The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (14 page)

September 2007 – London

They had met in Avromi's law tutorial group on the first day of university. She had sat next to him, closer than he would have liked but there was little space around the table. Avromi had purposely chosen to sit next to another male student, but the spaces around the table had begun to fill up and to his dismay, half the tutorial group consisted of young women. He had not expected there to be so many female law students. In fact, he had not expected there to be so many girls at university altogether.

There were girls simply everywhere – of every shape, size and colour. He was assailed by the plethora of female flesh on display and at times he found the abundance of legs, arms, thighs and breasts that seemed to taunt him with their insouciant presence, more than he could bear. He would look away in an attempt to mind his own business but there, dancing down the corridor ahead of him, was a neat, round toches wrapped in tight denim.

Avromi now understood why his father had been so reluctant to allow him to attend. Had his mother not insisted that her son took a degree and experienced university after he had excelled at his A-levels, he would not be here. She had wanted him to have something to fall back on should a rabbi's salary not prove adequate. His father had grudgingly agreed on the grounds that Avromi would proceed to yeshiva immediately after he had finished his law degree. It was strange to think that his parents had once been students themselves. They had even met at university.

When she bent forward to write, he noticed the softness of her skin just under the jawbone, and could see a pulse throbbing lightly beneath the translucent honeyed surface. Her dark hair was cut into a chic bob, the shiny curls falling around her sharp cheekbones, softening her features. She was of mixed race, slender, yet something undeniably tough lurked beneath her femininity. The girl wore a battered leather biker jacket and beneath the table he glimpsed a short, tight skirt, revealing long legs encased in black tights. He averted his gaze and focused on heading up his file-paper.

Every time she moved in her seat, she gave off a sharp, fruity tang. Avromi pulled his chair away an inch in order to lessen her proximity. The girl looked sideways at him, flashing him a warm, open smile.

‘Sorry, am I squashing you?' she whispered.

‘No, not at all, it's just a bit of a squeeze in here.'

‘Isn't it? Hi, my name is Shola, by the way.'

‘Mine's Avromi.'

‘Avromi? That's a bit unusual, where's that from?'

‘Oh, it's Yiddish, it's just a shortened version of Abraham. Where does Shola come from?'

‘Shola is Nigerian, my dad's Nigerian and my mum is English.'

‘Right. Nice name.'

‘Yiddish, you said? Does that mean you're . . .'

‘Jewish?'

‘Yes. There are some Orthodox Jews around where I live in Stoke Newington and they speak Yiddish. So that explains the suit and little black cap you wear.'

‘Yes, I'm one of them – well, not
exactly
like them, they're ultra-frum, I mean ultra-religious. I live in Golders Green and we're a bit different. Different communities, same religion, sort of thing.' He felt he was rambling but Shola was staring at him, her mouth slightly open.

‘Wow – I've never actually spoken to one of your people before. You seem very, well, secluded.'

‘Yes. Sadly that is the case. But come to think of it, I have never properly met, one of your type before either.'

Her eyes creased in amusement and she let out a snort.

‘My type? And what exactly is that?' she teased, head cocked to one side. She chewed her pen as she waited.

To his chagrin, he felt his face burn. Shola raised a perfect eyebrow enquiringly.

‘I meant, you know, you're, you're . . .' He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

‘Black? Or female? Which is it?'

‘Both actually,' he mumbled.

‘Well, it's a first for both of us then. Nice to meet you, Avromi,' she said, holding out her hand.

Avromi eyed the small, brown palm extended towards him. His blush spread to his ears. He tried to smile.

‘Shola, I'm really sorry, but I'd love to shake your hand, but I am forbidden to touch girls.'

Shola's mouth fell open in disbelief. She pulled her hand in like a shot.

‘You mean, you can't even shake my hand, because I'm a girl?'

Avromi nodded sadly.

‘Wow. That's pretty hardcore. Is that rule for the whole of your life or just for now?'

‘Until I get married.'

‘Blimey,' said Shola. ‘That can't be easy.'

‘It's not,' sighed Avromi. ‘I mean, I can hug my sister and my mum . . .'

