The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (26 page)

March 1986 – Jerusalem

It was Purim and the narrow streets of Nachla'ot swarmed with people, many of whom were dressed in gaudy costumes. Even some of the younger more daring women had shed their usual sober attire and blossomed into glittering queens or angels. A witch jiggled a pram as a baby bawled inside. At every corner, drunken Hasidim danced in wild circles, some so intoxicated they had begun scribbling on each other's foreheads with marker pens. They reeled and plunged, caught up in a bacchic trance, swigging from hipflasks and wine bottles. Small boys soaked each other with water pistols or sprayed each other with foam. Girls shook noisemakers or beat on pots and pans. Whistles, squeals, laughter and car horns clashed to form an orchestra of merry discord – a soundtrack to the riotous explosion of pent-up energy that signalled the arrival of spring.

Dusk had fallen and a rainbow of festive lights swayed overhead. Chaim and Rivka strolled through the crowds, Rivka gripping Yitzchak's hand. Her husband was dressed as a clown, replete in a scarlet candyfloss wig, white grease paint and a red mouth. He wore stripy pantaloons and matching braces. Pinned to his over-sized lapel was a plastic flower that squirted water. He was tipsy, stumbling over his floppy yellow shoes. He sang and hiccupped, greeting acquaintances whilst trying to steer Yitzchak's buggy. Yitzchak had refused to sit in it. He was agog, eyes bulging with excitement, his little head turning this way and that, squealing and pointing in delight. He had insisted on being a clown too but had already lost his red plastic nose. He had quickly forgotten all about it and now he strained at the leash. Rivka pulled him up short.

‘Yitzchak! Stay with Mummy.'

‘Mummy, I wanna go see – see – '

‘Not now. We have to get to Shifra's for the party, please darling.'

The glitter on her face was making her cheeks itch. Her witch's hat was too large and its brim obscured her view. She could feel her stripy stockings sagging. She was hungry and her temples throbbed.

‘Hey, Rivka.'

She turned to see her friend, Dafna, dressed in a kimono. Her sheitel had been teased into a quiff and chopsticks stuck out of the back.

‘Hey, Dafna, how are you? Love the costume.'

‘Thanks – isn't it crazy out here today?'

‘Yup, everyone's gone totally meshuggah. We're on our way to a party at the Feingold's house. Come with us?'

‘I can't, I have to organise supper and Shaul's so drunk, he's bound not to come home till about two in the morning. Last year, he dressed up as the Queen and lost his sceptre. He curled up on the couch and cried himself to sleep – '

‘Same with Chaim. He usually comes home sobbing and then he wakes up in the worst mood, with the worst hangover. He doesn't remember a thing – and guess who has to clean him up, all the cuts and grazes – '

‘Same with us. I hear you. So where's Yitzchak today?'

He had been there a minute ago. Her hand was empty.

‘He was here – a second ago – Yitzchak!' She twisted away from Dafna, frantically pushing against the human tide.

‘
Yitzchak!
'

Chaim's painted face re-appeared anxious beneath the garish patterns.

‘Where's Yitzchak?' he demanded, his voice suddenly sober.

‘I don't know! I don't know! I had him, just here, a minute ago and then I saw Dafna.'

‘Yitzchaaaak!' Chaim yelled. They pushed through the crowd.

Suddenly she caught a glimpse of her son. He was tottering on the kerb mesmerised by an enormous yellow bird cavorting on the other side of the street. Its owner's legs were just visible beneath the feathers. Before she could reach him, Yitzchak had darted out from between two parked cars.

‘Yitzchak –
Yitzchak!
' Rivka tore through the crowds, tripping over her skirt, Chaim behind her. Brakes screeched and then there was a sickening crunch of metal.

In the middle of the road, a huddle of men, ordinary Israelis in their work-clothes. They spoke in urgent Hebrew, guttural and fierce. One was wailing. She reached them and thrust herself into their centre.

