Penguin Books Australia

Chapter 1

I was twelve years old. It was Sunday morning, a week after my bat-mitzvah, and my best friend, Sara Kesten, had just rung to say that I must come over. She had something to show me. She wouldn't tell me what it was over the phone. It was a hot day in early March and I ran all the way to Sara's house, sweating beneath my long-sleeved dress and nylon tights, envious of the kids I passed in the street wearing shorts and T-shirts.

Sara was waiting on the footpath and she ran towards me. 'Ditty, you'll never guess. Never in a million years.' She swore me to secrecy and I took a vow of silence, even though it's against the Torah and I knew I shouldn't. I just couldn't wait to see what it was she had to show me.

We went straight inside. Sara's house was so different from mine. It was empty and silent and immaculately tidy. I followed Sara up the stairs and into her mother's bedroom. I was invading Mrs Kesten's privacy, and I felt like a criminal.

The room was cold, the bed narrow and the bedspread a dull, mustard colour. There was a strong smell of Mrs Kesten's jasmine-scented perfume.

Sara went over to her mother's wardrobe and opened the door, and my mouth dropped open when I saw the TV nestled inside.

It wasn't that I'd never seen a TV before. The Fischers, my less-religious cousins, actually owned one, though out of respect for my parents it was never, ever on when I was there.

We weren't allowed to watch TV. No one in our community had one, and our school, Beis Hannah, the most religious of all the Jewish schools in Melbourne, had a strict 'No TV' rule. When parents first enrolled their children, they had to sign a form declaring that they didn't have TV at home, so I was amazed at Mrs Kesten.

'How . . . How long has she had this?'

Sara shrugged. 'I found it this morning when my mum left for work.'

'Have you turned it on?'

'I haven't touched it yet. I will if you will.'

We both reached out and touched the screen. The TV fit snugly in the centre of a wall unit that appeared to have been built especially for it, and there was a DVD player attached to it, beneath the screen. A small pile of DVDs was stacked neatly on a shelf below.

Sara said, 'Let's give it a try.'

'I don't think we –'

'Come on, Ditty. If my own mother watches it, how bad can it be?'

Then why is it hidden? Why has your mother kept it a secret?

But somehow the questions got stuck in my throat.

We weren't sure how to turn it on, but there was a manual lying on top of it. How to operate your Sony 243 TV and DVD. Sara opened the booklet and I located the power button. I pressed it, hard, then jumped back, startled by a buzz of static. The TV flickered into life, but there was no picture on the screen, only a haze of greyish dots.

'You've got to put it on Channel Three to start with,' said Sara, looking in the manual, 'and you don't need to touch it. You use this to turn it on.'

We spent a while fumbling with the buttons on the remote controls, and finally we knew what we were doing. We sat down on Mrs Kesten's bed to watch in earnest.

There was news on one channel, something with policemen in it on another, football on another, and a program called Video Hits on another, with girls who were almost naked thrusting their hips as they danced. We understood exactly why we weren't allowed to watch, but somehow, that didn't stop us.

Half an hour before Mrs Kesten was due to come home, we put everything back exactly the way we'd found it, closed the cupboard door, and crept downstairs. Even though there was no one to hear us, we spoke in whispers.

It was early afternoon when I got home. Ezra and Hillel, my younger brothers, both had friends over, and about fifteen boys seemed to be chasing each other around the house. The littlest ones came barrelling into me as I walked in the door, and I pushed my way past them. I headed towards the room I shared with my younger sisters, Shayne and Gittel, tripping on some discarded toys and an odd shoe left lying around.

Shayne was in our bedroom with two of her friends. They were sitting on the top bunk, which was Shayne's bed, dangling their feet over the bottom bunk, which was mine. Gittel's cot took up most of the opposite wall, so there was no room for me.

It was times like these I envied Rochel, who was three and a half years older than I was and had her own room now. She used to share with us, before Gittel was born. Then my father suggested we find a bigger house, but my mother didn't want to move. She said that 46 Gordon Street was the ideal location. So another, tiny room was tacked on to the back of the house for Rochel. You had to walk through the laundry to get to it, but who cares? Like my older brother, Pinny, I'd have walked through a toilet and a garage, and maybe a small war zone, if it meant I could have a room of my own.

I wandered out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. One-year-old Gittel was crouching on the worn green linoleum near my mother's feet, banging metal pots with a wooden spoon.

My mum didn't seem to notice the noise. She was sitting on one of our shabby, hard-backed kitchen chairs, folding laundry. I sat down and started folding with her, trying to forget what I'd been doing for the last few hours.

'What did you do at Sara's?' It was the first thing she asked.

Normally, I wouldn't wait to be questioned. I'd charge right in, volunteering every detail of my day. But then, normally I'd have nothing to hide.

My mum was looking at me strangely. 'Are you okay?' she asked, one eyebrow raised.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

'So . . . what did you do at Sara's?' she asked again.

'Nothing special.'

I wished I could tell her. I wanted to own up, if only to ease the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I'd promised I wouldn't.

My mum was concentrating on lining up the sleeves of a long-sleeved T-shirt, and I glanced at her covertly, wondering what she would think of me if she knew.

She's a small woman, my mum, and pretty – at least, I'd always thought so. That day, she looked tired, though maybe she always did, with seven kids and no one to help her. Her skin was pale – she never wore make-up – and her hair was covered, as always, by a brown, nylon sheitel, a wig so coarse it was obviously not human hair. Her own hair might have been grey by now for all I knew. Like all haredi women, she kept it covered from the minute she got up in the morning till the minute she went to sleep at night. It had been years since I'd seen it.

My mum was dressed, as always, to blend in, avoiding what she calls 'loud' colours. Despite the heat, she was wearing a non-descript calf-length skirt and a high-necked, long-sleeved blouse in neutral colours. She was also wearing the usual pantyhose and closed-in shoes that are standard in our haredi community. She never relaxed her standards of modesty, even in the house. Yet despite the fact that she probably looked exactly the same as she always did, she suddenly seemed more vulnerable than usual. I wondered why I'd never noticed the washed-out colour of her grey-blue eyes.

To make up for my deceit, I did the dishes without being asked, wiped down the kitchen bench, and swept the floor. Then I took Gittel and Hillel and his friends to the park, and when I got home my mother told me what a thoughtful, considerate daughter I was.

That night I lay awake, my conscience heavy. I had never lied to my mother before, and I wasn't used to keeping secrets. My mum had always been my confidante. I told her everything. I couldn't tell her this, though. It would have been disloyal to Sara. Besides, I knew that if I did tell her she'd be disappointed in me, and I didn't think I could bear my mother's disappointment. My mum trusted me, and I had betrayed that trust. I vowed to myself never to betray her trust again.