Hush (28 page)

And the lingerie. A girl had to stock up on practical items, and my mother bought two wired bras, three wireless bras, and two and three of the same in a bigger size for when I got pregnant. A dozen liners to wear beneath every outfit, lest the strap of the bra or such immodest sight could be seen, a dozen slips, flimsy silk skirts to wear beneath the first skirt for the same reason. We also bought a few long simple nightgowns, with wrist-length sleeves and ankle-length hems that buttoned up to my collarbone.

“Romance, shmomance,” my mother scoffed at the modern Orthodox saleslady when she suggested something more “you-know” for the young bride. “You want your husband to respect you in the kitchen, between the dirty dishes, and not only under the starlit sky with makeup.…”

And the wig—the hair-covering that symbolized the higher level attained upon entering womanhood. The two-thousand-dollar, 100 percent human hair wig that announced to the world—at least the one that noticed that it wasn’t my hair—that I was married! A wig to cover my hair, the way every
Eishes Chayil
had done since the rabbis had legislated so some ten centuries back, and even Hashem dared not disagree.

But choosing a wig in itself was a complicated matter. Pregnant Shany said I should buy only Shevy’s. It was two thousand dollars but worth every penny. Chani, snorting loudly, said, No way, Shevy was nothing more than a brand name and I should go with Glida’s, which was cheaper, had a two-year guarantee, and lasted just as long. Surela said not to listen to any of them and to purchase a Frieda that had hair as soft as silk and a cap as comfortable as a slipper. There were endless brands sold throughout Brooklyn, and I sat for many an hour in wig salons trying on wigs of every shape and color until we finally settled on a Chevi’s that was almost like the Shevy’s, with a guarantee as long as Glida’s and a cap as comfortable as Frieda’s slipper.

I discussed all this and more with my friends for long hours on the phone, until my mother told me that none of this stuff was important. The main part of marriage preparation was not the shoes, clothing, and other
shtism
we had just spent ten thousand dollars and three months shopping on, but the bridal classes—the premise and foundation of a Jewish marriage.

It was in the bridal class that Mrs. Kryman taught Jewish women about the beauty and sanctity of the Jewish marriage. It was there a woman studied the laws of family purity and the premises of the Jewish nation. It was there she realized her sacred role as an
Eishes Chayil
, a wife, homemaker, and mother.

And it was there I learned that beneath the fine white linen, the one my sister-in-law was supposed to buy and the saleslady promised would last until my third child, I was supposed to do the strangest thing. Only three weeks before the wedding, after the last bridal class, Mrs. Kryman had a private lesson with each bride. And it was there, in her small, moldy basement, with the door closed and window shades pulled down and a bottle of water standing vigilantly by, that she told me that, No, we did not do
it
with needles, and no, Hashem did not do
it
Himself. With a prayer on my lips and a fear of Hashem in my heart, I must open my legs and receive my husband.

I blinked.

Whyever would I do that?

Mrs. Kryman stared at me intently. When I had looked back at her blankly for long enough, she continued.

“Every soul is divided in half when sent down to Earth. It is marriage that unites them and once more the soul is complete. But there are three partners in a marriage, as I taught you—the woman, the man, and Hashem. Whatever you do in marriage, especially in the intimacy of the bedroom, you must always remember the holy presence is there, right with you, and you must treat the relationship with Hashem with the sacred respect it deserves. You have to always think: what kind of space are you creating for Hashem in your own home—will it be one of
shmutz
, dirt, and materialism or purity and holiness? And with that thought always in your mind, that is how you take every step of your life. But in order to fulfill the most important
mitzvah
where Hashem commanded to be fruitful and multiply, man and woman must come together and do
it
.
It
is the most important
mitzvah
in the Torah.
It
is what enables us to do our sacred duty and obligation, which is the essence and purpose of marriage.
It
is what gives us the privilege to give birth to precious Jewish souls and raise them in the way of Hashem.
It
is what allows us to be true
Chassidim
by obeying the way we do
it
from the way the
Rebbe
from three generations ago and down told us.
It
is what—well, okay, this is how you do
it
.”

She drummed her pen on the table and closed her eyes. She mumbled a short prayer, and in a flat, monotonous voice proceeded: when we came home from the wedding, I was to pull up my nightgown to the waist—no more—lie in bed with the light off, spread my legs, and with a prayer on my lips and fear in my heart, my husband would come onto me and do
it
.

She poured me a cup of water. I moved my seat a few inches away from her.

“
It
will only take a few minutes,” she reassured me. “You have to remember that
it
is a
mitzvah
from the Torah and the obligation of every man and wife. But the most imporatant part of
it
is that during
it
one must pray with all one’s power that one’s children should be blessed by Hashem and the
Rebbe
and the angels.” She banged her pen on a notepad for emphasis. “For it is at that crucial moment, that most crucial moment, when a Jewish soul is sent down from heaven, that every word of prayer will influence the kind of person that child will be.”

She was silent.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked.

I had none.

She then spoke of the
Rebbe
, and how it was important for a
Chassid
to keep close to him to maintain the level of holiness he had had undisturbed in
yeshiva
. How I was to encourage Yankel to go to the
Rebbe
, to learn, to keep his eyes clean and heart pure, and some other things I was to do or not that I heard not a word of. My head felt heavy, my feet felt light, and I walked unsteadily out the door as she called after me that
it
was all
L’Shem Shamayim
—in the name of heaven.

