The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (17 page)

May 2008 – London

When Baruch came home, his parents were already waiting for him in the lounge. They sat side by side on the cream leather sofa, two consuls supreme in their power. The curtains had been drawn and the standing lamp bathed the pair in golden light.

‘Come in Baruch and sit down,' grunted his father. He was hunched over in his shirtsleeves, his braces dividing the white expanse of shirt across broad back.

He entered the arena and took his seat in the armchair opposite. A glass coffee table lay between them.

‘Baruch, your mother has seen Mrs Gelb­mann today and after discussing matters with me, we've come to the conclusion that Chani isn't for you.'

Baruch stared at his father and then at his mother. Mrs Levy avoided his gaze. She reached for her husband's hand instead.

‘But – why? What's wrong with her?' The words spluttered out.

His father glanced at his mother. She was still inspecting the carpet. He nudged her.

‘Baruch,' she began hesitantly,' I know how much you wanted to meet her. But darling, she isn't for you. I had a long chat with Mrs Gelb­mann and it turns out that for some reason Chani didn't go to sem. You can't marry a girl who hasn't been properly educated in Yiddishkeit. We don't know if she just didn't get accepted or whether it was for some other weird reason but I do know that the ones who don't get accepted are the problematic types. Darling, you're going to be a rabbi, and you need the right sort of wife. Someone who'll be your equal, who'll understand you and your needs, who'll be your helpmate, your – '

Mrs Levy stopped short. She couldn't bear seeing the despair in her son's eyes. He was tight-lipped with frustration.

Mr Levy took over. ‘Baruch, we want you to be happy and in the long run, marrying the wrong sort of girl is only going to end in disaster for all of us. For her and her family and our family. There are many wonderful girls out there and I promise you, one of them is for you. But she isn't Chani. Forget her, move on. The best way to move on is to start dating more suitable girls. And I hear Mrs Gelb­mann has some lovely young ladies for you to meet.'

He couldn't stand it any longer. In that moment, he loathed them all, Mrs Gelb­mann included. They were all against him. Baruch had been staring at the copies of
Good Housekeeping
stacked on the coffee table. They hadn't been touched for ages, their corners still perfectly aligned. For some reason, their presence infuriated him even further: empty promises of perfect lives in perfect homes where choice and variety abounded were so distant from the claustrophobia of his daily reality.

The silence grew. Mr Levy stared down at his spotless brogues, checking for scuff marks whilst Mrs Levy gazed at her son.

Finally he spoke, so low and quietly that his parents had to crane forward to hear him.

‘It's not fair. Nothing's fair in my life. I can't even meet the girl I like. Everything's always decided for me. I never complain, I just do as I'm told . . . and now, when I ask for one thing, one small thing – it's denied me.'

Mr Levy shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like displays of emotion; he was an undemonstrative man who believed that this sort of behaviour was best left to women. He wished his son would stop this kvetching.

‘Baruch, calm yourself and remember your manners – ' he said.

‘I am calm!' Baruch sprang from his chair, his long body unfolding in a single fluid movement. He towered over his parents, waving his long arms as if he were bringing a plane in to land.

‘Sit down, Baruch! This is not a way to behave.' barked Mr Levy.

‘Sit down? What for? I'm always behaving, always remembering my manners. And now I can't meet Chani because she hasn't been to sem! Loads of girls don't go – it's not such a big deal.' He was squawking now. He knew he sounded ridiculous but he didn't care. The words leapt from his throat, burning his larynx with their force.

Mrs Levy clutched her husband's arm. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak. ‘Please, Baruch, I know you are upset but try to understand – we want your best, we don't want to hurt you – '

‘My best? What would that be? To be a rabbi and marry some girl I don't even like? I don't even know if I want to be a rabbi.'

His father's head snapped back as if it had been jerked by a string.

‘Don't want?
Don't want?
What is this don't want? All your life I have provided for you, clothed you, fed you, LOVED YOU! And this is the thanks I get? Tssss . . . such a grateful son I have.'

His mother broke in. ‘Darling, I understand you're frustrated now – and disappointed. But sometimes we have to do the things we don't like in life – '

‘Like marry someone that you like and I don't?'

