The next day — and the next, and the next — she went out equipped with pen, writing pad, and MP3 player, on the hunt for a shawl lady, preferably one who covered her face, too. No luck. Suddenly there wasn’t a shawl lady to be seen, not even one with an ordinary dark poncho. Maybe somebody had declared it assur for them to leave their houses? Or maybe they’d all gone off to an advanced course in burka-making….

By the second week, Faigy was starting to despair. The Brook interview was done, she’d already removed the MP3 from her bag, and she was walking in Geulah in a scattered frame of mind, thinking random thoughts, when suddenly, lo and behold — the burka course must have ended — there, in front of her, was a woman resembling a small, wide, black mountain, swathed in layers of cloth.

Sarah

In hindsight everyone is so wise. Everyone asks me, “How could you fail to see it?” “Didn’t you sense that they were taking over your mind — and your wallet?” “Couldn’t you see it was a trap?” And of course, “How could you not have known that they were crooks?”

Well, no, I didn’t sense it, I didn’t know it, and I didn’t see it. Not at first, anyway. Why? Because I was naive, and because it was convenient for me to believe people. And because I had no reason to suspect anything. And by the time I did have a reason, my world had imploded, and my life was shattered to bits.

That’s why I’m writing my story. So you’ll understand me. So you won’t think I’m so stupid.

And a cruel voice inside me is saying, “No, Sarah, it’s just the opposite. Once they read your story, they’ll think you’re even dumber than they thought before.”

The plain shawl, or the one with the black flowers?

As if it were today, I remember how I stood in my little rented apartment on Rechov Elgazi, contemplating the two shalim I’d taken out of the closet. All the others were in the laundry, leaving me just these two to choose from. Both were black and thick. Both were perfectly kosher. One was a bit dressier. It might be eye-catching, I thought. Some time back, I used to wear it a lot, but then I became more shtark, and I hardly wore it anymore. Rabbanit Chana said that even a small decoration on a garment could lead to big tzaros. And this shal had much more than one small decoration: all along its edge were delicate flowers, embroidered in black. It was pretty. It was better to wear the plain one.

I put on the plain shal, covered my head with the radid, and looked in the mirror. Perfect. I pulled the face covering down and went out. It was nice and cool outside, and I was glad it wasn’t hot because in the summer, the three layers I was wearing would turn into a death trap of blistering heat and sweat. The thought made me feel lowly and inferior. Rabbanit Chana said that every drop we sweat because of our coverings would turn into a diamond in the Next World, or something like that. How despicable of me to be glad it wasn’t hot today, instead of being sorry to lose all those future diamonds!

As always, I walked at the inner edge of the pavement, close to the buildings, trying not to stand out, not to take up space. Yesterday, I’d seen an orange helped-wanted notice taped to an electric pole. They were looking for customer service representatives to answer the phone in a chareidi workplace. I thought it might be right for me, and I called. Now, on my way to the interview, I thought again of that orange notice and wondered who would interview me. I hoped it would be a woman. That would be much more appropriate.

Yes, it was a woman. Not “one of us,” but a chareidi woman, maybe 43 years old. I breathed a sigh of relief, pulled up my eye covering, and lowered my eyes. That was what Rabbanit Chana always said: Keep your eyes down. It’s better that way.

“Shalom. Are you Sarah?” the interviewer asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Fine, so take a seat and I’ll explain what the job requirements are,” she said. “And you’ll see if it sounds like a good fit for you. Your job would be to take incoming calls. We’re a tzedakah organization that helps needy cases. We advertise, and people call to give donations. You answer the phone and take their payment details. At the early stage you won’t have to solicit any donations.”

“I see,” I answered, my eyes wandering from her desk to the electrical outlet on the wall. A triple outlet, with nothing plugged into it.

“And who… who would be working here with me?” I asked. “I noticed when I came in that there were several workstations.”

“You’d be with our other ladies,” she said. “For now, we have four operators on each shift; later on we might be expanding.” She made a little speech about the wonderful work the organization did: saving desperately poor families, feeding the hungry, healing the sick, and all that sort of thing, but I was too excited to hear exactly what she was saying. Yeshuos… donors… Chinese auction once a year… In other words, a typical tzedakah organization. I was happy to have a chance of working in a place like this, where they do mitzvos and help people.

“How much is the salary?” I asked.

“Twenty-five shekels an hour,” she replied. Minimum wage. “If you’re willing to take the cell phone home with you and do some night shifts, too, we’ll pay you more.”

“I’d be willing to take night shifts,” I said. “And, um,” I added hopefully, “is it all right if I come to work as I am, I mean, dressed like this?” No store in Geulah would hire me. The moment they’d seen the layers of black clothing I had on, they’d made it clear right away that “no, this isn’t for you.” Rabbanit Chana said it was all nisyonos. Just nisyonos. When the right job came along, my clothing wouldn’t be a problem.

“Listen, the donors can’t see you,” the interviewer said. “You’ll be talking to them on the phone, and for all we care you can put a pair of horns on your head or dress up as a piece of turkey roladah. It makes no difference, as long as you speak to them nicely and get nice, big donations out of them. Whatever you choose to wear is fine.”

“Great,” I said. My voice was shaking. I wanted this job so much. I hoped I looked bright and intelligent enough for them to hire me.

Little did I know what I found out much later — that the interviewer was sizing me up to see if I was stupid and childish enough for them. She must have decided I was dumb enough to take on for a trial period. “We’ll call and let you know,” she told me, and I pulled the covering over my eyes and went out to the street.

Rechov Malachi was teeming with life. Lots of people were coming and going, and among them was me: wrapped up, covered. Protected.

And then Faigy Krinsky came up to me, introduced herself, and asked if she could talk with me.

And that was how it all began.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 667)