Free All Who Go Do Not Return by Shulem Deen

though. It was early June, and dawn would break soon. From my prayer-shawl pouch, I retrieved a small booklet given to me by Reb Noach, a summary of instructions and prayers for the evening.
    Lord, grant me pure and sacred seed, blessed and good. Purify my body and sanctify my soul. May I gather strength to fulfill Your sacred will.
    There was also an incantation advised by the kabbalists, not in sacred Hebrew but in Aramaic, a warning to Lilith, the deviant first wife of Adam. Refusing to submit to her husband, the kabbalists wrote, Lilith was banished from Adam’s side. Ever since, she lies in wait for men who spill their seed, which she gathers up, greedily, hungrily, impregnating herself and giving birth to demons.
    In the name of the Lord:
    Do not enter and do not appear. Return, return, the sea beckons.
    I am clasped to a sacred allotment, I am cloaked in sovereign holiness.
    It was a matter of duty, the last ritual of a long day. A quilt hung over the window to ensure total darkness. We fumbled our way into bed, moving about each other shyly as we adjusted to this unfamiliar intimacy.
    “Call me if there’s any problem,” Reb Shraga Feivish had said, and as we lay in bed some time later, we found that not all had been made clear. We needed more guidance. We looked over at the clock—4:30, the green numbers read—and I hesitated but made the call anyway. Reb Shraga Feivish picked up on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting, then listened carefully to my questions, about anatomy and friction and physiological responses of various kinds. He suggested we keep doing what we were doing, that it wasn’t so difficult and we should, given enough time, figure it out.
    It took several tries, that night and a couple of nights after, with several more consultations with Reb Shraga Feivish. The act was laborious and clumsy and entirely devoid of the erotic. But there were moments of tenderness—fleeting, but present—of shared frustration and deep sighs and suppressed giggles, even bursts of laughter. In hindsight, it was a bit like assembling a piece of furniture. You turn repeatedly to the instruction manual, to verify the shapes of parts and how they fit together, and it all seems kind of baffling, the screws and the holes appear to be sized differently from the diagram, and you’re not sure which goes into where, and as you place your index finger on your chin and contemplate it further, your partner reaches out and gives something a tug and a twist and you think, “No, that can’t be right,” and then, “Oh, look, it snapped into place.” And you look at her with a self-satisfied grin, as if you actually knew what you were doing.

Chapter Five
    “GENTLEMEN! THERE IS A FIRE BURNING!”
    The whites of Avremel’s eyes were blood-red, his eyeballs protruding, his bony hands tightened into fists as he raised them beside his head.
    “The flames are rising from within these very walls! This sacred edifice, built by that sacred smoldering ember saved from the inferno of the Holocaust, our saintly old rebbe, is now crumbling from within! And our present rebbe carries the weight of preserving it….” His voice cracked and we, too, held back the sting in our eyes, our hearts melting for the rebbe’s weary shoulders.
    It was shortly before dawn on a Sunday morning. Fifteen of us sat around two old tables in a dank room in the yeshiva basement. We were the elite, handpicked by Avremel to be part of a special group. Once a week, we would gather here to read from one of our mystical texts and Avremel would provide elucidation and commentary sprinkled with condemnation of all things impure. The timing was deliberate, to weed out those who preferred warm bedsheets to the fiery words of the Hasidic masters. All of us were married—a condition for inclusion. Marriage allowed that extra measure of holiness and purity , the pent-up virgin energy released, the lustfulness of adolescence appeased.
    Avremel was known for