Milk Fed - Melissa Broder Page 0,39

of proverbs. ‘She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her; and blessed is everyone that holdeth her fast.’ ”

“Oh,” I said. “Cool.”

“I didn’t know it was a song,” he continued. “Must be a Reform tradition. But the Hebrew is Etz chayim hi lamachazikim ba, vetomecheha me’ushar. If you want to sing it that way.”

And so I found myself teaching them that sweet melody I had known and loved, pairing it with the Hebrew, which Mr. Schwebel repeated, patiently, until I got it.

CHAPTER 35

After we sang, we ate and drank. Mrs. Schwebel had cooked an incredible dinner: roast chicken with a crisp and buttery skin on the outside, juicy meat inside. The chicken had been filled with a salty stuffing—crunchy and full of celery. She served some kind of apple compote that tasted like it was its own apple pie. There were braised carrots with cinnamon, a terrine of sweet-and-sour meatballs with raisins in the sauce, and challah with margarine.

I imagined trying to eat here if I were counting calories. A few glasses of wine were already more than what my intake would be for a regular dinner. I thanked god I wasn’t counting as I ate the challah—sweet and flaky on the outside, cakey on the inside. I felt like I was putting an exquisite bed in my mouth.

I watched Ayala eat. Miriam and her mother, father, and brothers each took second helpings of every dish, eating with fervor, but Ayala picked at her food. This made me self-conscious, as though I should be doing the same. But everything was too delicious for me to hold back. I told Mrs. Schwebel three times how good her food was, which made her glow. She said that her kids were used to her cooking by now, and they no longer complimented her on her talent with cuisine. She smiled when I took second helpings of everything.

“Such a good eater you are,” she said.

I was reminded of the pride my grandfather had shown when we would go to the Second Avenue Deli and he would say, “There’s a pickle with your name on it.”

“Isn’t she?” asked Miriam.

“Yes. Such a good eater for someone so slender.”

I beamed like a hero. In the light of the candles, the warmth of the wine, and the happy, easy chatter of the family, I pretended it was the truth. When I stood up to help put some dishes in the kitchen, Mrs. Schwebel tutted me to sit back down, saying, “No, you are our special guest.”

I felt a natural belonging. Was it only because I was Jewish that they were so warm to me? I was barely Jewish like they were Jewish. And yet they treated me like I belonged. I loved that their welcome took no account of other facets of my identity: what I did for a living, my interests, any achievements. I didn’t need to be or do anything more than simply exist for them to love me. It was as though they loved my naked soul, some inner essence, with an unconditional love. But at the same time, that love was conditional. It was dependent on my being Jewish.

“Adiv sent me a photograph this morning,” said Mrs. Schwebel, wiping her mouth and then passing around a blurry pic printed on a piece of computer paper. “Look at that punim.”

I thought it was funny that she’d gone to the trouble to print out the pic, rather than just forwarding it or showing us on the computer. But the photo made me uncomfortable. I did not like seeing Adiv in army clothes, holding a gun.

“Poor Adiv,” said Miriam.

“What do you mean? It was his decision,” said Ayala.

“I know. But I think he’s homesick.”

“Too late now,” said Ayala. “He enlisted.”

“It’s good for him,” said Mrs. Schwebel. “It’s good to believe in something.”

Then she turned to me and said, “You’ve been to the Holy Land, right, Rachel?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t.”

“You must go!” said Mrs. Schwebel, and the whole family proceeded to describe the beauty of the place to me: the Dead Sea and Masada, the olive trees and the walls of Jerusalem, kibbutzim and the feeling of homecoming. They spoke of it the way my grandparents had spoken of the place, with wonder and awe.

I remembered, years ago, when Gaza and the West Bank were going to be returned to the Palestinians—an event that never really happened anyway—my grandmother reading the newspaper out loud to me. I remembered her looking up and whispering