‘Uh huh,' Shola chewed her pen thoughtfully, gazing at him.

At that moment, their tutor walked in and greeted the group. Avromi thanked HaShem for his appearance. He felt shaken, at odds with himself. He had never felt this way before but then he had never met an outsider who questioned him so directly. He liked her frank approach, although it was somewhat unnerving. Even more unsettling, though, was her undeniable prettiness.

August 1982 – Jerusalem

‘Come and see the shul. It's just a few minutes walk from here.' He pulled her hand, but she held back, resisting. She wanted to go home. The groceries from the shuk that they had just spent a long time choosing, were weighing her down. It was hot and she longed for the cool dimness of her room.

Although they no longer shared the same bed, Chaim and Rebecca continued to see each other every day. Their relationship intensified despite the lack of physical intimacy. He began to pray daily at a local synagogue. He would re-appear, often hours later, an ecstatic smile across his face, eyes shining, his voice hoarse. Rebecca preferred to pray at the Wall. She had taken to visiting it without Shifra, at different times of the day, savouring the changes in light and atmosphere. At prayer times, even though she was jostled by the pious, she enjoyed the thrum of activity. At other times, the precinct was almost empty and a quiet peace descended. At midday, sunlight scoured the old stones and the only shade to be found lay between the cracks in its surface. Compared to Chaim's shul – which she had not yet had the courage to visit – the realm of worship and prayer seemed real and rooted in time and place.

‘Chaim, stop nagging. I'll come and see it when I'm ready.'

‘You keep saying that. Please. Just this once. We can drop in on our way to the bus stop – no need for a detour. Just for five minutes.'

‘Ok, just this once,' she sighed.

He flashed a grateful grin and began leading the way through the maze of winding streets, his sandals slapping the pavement as he picked up pace. Soon they were at the edge of a busy main road full of grey, dilapidated buildings. Chaim stopped outside a padlocked metal door. It was narrow and sloped towards the pavement on one side. There were no windows. It was the entrance to a bomb shelter.

‘Here?'

‘Yup.' He patted the door affectionately.

‘You have to be kidding me. A shul in an old bomb shelter?'

‘Kind of makes sense, doesn't it? Worshipping HaShem where people run for protection from missiles – turns the negative into a positive.'

‘But what if there's an attack? Where will people in this area go?'

‘It will still be used as a shelter. It can pack in a lot of people, believe me. And it's deep.'

‘Isn't it really claustrophobic praying down there all together?'

He smiled at her and shook his head. ‘Becca, it's amazing. It just adds to the atmosphere. Please come tonight. Please.'

Suddenly she was curious. She had never been in a bomb shelter before.

 

They returned before sunset. A few men in knitted white kippot and loose white shirts were gathered in front of the metal door that was now open, a brick pinning it back. She caught a glimpse of a long flight of concrete stairs descending into darkness. A single, naked light bulb lit the first ten or twelve steps. There was nothing to announce this was a shul, no notice board, no sign. She could have been entering a cellar bar or a nightclub, except the clientele looked curiously benign and gentle in their baggy clothes and dangling tallis strings. They greeted Chaim with warm smiles; one even embraced him. Their voices were soft, their cadences lilting and foreign. At their feet lay various musical instruments. One wore a guitar slung across his back.

Chaim introduced her and they smiled and nodded but did not shake her hand. The one who had hugged Chaim stepped forward and introduced himself as Yossi. He was short, tow-headed and bespectacled. His eyes shone with kindness and merriment. He reminded Rebecca of a hobbit.

‘My sister's coming with some of her friends and I'll introduce you to them,' Yossi said, beaming at her. ‘Don't worry, you won't feel lonely here.'

‘Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you.'

‘No problem. Enjoy. Sorry I have to leave you, but we need to set up. I'll catch you later, Chaim.'

He turned to go in, carrying a bongo drum under each arm. Slowly the others peeled off after him, one by one. Rebecca watched them disappear down the mouth of the shelter. Chaim was waiting quietly at her side. She turned and raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Bongos?'

Chaim grinned mysteriously. ‘You'll see. Let's go in. Yossi's sister will find you.'

