Mila 18 - Leon Uris [37]
Being a “good Jewish wife” imposed rigid rules of life. As Deborah grew older, all the little vignettes and mosaics began to take form and meaning. Why Momma always complained especially on the Sabbath eve when Poppa came home from synagogue, for a good Jewish wife was supposed to reconsummuate the marriage every Friday night. And this was painful and unpleasant for Momma. Momma lost three children by miscarriage; one other died from disease when a year old. This came from what Momma and Poppa did on the Sabbath eve, and it always ended up in pain and suffering.
When Andrei was born, this brought on a new set of ills to Momma’s insides.
“Be careful of the boys,” Momma told Deborah. “They will make you pregnant and you’ll spend your life scrubbing floors and washing and over an oven and giving them babies. Boys are no good, Deborah—boys are no good.” Momma went to her grave decrying the suffering connected with being a woman.
Momma’s prophecies were borne out when Deborah had to scrub and clean and cook and wash and shop. It was like a voice from the grave always on her shoulder.
By the time she had reached fifteen, her father had worked his way out of the slums and moved the family to the nice Sliska Street neighborhood where Orthodox Jews of means resided.
Although Israel Androfski was a rather kindly man, in the back of her mind Deborah always blamed him for her mother’s death. And when she came of an age to understand why her father visited certain women with bad reputations, it further proved, in her mind, the sordidness of what men and women did in bed. Family responsibility had imposed upon her a passive nature. She was always lonely, as long as she could remember, except for Andrei. Her one solace was the piano.
When the burden of being a homemaker lifted after they moved to Sliska Street, Deborah threw all the latent hurts into it, bringing about an artistry that moved her close to dizzying heights of mastery.
Then, as suddenly as she had plunged into it, she rebelled against it when her father demanded she spend more and more time in its study.
A strange and unexplainable phenomenon stirred within her which overpowered the fears of night. A desire for freedom. She wanted to explore that strange world beyond. An instinct of survival let her know she was drowning in a mental ghetto.
In her first act of defiance Deborah quit the piano and demanded to go to the university to study medicine. Her first look at the outside world gave her her first true friend, Susan Geller, a nursing student.
Deborah Androfski was eighteen years old when she met Dr. Paul Bronski, the brilliant young professor for whom every female student in the university carried a secret torch. Deborah was an uncommonly beautiful girl, and as uncommonly naive as she was beautiful.
Paul Bronski, who had been rather meticulous in every move he made in his life, wanted her for his wife. She had every quality—intelligence and beauty—and would be the perfect mother and hostess. She could supply the needs of a man when he desired, and she would be good for his career.
Deborah stepped into the big wide world too fast. She was completely without sophistication or experience in that game of boys and girls. She was swept off her feet. With shattering accuracy, Momma’s dire prediction came true. She was pregnant.
“I love you very much,” Paul said. “I want you to become Mrs. Paul Bronski.”
“I think I would die if you didn’t want me.”
“Not want you? Deborah ... dear ... only—now, we must do something about your pregnancy.”
“What—”
“I know this will be difficult for you, but our future depends on it. We are going to have to give you an abortion.”
“Paul ... take our baby ...”
“Dear, you’re eighteen years old. You are one of my students. Think of what kind of scandal there will be if you are married in your condition. Not only the shame for you and your family, it would ruin my career.”
“But ... an abortion ...”
“It will