The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (25 page)

Avromi was expected to attend every family meal and accompany his father to shul three times a day. Whilst he prayed, his father's eyes raked over him. When he looked up, he saw bitterness and disappointment etched into his father's face. His cheeks had become hollowed and a permanent groove had appeared between his brows, giving him a haunted, fearsome look. His congregants began to ask after his health but his father brushed aside their enquiries with a slight nod and placatory response. His mother, her belly rising higher with every day, continued to shuffle up the stairs to his room, to keep him company and commiserate with him. She seemed to be the only person who understood his despair.

One afternoon in the week that followed his exposure, she knocked on his bedroom door with a cup of tea and a plate of buttered toast. Her visits were a welcome respite. It had been a lonely, sombre day. The rain lashed his window and the russet leaves had danced past, whirled by gusts of cold wind.

His mother sat on his narrow bed, leaning back against the wall. She had kicked off her slippers. He noticed that the big toe on her right foot was poking through her tights. His reading lamp cast a comforting, halogen glow over them, the rest of the room melting into twilight shadow. His bed felt like a small boat, warm and safe in the midst of a nighttime sea.

‘You know, you're not the first person to fall in love with the wrong person. It can happen to anyone,' she said.

‘Well, it doesn't really happen around here, does it?' he said.

‘Course it does. We're all human and therefore we all make mistakes. They just get brushed under the carpet in our community. I hear about them from time to time . . .'

‘So I'm not the first to fall for a shiksah?' He spat the word out bitterly.

‘Don't use that word, Avromi. It's beneath you. Shola was worth more than that.'

‘Well, that's what Dad called her. I heard him shouting downstairs last night.'

‘He should know better and I told him so. You probably heard that too?'

‘Thanks for sticking up for me Mum. I know I've caused a lot of trouble between you and Dad. I'm sorry for all the upset I've caused.'

His mother reached over to smooth his hair and for once he allowed her, feeling like a small child again. ‘It's all right, Avromi. I can handle it. Someone needs to put your Dad straight when he goes too far.' The Rebbetzin grimaced momentarily. ‘And to answer your question, no, you're not the first. We live in London not Mea She'arim! Although try telling your father that.'

The Rebbetzin sighed. Avromi's face had clouded over again. He sat up in bed and reached for a piece of toast. She was pleased to see him eating.

He munched meditatively. ‘I really miss her,' he said.

‘I know. It's going to take time. I know she misses you too.'

‘Don't tell me that, Mum.' He looked up and she saw the sadness in his eyes.

‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it. Give yourself some time. Daven hard, go to Jerusalem if you feel that's the right thing to do. Getting away will probably do you good. See your friends when you're ready. I'm here for you, whenever you need to talk, or if you just fancy some company.'

Avromi nodded and squeezed his mother's hand. ‘Thanks, Mum. But what about Dad?'

‘I hope in time he will get over it and forgive you. As he should. But who knows with your father these days.'

A hard, angry look flickered across the Rebbetzin's face. She sighed, tilted her head to one side and gave Avromi a watery smile. Then she heaved herself upright and reached for the empty plate and mug. Avromi got up and held the door open for her. He watched her carefully as she waddled downstairs. His mother looked haggard. It was clear that the current drama, not to mention the increasing demands of her pregnancy, was taking its toll. Once again, he was the one who was to blame. He reached for his siddur and turned to the east.

October 2008 – London

After the miscarriage, the Rebbetzin retired from her duties. Her presence in synagogue dwindled. Her seat in the women's gallery, the fourth in the third row allowing a clear view of the bimah, remained folded and dust had gathered in its hinges. The air buzzed with rumours. The women nudged each other and averted their eyes when she entered a shop or strode down the street; or rather, she shuffled, her step hesitant as if she was unsure of her direction or had forgotten her purpose altogether.

Chani had heard the whispers and was loath to believe them. She had only met the Rebbetzin a few times before she had rung to cancel her next lesson. She had liked what she had seen of her and was disappointed. She had found their lessons engaging. The Rebbetzin had begun to lift a veil on all that until now had remained hidden. She had spoken with clarity, managing to combine gentle dignity with warmth and even humour. Chani had started to relax in her company, opening up, allowing her natural curiosity to pour forth. She had not expected to enjoy her learning, but these conversations, although spiritual were also intimate and intense. Chani had begun to feel she could ask her anything – well, almost anything. And then they had abruptly stopped. Her mother had nagged her to learn with someone else but she had remained obstinate in her loyalty. She knew the Rebbetzin would not let her down. So she had waited. After what had seemed like an aeon of silence, the Rebbetzin finally called.