 

The door to the women's section was easy enough to locate. Inside, the flight of stairs was well-lit, neon strip lighting bouncing off the thick, smooth concrete walls. She could see cracks and indentations in their surfaces. Mosquitoes and moths moved in a frenzied, whirring dance against the lights. She took the plunge, feeling her way against the narrow walls for balance. The stairs were steep and her feet made a faint crunching sound as she descended.

The room was long and low, separated by a partition of movable screens covered in white fabric, through which she could hear the rumble of male laughter. She tried in vain to single out Chaim's voice, but the voices had blended into an incoherent tide of sound.

The women's section was quieter, although it was largely empty. There was little embellishment or beauty. Décor was plain and functional reflecting the brutal interior of the concrete shell. The olive green carpet was stained and patchy. There was a whiff of mould and damp patches bulged ominously where the plastered walls met the ceiling.

White plastic seats were arranged in neat rows, stopping halfway to the front leaving a large vacant space before the ark. In keeping with the place, it was a simple alcove covered by a navy velvet curtain embroidered with golden Hebrew lettering. A few women hovered at the edges of the room, chatting and smiling. Some were young and single, bare headed like her. Others wore berets or headscarves, their trailing ends twisted into a neat plait. Not a wig to be seen, although she was sure a few would turn up.

Gradually the room filled and the temperature rose. Women trooped down the stairs singly or in small clusters, warmly greeting one another. Children skidded and shrieked, running between the men's and women's sections. The noise level rose. Rebecca's face felt sticky and her forehead greasy. Under the weight of her hair, her nape was moist. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat; her thighs were sticking to the plastic through the thin cotton of her dress. The walls seemed to sweat, their surfaces covered in a light sheen. She wondered how much longer she could endure.

A light touch fell on her shoulder and she twisted round to find a sturdy young woman peering at her. Her hair was pulled back but a frizz of blonde curls formed a halo, framing her features. Hazel eyes gazed out of a chubby face.

‘Are you Becca?' The accent was softly American.

‘Yes, you must be Yossi's sister.'

She grinned. ‘I certainly am – for my sins. My name's Tovah. Come and sit with us. I hear it's your first time here, right?

‘Yes. Is it going to get much hotter in here?'

‘It sure is – but by then you won't even notice the heat. It's part of the total experience here. That's what you get if you hold a crowded service in a bomb shelter. The air-con broke and we're still raising money to fix it. What's a little sweat between friends, I say.'

‘True,' she replied, wistfully thinking of the cool Jerusalem evening above ground. She could have been walking through the breezy streets with Shifra by now.

Tovah led her to join three young women who were leaning against the wall nearest to the ark. This was the hottest part of the shelter, but a large fan had been left on and she edged as near to it as possible without wishing to appear rude. The girls looked her age. Two wore brightly coloured bandanas as headscarves, giving them the air of Russian peasant women at a market. Their legs were bare and brown sandaled feet peeped out from beneath their long gypsy skirts. Married already. She was surprised at how young they were.

‘This is Becca. Becca this is Marty, Rahel and Suri.'

One by one the girls smiled, inclined their heads and widened their small circle to include her. Before they had time to exchange pleasantries, a burly squat man with a bird's nest beard approached a small raised platform.

The rabbi spread his hands wide and a hush fell.

‘Friends, it's wonderful to see so many of you here tonight. Anyone who is new here, please make sure they are not alone; regulars, please make the newcomers feel especially welcome. It's going to be a fantastic service. I can just feel it. Those of you that have kindly brought instruments . . .' The shimmer of a tambourine interrupted the rabbi, who chuckled and held a hand up for restraint.

‘It seems some of you can't even wait for me to finish. As I was saying, feel free to join in at any time. I trust you know the melodies and even if you don't, I'm sure you'll pick them up.

The cantor's deep, mellow voice swelled across the room. Suddenly, swaying female forms obscured her view of the front of the shul. A violin played somewhere to her right. The men answered in response, following the cantor's lead. A drum began to pound, and then another drum answered it. And another. And another. The shelter shook to their beat. Soon the air grew thick with melody and an irresistible energy.