‘Baruch! That's enough!' bellowed Mr Levy. The magazines scattered as his father shoved the table out of the way. With a grunt, he was up on his feet, facing Baruch, poised to fight. He pointed a thick forefinger at his son.

‘Sit. Down.'

Baruch was beyond obeying orders but danced a step backwards just in case and lowered his tone.

‘No thanks, Dad. I'm fine where I am for the moment. Listen, I love and respect you both – but sometimes, I just feel – that I never get asked about what I really want – '

‘What do you want?' His mother spoke gently. Mr Levy sank back into the sofa, sensing a lull in the storm.

Baruch hung his head, hands loose at his sides. ‘I don't really know,' he said sadly. ‘But what I do know is if you won't let me meet Chani, I won't meet anyone else.'

 

Mr and Mrs Levy were lost. Their darling son was malfunctioning and they had no idea what to do. So they blamed each other.

‘I'd have let him meet the girl, if it hadn't been for your nagging.'

‘My nagging? Dovid – we agreed. She isn't right – so why are you blaming me now? Typical – it's always like this, something goes wrong and I get the blame – why can't you support me for once in our decisions?'

‘I always support you but maybe we were too impulsive – maybe we should have let them meet. What does it matter – sem no sem, money, no money?' Mr Levy airily waved away both impediments. He slumped bored and irritated in his chair.

‘Now you tell me! Now after he's not talking to us any more – '

‘How long can a boy be broiges for?'

‘Who knows? Who cares?' snapped Mrs Levy. A migraine threatened; a magenta cloud of pain hovered over her left eye. She willed it away.

‘I think we should let him meet her,' muttered Mr Levy, almost to himself. He took refuge behind a copy of the newspaper. His wife was staring at him; any harder and the newsprint would start smouldering. He cleared his throat, shook his wristwatch and stood up, avoiding her gaze.

‘Time to daven – '

‘A bit early for you, isn't it, darling?' enquired Mrs Levy.

He grunted and moved towards the door.

‘Dovid?'

‘Yes dear?' He tugged at the brim of his hat and plucked a prayer book from the shelf.

‘We haven't finished talking.'

‘I can't keep HaShem waiting.' He pulled at the door handle.

Mrs Levy, moving with a lithe and speedy grace, intercepted his progress and with a firm shove of her buttocks, ensured the door remained closed. Arms crossed, she glared at her husband.

‘I think HaShem will understand your delay. Why break a habit of a lifetime? Now where were we? You were saying that we should have let them meet.'

‘Oy, Berenice, will you give over? Just for a moment. He'll be out of his room before you know it.' Mr Levy yearned for the rumble of other men's voices, for the privacy of his prayer shawl, but his wife had turned into Medusa and he knew better than to meet her gaze.

Mrs Levy glowered from beneath her ginger wig. ‘Dovid, do you want our son to marry beneath him?'

‘All I am saying is . . .'

‘I'm waiting.' His wife kicked off her heels and lent back against the door, wriggling her toes deeper into the carpet.

‘It's really not so bad. She's probably a lovely girl and anyway – how do we know she'll want our great noodle of a son?'

‘Of course she'll want him! Who wouldn't want him?' sizzled Mrs Levy.

Mr Levy held his hat in his hands and lovingly stroked its brim. ‘Well, if I remember correctly, you weren't exactly overawed by me on our first shidduch . . .'

‘True, but I was won over eventually . . .'

‘By my gentlemanly charm?' He squinted up at his wife. A smile flickered across her lips. She pretended to swallow a yawn. He waggled his bushy eyebrows at her. Mrs Levy giggled.

‘Or by the size of my wallet?'

‘Stop it, Dovid. Be serious.'

‘I'm trying, but you're even more trying. Give the boy a chance. It'll probably all fall through – the more resistance you put up, the more attractive this girl seems to him. I say we contact Mrs Gelb­mann and get her to speak to the girl's mother and see what happens. Probably nothing will happen. And then we can move on.'

‘And if they like each other?'

‘So they like each other.'

‘Dovid, if they decide to get married and the rabbonim agree – we can't stop them. Think about it.'