A small crumpled clown lay on the tarmac, inert.

She grabbed her son's body deaf to the protests of the men. She knew already.

A terrible scream rent the air. Arms grabbed her as she fell to the ground.

 

She was woken the next morning. They dressed her and ripped her garments for her; she had refused to do this herself. She sat slumped on her hospital bed as Chaim knelt at her feet to put on her shoes. Unseeing, unhearing she allowed herself to be led home.

The day was unusually oppressive. A white heat trembled over the dusty cemetery as the mourners stood in their black garb. Cyprus trees grew like charred fingers, motionless in the still air. Somehow Chaim stumbled through the Kaddish, horribly aware of the perverseness of having to read it for his son. Then the wailing began all around him. She swayed next to him, her parents holding her upright.

When the small body wrapped in its shroud slithered into the grave, all she had wanted was to throw herself in. To curl up in the cool, moist earth next to her son. To lie still and quiet as the earth fell on top of them, slowly covering them up forever.

 

The mourning period passed like a hellish dream. She huddled on a three-legged stool and allowed herself to be consoled by faceless visitors. The mirrors had been turned to face the wall. The house overflowed with mourners and vibrated with the sound of whispered prayers. People came day and night bearing warm pots of freshly cooked food. She did not eat. Her parents, who had flown in from England, sat next to her, ageing almost overnight. Her father looked ill and weak. Darkness engulfed her as she sat close to the ground, stinking and numb.

 

Over the following weeks the kehilla surrounded them. It carried them. Friends came to sit in silence and to weep. Neighbours cleaned their flat and the fridge was kept stocked. On Shabbes, they forced themselves to rise and attend shul but inwardly she raged. Only Chaim continued to daven.

Yehai shmai rabba m'vorakh l'olam ul'almai almaya.
May His great name be blessed forever and ever. Amen.

The chant echoed through her head. She mouthed the response but her heart was as empty as the cot in Yitzchak's room.

 

Slowly the visitors dwindled away and they were left to face their grief alone. The flat seemed vast. The old stone walls and high ceilings that had once concealed them from the heat now resounded with oppressive silence. There was nothing to talk about, nothing worth discussing, nothing that would fill the black void between them. Rivka had never felt so alone.

They ate in silence, sitting opposite each other, but avoiding eye contact. Yitzchak's high chair remained between them, drawn up to the table. Rivka still wiped it clean after every meal. She could not stop herself.

Everything reminded her of him. She could not bring herself to throw out or give away his clothes or toys. His little coat hung with theirs on the coat rack. His scribbled pictures still graced the fridge. And when she entered his room, it always seemed for a heartbeat that he was there, asleep in his bed; a small huddled mound, a smooth dark head on the pillow. She imagined she could hear his gentle breathing.

They avoided the road where he had died; taking a long detour was preferable. She did not see Dafna any more. And sometimes when they walked in the streets they saw a child who for a breathless moment looked just like Yitzchak, making them falter and stare. Or they would hear another child prattling, the sound so desperately familiar that her heart would lurch.

Their lives continued in a hollow, meaningless fashion. Chaim continued to study at yeshiva but he had lost his passion for learning. Rivka tried to study but she could not focus. Nothing really mattered to her. Not even HaShem. She had stopped davening and did not go to shul. Only Shabbes retained its power over her; she could not bring herself to break its laws.

At night they clung to each other as if the bed was a liferaft and they were the sole survivors of a shipwreck. They did not make love. In the morning, their pillows were sodden. They woke dry-eyed to another empty day, the same as the one before. There was no need to separate their bed for her periods had stopped. She was rake thin. The clock had stopped inside her, sterility mirroring the vacancy at her core.

A year passed and they erected his headstone. They did not speak about him but he was always there, invisible and silent. His absence was so palpable it had taken his shape so that if she concentrated hard enough she could feel him. A pudgy hand clasped her own. Silky hair slipped through her fingers.

She had to get away.

