The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (27 page)

A foot away from the rabbi, Yitzchak's face crumpled, turned scarlet and he began to kick and bawl. Chaim hastily set him down on the table. Rivka stepped forward to soothe her son. She stroked and patted him, whilst Chaim watched with delight.

His son settled once more and Chaim cleared his throat and announced, ‘This is Yitzchak, the first born son of his mother, Rivka.'

The memory blurred. In his pocket, a jingle of silver coins minted especially for the purpose of redeeming his firstborn, buying him back from HaShem, for all first things belong to Him. The rabbi's blessing as the coins were passed over Yitzchak's head. And Yitzchak was handed back to him, blessed and celebrated as the first fruit of Rivka's womb. The sturdy weight of his son's wriggling body in his hands. The warmth of his son's body radiating through his prayer shawl as his heart had swelled with joy and pride. He lifted the child up and the guests whooped and clapped.

He had never felt that sweetness as fiercely as he had done with Yitzchak. Nothing came close to holding his firstborn, freshly redeemed and sanctified. There had been only hope ahead of them. Perhaps had he lived, Yitzchak would have been the son to eclipse all his children and his goodness and greatness would have blunted the bitter disappointments that followed.

Rabbi Zilberman halted, blindsided by sudden anguish. His throat constricted and his chest ached. The pavement was a blur. He took off his glasses and fumbled for his handkerchief. He would talk to Rivka. He would make amends. Tomorrow, before Shabbes came in.

October 2010 – London

Two weeks after breaking up with Shola, Avromi visited his tutor to tell him that he would be giving up his degree. The professor expressed surprise and regret at Avromi's decision, believing him to be academically gifted.

Avromi wandered out of his tutor's office feeling numb and a little dazed. The corridor bustled with carefree student life. Excitable voices bounced off the tiled walls as young women shrieked with laughter and middle-aged lecturers strutted past, like plump wood pigeons, notes tucked safely under their arms. He felt a million miles away from it all. He did not know where to go next but he was loath to return home. His feet carried him towards the café.

It was after lunch and a few stragglers remained. The serving staff clanged together empty trays. A few lonely chips remained baking under the heat lamps and he caught the dismal whiff of overcooked broccoli and cauliflower. There were many empty tables and as he gazed across the room searching for a quiet spot, he saw Shola. She was hunched over a notebook writing intently, her frothy hair hiding her profile. A cup of tea steamed at her elbow. She paused to stare into space. Avromi froze, half in horror, half in delight. He had known she might be here. He had wanted to find her.

Something in her expression prevented him from rushing over. She looked forlorn in her solitary state, a little dreamy and pre-occupied. Suddenly, he did not wish to intrude. It would be a pointless exercise anyway. Avromi stepped back. He took one last look and turned on his heel and forced himself to keep walking from the café. When he reached the swing doors that marked the exit of the law faculty, he stumbled through them like a blind man.

He had resisted temptation and for that he was grateful, but the sad, melancholy ache had returned. Avromi buttoned up his coat against the October chill and headed towards the Tube, threading his way through the blue early evening.

November 2008 – London

The Rebbetzin marched on leaving the bustle of humanity behind. She entered the quiet sanctity of the park, leaving the rush-hour traffic behind. The café buzzed with mothers and children. Pensioners pursed wrinkled mouths to sip steaming tea. Pigeons weaved and bobbed between tables, hoping for crumbs.

Clouds gathered in soft, grey blooms and the drizzle became mist. The moisture clung to her face and cooled it. She was hot now but did not slow her pace. She strode on past the immaculate flower beds, the evergreen shrubs in their barrels and the prized oriental trees until she reached the deer enclosure, her restless mind finding solace in the mechanical rhythm of walking.

The deer watched her pass, her reflection made miniature in their large, dark eyes. They stood still until they were quite sure she was no threat and then began to graze once more. She liked their wildness and pitied their limited freedom. If she had her way, she would set them free to roam Hampstead Heath as they had done for hundreds of years.

The Heath. That was where she was headed. Her feet found the paths instinctively. The asphalt petered out and became a dirt track, shingled with gravel. She crunched along until fallen leaves and soft earth dulled her footfall. The park receded as ancient oaks closed over her head, creating a pagan cathedral. Damp ground, rustling leaves, corrugated bark and stillness. Not the twitching quiet of a congregation but something even older and deeper. These trees had thrust skywards before any shul in Golders Green had been built or even contemplated.

Here she could think. Away from custom and ritual, from blessings and mitzvot, from her children and her husband. Respite from the world.

