The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (10 page)

He stopped abruptly and began to speak in English, his words clear and unfaltering.

‘And so on Shabbes we remember who we are. We stop our work and we rest. We have time to think. Time to light candles and say the blessings. But is it enough? Or is it too much? We sit here in our own land. In freedom. It's not always peaceful but here we are. We have returned after thousands of years of exile. But some of us are still in exile, cut off from their spiritual identity forgetting the customs and prayers that have kept our people going. It is easy to forget. It is easier not to pray, not to think about their every action and its consequence. It is easy to eat traif and move away from everything that makes us who we are. After all, six million died in the gas chambers so what's the point any more? Where was HaShem in Auschwitz? In Buchenwald? In Treblinka?'

The rabbi's eyes seemed to bore into her. What had Shifra told him? Who was he to tell her how to live her life, even if she had asked herself the same question time and time again?

He continued, his voice quieter.

‘I have no answers. Nobody can explain HaShem's actions or lack of action, some may say. But we have a choice. To keep our identity by continuing in the name of tradition. To keep our heritage even though so many of us died for it. Or to continue Hitler's work by forgetting who we are and turning our backs. It's so much easier to live a modern life, eat what you like, marry whom you like, watch telly on Shabbes. But every time a Jew walks away it's another victory for those who wished and still wish us dead.'

She dared not look up. She was furious with Shifra. She should never have come. She had been an idiot. The sermon had been for her benefit; she was the only traif-eater at that table.

Yet there was something here for her in Jerusalem, something that stirred the blood and ignited her senses however much she doubted God's existence. The city throbbed with a thousand different voices, a thousand different yearning soul: Muslims, Jews, Christians. Its walls vibrated with God's names. It beguiled and teased her, revealing a new face here, but then twisting away, revelling in the confusion it caused. Light and darkness. Knowledge and ignorance. These religious Jews in their black garb repulsed and fascinated her. What were they so sure of? What secrets had been revealed to them? She envied their peace and sense of place. They belonged. She had caught a mere glimpse and had been left unsatisfied.

 

The walk back was awkward. Rebecca sulked in silence, walking fast so that Shifra had to work to keep up. Shifra had glanced nervously at her but had not spoken. They glided between houses, hearing the singing floating out from open windows. The night had grown still, the darkness unbroken by moonlight.

‘I'm not angry with you. But I am angry.'

Shifra paused, gauging her reply. ‘Well, you have every right to be. I guess I told him too much about you. I really, truly didn't expect him to say all that – I shouldn't have told him about your parents.'

Rebecca stopped abruptly and faced Shifra. ‘I don't mind him knowing about my family and my background. That's not it. I prefer that they know – then it explains my lack of tradition, knowledge, whatever you can call it. I'm not ashamed of my parents. What I did not appreciate about tonight, Shifra, was your father's little lecture about how I should be leading my life. He may as well have stuck me in a pot and boiled me! It's not like I haven't heard it all before anyway.'

Shifra looked down and then away. ‘I know – I know – he gets like that sometimes. He's a rabbi – that's his job. They're all like that – they feel they have to, you know. I'm sorry.'

‘Look, at the end of the day, he made me think again. Maybe that's why I'm so angry. I am curious. I wouldn't be here otherwise. We wouldn't have met if I hadn't wanted to know a bit more about the religious side of things, learn about what being Jewish is all about, right?'

‘True, but I feel bad about putting you in that situation. It wasn't handled very well. I wanted you to feel relaxed, good about being at my house for Shabbes. I just wanted you to feel at home, but that all went a bit wrong. I'm going to have a word with him.'

Her friend looked glum and Rebecca felt sorry for her. She had meant well. It had not gone as expected but they had tried. She slipped her arm through Shifra's.

‘Hey, cheer up. Leave your father alone; he can't help it. Come on Shifra, leave it now, it's Shabbes. Nothing's broken. I'll still come to Beit Midrash and you can continue to bathe me in your holy glow!'

Shifra laughed. ‘I'm glad you weren't completely put off then.'

‘Seriously, I think I want to know more. Slowly, nothing major, just the basics – no brainwashing or anything.'

‘What brainwashing? As if
I
would ever do such a thing. I'm not my father.'

