Free The Devil in Jerusalem by Naomi Ragen Page A

standing beside her bed, a huge smile on his face. He was flabbergasted when he saw the silent tears roll down her cheeks. “Was it very hard?” he asked kindly.
    â€œOh, Shlomie, it’s not that! There’s something horribly wrong with her! I just know it! And it’s all my fault.”
    â€œNo, no. The doctor said she was perfect. Eight pounds six ounces. A beautiful little girl. You did a great job.”
    She shook her head in despair. “She’s wrinkled and ugly! We’re never going to marry her off!”
    He threw back his head and laughed. “You just need rest, Daniella. You’ll feel better tomorrow. The doctors want me to go now.”
    â€œNo, Shlomie, don’t go!” She reached out for him, holding his arm.
    Gently, he pried himself loose. Religious law forbade physical contact between a husband and wife after childbirth until the bleeding stopped and the woman could immerse herself in the ritual bath for spiritual purification. It was a stricture that no one could really explain.
    â€œI don’t understand that. Why should bringing forth a new life make a woman impure? It’s the holiest thing a woman can do, isn’t it?” she asked him.
    He shrugged. He knew no more than she did. “Some say it’s because of all the curses a wife lobs at her husband during labor.” He smiled, showing her he wasn’t serious.
    She found herself weeping softly, the whole experience overwhelming in its unfamiliarity, its shocking immodesty and pain. It was like nothing she could have imagined. Raw, animalistic, the opposite of the lofty spiritual experience she’d led herself to expect. She hurt all over.
    She spent a fitful night trying to find a comfortable position, taking forever to turn slowly from one side to the next, afraid each small shift would evoke the knife-like, stabbing pain where they’d stitched her up. In the morning, she was exhausted.
    Shlomie came at eight, bringing a small bunch of flowers.
    â€œDid you see her?” she demanded.
    He smiled. “I went to the nursery and I looked into the window at all the babies. And I focused on this one baby. It was so healthy looking, with such a full head of black hair, and it was laying there, kicking its little feet and waving its arms but not crying. Just looking around at the world. And I thought: What a perfect baby! Then the nurse came over and asked me my name. When I told her, she went over and picked it up—the very baby I was looking at!—and said, ‘This is yours.’ God be blessed!”
    She saw his smile, so genuine and heartfelt, as the tears streamed down his cheeks. And she thought: I can do this. Be married to this man. Have his children. It was all right then, the baby, her husband, her marriage. God had not punished her. He had blessed her. Because He was kind. He was compassionate.
    â€œDon’t cry,” she told him softly. “Don’t cry.”
    They named her Amalya, because it sounded so Israeli, and they wanted an Israeli child. Soon after Amalya’s first birthday, Daniella found herself pregnant again. Busy raising her little daughter, the pregnancy went amazingly quickly. But three months before her child was born, Shlomie lost his job.
    â€œChabad is sending someone down from New York.” He shrugged. “They say they’ll give me a good reference.”
    But with the economy, no one was hiring. She had no choice but to turn to her mother.
    â€œDo I look like an ATM?” Claire shouted. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I will offer that husband of yours a job in the business. He can earn a salary.”
    â€œYou want him to sell jewelry?” Daniella asked, aghast.
    â€œNo. He’d be useless at that. But he can do deliveries.”
    Shlomie agreed, but after a month, the number of parking tickets he accumulated was more than his salary.
    â€œHe’s useless,” her mother