Chabad House is a way for us to reach out to the surrounding Jewish community. I daven or say my prayers for the Sabbath and then seek out my father, the Rebbe. He's talking to a woman with brown hair.
"Well, since you're already Jewish, becoming Hasidic means adapting our laws and customs. It is much more strict than the secular life you lead. Come and experience Shabbos, immerse yourself in our culture here at Chabad and if it is bashert then it will be. Oh, have you met, Edward?"
She turns around – it's her. She's extended her hand out of habit. I glance at my father and he nods his head. While we normally avoid contact with the opposite sex, often and especially at Chabad, where we are trying to reach out to the community, we do allow handshakes.
I slowly extend my hand and touch her soft skin. Just the act of contact ignites a fire from within, the pure reason we abstain from such contact. She feels it too as we both pull our hands away quickly.
"Oh, sorry," she apologizes.
My father looks back and forth at our faces and strokes his long graying beard. "Bella, this is my son, Edward. Edward, this is Isabella Swan. She's interested in learning more about Chabad and furthering her commitment to Judaism."
"Nice to meet you, Bella," I smile, shyly.
"Bella, my wife and I host dinner each Friday. We'd be honored if you joined us."
He walks away leaving Bella and I standing there, looking at one another. I finally find the words to speak first. "What are you doing here?"
"Your kindness after what happened shook me to my core. I realized that I didn't have anyone I could rely on. I was like Blanche DuBois, you know, relying on 'the kindness of strangers'?"
I stare at her blankly. Who was Blanche Dubois?
"A Streetcar Named Desire? It's a movie," she explains.
"Oh, well, we don't really watch a lot of secular media or entertainment."
She nods her head in understanding, but she does so a bit reluctantly.
That evening started out the insertion of Bella into my life. I slowly saw changes in her. One day she's wearing jeans and the next she's wearing a long skirt covering her legs. She covers her arms. She's now a permanent fixture at my parents' house. My mom has taken her under wing to teach her our customs.
It's not an easy road to become part of our community. The hot summer months, when she is used to wearing less than modest clothing, are hard. Her parents don't support her decision and she slowly reduces her contact to them from weekly phone calls to monthly check-ins. Their lack of support saddens her, but she's become friendly with the other women in our community, especially my mother, who treats her like a daughter.
Almost a year later…
"Edward," my father calls from his study. I head upstairs and stand in the doorway. "Bella, has become an integral member of our community. She's smart, articulate and very beautiful. Your mother and I have been thinking of introducing her to the matchmaker." He stops and watches me.
In the past year that Bella has chosen to lead a more pious life, my parents have watched us interact. We haven't touched at all, not since the handshake, but I think about it often. Our eyes often meet from across the dinner table. I could stare into her pensive brown eyes for hours. With my parents so involved in Bella's conversion and her integration into our family, the pressure for me to marry subsided a lot. Many in the community whisper, some louder than others, about the Rebbe's son marrying an outsider. My parents shake their head at such talk.
My face must gives away my emotion. It's times like this I desire to grow a beard, despite the potential hazard it poses in my work. It would help to camouflage my feelings.
"I see. You like Bella, nu?" my father asks. I nod my head. "Then it is done."
"You don't look down upon her because she's a Baal Teshuvah?"
"It is easy to be born into our world, Edward, but she's chosen to be part of this world. She should be commended for her decision and her dedication. She's a woman of strength, a woman of valor. Go to her, my son. Talk with her. See what her heart desires."
Bella is already downstairs, helping my mother prepare dinner. "May I speak with you for a moment?" I ask, looking at Bella.
She turns around before mouthing, "Me?"
I nod and smile. "Ma, we'll be in the living room." The kitchen opens up to this room, so we won't be alone.
I follow Bella as she walks out of the kitchen and sits on the sofa. It squeaks from the plastic covering my mother has put down on it to keep it from staining. Emmett's children, now three of them, are just as wild as he was.
She looks up at me with the same doe-eyes that captured my heart over a year ago.
I clear my throat. "Bella, you know how I said that we shouldn't be friends? Well, I've changed my mind and was hoping you'd consider me a friend."
She shook her head. "Edward, of course I think of you as a friend.. Your mother and the Rebbe have taken me in…"
"Would you consider me as more than a friend?"
"I don't understand?"
"I'd like us to start dating; thus leading to our engagement?"
"Me?" she points to her chest. I try not to look at where her hands are touching. "I'm a Baal Teshuva. Wouldn't you, one of the most eligible men in the community, make a better match with…"
"No, no I wouldn't. It's you. It's always been you, Bella. We're bashert."
And we spent only a few months of serious dating followed by a short engagement, but that's another story.
Thanks for reading. Here is a mini glossary, courtesy of Wikipedia unless otherwise noted.
Payos: Payot (also peyot, payos, payess, peyess, peyos Hebrew: singular, פֵּאָה; plural, פֵּאוֹת At Yemeni jewish it is called 'Simonim' too סִימָנִים) is the Hebrew word for sidelocks or sidecurls. Payot are worn by some men and boys in the Orthodox Jewish community based on an interpretation of the Biblical injunction against shaving the "corners" of one's head.
Bubbe Meises: grandmother's tale; An "old wives' tale"; a fairytale.
Shabbos: Shabbat (Hebrew: שַׁבָּת, Modern Shabbat Tiberian Šabbāṯ, Ashkenazi pronunciation: Shabbos, Yiddish: שבת, IPA: [ʃabəs], in English: the Sabbath, "rest" or "cessation") is the seventh day of the Jewish week and a day of rest in Judaism.
Rebbe: rebbe (רבי) (pronounced /ˈrɛbə/ in English[1]), which means master, teacher, or mentor, is a Yiddish word derived from the Hebrew word Rabbi. It refers to the leader of a Hasidic Jewish movement.
Chabad: Chabad-Lubavitch[1] is a Hasidic movement in Orthodox Judaism. One of the world's larger and best-known Hasidic movements, its official headquarters is in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, New York. The organization is believed to be the largest Jewish organization in the world name "Chabad" (Hebrew: חב"ד) is an acronym for Chochmah, Binah, Da'at (חכמה, בינה, דעת): "Wisdom, Understanding, and Knowledge."[2] "Lubavitch" is the only major extant branch of a family of Hasidic groups once known collectively as the Chabad movement; the names are now used interchangeably.
Daven: To recite Jewish liturgical prayers. To sway or rock lightly. (.com)
Baal Teshuvah: Baal teshuva or ba'al teshuvah (Hebrew: בעל תשובה ; for a woman, בעלת תשובה, baalat teshuva; plural, בעלי תשובה, baalei teshuva), sometimes abbreviated to BT, is a term referring to a Jewish person who turns to embrace Orthodox Judaism. Baal teshuva literally means, "master of return", i.e., one who has repented or "returned" to God. It is often contrasted with "FFB" (Frum From Birth), which refers to Orthodox Jews who are born into families that are already religiously observant, and who have been practicing Judaism from birth or a young age.
Bashert: (Yiddish: באַשערט), is a Yiddish word that means "destiny".[2] It is often used in the context of one's divinely foreordained spouse or soulmate, who is called "basherte" (female) or "basherter" (male). It can also be used to express the seeming fate or destiny of an auspicious or important event, friendship, or happening.