Brambles snagged at her skirt and the path dissolved as a clearing appeared. The earth was moist and coated in late autumn debris. She sank to the ground, propping her back against an old beech and crossed her long legs at the ankles, pushing her skirt beneath them. A shaft of watery sunlight pierced the clearing and was gone. A magpie in its sombre butler's uniform swooped nearby. The bird pecked at the ground, regarding her with a beady eye and in a flash of black and white, soared skyward.

A man appeared, a shifting figure, melting into the shadows about a hundred yards ahead of her. He did not see her. Minutes later another man appeared, following swiftly until he too dissolved in the distance. She knew what they were up to and felt no fear. She wished them luck and smiled wryly. A Charedi woman should not know of such things. But she did know, had always known. After all, she had not always been Charedi. Was she Charedi now? She did not know.

Over the previous few weeks her thoughts had circled like buzzards and now she forced herself to pay them full attention. She was living a double life. There was the surface where she appeared to do and say all that was required of her. Then there was the turmoil that churned beneath and could no longer be ignored.

As hard as she tried, she could not be certain of the path she had chosen so many years ago. The kehilla gave her little comfort or sense of belonging when she needed it most. She felt an outsider but no longer one that looked on, longing to be included. How could she fit into a community where the pain of her loss was swept under an endless tide of prayer?

She was expected to return to the fold, to carry on as normal. To keep smiling and praying. To return to the mikveh and her husband's embrace. To do HaShem's bidding. What for? What was the point? One was expected to be happy, to celebrate HaShem's presence in all things at all times. The drug of spiritual bliss had worn off and she had little appetite for the next fix. HaShem had His reasons. She had hers.

Chaim was not the man she had married. That man had faded into a monochrome shadow of his former self. He was a good man, a kind man and model Charedi husband. But when she had needed more from him he had withheld it. He had become intolerant and unbending. She could not forgive him for the harsh way he had treated Avromi. She knew he felt guilty but guilt was not good enough.

If she turned her back on him he would crumble. A rabbi whose wife deserts him would lose respect in the eyes of the community. It would not be good for his career. He would not cope without her. She felt the tightening of the manacles of expectation and duty. He was her husband after all and she had loved him fiercely once. She was sure she still loved him but love alone would not suffice. Not like before. They had both changed.

She pulled out her mobile. It was quarter to four and growing dark. The Rebbetzin had pins and needles from sitting still for so long. Standing up, she made her way back to the path. If she rang Chaim now she would catch him before he went to shul. She did not want to make the call. Dread pooled in her stomach. She punched in the number.

‘Rivka? Are you ok?'

The concern in his voice shook her. ‘I'm fine, I'm – '

‘Where are you? I thought you'd be home by now, you know, the kids are back already and the oven's cold – '

‘I know. I'm still out.'

‘But Shabbes is coming really soon now – '

‘I know, Chaim.' Her tone was terse. He remained silent. ‘I'm not coming home tonight.'

There was silence on the other end of the line. She could hear the harsh intake of breath. She waited for the explosion. But it did not come.

In a small voice, he eventually said, ‘I knew this was coming. I knew there was something wrong this afternoon. So when will you come home, if not tonight?'

‘I don't know. I can't say right now. Maybe never.'

‘Do you really mean that? Is this what you want?'

‘I don't know what I mean right now. I'm very confused. I don't even know whether I can go back to a Charedi life.'

‘Not even for my sake? What about us?' His voice caught and she knew he was crying.

‘I feel trapped. I don't feel like it's real any more. I don't believe any more. In anything.'

‘Is this because of my refusal to discuss Yitzchak? Because of your miscarriage? Or is it because of how I dealt with Avromi?'

‘Yes and no – not exactly. It's more than all of that. I've been feeling this way for a while.'

‘Rivka, you know I am sorry. You know that I love you.'

‘I know.'

‘Doesn't that mean anything to you any more?'

She could not swallow. Something was blocking her throat. ‘You know it does.'

‘So come home. We can talk.'

‘No. I don't want to come home right now. I want to think about things alone, away from you and the children. Away from the kehilla.'

‘What if we came to a compromise? You come home and lead any sort of life you feel you need to. And I'll turn a blind eye.'

‘You know you can't do that. It means too much to you.'

‘Well, I wouldn't mind if we still kept kosher and Shabbes and you dressed modestly . . .'

‘That's exactly what I can't do right now. I've been doing it all for too long and it means nothing to me. I'm like a robot. I feel hollow inside.'

‘But maybe if you just carry out the basic mitzvot, with time, you'll regain your connection . . .'

‘I don't know. I have to go now. And you have to get to shul.'

‘Where will you stay tonight?'

‘I'll find a hotel.'

‘What about the children? What do I tell them?'

‘That I need a break. Tell them the truth. It will be tough but I think they're old enough to cope. They know I've been unhappy for a while. Tell them I love them and I will be in touch soon – in a few days. I just need some time.'