‘Ok. Relax!'

‘Me, relax?'

‘Yes, you! Relax about all those religious dates you're going on for a start.'

‘I wish I could.'

They walked on, chattering about everything and nothing until they reached the poles marking the end of the religious area. Beyond its borders cars rumbled and modernisation churned. They would meet again on Tuesday evening at the university for her lesson. Released from the quiet restraint of the religious neighbourhood, Rebecca plunged into the melee of secular Jerusalem. Teenagers staggered past her clutching bottles of beer, the girls garish in tight Lycra and smeared make-up. The chaos swallowed her as she wound her way towards a taxi rank. All she wanted now was to see Chaim.

 

She waited for him in their usual place, just outside the basketball court. Behind her were the concrete hulks of the dorm buildings. She sat huddled against the wire netting, hugging her knees to her chest to keep warm. In the valley below, the Old City was spread out like a glittering tapestry. The faint sound of the traffic drifted on the night breeze, mingling with the eerie wail of the muezzin. The city seemed so near yet remained as elusive as ever. From her vantage point, it felt as if it belonged to her but however hard she tried, she could never grasp its mysteries or unravel its ancient secrets. Her love of the Old City had intensified with every walk through it she had shared with Chaim during the past six months they had spent together. She could not get enough of its twisting lanes and sudden open spaces baked under brilliant blue sky. Even now, in the darkness, having left it only hours ago, she longed to plunge back into its heart again. Where was Chaim? Perhaps when he arrived they could catch a cab down and have a wander.

Then she remembered Chaim had stopped taking cabs or buses on Shabbat. She respected his decision but it was frustrating at times. Rebecca missed the bars and buzz of the weekend. Now they waited until Shabbat had gone out. Sometimes the wait felt eternal. Yet she would rather be with him than anywhere else.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly midnight. He was walking back from French Hill where he had dined with friends. She knew he had walked the long route back to avoid walking through the Arab village at night. A crunching of gravel alerted her to someone's presence. The red glow of a lit cigarette bobbed in the darkness.

‘Hello.'

‘Hey. How are you? How was supper?'

He lowered himself next to her and hugged her tight, rubbing her back against the cold.

‘Interesting. A bit unnerving actually.'

‘How come?' He passed her his cigarette and she took a long drag.

‘It's nothing like home. There's an intensity, a serenity that was . . .'

‘Special?'

‘Kind of. But the rabbi, Shifra's dad, spoiled it by going on about how secular Jews like me are spoiling the religious return to Israel by not keeping kosher or marrying out. He said we were basically doing Hitler's job for him.'

She could feel Chaim grinning next to her. His amusement irritated her.

‘It's not funny, Chaim! He really got to me! He made me feel guilty and it's not his place to do that.'

‘No, it isn't, but look at the reaction he got out of you. If you didn't care, you wouldn't be feeling so strongly. He isn't necessarily right. Some of them believe we caused the Holo­caust by assimilation or turning away from a Torah life.'

‘That's ridiculous! How can anyone believe that? I'm sorry but that's just crazy. So many really religious Jews died in the gas chambers alongside all the sinners. How can that possibly be true?' The indignation rose inside her. Surely Shifra did not believe that theory?

Chaim shrugged. ‘I agree. It's totally irrational. But that's one of the things I like about people who have strong faith – they just believe implicitly and their belief system creates answers for them.'

‘Like sheep,' snorted Rebecca.

‘Yes perhaps, but to them our lives are pure chaos. No rules, no direction. We just do as we please and to hell with the consequences.'

Rebecca turned to stare at him. She could only catch the dim outline of his profile. He struck a match and the yellow glare momentarily framed his creased eyes and turned his cupped hands scarlet. He had not given up smoking on Shabbat yet. Something of the old Chaim still remained and she was thankful for it. He was changing and if she wanted to keep up, she would have to adjust to those changes. There had been no pressure from him. He was exploring his own path and he wanted to share it with her. Now that she had found him, she did not want to lose him. She was trying to understand and to feel what he felt. And at times, like the fleeting spark of a blazing match, she thought she felt it too. In the Old City, in the light, in the shadows. In the warmth of his body next to hers at night.

