Exodus: A Memoir
Deborah Feldman
Language: English
Pages: 304
ISBN: 0142181854
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The author of the explosive New York Times-bestselling memoir Unorthodox chronicles her continuing journey as a single mother, an independent woman, and a religious refugee.
In 2009, at the age of twenty-three, Deborah Feldman walked away from the rampant oppression, abuse, and isolation of her Satmar upbringing in Williamsburg, Brooklyn to forge a better life for herself and her young son. Since leaving, Feldman has navigated remarkable experiences: raising her son in the “real” world, finding solace and solitude in a writing career, and searching for love. Culminating in an unforgettable trip across Europe to retrace her grandmother’s life during the Holocaust, Exodus is a deeply moving exploration of the mysterious bonds that tie us to family and religion, the bonds we must sometimes break to find our true selves.
Angelika sucked a whole bunch of them effortlessly off their pits, stopping to grind them into the ground again with her shoe. For each cherry she consumed, a whole lot of them might grow in its place. How incredible, I thought, to have food growing wild on the street. I tasted a cherry, and it was perfectly ripe, emerging from its thin, still-delicate skin in one tart, juicy burst on my tongue. I closed my eyes and remembered the taste of my grandmother’s cold cherry soup, the one she served on
shamelessly over your face, as if trying to guess your thoughts. She insisted that I try on clothes even though I said I had no money to spend, and then asked me which was my favorite item. “The green shorts?” I said. She turned to her computer and typed something quickly. “Done,” she announced. “Green shorts, size six, shipped to Heather’s address in New York. She can give them to you when they arrive.” I was at a loss for words. I thanked her shyly and wandered out to explore the house while
that comes with believing in the impossible. I remember how that wild and ridiculous hope opened doors for me in the past, and I wonder how I’ll ever manage to achieve anything great again without that spurring me on. The other day I was reading a wonderful, magical book that illustrates this feeling for me. It’s called The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery, and one of the main characters, a thirteen-year-old girl named Paloma, writes eloquently and passionately in her journal about
of the contemporary European Jewish community. I looked at her questioningly as Amélie took a seat at the table. Sabine acknowledged my look with a cringe. “It’s not quite so bad . . .” she said, trailing off as she made a face at Amélie, as if her friend was just being a bit hysterical. “No, really it is,” Amélie insisted. “You don’t know because you coming from New York,” she said in her heavy accent, “and Sabine tells me in New York it’s all Jews, nothing but Jews. This is why I want very
I was an uncoiled spring. We lay side by side for a bit, holding hands, not talking. I reached my hand under his shirt and around his waist. The soft skin of his stomach, scarred from motocross accidents, felt intoxicatingly warm. I lifted my head and looked at him and felt completely and wholly attracted to him. Everything about him seemed beautiful all of a sudden; his jaw testified to his tenderness, his eyes spoke to his compassion. Every feature I focused on seemed evidence of his best