The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (11 page)

Mrs Kaufman continued to snivel. She thought about Chani and how once again, another daughter was leaving her. She replayed their conversation in the kitchen for the umpteenth time.

‘I should have told her the truth. It never stops hurting. It never gets any easier this life . . . only harder . . .' she mouthed into the darkness.

October 1981 – Jerusalem

They had first met in the university canteen. Rebecca had woken late and ravenous having slept her way through breakfast – and morning lectures. She drifted in, lethargic from hunger and lack of caffeine. She stood in the queue asleep on her feet, shuffling forwards with her tray. The soup tureen steamed, its contents broiling to a salty, flavourless slime. The meat lasagne looked more promising and she helped herself to a large slice, paid and made her way towards an empty table overlooking the courtyard, a bare and dusty bowl bathed in winter sunlight.

Her food had turned into a congealed, greasy mass by the time she sat down, but at least it was filling. She attacked it with vigour, hacking at the pasta with her useless plastic cutlery. Halfway through her meal a shadow fell across the table.

‘May I sit here?'

The voice was faintly nasal and the clipped accent sounded like its owner might hail from the Southern hemisphere. At the same time it was soothing and familiar against the backdrop of chaotic Hebrew she had yet to master. She glanced up to see a tall, slim young man, his pale skin stained with a mass of tea-coloured freckles. Beneath a shock of dark auburn, unruly hair, his face was thin and slanted and his sharp chin bristled with stubble. There was something alert and watchful about him. He reminded her of a fox.

‘Yes, of course,' she said. He had startled her. She was sure she had tomato sauce smeared around her mouth. The young man sat opposite her and began to wolf down his food without further comment. Rice, chicken, carrots and peas disappeared at an alarming rate. He ate without pause, his fork sifting through his plate and approaching his mouth fully loaded. She tried not to stare.

‘Sorry. I'm a fast eater. Barely touches the sides.'

She reddened. ‘Oh, I hadn't meant to stare! Sorry – no, don't let me put you off – I'm done anyway.' She rose hurriedly and picked up her tray.

‘But you haven't finished.'

‘I wasn't that hungry anyway,' she lied. His eyes rested steadily on her face. Flustered, she shook her head, gave him a sheepish smile and moved away.

‘At least let me buy you coffee,' he called after her, halting her in her tracks. Her smile broadened into a real one.

‘Ok, then. Mine's black with two sugars please.'

‘Feel free to take a seat,' he grinned and ambled off towards the queue.

She eyed him as he stood lopsidedly in line. She knew he was pretending not to notice. She liked the stoop of his thin shoulders, the tanned triangle at the base of his neck, the scruffy trainers and faded jeans. He seemed to be appealingly at ease in his own skin.

 

Chaim was twenty-three years old and South African. He had emigrated to Israel four years before, having lost his place at Johannesburg University after failing his exams. Too much partying and too little study. He had come to Israel at his parents' insistence. They had felt it would straighten him out and in many ways they had been right. He had completed the army and hated it, but the experience had toughened him. He had learned to tow the line, to be disciplined and work as part of a team, traits he had previously shunned. However, he was a pacifist, deeply uncomfortable in that environment and was relieved when his tour of duty was over.

He had come to Jerusalem because his grandmother lived in a sprawling apartment in the Rechavia suburb and at first he had lived with her until he felt he needed his own space. He continued to visit her every other day even after he had rented a room at the university dorms. He was in his second year of a Philosophy and Politics degree and had no idea what to do afterwards. Open a philosophy shop perhaps. For his keep he gave private English lessons or proof read essays written in English by Israeli students.

He spent his spare time exploring the Old City, wandering freely through all four of its quarters, learning its strange rhythms, delving into its hidden beauty spots. He roamed the Arab and Christian streets where tourists and Israelis feared to tread. He sat in crumbling coffee shops and drank bitter coffee sweetened with cloves. The vendors had come to know him and greeted him as a friend, challenging him to backgammon contests that he would inevitably lose, only to return the next day and lose again.

He said he felt safer there than in Johannesburg or anywhere else in South Africa. In the midst of the Old City, in the narrow, blood-stained streets that had been fought over for centuries, in the darkness of a musty café, where the tables were sticky with Coca-Cola and the air buzzed with radio static and the harsh rattle of Arabic, he felt at peace. To him, it was the eye of the storm.

He spoke of these things to Rebecca and she begged him to take her with him.

 

Beneath the docile, charming exterior was a slightly lost soul. He was searching for something and for someone with whom to share his search. Chaim came from a liberal Jewish family. He kept almost none of the traditions, but the Old City and the intensity of the beliefs it harboured, raised questions. The holy sites at which the pilgrims of all three faiths came to worship aroused a sharp interest. He wanted to know what drove their conviction and in what ways it helped them to survive life's adversities. Moreover, he wondered whether there was something in it for him, whether believing and doing in the name of something greater led to one becoming a better person.

He was certain there was something more to life. He wanted more than the material world could deliver and he spoke of this yearning frequently to her. He wanted to live a life of meaning – whatever that meant. At first it perturbed Rebecca. She did not want to get involved with a daydreamer and he seemed to be leaning in that direction. But then again, he spoke of ideas and theories that were new and inspiring. He engaged her mind and her imagination, a rare ability in a man in her eyes.

It was easy with Chaim because he was at ease in himself, gentle and unassuming. He liked women and they responded in kind. He was courteous and flirtatious in a playful, harmless way. They found him a sensitive listener. In fact, he preferred female company and at first she had thought that perhaps she was simply one of many.

Fortunately, the appreciation was mutual. He found ways to intercept her paths around campus, to bump into her accidentally at a cash-point or to find her sipping coffee at the canteen. Afternoons spent together spread into evenings and then nights. He was not her first, but her few previous dalliances that had seemed so potent at the time, now paled into insignificance.

As for him, he had found someone with whom he could truly communicate. He spoke to her about everything, his desires, his dreams, even his fears. She drank it all in and in turn related her own inner world to him. All that she had held most intimate, she now willingly shared. He was nothing like her previous boyfriends. He was her friend, her lover, her companion. It felt like plunging into a warm sea and discovering she could swim.

 

Rebecca did not know exactly why, but her lessons with Shifra brought her a sense of peace even though she often argued her way through them. Afterwards, walking back to her room, she would mull over what she had learned, ordering it in her head, readying herself to discuss the lesson with Chaim. She loved these intimate, spiritual debates she could now share with him. It had brought them closer. She was still not sure she believed, but she was beguiled by the intricacies of each passage and how it related to religious life. She had become more aware of the changes in season and how each had its own festivals and ritual. Time moved with greater purpose, its rhythms punctuated by prayers, each bustling week ending in the slowness and quiet of Shabbat.

She became a frequent guest at Shifra's for Friday night dinner and made her peace with Shifra's father. She had circled him warily at first, bracing herself for further criticism but he refrained as if having sensed her hurt. Instead he went out of his way to welcome her, to talk and joke with her. She was almost disappointed, having longed to interrogate him on his ideas. Now he spoke openly and warmly to her, encouraging her to ask questions. Shifra shone with quiet pride.

Slowly she felt at home there. The blessings and the rituals became familiar and now she could say them on her own. And when she did, she felt a sense of rightness, that she was doing things as they should be done. The children still stared but if she smiled, they smiled. She began to feel accepted.

The changes happened slowly. At first they were barely perceptible, but as her learning deepened they started to seem appropriate. She continued to struggle with the notion of belief. Did she believe now? Something was stirring in her heart but she was still uncertain. When she raised her doubts to Chaim, he had told her that his own faith was still fragile. It came and went but he found in carrying out the mitzvot, in saying the blessings, it intensified. By doing, even if his belief meandered, he could restore the connection for which he was searching. After all, it was human to err and doubt was part of the journey. She tried harder, and he was right. When she carried out even the smallest, most basic mitzvah, such as giving to charity, she felt as if she were becoming a better person for it.

She stopped mixing milk and meat and joined Chaim in eating in kosher cafes only. The television and radio were silenced over Shabbat. She pushed her jeans to the back of her cupboard and began to wear skirts and dresses, seeking colourful garments that were soft, flowing and feminine. She started to prefer herself without make-up, her face bare and clean. What had once seemed unattractive now seemed natural and right. Chaim had told her she did not need it anyway.

In turn, Chaim began to cover his head, sometimes with a white knitted kippah, and favoured light coloured clothes that were loose and comfortable, beneath which he wore a prayer shawl against his skin, the tiny plaited strings dangling over his baggy jeans. His hair grew into a thick, curly nest which soon became one with his beard, giving him a wild, biblical appearance which Rebecca secretly liked, although she complained about how scratchy he was to kiss.

Their relationship deepened. They had so much to talk about, but words were chosen with greater care. Sometimes they had no need to talk at all. Rebecca had never been with anyone with whom she could sit in silence. Previously she had always felt the need to fill any lull in conversation, hating the inane chatter that would pour from her lips. Now they exchanged long, slow glances that lingered and became smiles. And it was enough.

Until one night he pushed her away.

 

Outside, a cold desert wind whipped litter and dead leaves into a frenzy. Even though her roommate was absent, they spoke in whispers. They grew warm and sleepy. She rested her head on his chest and he cradled her against him, their breathing falling into the same easy rhythm. She reached for him.

To her dismay, his fingers gripped her wrist under the covers and gently removed her hand. She froze. He had never refused her before.

She raised herself up onto her elbows and gazed down at him.

‘Don't you want to?'

He turned his head away, taking his time in answering. Then he sat up and pulled on an old T-shirt. She watched in silence, a knot forming in her stomach.

‘I want to, Becca. Nothing's changed about the way I feel for you. What has changed is the way I view us, our relationship. We shouldn't be doing this. We're not married.'

She had been expecting as much. Nevertheless, she felt as if he had struck her. God mattered more to him now than her. He could resist her. She was losing him, in the one place they had always shared so intensely, so intimately. Frightened, she sat up in a huddle against the bedframe.

‘What does that mean for us then?'

He faced her and reached for his cigarettes. The sudden blaze of yellow illuminated his face, but his eyes were closed against the glare, revealing nothing. The darkness swallowed them again.

‘It means that we should get married. I love you. I respect you and therefore this is wrong. We should not even be touching unless we're married.' His words fell heavily, his voice sounding flat and dogmatic. She shivered, panic clutching at her heart. This was not the Chaim she had known.

‘But I'm not ready to get married. I'm eighteen years old, for crying out loud, Chaim! And you're only twenty-three.'

‘I know. But I'm ready. I know I am. I spoke to the rabbi about us and he said that if we love each other, we should get married and be done with it. There's a place for sex in Judaism and that's within a loving, close marriage. Not like this, Becca. This just cheapens everything. Listen, the rabbi told me that when two people get married, it's like bringing together two halves of the same soul that was once split and placed into two unborn children. Then they grow up and go their separate ways, living separate lives, unaware of each other's existence, until they meet and marry if they're lucky enough to find each other again. Like I found you.'

Rebecca exhaled slowly. She could not believe what she was hearing. She felt completely unprepared to deal with his sudden desire for celibacy. He was hurtling away from her. She could not keep up.

‘Why do you suddenly feel this way now? It never bothered you before, our unmarried state.' She hated the note of sarcasm creeping into her voice. She sounded petulant, childish. Chaim appeared so definite, so adult in his convictions. Perhaps she was not the right one for him. She pictured him standing next to a small docile woman, her hair wrapped in a head-scarf, the material pulled low on her brow, her features meek and mild. Bland. That woman was not her.

Chaim was staring at her. The darkness had thinned and glowed petrol blue against the denser pools of shadow. He was thinking of a response, choosing his words carefully. Silently she urged him to hurry up, her heart pounding.

‘I don't know. The more I study, the more I feel I'm reaching some sort of truth about how we're meant to live. I want to be the best person I can possibly be. And that means doing the right thing by you. I want us to start again.'