Actually, the article, by exposing the gap between what the baalei teshuvah wrote expressly for the school and what they said in conversation, was a great model of how a researcher got subjects to speak about their feelings about religious practices. Wendy loved the section about conversation, how the speakers sounded like those who had no excitement in their lives trying desperately to seem like they did; it reminded Wendy of girls she knew in high school who were obsessed with soap operas because the thrill in the sensationalized fictional world made the girls themselves more interesting for being absorbed in it, this drama so disconnected from their actual lives. What irritated Wendy most so far about baalei teshuvah was their flatness, like the dull girls in high school; many BT’s were white kids from the suburbs trying to glom on to a newly ethnic identity to give their bland lives some spice. She’d have to write about that—Did baalei teshuvah exaggerate to make themselves seem more interesting? How would she put on exhibit and showcase the various sides of the ways they spoke about themselves? Her notebook was in her bag—could she sneak off to take notes in the bathroom?
Now, Shani and Amalia covered their eyes and recited the blessing. Wendy stood to the side, having moved over after she touched flame to wick. Reluctantly and slowly, she followed their gestures and summoned her hands over her eyes. She felt like she was back in Hebrew school with someone telling her to read the foreign alphabet, when she didn’t want to make a mistake or embarrass herself, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Wendy recited the blessing in an undertone, echoing Shani and Amalia, and quickly removed her hands from her eyes. She gazed at Shani and Amalia, their hands lingering over their eyes, standing in front of the candles, obviously deep in recitation of some kind of private prayer that Wendy was unaware of, though she had lit candles with her mother for her whole life at home. Shani removed her hands from her eyes and gave her grandmother a big “good Shabbos” hug.
Candles lit, Wendy felt a shift in the apartment. She couldn’t pinpoint its source. The contrast between smoldering candles suffusing the room, and the last glimmerings of natural light outside, or something in Shani’s mood? Now Shani hugged Wendy, all her movements leisurely and unhurried rather than her previous bustling and stress. Wendy was a bit stunned at the hug, this unprecedented level of intimacy for someone she had met moments ago, but she hugged back, mustering her gratitude for the family’s trust in her as a tenant.
The four of them headed off for the synagogue after a quick glance around the apartment to be sure the food was warming properly and the key was with them. Shani held one of Amalia’s arms and one of Asher’s, while Wendy followed behind the threesome. As they walked through the quiet streets, Wendy was startled at how the city had shut down.
No cars zooming about the street, or bicycles careening in their lanes. No kids goofing around on the sidewalk. The contrast with the clamor and commotion on the street a few hours earlier was stark. It felt to Wendy like a Sunday morning in the suburbs, an indolence overtaking the residents, no one rushing to be anywhere. A general somnolence pervaded the streets, yet it mixed with an effervescence beneath the surface, a rejuvenation in the calm.
When they arrived at what they indicated was the synagogue, all Wendy could see was an ordinary cement box, a school building plunked down, without design consultations, in a spot where the Jerusalem municipality granted the land. Asher took Amalia’s elbow and helped her ascend the steep cement steps at the school’s side to the top level.
Shani turned to Wendy, “It’s probably not what you are used to in a shul.”
Wendy, heaving herself up the narrow stairs, replied, “Synagogues in the States have to be handicapped accessible. This would never make code,” she said, nearly slipping on the cramped steps.
“Adjust your perceptions. You’ll see how special Shir Tzion is once you experience the davening,” Shani added.
Once up the steps and inside, they faced a door, which led to a large gymnasium. They entered separately; Asher stayed to the right, the men’s section, while the three women filed through the back of the men’s section to the left, partitioned off by white muslin curtains on metal frames, hung by what appeared to be round metal shower hooks. There was no art or decor on the walls. Nothing in this space suggested an arena in which to access the sacred. Basketball hoops mounted on either side of the room appeared like heads of a netted animal overseeing the proceedings. The metal folding chairs were of the most clattering and uncomfortable variety.
Wendy couldn’t see the men on the other side of the divider from her seat next to Shani in the middle of the women’s section. She felt disgruntled and disempowered, unseen and unnecessary: They are leading the service; we are here to answer amen and look pretty. But she thought next, It isn’t my life, these Orthodox synagogues. I’ll go to a liberal congregation, or none, next week. I need to just remember that being here is fieldwork. Violet will be proud. And strictly speaking, most of this group isn’t my population since they are religious from birth like Shani. I can just see what is happening, experience it, without thinking about my dissertation. Wendy looked around as the afternoon service wended its way through the litany of words. The prayer leader standing in front was the only man she could see clearly. Women were continuing to enter, a gentle flow of bodies filling up the space, most of them around the age of herself and Shani, though there were older women with older children and young mothers with babies in slings attached to their hips, cradling their offspring as they walked. There was also a sprinkling of women in Amalia’s generation, white and gray hairs still piously covered.
The elegant and colorful dress of the women—long skirts and matching headscarves in vibrant summer prints—contrasted with the overall dinginess of the gym and the thin crust of dust on the floor. Wendy mentally compared the site to the suburban synagogue she grew up attending, Beth Tikvah, with its immaculately kept premises, never a burnt-out lightbulb anywhere. The building was in pristine physical condition, an underutilized empty shell most of the year, except during the High Holidays. Wendy liked those fall holidays, with the hullabaloo of jumbled people, the bathroom where she and her friends tried to spend as much time as possible, to not be in the sanctuary. The restroom overflowed with various excesses and smells from the massive hordes that contrasted with its top-of-the-line fixtures and carefully planned color scheme. Wendy found something about the swarming crowds irresistible; the sheer numbers of worshippers emitted an energy that the synagogue lacked during the rest of the year. The assemblage on an ordinary summer Friday evening, here in this school gym, seemed more akin to a High Holiday crowd in the States, especially in its variety.
Wendy turned to Shani and asked, “Is there a bar mitzvah or wedding? There are so many people.”
Keeping her rhythmic back and forth rocking motion in prayer going, Shani replied mechanically, still poring over her prayer book, “It’s always this way.”
Shani handed Wendy the prayer book she herself had been using, opened at the proper page, and took the one Wendy had been clutching, closed, in hopes that the tighter her grip, the easier it would be to follow.
As Shani handed the book to Wendy, Wendy observed that a new guy had gone to the lectern at the front of the gym to switch places with the one who had been leading the weekday afternoon service. Wendy was surprised to see that both men were wearing informal clothing, the equivalent of casual Friday dress in the States: white button-down shirt, black pants, and sandals.
As the buzz of humming from the wordless tune started by the prayer leader grew from a softer and soothing to a more joyous and raucous level, Wendy found herself relaxing, feeling calm, closing her eyes. She realized, suddenly, the tune was familiar from Friday nights at her Jewish summer camp, Kodimoh.
Wendy remembered first being aware of the opposite sex at Jewish summer camp. When boys and girls prayed together each morning, there was a masculine power in those boys now wearing talleisim, and the sinewy wrap of their black tefillin echoed the newly appearing musculature in the arms of those beginning puberty. The tufts of hair above their lips, beginnings of mustaches signaling masculine growth, seemed to come at the same time they began to wear those white garments that enabled them to sway and swoop in prayer, active and