Chani rang the doorbell, a knot forming in her stomach. She peered through the oval of frosted glass for signs of life. A blur of a face appeared, broken into hazy facets. The door swung inwards, revealing the Rebbetzin's daughter Michal, dressed in her school uniform.

Chani had assisted students in Michal's class at school and Michal, knowing the reasons for Chani's visits had smirked and giggled at her arrival causing Chani to squirm with embarrassment. This time Michal did not meet her eye. She muttered a greeting and directed Chani to the living room.

Inside the Rebbetzin stood at the window. She had been watching through the dirty net curtains. She gave no sign that she had heard Chani enter, although Chani had knocked. She stood with her arms crossed so tightly it was as if she was embracing herself or holding herself together. Her shoulders were rigid, her back as straight as a plumbline. Her clothes were dark and sombre. The room was silent but a terrible sadness hung in the air.

The Rebbetzin remained where she was. Chani cleared her throat.

She was finding it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

‘Hello, Rebbetzin Zilberman – I'm here – '

The Rebbetzin turned slowly, reluctantly. Her eyes were boreholes, their gaze listless and unfathomable. Her skin was sallow and the flesh appeared receded, with dark hollows where once her cheeks had been smooth and plump. She reminded Chani of a goses, one who was close to death. Chani shivered.

‘Hello, Chani, do sit down. How've you been?'

The Rebbetzin attempted a smile but only her mouth cracked open. Her eyes remained empty like the windows of a deserted house. She shambled towards the sofa. Chani followed wearing a tight, bright smile.

The lesson stumbled along. Chani tried to follow the Rebbetzin's teaching, but the woman sitting by her side stared down at the book on her lap. Where once the Rebbetzin had smiled, enthused and even charmed Chani with her lively explanations and quick wit, now she hid behind the stiff curtain of her sheitel. Her wig smelt musty and had lost its shine.

Her voice was a low jerky monotone and Chani dared not interrupt with her usual torrent of questions. She held her breath and sat as still as the Rebbetzin. She focused on the Rebbetzin's forefinger as it trembled over sentences.

The Rebbetzin stopped reading. She spoke slowly but her voice regained some of its former precision, the words dropping like pebbles in a pool. ‘When you visit the mikveh after your bleeding has stopped you are performing a great mitzvah: the protection of your husband's soul. To have relations when you are niddah would be a terrible sin, Chani – you would both be considered “kareth” – cut off from HaShem and all things spiritual. You would be lost. When you bleed, the blood you shed is a little like a small death. Instead of a baby growing inside you, your body is empty and it is ridding itself of the blood it no longer needs for the baby's survival and so this blood is considered “tamei”, ritually impure; not because it's dirty or you are dirty but because this blood signifies a type of lifelessness, where once it had the potential to sustain life. It is like a corpse when the soul has flown.'

The Rebbetzin paused for her words to sink in. Chani silently urged her on. Once again the veil was lifting. Not even her mother had spoken so intimately to her.

The Rebbetzin gathered herself. ‘If he were to come into contact with your menstrual blood it would contaminate his soul with its lifelessness. So it is your duty to purify yourself in the mikveh. This is the cornerstone of your marriage and the most important law you must abide by. The mikveh has the power to change you completely, to cleanse you. You come out feeling brand new, pure as a newborn. It is so powerful that when a person converts to Judaism they must immerse themselves in the mikveh.'

Her tone had strengthened with the significance of her words. The Rebbetzin turned to stare at Chani for a moment, her voice a raspy whisper. ‘It is your responsibility as a woman and wife to count the seven days and nights after your bleeding has stopped and visit the mikveh. Some less observant couples touch but maintain a purely platonic relationship during this time. But that is not for you, I imagine,' the Rebbetzin hurried on, ‘although of course that decision is only for you and Baruch to make. Most frum couples separate their bed or sleep in single beds in the same room. But once you visit the mikveh, then and only then, may you return to your husband's full embrace and because you have had time apart, your relations will be sweeter and more joyful than ever – like on your wedding night.'

