4. Lost Girls Like Me

I found my voice in the hands of a self-styled Colonel Kurtz on an island in the Gulf of Thailand. A white man running from something, he’d decided himself a temple father, fat under a palm tree handing out easy wisdoms to lost girls like me. My Israeli and I had gone to Bangkok to renew our Indian visas; with our passports stamped we travelled out to the islands for a bit more beach life, Colonel Kurtz was a friend of his. I remember almost nothing of the time we spent there except for sitting at the feet of that large, sweating man. My months of mute had made me invisible yet suddenly I felt seen. He told me I was special. That old chestnut. Classic. By the time we left I was speaking again and my Israeli had found God. We returned to our house in Goa where full moon parties were replaced by Friday night prayers. A cloth on my head, he no longer taught me how to load a chillum but how to move my hands in circles over candles, repeating Hebrew texts he knew by heart. His friends came over, but less often. The drugs stopped. I swept and cleaned and cooked and lay beneath him. I broke my collarbone carrying water from the well and accepted this new reality as I’d accepted every other; no longer a teenager on a motorbike or the girlfriend of tendril hair, now I was a good Jewish wife who wasn’t Jewish or his wife but I was adjustable, loyal, hoodwinked; I’d do anything for attention. It never occurred to me to leave. When the seasons changed, we travelled to Delhi and lay hot in our hotel bed, his arm around me. The mattress was thin, the city loud, he told me he was leaving. He was giving up this life of faded pink shirts, he was returning to Israel and his faith. I couldn’t believe it was over. The next morning we parted; I flew to London, to my mother’s house, he to Tel Aviv, to his. I walked barefoot through streets of my childhood, a lungi wrapped like a turban round my head. I spoke pidgin English to street people who looked at me like I was weird. I don’t know what my mother thought. All I could think about was him. Across the park were synagogues still and quiet in Regency rooms. I made an appointment. I found myself there. I said I wanted to convert to Judaism. A Rabbi sat me down.The Literary Obsessive is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe