When you have faith, Zeidy says, you can grasp how meaningless life is, in terms of the bigger picture. Our ancestors were so strong, they could maintain complete calm even under the gravest of circumstances grievous bodily torture and unspeakable anguish did nothing to sway them from their tranquil position.
He says that the only thing of value one can achieve in this life is menuchas hanefesh, the deep, inner serenity that prevails even in the face of persecution. Zeidy says he knows this because he knows what it is like to lose everything. A parent, a sibling, a house, a dress-all of those things are possessions in the long run, they don’t matter. Small comfort, to think that my few possessions can be stolen in the night. “Everything in this world that you think you own is not really yours, Zeidy says. Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots I pull my zipper back up as I make my escape, weaving through the piles of junk, bounding loudly up the creaky wooden stairs and into the bright light of the parlor floor. I grunt quietly as I shove the key quickly and deeply into his pelvis, and now he jumps off me, hands clasped to him, groaning.
His body squirms above me, moving away slightly as he searches for the weapon in my hand.
The sharp edge of a key finds purchase in the soft flab of his abdomen and I dig and twist, my wrist the only part of me with a little freedom of movement, and I use it all, even as I hear him mutter epithets in my ear. I remember the key ring and use it now, slamming the keys into Moshe’s pelvis, shoving blindly against him. I can feel him pushing me to the floor, one hand on my shoulder, the other hand on my waist. “Stop! Please stop! What are you doing-? This is crazy-” Moshe puts his hand over my mouth and I taste the salt of his sweat. He yanks it down in one quick motion, and I bend over reflexively to hide myself, screaming this time. One hand lifts my wrists up over my head and the other reaches for the zipper to my housedress. I lift my knee up to kick him, but he fixes my legs against the wall with his own thick thighs, crushing me with his weight. But his face isn’t relaxed into his usual pose of disinterested amusement. I scan his face to see if this is just a silly game he is playing, this bad boy who got kicked out of yeshiva and wants to scare me in the cellar. Me, who can lift an air-conditioning unit up a whole flight of stairs. His grip on my wrists is tight and painful, and my forearms feel brittle, like twigs. Standing this close to me, his tomato-sauce breath on my forehead, Moshe’s body feels unexpectedly large and solid. One finger still grips the heavy key ring. “I feel him guiding me to the wall, and I’m not struggling, my arms paralyzed by shock.
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