 

One afternoon, Chaim came home to a stack of suitcases standing in the hall.

‘Rivka?' he called.

She was in their bedroom dragging clothes off hangers and throwing them onto the bed.

‘What are you doing?' he asked.

She did not reply. Instead, she yanked at drawers, freeing them from their runners, tipping their contents into a case.

‘Rivka!' he protested. But she would not stop. She marched into their bathroom and swept the toiletries off the shelf. She burnt with purpose.

Chaim grabbed her by the shoulders and swung her to face him. ‘What's going on?' he demanded.

‘We're leaving. I can't stand this place any more. There's nothing left for us here. We have to go back. I'll go alone, if you don't want to come with me,' she said. She looked him full in the eye and he saw that she meant it.

He paused, thinking it through. He sat down heavily on their bed amongst their things. She continued to sort and chuck; bottles clinked and thumped as they hit the bin.

‘You're right,' he said. ‘I guess there's nothing left.'

She came back into the bedroom and stood over him. ‘We – I – need to get away. We could start over, perhaps? I need England, my parents. Home. Less memories.'

‘Yes. I see that.'

‘I've booked us onto a flight. It leaves tomorrow evening. We can sell or rent out this flat.'

Chaim looked shell-shocked. As she knew he would. After all, she hadn't even consulted him.

‘Ok,' he said slowly.' And do you think we'll come back?'

‘No,' she said tersely. ‘I won't,' she added quickly.

‘So it's final then?'

‘For me, yes. What you do is your decision.'

He gazed up at her. ‘Do you want me to come with you?'

She paused. She didn't know any more. Their marriage felt broken in its emptiness. But he was still her husband and Yitzchak had been his son too.

‘Yes.'

And that was it. They fled Jerusalem, leaving Yitzchak in his dusty little grave. They buried their pain deep inside and tried to move on.

 

In London soft grey drizzle replaced the harsh light that had punished the eye and scalded the skin. People were polite, patient and spoke in her mother tongue. Red brick surrounded them instead of ancient bleached stone. Everything was green, lush and damp.

The mild English community supported them with quiet stoicism. They sold their flat in Jerusalem and bought a small house with help from their parents. Chaim qualified as a junior rabbi and started to work under the auspices of an older experienced rabbi. Rivka kept house. Her mother visited her daily. They went for walks and with time the familiar soothed and a rhythm was established.

When she fell pregnant with Avromi she felt as if she had woken and for the first time in two years she began to hope again. She davened with renewed fervour and passion, covering her face with her open siddur as the gratitude spilled forth.

October 2008 – London

Their strange conversation had taken place three days before, but Chani still felt haunted. She wished there was someone with whom she could share the burden of the Rebbetzin's revelation, but, respecting the Rebbetzin's wishes, she had kept it to herself.

The Rebbetzin welcomed her for the next lesson as if nothing had happened. An eerie serenity wreathed her features, although the glazed look in her large, dark eyes reminded Chani alarmingly of her mother, the difference in size of the two women notwithstanding.

‘Do come in Chani,' murmured the Rebbetzin. She stood stiffly in the doorway dressed in the same dark suit as before. A headscarf pulled her forehead taut.

‘Thank you. How are you feeling Rebbetzin Zilberman?' Was this the right question to ask?

‘Baruch HaShem. And you?'

‘Baruch HaShem, I'm ok, thanks.' Chani perched on the edge of the lumpy sofa and waited for the Rebbetzin to set the agenda.

‘So today we are going to talk about hair covering,' said the Rebbetzin, her gaze glued to a spot on the wall above Chani's head.

‘Is it true that Jewish women that dress immodestly are responsible for sin in the world?'

The Rebbetzin frowned. A heavy line etched the skin between her brows, but her glassy stare was fixed on Chani. ‘Who told you that?' she asked.