‘How soon?'

‘Chaim, stop it.'

‘But we have guests coming tonight – who's going to cook? Who's going to light the candles? Come on, Rivka, it's your home.'

She paused. ‘Michal can manage all that.'

‘Rivka, I – '

‘I'm sorry.'

The Rebbetzin hung up and switched off her phone, leaving the clearing in the direction of the road, a tall, stark silhouette moving towards the headlights.

November 2008 – London

The chair lurched and hung lopsided for a terrifying moment. Chani gripped the edges of her seat while her friends scurried to and fro in their struggle to carry her towards the mechitzah. She wore her sheitel for the first time and could feel the rising heat trapped beneath its fibres. Shuli had forced extra grips around her hairnet to ensure the wig remained secure all night. Chani had moaned about the soreness they had caused her scalp but was now grateful for their presence.

The musicians in the men's section played faster and faster. The pounding of feet shook the room like a drunken military tattoo, as the revellers grew heated and their efforts more strenuous.

In the women's section, bodies rebounded like dodgems at a fair. There was no choreography involved. Those who thought they knew the steps crashed into those who clearly did not. The circle grew wider until all the women whirled and clapped together, moving into the centre and back out again in a semblance of unity.

All was sweet chaos. Her friends shrieked. Shulamis barked orders at a small group of girls who were desperately trying to keep Chani afloat.

‘Shoshi, come this way and hold the front right leg – '

‘I'm helping Rina at the back – I can't leave her or she'll drop her!'

‘Esti then, grab this bit and push her up – no! Hold her steady!'

‘I'm trying!'

Once again the chair bucked and rolled and Chani came dangerously close to sliding off. She wanted to get down but she knew she had to stand the ordeal a little longer.

‘Hurry up!' she hissed. ‘I can't hold on much longer – can you try and keep me a bit straighter please?'

‘We're doing our best, your Majesty!'

Shulamis' face was moist and pink with her efforts but she was clearly enjoying being in charge. ‘When it's my turn, I'll make sure I've put on at least a stone – ' she said through gritted teeth.

More women ran to help hoist the chair and soon she was airborne. The chair moved haphazardly, tilting and rolling towards its destination. She began to look around her and enjoy herself. This was her throne, her bride's privilege. She had helped to carry so many other brides and now it was her turn.

The women's backs were braced against the chair's weight. Her dress flounced and her ankles and shoes became visible. She grabbed a handful of material and held it down but once again the chair dipped alarmingly and she let go to grab the edges with both hands.

After another step forward and she suddenly forgot her fears for spread before her was a clear view of the men's section. A forbidden world to all but the bride on her throne.

And there was Baruch hanging on for grim life, his predicament much the same as her own. His discomfort was clear to see, his long legs dangling over the edge of a seat that was clearly too small for him. He resembled a puppet, limp and lifeless. His face had turned a worrying shade of grey.

She wanted to call out or wave but it was not the done thing. Instead she stared at him, willing him to look up.

The men swarmed like rats in a sea of black. Fedoras, shtreimels and black velvet yarmulkes bobbed in its midst. The men sang and stamped, a repetitive melody, simple and rhythmical.

‘Ai-yai-ya – ya-ya-ya-yaiiii!'

‘Moshiach! Moshiach! Moshiach!' Messiah! Messiah! Messiah!

‘Ai-yai-ya – ya-ya-ya-yaiiii!'

Suddenly she sailed through the air as the women thrust the chair high over the barrier for the men to see. She clung to the seat in desperation, anticipating the next wave. Her petticoats flew up despite her efforts and a great roar came from the men's side as Baruch's chair drew alongside her own.

‘Moshiach! Moshiach! Moshiach!'

Baruch looked at her mournfully. He was clutching a white handkerchief in his left hand but had not dared to let go of his seat.

‘Closer!' bellowed the men. ‘Move him closer!'

As his chair brushed the mechitzah, it shuddered and threatened to topple. Suddenly a long, spindly arm shot out towards her, frantically waving the white handkerchief. The women jockeyed to position her. She held out her hand and leaned towards the white fluttering flag thrust at her, more it seemed in a plea of surrender than a desire to connect. The waiting bed – the flash of white sheets – was he thinking of them too? Was he as frightened as she was? The handkerchief still fluttered insistently between them. She hovered mid-air. What would happen if she just ignored it? But the guests demanded their satisfaction. She must not delay.

She snatched at it and grasped a corner. The handkerchief sashayed between them over the barrier. Connected but separate, they rode their chairs as custom demanded.