On my wedding night. It was as if the Rebbetzin had read her mind. Chani turned gingerly towards the Rebbetzin, bracing herself to ask a question, when a tear fell onto the open book on the Rebbetzin's lap, magnifying the print beneath like a glistening lens.

Both women sat in silence staring at the smeared page. Another large, pendulous drop fell and then another. Chani dug frantically in her cardigan pocket. She handed a crumpled tissue to the Rebbetzin. The Rebbetzin nodded her thanks. This small act of kindness made her heart ache and a deluge threatened. Dabbing her eyes, she sprang to her feet knocking the book to the floor. Then she left the room leaving Chani staring after her. Her suffering had shocked Chani. She had naively thought that someone of her status and poise would not falter in the face of difficulty. A fine husband – a respected and admired rabbi. A comfortable house. Three children. The Rebbetzin enjoyed a revered place in the community. And yet here she was, another woman locked in her misery. Just like her mother. Why were the two most influential women in her life so depressed? What hope did she have of a happy married life if such sadness was inevitable?

The door opened and Chani sat up feeling guilty. The Rebbetzin attempted a watery smile. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose was pink and swollen. It was a relief to see some colour return to the Rebbetzin's face. She returned to the sofa, easing herself down next to Chani.

‘I'm so sorry, Chani,' she muttered, ‘I don't know what came over me. I'm having a bad day. Not feeling my usual self at the moment . . .' She broke off with a strained laugh. The Rebbetzin was on the verge of tears again.

‘It's ok, honestly, we all have bad days, Rebbetzin Zilberman.'

‘Please call me Rivka.'

‘I can't call you that. It feels weird, wrong somehow . . .' stuttered Chani. She had only ever thought of the Rebbetzin as the Rebbetzin, even when they were discussing things as private as the time of niddah.

‘No, I'd prefer it. Really. You've been very patient and kind – and well – after you've seen me in this state – it just seems a bit silly.'

Chani met the Rebbetzin's gaze.

‘Ok, Rivka,' said Chani feeling out of her depth.

Sensing Chani's discomfort, the Rebbetzin returned back to business. ‘Shall we continue from where we left off?' She picked up the book that Chani had lain facedown on the arm of the sofa and tried to focus. But once again she was filled with an overpowering sense of loss; for her husband, for herself, for the intimacy they had once shared. She pressed her hand to her belly and with a sharp intake of breath the pain of its emptiness jolted her back to the present.

The gesture was so familiar to Chani. Instinctively she wrapped an arm around the Rebbetzin's angular shoulders, disturbed by her fragility.

‘My mother has lost three babies,' she whispered.

The Rebbetzin tensed. She shifted away from Chani gently removing the girl's arm and looked her full in the face. Her eyes hardened.

‘I don't want to talk about it. It's none of your business, Chani. Whatever they're saying about me out there, I don't care. Let them talk all they like.' She spoke between gritted teeth.

Chani flinched. ‘I'm sorry – I didn't mean to intrude.'

The Rebbetzin saw the hurt in Chani's burning face and relented. She squeezed Chani's arm.

‘Oh Chani, I didn't mean to snap – I'm being too defensive – I'm ashamed, that I've let myself go like this. Like your mother, many women lose a baby. It's very normal, especially in our kehilla, you hear about it all the time. But for some reason I just don't seem to be able to pull myself together.'

The words came out in a rush. The Rebbetzin seemed to be battling with herself. She was silent for a few long moments.

‘This baby, this last one, I knew, I believed it was my last and it had come as a complete surprise to both of us, an amazing blessing. I never thought I would have another but there it was, I found myself pregnant at forty-four and I thanked HaShem over and over for this incredible gift and then, then one night I woke up to find the baby was lost – and there was no time, no time at all to try to save it, not that it could be saved – and after that . . .'

The Rebbetzin was staring into space, her lips slightly parted. It was as if she had completely forgotten that Chani was still with her.

‘Many years ago when we lived in Israel, I had a son, my angel, my first. He died aged three. His name was Yitzchak.'

It was time to remember, to probe at memories that had been buried so deep they had spread silent and toxic, fermenting in the darkest recesses of her mind. After Chani had left she could not stop herself remembering.