‘Come on. Let's go home. It's cold.' He stood up and held his hand out to her, pulling her to her feet. Numb with cold, their legs moved stiffly and then they began to jog, feeling the blood circulate, their feet slapping against the gravel path.

November 2008 – London

After all the guests who were not family had finally returned to their respective homes, Chani lay in bed thinking. She stared at the ceiling as the darkness evolved into a multitude of shifting colours and incoherent patterns. Her cousin Malka snored gently on a camp bed next to her.

Chani envied her ability to slip off into the realm of the subconscious with such ease. She was tense and wakeful. Her mind throbbed with anxiety. Around her the house ticked and creaked, the majority of its occupants unaware of the cooling of its timbers, the glugging of its pipes, yet each sound seemed to be amplified for Chani's benefit. She thought of her mother and wondered if she had ever wished to live a different existence. Was she disappointed with her lot? The knowledge that her mother was unhappy filled Chani with habitual despondence. This comprehension was not sudden or new to her. All her life Chani had sensed her mother's growing misery. She used to smile more, she even used to laugh. A blurry image of her mother sitting and grinning in a giant, revolving tea-cup at a local fun fair tugged at the edges of her memory. Had she sat in the teacup with her mother or was it one of her younger sisters? It didn't matter, the fact remained, her mother had been happy then.

In the early days, when Shabbes came, her mother presided over the table, a true Shabbes queen resplendent in her glossiest sheitel, smiling gently, indulging her youngest daughters by allowing them to sit in her lap or run riot amongst her guests. Her mother joined in with the lively conversation, playfully arguing with her father. Chani remembered receiving her mother's blessing, the soft kiss on her brow, the sticky residue of her mother's lipstick. Every Friday, her father still sang the psalm Eshet Chayal –
A Woman of Worth
to her mother across the dinner table and Chani remembered how her mother had glowed with pleasure as his quavery voice sang her praises. Nowadays, her smile was wan and she often crept upstairs to fall asleep with her youngest child before grace after meals.

Her mother's sadness seemed to follow her like a cloud, drifting gently over her daughters, but it had irked Chani more than the others. When she questioned her older sisters about her mother's lack of vivacity, they just shrugged and replied,' That's the way she is now, that's just Mum.' This did not assuage Chani's anxiety. What had her mother been like at her age? Chani had pored over family albums for clues, and found evidence that she had once been different: her mother dressed up for Purim as a tube of toothpaste, her father as a toothbrush – the pair of them, grinning sheepishly at each other. What had their marriage been like before children? There were only a few photos, and most of them were of her parents' wedding. Her mother as a nervous, slim bride wearing the dress, posing stiffly, looked pensive. Her father looked small and puny. In later family photos, Mrs Kaufman's girth had widened but her pillow face remained unreadable. She sat in the midst of her small tribe. Her expression did not change. She had merely increased.

It seemed to Chani that her mother lived under her cloud alone. Shulamis' mother was eternally cheerful. Mrs Feldman had five children and remained slim as a pickle. She moved with alacrity and was a loquacious, welcoming woman. Mrs Feldman never failed to ask after Chani's mother.

Chani sensed the pity that lurked beneath her polite enquiries. Instantly, she would become ashamed of her mother, of her unwieldy bulk and sorrowful air, the shame soon submerged under a wave of guilt at her disloyalty. She wanted to be proud of her, yet simultaneously she longed for a modern mother who wore elegant clothes. She wanted a mother who smelt of perfume not cooking oil. She wanted an energetic mother who took her shopping and most of all, she wanted one who listened and responded.

One afternoon, she arrived home to find her mother in some sort of trance. Her father was at shul, her younger sisters on their way home from school. Mrs Kaufman was sitting on the edge of the shabby sofa in the living-room, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth, muttering to herself, ‘I cannot cope, I cannot cope – ' Chani was terrified. Her mother seemed to have lost all control. Chani remained frozen in the doorway, her mother unaware of her presence. She called out shakily to her: ‘Mum? Mum, are you all right?'

But Mrs Kaufman continued to sway, as if she were davening intensely. Chani edged closer until she was kneeling at her side. Gently she pulled her mother's hands away and peered into her face. Her mother's cheeks were slick with tears and her mouth hung open in a grotesque grimace. Her words became a hoarse whisper until eventually they stopped altogether. Between her knees, her swollen abdomen trembled, larger than ever, distended with new life for the eighth time.