‘Oh, school. It was in a video. But it sounds like rubbish to me.' She watched the Rebbetzin for a reaction. She wanted a reaction. Where was the fire and intensity of last week? Where was the real Rebbetzin? The connection had been lost. Having spent all week worrying, she found she missed it.

‘I wouldn't call it that exactly. But maybe it is going a little far. A Jewish woman must speak, eat and dress modestly as it is said in the Torah,' recited the Rebbetzin. ‘So must a man. It is immoral to do otherwise. But it is more important for a woman that she does not expose herself by wearing something improper that is considered fashionable by others. Chani, you know as well as I do that fads are not for us. So once married, we cover our hair because our hair is a symbol of our sensuality and beauty, something another man may find alluring. But in front of your husband, when you are alone, is another matter.'

‘So, what happens when a husband and wife are alone together?'

Chani suddenly felt very warm. She dropped her eyes to her lap and waited. The woman was gazing softly at her.

‘Chani, I know you need to know. I know how scared you are. It's ok. But I can't answer that question. I wish I could but I am not your mother. You will find out soon enough. It won't be as bad as you think. Just try to relax and enjoy the intimacy you will soon share with your husband.'

It won't be as bad as you think! She was doomed.

‘Why can't anyone tell me? I've tried my mother already. No one tells me the truth. It's not fair.' She heard her own whining voice and was ashamed. She hated grovelling.

‘A husband enters his wife and places his seed inside her.'

Nothing new there. She was getting nowhere. ‘Yes but how?'

‘How what?' The Rebbetzin played for time whilst she thought of an appropriate reply. This was more than she was used to. The other girls had never dared to ask such questions, allowing her to gloss over the details. ‘When the time comes, you'll find out.'

‘But I need to know now.'

‘You don't need to know everything. Trust in HaShem. Trust in Baruch. What will happen will happen naturally. And it will be okay.'

Chani gazed down at her siddur and rolled her eyes. It will be okay! Even the Rebbetzin was not telling her the whole truth. And to think the Rebbetzin had been so open about her own life last week. Chani had expected more honesty from her. Sensing, however, that it would be wise not to pursue her quest further, Chani relented.

‘And if HaShem blesses you, this seed will create a child within you.'

The Rebbetzin's voice cracked. Chani glanced anxiously up at her.

‘And hopefully you will have many children. B'srat HaShem.'

‘But I don't want lots of children!' blurted Chani.

The Rebbetzin swallowed noisily and fished a tissue from her sleeve.

Oh no not again, thought Chani.

‘You'll be lucky to have them,' whispered the Rebbetzin, pulling the tissue to pieces.

‘I'm sorry, Rebbetzin Zilberman – I should have thought – '

‘It's not your fault . . .'

‘It's just that you don't know what it's like.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘To be one of many. It can be sheer . . . hell.'

The Rebbetzin shifted in her seat.

‘Sorry, I shouldn't have said that.'

‘You obviously needed to.'

‘Yes. I think I did. When you have lots of siblings, you can get lost in the crowd. My parents simply don't have time for me any more. I don't meant to belittle your loss by saying this, but Rebbetzin Zilberman, it can be really hard on the kids, let alone the parents.'

‘I know. I mean I can imagine,' muttered the Rebbetzin. She sighed. ‘I wouldn't have let that happen though.' She had seen the grey faces of the women who had large broods, witnessed the chaos of their homes but she had never heard a child's opinion on the matter. Still, she would have given her eye's teeth to have had all her children alive and healthy. Five would have been perfectly manageable. But eight? Nine? Or even twelve like the Krupniks? Sometimes it seemed that these couples were breeding competitively for the sheer kudos of having multiple offspring.

‘That's what they all think. But then the babies just take over and it is impossible to give each child an equal share of attention or affection. And the older ones take the strain. I take the strain.'

‘Yes, it must be tough,' conceded the Rebbetzin.

‘Sometimes my mother doesn't even notice I am there. I don't meant to speak badly of her though – ' she added hurriedly.

‘Of course not. You're not, Chani,' said the Rebbetzin.