‘I've thought about it. There'll never be a girl good enough for him in your eyes. You're a very picky woman.'

‘And so I should be.'

‘And so you should be. But remember how it was with Ilan? You rejected all Mrs Gelb­mann's suggestions, and that was not such a wise thing to do. People were starting to talk.'

‘So?'

‘So, sooner or later, no girl would have agreed to meet him. Baruch HaShem he met Dafna just in time. We don't live in a world of endless opportunity. It's a small community.'

‘But this is the first possible shidduch. He doesn't have to go on it.'

‘It's the first one he's wanted to go on.'

‘Right.'

‘He's as picky as his mother.'

‘And look what I ended up with.'

Mr Levy stuck out his bottom lip in mock offence. ‘You're not the only one suffering. Now would you please let me go daven?'

With a sigh, Mrs Levy shifted away from the door. Mr Levy squashed his hat back on and slipped out.

He plodded down the hall, overcome by sudden exhaustion.

‘Ok, I agree. Let them meet,' called Mrs Levy from inside the lounge.

Mr Levy grinned. He would daven for them all.

 

The kitchen door had been pushed to and Chani hovered outside, eavesdropping, a habit in which she excelled. The adult conversations from which she was barred often revealed nuggets of information that she would mull over in her quieter hours. The best ones occurred when her mother entertained a female guest from the kehilla. After being shooed out she would clomp down the hall only to scuttle back on nimble feet to lean against the door.

In that position she had learned a lot – about the rejections, the disappointments and the quiet rebellions that occurred so subtly they almost went by unnoticed. How they were absorbed, dealt with, quashed. Which esteemed son had dropped from favour; whose daughter complained of her bitter marriage; which rabbi had provoked uproar for his outspokenness.

The lives of those around her seemed to be coated in a smooth, soothing layer of conformity. Nobody appeared to transgress. Instead, they did as their neighbours did and hoped their behaviour was judged approvingly by their peers and most of all, by HaShem. Now and then though, the stillness of the pool was disturbed by the writhing of something dark and undesirable just below the surface.

Today's conversation was about her. She was draped listlessly across the living room sofa when the phone burst into life. Chani scrambled to her feet in hope that it was for her, but the kitchen door remained closed. So she lurked in the shadows as usual. Her mother greeted the caller with enthusiasm. As soon as her mother had finished the formalities, Chani tingled with anticipation. It was clear from her mother's hopeful tone that the caller was Mrs Gelb­mann.

A shidduch. It had to be. Mrs Gelb­mann would not call for any other reason. Chani strained to catch every word.

‘Yes Mrs Gelb­mann, she is still available.'

Her mother listened. Chani's heart beat like a drum.

‘Go ahead . . . mmm . . . mmm . . . no, I have not heard of them. They live where?'

‘That house on the corner? They must be very well-to-do.' Her mother gave one of her loud sniffs. ‘And what does this boy do? And what are his parents' plans for him for the future?' There was a pause. ‘Ok . . . sounds promising. Tall you say. Not too tall, I hope! Nobody wants a giant in the family! How old did you say? A little young perhaps, but if he's ready he's ready, B'srat HaShem. Now tell me, how did he – ' Her mother broke off. Chani itched to race upstairs and quietly pick up the extension in her parents' room, but she was glued to the spot, desperate not to miss a vital snippet.

‘He saw her
where?
' Her mother's exclamation startled Chani so much that she nearly fell through the door.

‘Mrs Gelbmann, let me tell you something, boys that look at girls like that are not for my daughter.'

Chani flinched in realisation. It was the boy at the wedding. Shulamis had been right! If only she had turned round and looked. There was no time for regret; her mother was speaking again.

‘Very well, Mrs Gelbmann, I hear you. Of course young men look but not so directly, nu? Mmm . . . really? Now that does make a difference. Or Yerushaliyim did you say?'

Or Yerushaliyim. Her heart sank. For most girls, ensnaring a top yeshiva student was considered a coup. Instead, Chani saw the yawning gap in knowledge and experience that would inevitably stretch between them. Why would a yeshiva bocher want a girl like her? She would feel lost. Or bored. Or both. And so would he.