‘Mum – mum – what's wrong – what's happened?' Chani demanded. ‘Is the baby ok?'

Her mother's breathing had become harsh. A string of saliva stretched from her bottom lip, pooling in her lap. Suddenly, a long, low howl of despair rose up in her throat. Chani gripped her mother's hands and shook her hard. Her mother stopped rocking and blinked groggily at Chani.

‘It's a girl,' rasped Mrs Kaufman.

‘What is, Mum? What are you talking about?'

‘The baby – it's another girl. ‘Mrs Kaufman's hands rubbed her stomach. ‘I promised your father I wouldn't ask the nurse, but I couldn't resist. Stupid me – better not to have known until the birth – '

‘Oh Mum . . . I'm so sorry – '

‘Your father will be so disappointed. We've been praying for a son all these years but all we get is daughter after daughter! We still haven't fulfilled the mitzvah to produce one of each – and this will be our last chance, I'm sure of it – I'm too old!' wailed Mrs Kaufman.

‘Mum – the baby is still a gift from HaShem – you shouldn't resent her for being a girl – '

‘Eight girls!' shrieked Mrs Kaufman, her hands clutching at her skirt. ‘Another daughter to find a hossen for, another hasanah to pay for – we can't cope! Your father is in enough debt as it is. Your sisters' weddings broke him . . . what are we going to do? And you're still single. HaShem must be punishing us for something – '

Her mother's voice had risen an octave. Chani hugged her as tight as she could. Surely it was her father's fault. Couldn't he have restrained himself? There must be a way to prevent a baby coming. Chani felt a rush of anger towards him and then towards her mother, for clearly she hadn't been wholly innocent either. There were women who refused to go to the mikveh in order to avoid relations with their husbands, but her parents were good people, simply living their lives according to HaShem's bidding. Her mother would never shirk her ritual duty. Nor refuse her father.

Chani knew her parents loved each other; of this she was certain. She witnessed their deep affection in the gentle, respectful way they spoke to one another, although they seldom touched in their children's presence. Her father had never raised his voice to her mother and however exasperating she could be, he stood by her stoically, never complaining or criticising.

Chani knew one thing for certain. She didn't want her marriage to become a replica of her parents', nor did she want to emulate her mother's example. Not every mother had eight children. However the majority of the women in her kehilla fulfilled their spiritual quota by producing at least one girl and one boy. Most went beyond the call of duty and had four or six children. Ten was an exaggeration but was not unheard of. The pressure to ensure the continuation of the Nation was ever present.

Not everyone heeded its call. Her friend Esti was one of three and her mother was relatively young and fresh. Esti's mother was still of a childbearing age. Perhaps she had simply chosen not to have another child. And as for the Rebbetzin Zilberman, well, if a rabbi's wife could stop at three then . . . Chani paused mid-thought. She had heard the rumours and hadn't wanted to dwell on them out of respect for the Rebbetzin. Nor did she want to think of her suffering. Still, there must be methods of preventing conception. This was a matter she must raise with Baruch, if she could muster the courage before it was too late.

Her mind swirled. What sort of husband would Baruch be? Would he listen to her? Would he love her? Perhaps he loved her a little already. No, this was impossible – she didn't love him, so why should he love her? Not yet anyway. Would they fall in love? What did that mean? She had heard that phrase time and time again but couldn't imagine doing it herself. It made love sound like a treacherous vat of boiling liquid. It smacked of losing control, something she would once have welcomed.

In her world, people did not fall in love. They were chaperoned into marriage. They met, they married and then they had children. And somewhere along the line; they got to know each other. They became a team, husband and wife, bringing more babies into the world, as HaShem willed it. And if they were fortunate, HaShem smiled upon them and gradually they learned to love each other. Slowly but surely, two strangers became a neat, snug unit carrying out mitzvahs in His Name. Falling in love was for the goyim.

But what was Baruch really like? She had seen only what she assumed was his polite façade, and that was all she had allowed him to see of her. He was her suitor, old fashioned, humble and courteous, falling over his colossal feet to open doors for her. It took tremendous willpower on Chani's behalf not to laugh. He was sensitive and attentive to a fault, but what if his behaviour had been a mask? He could be a monster in reality. It was hard to imagine Baruch being anything other than mild and agreeable. Please HaShem don't make him boring!