The psalm was sung in Hebrew. She had no idea of the words or their meaning but it didn't matter. Her feet began to tap in time. To her surprise, the sound around her amplified and she realised that the women were singing softly too. Some of the women clutched their prayer books to their chests and sang with their eyes shut tight, their faces held up to the light.

Tovah nudged her and pointed to the correct page number in her prayer book. An English translation was printed on the opposite page. She began to read through it but soon lost her place as the women began to jig and sway on either side of her. She was jostled from side to side. Tovah grinned apologetically. ‘Don't worry about the words, or following the siddur, you can hum if you like. It doesn't matter.' Heeding the advice, she hooked her thumb in the book and let her feet find their way through the psalm.

Then the melody changed and with a surge of excitement, she recognised it as one sung at the Wall on Friday evenings. The refrain was familiar. She sang the words shyly under her breath, not wishing to be caught out. She loved this song. It was beautiful, mystical and textured in its meaning, even sensual.

‘Come my Beloved to greet the bride –

The Sabbath presence, let us welcome!'

The Sabbath was likened to a young bride, and although the identity of the mysterious ‘Beloved' to whom the poet had referred was a mystery, the idea moved her, of a groom waiting under the canopy as his splendidly clothed bride advanced towards him.

In the sweaty, cramped, underground shul, she felt the music lift her. Her feet pounded and stamped in time. Her clothes stuck to her back but she could not stop. She danced and swayed and sang. The songs changed and the rhythms swirled, the men grew louder and more boisterous and soon the women were singing without restraint.

Tovah grabbed her hand and dragged her to the back of the room. Giggling, Rebecca followed.

‘Where are we going?' she shouted into Tovah's ear.

‘To watch the men. You can stand at the back of their section and see them. Come on.'

They rounded the mechitzah to find the men dancing in a long, snaking line which proceeded to coil in on itself, looping crazily as the rabbi led them in a frenzied conga. They shook tambourines above their heads, and pounded drums hanging from their necks. Chaim danced at the far end of the room, head thrown back, eyes shut, his mouth wide as he chanted, completely absorbed in the moment. Next to him, a little girl sat on her father's shoulders as he jogged around the room. The child was laughing as she clutched his neck, her little feet bouncing in mid-air.

As the night wore on, the shelter continued to rock with spiritual energy, suffusing the congregants with joy until exhausted and dizzy with happiness, they stumbled out into the fresh night air to make their way home.

 

Rebecca and Chaim walked along the narrow moonlit street in companiable silence. It was past midnight.

‘So what do you think?' he asked, glancing slyly at her grinning face.

‘I loved it. I've had a great evening.' She stopped and turned to him, reaching out her hand. ‘Thank you.'

In the shadows, she saw his teeth gleam.

‘So it was worth it then?'

‘Definitely. Chaim,' she said, ‘I think I'm ready. Let's get married.'

They walked a few paces further in silence, allowing her admission to sink in. A feeling of joy bloomed in her heart.

 

Late in the afternoon, when the shadows had lengthened and faded into a promise of darkening coolness, Rivka hurried back from the mikveh. She pattered through the narrow lanes, where the heat of the day still emanated from the thick stone walls of the houses, her sandals shielding her feet from the baked pavement. Under her headscarf her damp hair dripped, the droplets trickling between her shoulder blades where they brought a welcome respite.

Beneath her thin cotton dress, her skin glowed, every pore cleansed and sanctified. She had doused herself in lotions, dabbed perfume behind each knee, each ear and in the crook of each elbow. Her legs were slippery smooth. She had scraped a razor over her armpits until they were raw but nothing mattered in her quest for perfection. They had not touched for fourteen days, her period having lasted longer than usual. She thought of lying naked, skin-to-skin with her husband again, and her stomach tightened with desire. She thought of the laughter and soft talk that always came afterwards and she sighed with impatience. They had been married for five months now but her excitement that followed each visit to the mikveh had not diminished. She loved the whole ritual; the ebb and flow of their relations marked by her courses had taken on a deeper, more natural meaning for her. No longer just a nuisance, her bleeding signalled a possibility to create new life with her husband or simply to delight in his body after a time of physical drought.