I came home and sat in my room for a long time. My world had just fallen apart. I needed desperately to discuss it with someone, anyone, who wasn’t my mother. The betrayal that she had had me in such an unfathomably un-
Chassidish
manner was too much. I had known there was something mysterious that had to be done. Hindy had once spoken to me of the matter. She had said that goyim did things you wouldn’t believe in order to have a baby, things like Mrs. Kryman had explained to me. But Hindy had said with certainty, we did it with needles or a squirter. The man put something into the squirter (or needle) and the women squirted it inside. From there, Hashem took care of things. People who did things the goyim did were terrible. It was un-Jewish, forbidden—and like rape. Miranda had explained it to me then. She had clearly said when a male forces his thing into a girl’s thing, it is called rape. I had never known that there were two different kinds: one like
that
and one to have babies.

I called up my sister.

“Um, Surela,” I began, almost crying, and though my mother was still at work, I kept peering out into the hallway. “Um…um…I just came back from Mrs. Kryman’s last class.… She says that…she said that…that…”

My sister listened to me fumble for a few minutes and then burst out laughing.

“
Oy
, Gittel,” she said breezily. “Don’t worry. Everyone goes through the same thing. You sound pretty good though. I didn’t talk to Mommy for a week after I had that lesson. I know, I know, right now you think it’s the end of the world, but in a year you’ll laugh at yourself because that’s how Hashem created the world and that’s how it goes. It’s just something that has to be done, and it gets better with time—usually—and if you think you have it bad, the men have it worse. They’re told the day of the wedding, when
Reb
Ehrlich talks to them a few hours before and tells them what they have to do. It makes sense that way, because if they told them a few weeks before they’d be walking around like ghosts and not learning one word of anything. So this way they get over it fast. You remember the day I got married—when my husband fainted before the
chuppah
? In fact, he had fainted three times that day.…
Oy,
don’t ask. But don’t worry,” she said casually. “Everything works out in the end.… Oh boy, am I happy it’s five years later. You know what Mommy told me after that week I didn’t talk to her? She came into my room and said one sentence: ‘If the
Rebbe
can do it, so can we’—
oy
g
evald
. It’s so late, I have to run take Leah’la from the babysitter. Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Come by and I’ll help you choose the colors for the invitations. Bye!”

I tried not to think about
it
as I ran to the store to buy more shoes, more linen, another tablecloth for
Shabbos
in case the first one got dirty.

It was ten days before the wedding. I was organizing long lists of invitees. My mother was in the other room generating lists of lists of the lists we hadn’t yet listed when my father entered and said something, and their tones suddenly, conspicuously lowered to a whisper. My ears instantly pricked up.

“…But she might be so insulted if I don’t send her an invitation. As if she is no longer in existence.… I don’t know what to do.…”

My father’s deep voice: “No, no, don’t send anything. Can you imagine how painful it will be for her, our daughter walking down the aisle, while Devory is buried somewhere? It will be too painful. Besides, you haven’t spoken to her in years.…”

“I know.… I couldn’t.… Every time she would hear Gittel’s voice from our side of the line it was as if she was accusing me for having a daughter that was alive. Those two were like sisters.… It just cut our relationship afterward. She couldn’t take it and I couldn’t either. It was better for both of us this way and certainly for Gittel.…”

“…But what if she finds out? I mean,
of course
she’ll find out that Gittel’s getting married, someone or other will tell them, and they’ll be so hurt.… I don’t know what to tell you.…”

“You know what I’ll do? I think I’ll call up Miriam, their oldest. She lives in Monsey now.… I’ll ask her what to do.”

I walked into the room with a question about some names. The conversation stopped. My mother picked up a box of crackers on the desk and put one in her mouth.

“Come, Gittel,” she said, walking back into the dining room. “Let’s finish those invitations already. They are haunting my dreams.”

As I sat down across from her she said distractedly, “Your motherin-law just called before. She finally sent the watch with Bubba Yuskovitz, who just came back from visiting them in Israel. Go tomorrow to her house, she lives on Twelfth and Forty-fifth Street, pick it up and be nice to her. She’s all excited to see her new
kallah
, don’t ask. Your motherin-law told me she is preparing a whole meal over there.…”

She took the phone book from me and began swiftly checking off names, the edge of the cracker between her front teeth. The pen hovered over column
G
, Goldblatt, the third name from the top, but only for a second. Then in short blunt strokes, she crossed it off.

“That watch better be big,” she muttered to herself. “It better be big.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

And then it was my wedding day, the holiest day of a person’s life, the day a Jew is reborn. The day the bride and groom are reunited with the lost half of their soul the day Hashem forgives them for all past transgressions, the day they recite the Yom Kippur confession in their prayers, the entire Book of Psalms. The day they are finally complete. It is a day of rebirth, of forgiveness, of fasting. A day devoted to blessings and prayer from sunrise until the makeup lady arrived at 12:30 (though she was supposed to arrive at 12:00 sharp). The day that the hair stylist decided to come down with the flu and my sister-in-law lost the pearl-decorated hairpins. The day my sister did not answer the phone the entire morning. When did she think the wedding was anyway? And the belt on my mother’s gown ripped at the back—she would never use that seamstress again. The day my father paced around, smiling sadly, and urging us to hurry,
nu
, hurry. We had to be in the hall at three p.m.—the photographer was
waiiitinnng
!