She harked back to their last conversation and felt a momentary thrill. The excitement was quashed almost immediately as her mind scuttled back to more probing issues. Would he treat her well? What if he beat her? The notion startled her. She would be alone with a strange, a stranger who was physically stronger than her. She knew it could happen. It had happened. But to whom exactly? She had heard vague mutterings but all had been hushed up, smoothed over by the rabbis. The victim remained silent, the abuse an ulcer buried deep in the kehilla's bowels. The fact remained that Baruch could do what he liked to her once they were behind closed doors. Chani thrashed about in bed, her thoughts spinning wildly. A vision of Baruch screaming, mouth a gaping, angry hole, knuckles gleaming in a fist. She flipped her pillow over to rest on its cool side. Baruch seemed an unlikely tyrant. But how could she be sure?

She hoped she would not disappoint him as his wife. She knew what was expected of her, but her own expectations of love and marriage remained intangible. It was hard to imagine what his were. Chani tried to picture Baruch but his face kept eluding her. Acne – three red spots erupting along his jaw. And small green eyes behind thick panes of glass. There must be more to him. He wasn't that unattractive, was he? She strained her memory, desperate for details. His hair – yes, it was thick and curly. No sign of hair loss yet, Baruch HaShem. Her father's tonsure was not appealing. Yes but why had he chosen her? There were lots of girls desperate to get married. Why her?

It was no good. Sleep evaded her and her mind seethed with questions. She scrambled out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and crept downstairs to the kitchen. She needed chocolate.

 

In the darkness of her bedroom, Mrs Kaufman listened to her daughter's tread. She could not sleep. Tormented by guilt, she had spent the past few hours berating herself for being neglectful to Chani whilst her husband muttered about the Baal Shem Tov. Rabbi Kaufman, ever virtuous, was never plagued by insomnia.

Mrs Kaufman tossed and turned, the bed groaned in protest and Rabbi Kaufman was deposited to the edge of the mattress. The duvet rode high over his wife's heaving flanks. Rabbi Kaufman woke to find himself uncovered, his feet numb with cold. He snuggled against his wife's broad back for warmth and resumed his discourse with the ancient sage.

‘Chani-leh? Chani, is that you?' Mrs Kaufman whispered.

But no reply came. The footsteps continued unabated, fading with distance.

‘I should have gone to the mikveh with her but I am so tired,' she moaned softly to herself, to the darkness, to HaShem if He was listening. I should get up she thought. I should go and check on her. But I can't move. Mrs Kaufman allowed a tear of defeat to trickle into her pillow. She sighed a long, exasperated sigh and prayed for relief. But no relief came. Her snood prickled her sore scalp and her husband's bony knees needled her back.

‘Yankel, are you awake?'

‘Ugh?' burbled Rabbi Kaufman. Was the Baal Shem Tov standing before him in his bedroom?

‘Yankel, wake up! I need to talk!' No, it was definitely not the Besht speaking, Rabbi Kaufman sadly conceded. It was his wife. Indeed the great rebbe was receding, leaving a faint glow against the flickering blackness of Rabbi Kaufman's sealed eyelids.

‘What about, Leah-leh? It's time to sleep.'

‘Yankel?'

‘Yes, Leah-leh?'

‘I can't sleep.'

‘Try, my dear, try . . . say a brocha.'

‘Nothing will help. I've been a bad mother.'

‘Oy, Leah-leh, are you starting this again?'

‘It's true, I am a bad mother. And it's too late to repair all the mistakes I've made.'

‘Nonsense, Leah-leh! You are a wonderful mother to our children and a wonderful wife to me . . .'

‘It's not true, you're just saying that . . .' hiccupped Mrs Kaufman, the tears soaking her pillow.

‘Leah-leh, enough now! Please try to sleep. There, there, my dearest . . . it will all be better in the morning . . .'

Rabbi Kaufman patted his wife's hand, and rubbed his beard against her polyester nightgown. He held her tightly until sleep claimed him once again and relaxed his grip. The Baal Shem Tov did not return.