Her mother and her sisters looked on from a safe distance. A frown creased Shuli's brow as she watched the immodest display of the bride being tossed above the barrier for all the men to see. Rochele jiggled her son on her hip, swaying in time to the music with Devorah. There was something strange about her mother's expression. She was smiling. Another jolt and her mother disappeared from view. Chani wanted to see her again to make sure she had not been mistaken but she was flung forwards to face the grinning, sweating countenances of her bearers and her mother was lost in the frenzy. The Rebbetzin was still nowhere to be seen.

Seated at her table Mrs Levy eyed proceedings. Her privilege as mother-in-law had secured her a ringside seat and she had refused to move from it. Today was not her day for merry-making. It was decidedly more dignified for someone in her maligned position to sit out the dancing. Besides, she did not wish crease her new suit. Her cronies had abandoned her to career around the floor. Fools – imagining they are eighteen again! She snorted as Mrs Wasserman wobbled past her, arm-in-arm with Mrs Schatz whose hat had fallen over her eyes.

Her gaze returned once more to the Kallah. The girl looked unbearably happy which only served to increase Mrs Levy's sense of affliction. Up there on her perch, Chani had every reason to gloat and the thought of the girl's triumph forced Mrs Levy to seek comfort in another glass of champagne. She was not an accustomed drinker and the fizz seemed tainted with a metallic tang. She pulled a face in disgust and reached for a napkin.

‘Ah, Mrs Levy, the proud mother-in-law. I am pleased to find you at last!'

Mrs Gelb­mann had manifested at her elbow. Uninvited the shadchan pulled up a chair and reached for a chocolate. On top of her sheitel she wore a vile concoction of black feathers and crocheted wool. Clearly she had treated herself with her winnings.

‘Baruch HaShem Mrs Gelb­mann, how nice to see you. Are you enjoying yourself?'

Odious woman. She had been forced to invite her since it was she who had sealed the match. And she had her remaining daughters to think of. One had to play by the rules.

‘Oh very much so, Mrs Levy. The Kallah looks the picture of radiance, don't you think? A pretty girl like I said.'

She would not rise to the bait. ‘Yes she does look lovely. But looks are not everything in our world are they, Mrs Gelb­mann?' said Mrs Levy smiling benignly at the shadchan's plain, wrinkled face.

‘As you would know, Mrs Levy.' Touché, thought Mrs Gelb­mann. ‘A woman must be virtuous, modest, diligent and dutiful of course – amongst many other things. I am sure your daughter-in-law possesses all these qualities and more. And she will be a blessing to you.'

‘Baruch HaShem, Mrs Gelb­mann,' replied Mrs Levy drily. How much did the witch know? What had she heard? Her sources ran the length and breadth of the community grapevine. Had Chani squealed? Her foot tingled in memory.

‘And her mother, Mrs Kaufman, is a most pious and admirable woman, is she not? I'm sure Chani will be no trouble to you at all having come from such righteous stock.'

‘Let us hope so,' murmured Mrs Levy. ‘Do excuse me, Mrs Gelb­mann. I need to do my rounds and greet my guests.'

‘Of course Mrs Levy, don't let me stop you enjoying yourself. After all, it is your big day.'

Mrs Levy inclined her head and gave Mrs Gelb­mann a withering smile. She turned to leave but a bony claw restrained her. The shadchan's grip was surprisingly strong.

‘A word before you leave Mrs Levy.'

‘Yes?'

‘The little matter of the money you offered me.'

‘I don't know what you are talking about.'

‘I think you do.'

She wished the woman would unhand her. Trying to pull away, the claw dug deeper. She turned to face her foe.

‘What is it you want, Mrs Gelb­mann?'

‘A little token of appreciation would secure my utmost confidence. Our little phone conversation a couple of months back . . . would be deleted from my memory, Mrs Levy.' The shadchan's eyes glittered with malice.

‘How much do you want?' hissed Mrs Levy.

‘Ah, let me see. I need to visit my daughter in New York this weekend and I had in mind a first-class seat on British Airways . . .'

Sometimes one must buy one's freedom, thought Mrs Levy bitterly.

‘Very well, you'll find the money in your back account tomorrow. Now I really must go.'

‘Oh don't let me stop you, my dear. And do get in touch when you start looking for Bassy and Malka. I have some very fine boys on my books at the moment.'

‘No doubt, Mrs Gelb­mann. You will be my first port of call as always.' Never again, she swore to herself. She would find each of her daughters a suitable husband on her own, even if it entailed travelling to New York and traipsing from door-to-door herself.

‘Mazel tov, Mrs Levy!' responded the shadchan glibly.

Choosing to ignore this last jibe, Mrs Levy went off in search of the ladies' room in the vain hope that a reapplication of war paint would raise her spirits.