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. . . I think I’m growing. My grandmother keeps kosher.” She didn’t know why she blurted out that last part; he’d surely see her as an idiot now.

      “A religious grandmother; you’ll come back. Religion skips a generation in galus. Make yourself right at home; sit in on any classes you like; I’ll send a note to the faculty. Of course you’ll be sure you dress modestly while you’re with us.”

      “Absolutely, I’ll be very careful. Thank you so much, Rabbi Lifter. I can’t tell you how I appreciate your kindness.”

      “Anytime. Come for Shabbos.”

      Wendy went out the door feeling jubilant. Stage one accomplished. She had access. Whew, that felt close, but I did it. I talked my way in. Kind of funny that he let me in because he assumed that the school would impact me, without taking me seriously enough to believe I might have my own motives.

      As she left Lifter’s office, she made a note to herself to call Zakh and thank him. He told her the only way things happen in this country is through protectzia. It was amazing how quickly Rabbi Lifter’s tone changed when she used Professor Zakh’s name; Zakh had told her that was the way to do things here, to know someone who knows someone, the smallness of the country operating in favor of the ease of these connections. Wendy definitely needed to revise her view of Zakh; he had helped her now despite his lack of time at their first meeting. The problem was, she wanted more specific guidance on the steps of a dissertation. He had helped her, it just wasn’t exactly the way she still wanted assistance.

      Leaving the building, Wendy approached a few students she saw in the hallway to ask if they would fill out her questionnaire. She had attached stamped self-addressed envelopes and figured that if she gave out fifteen she’d get five or ten back, to give her an idea of how to start. She wanted to see what kinds of questions they would respond to, and which ones would lead to the most revealing responses. At this stage, she just wanted to give out surveys anonymously, not for data, but to develop her questions and tweak them as necessary.

       Please respond to these questions as honestly as possible. Do not put your name on this—all responses are anonymous and confidential to protect your privacy.

       This will not be used for any purpose other than my own information. I will be giving out a more detailed version of this questionnaire as part of my dissertation research on how baalei teshuvah tell their stories. This is a sample to help me figure out which types of questions are most useful.

       If you have any questions, feel free to email me at [email protected].

       Thank you so much for your time.

       Wendy Goldberg

      QUESTIONS FOR RETURNEES

      How long have you been at this yeshiva?

      How did you get here?

      What aspects of religious observance are hardest?

      What aspects of religious observance are easiest?

      What are you working on changing about your observance?

      What do you think you’ll be working on six months from now?

      A year from now?

      Can you pinpoint one particular event or point in time that made you realize that you were becoming more religious and would not return to your former life?

      As a follow-up, do you think you will still be observant in one year? Five years? Ten years?

      What has guided you in your journey to observance?

      Teachers?

      Friends?

      Books?

      What aspects of your life have changed most since you became observant?

      Is there an aspect of your life that is unchanged?

      Is there an aspect of this lifestyle about which you are uncertain?

      Why?

      Have your career or family plans changed since your involvement with the yeshiva? If so, how?

      The students took the papers obediently, as though Wendy herself were Rabbi Pavlov. She was curious whether they would be honest or merely give her stock answers. She fervently hoped there was a way to get at what really disturbed them, under their veneers of certainty.

       FIVE

       Centers and Margins

      But life can be interpreted in so many different ways . . . Perhaps there the novelist has the advantage and he can let his imagination go where it will . . . Haven’t the novelist and the anthropologist more in common than some people think? After all, both study life in communities, though the novelist need not be so accurate or bother with statistics and kinship tables.

      —BARBARA PYM, An Unsuitable Attachment

      The Fulbright group had its first unofficial meeting a few weeks later, at the end of August. The occasion was a discussion, “Center and Margin: A Writer and A Critic Discuss the Diaspora and Israel Today,” at Mishkenot Sha’ananim. That evening, a leading Israeli writer and public intellectual would debate a visiting lecturer from Europe. The postcard invitation to the event, the first item to be posted on Wendy’s fridge, had a big circle with smaller circles of color inside it, reds, oranges and yellows, like a Josef Albers print, only circular. There were Hebrew and English words, microscopic, encircling both the inner sphere and the outer loop. It had been on Wendy’s refrigerator for over two weeks now and she was excited to finally be going, and hopefully to be meeting some new people.

      In the summer evening, Wendy walked to the Yemin Moshe neighborhood. She passed the landmark windmill that had been built to anchor the neighborhood at its inception in 1860, and tread over crooked stone steps built to reach Mishkenot Sha’ananim. She saw a plaque outside it stating that it was the first building constructed in modern Jerusalem, to persuade Jews to live beyond the walls of the Old City where they dwelt huddled and cramped at the time.

      She entered the room where the talk would be; it had seating for seventy-five to a hundred people. Stackable metal chairs with black plastic backs were the only amenities for the audience. A small podium was at the front, with a lectern to one side for the speaker, a table containing three microphones, a pitcher of water, and three glasses for the two discussants and a moderator. In Wendy’s mind, this place, to which the Jerusalem municipality brought visiting artists, writers, musicians, and intellectuals from abroad, should be more impressive and distinguished, with wood beamed ceilings and stone fireplaces, overstuffed chairs and small portable microphones that could be clipped to the speakers’ clothing. There should definitely be better chairs for the audience. Those are the amenities that would be in a room for a talk like this at Princeton, Wendy thought. She looked around, dismayed at having to sit on the hard plastic for the duration, an hour at least, probably more.

      Most of the audience in the three-quarters-full room were in their forties and beyond. Wendy felt conspicuously young. The visiting speaker didn’t know Hebrew, so the proceedings would be in English. Perhaps that limited attendance? Wendy could see someone she thought was Avner Zakh at the front of the room. There weren’t a whole lot of kipot in the crowd, maybe five or six, and two or three women were wearing berets. The man she thought was Zakh was in front chatting with those around him, and there weren’t seats up there anyway. Wendy started to walk forward to be as close to the front as possible. When she reached the middle of the room, she saw a woman about her age, reading an English language magazine. The woman, who had long black curly hair, tawny skin, and dark brown eyes, was sitting in the middle of the row. There were two empty seats near her.

      Wendy decided to try to get to the middle of the row,

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