Ritual Bath

“Jump,” the old woman called out.  “Jump into the water, meydele.”

Meydele. The old woman, the mikveh attendant, had mistaken her for a young girl. Perhaps a nervous bride visiting the ritual bath for the first time. Glancing up from the water, Minke could not suppress a smile, despite her low spirits. The old woman — Mrs. Shoner, or was it Shonfeld — returned the smile with her customary, manic glee. A single yellow tooth wobbled in the centre of her mouth, as a baby’s might. Minke imagined her own girlish appearance was due to her long, unshorn hair. In twelve years of marriage she’d never cut her hair; when loosely worn, it reached almost to her waist. Of course her hair was never seen by anyone except Yitzik, when they went to bed, and the mikveh attendants. Even when Surele from next door came knocking at all hours, Minke hurriedly flung a kerchief over her head before admitting her neighbour. Yitzik was very severe about that sort of thing, reprimanding her if even a strand of hair escaped confinement and travelled down her shoulder.

Yitzik. The mere thought of her husband caused her to feel heavy-hearted, as though she’d eaten something which defied digestion. Like the Shabbos cholent which, after all these years, his mother still persisted in cooking herself and dispatching in a taxi on Friday afternoons. All night long the stew gurgled on the Shabbos hot plate, its odours permeating their small Brooklyn apartment. It was finally eaten at lunch time, the chunks of meat and kishke having amalgamated like glue. And Minke felt unwell for the rest of the afternoon and evening — never divulging this to Yitzik, of course. She was convinced the cholent disturbed her sleep on Saturday nights, causing her to start the week in a bad temper. On Sunday mornings she returned to her job at Mandlebaum’s Novelty Shop, having taken Friday off. And Shabbos, of course. The Mandlebaums were religious Jews, although not as strictly observant as Yitzik and herself.

“Jump.” The old crone’s voice broke into her thoughts. . “Don’t be afraid, meydele.”

Minke obeyed with a sigh, heaving herself upwards, so that when she sank into the water, her hair would be entirely submerged, as demanded by law.

“And now a second time,” the attendant prompted. “You have to do it three times before it is kosher.”

Minke nodded, indicating her familiarity with the ritual, and fell back into the water, her buttocks resting briefly on the floor of the bath. There was a feeling of emptiness — peaceful, remote — with only the sound of water quietly lapping overhead. She opened her eyes for a moment, noting a blur of blue tiles.

What was she doing here? Why bother going to the mikveh if Yitzik no longer came into her bed?

He stopped one day — just like that. Without talking, explaining himself. Minke was too distressed and humiliated to confront him, her mind relentlessly pondering...