‘It's just that when she had the last one, Yona, it was really too much for her. They had hoped it might be a boy after so many girls. So the disappointment nearly broke her. It was really frightening. I felt like I had lost my mother. It was as if she had disappeared into herself for a while.'

The Rebbetzin sighed. She knew how that felt. She thought of Mrs Kaufman, her martyr's smile, her air of resignation, and the envy she had tried to suppress eased a little. Her thoughts returned like a scratched record to her own empty womb.

‘I think I want just four kids. Then I could give them all the love and attention that I missed out on. My parents did their best by us all but some days it's just not enough. Sometimes I just want them to notice me more and listen to me and only me. Spend time just with me. I know they love me. It's just impossible to give so many children the same amount of love. Mum hasn't got it easy. Some days she doesn't know what's flying. When two of them need to go and the baby is screaming and Chayale is demanding that you check her homework and supper needs to be ready . . . and then there's the washing to sort . . . and I've got a coursework essay to finish . . . So I've decided.' She felt a little better now. It was good to talk to someone who was prepared to listen even if she did not supply all the answers.

‘We can't choose Chani.'

‘I thought there were ways.'

The Rebbetzin sensed she was entering dangerous territory. She did not want the wrath of Mrs Kaufman on her head. The woman was large.

‘That is something for you to discuss with Baruch and your rabbi. Now let's turn to page two hundred and fourteen in your bride's siddur and let's discuss which psalms and blessings you are going to recite leading up to your wedding,' she said as firmly as she could.

Defeated, Chani bent her head to the task. Inside, the frustration surged but there was nothing she could do to quash it.

 

She could not remember how long she had been sitting there. Chani had left hours ago. The Rebbetzin stood up, joints clicking. The children were playing next door, their muffled shrieks and thumps coming through the thin plasterboard wall. It was nearly supper time. Chaim would be home soon. For the first time since the miscarriage she needed him. It was time. They had to talk about Yitzchak. She needed to exhume the sacred memory of their first son in order to move on. She could no longer deal with the old pain alone. This second loss had sparked a painful renewal of all that had been buried deep in her heart. It was no way to live.

First she would cook his favourite dish. Slow cooked lamb, golden, crusty potatoes and a cabbage and sesame salad. Gripped by a new urgency, she rummaged inside cupboards and pulled out her pots and pans. She stirred and poured, sliced and fried, her mind whirring, sifting through words, selecting the right ones.

 

Chaim had just drawn the bedroom curtains. He shrugged off his jacket and was hanging it up. She sat at her dressing table rubbing cream into her hands.

‘Chaim, I've been thinking a lot recently about – ' she began. Her voice trembled.

‘Tell me.' He sat down on the bed behind her relieved she was talking. Their eyes met in the mirror.

‘About Yitzchak.'

He dropped his gaze and stared down at the rumpled duvet. She could not read his expression. His silence perturbed her but she pushed on.

‘I just think that it would be a good idea to – considering what we have been through recently – well, I just feel that – that it's time to talk about him. Remember him. He may not be here any more but he still exists in our minds and our hearts . . . well, he does in mine,' she finished.

Chaim said nothing. She waited. The seconds stretched into eternity. She began to feel uneasy. She shouldn't have mentioned him. Her hands moved restlessly over each other until they were sticky with friction.

He stood up and walked to the door. ‘I don't want to talk about Yitzchak,' he said, each word precisely enunciated.

‘But after what's happened, I can't stop thinking about him. It's a sign, don't you see?'

‘No, I don't.' His tone was almost nonchalant. It stung her like a slap.

She twisted on her stool to face him. ‘But why not? Why can't we talk about our son after all these years?' She was pleading now.

‘Because I don't want to.' He moved towards the door.

‘Please,' she whispered. ‘I need to.'

‘I don't.' He wheeled around to face her, his eyes blazing. ‘I don't want to bring up the past. It's done and dusted. Haven't we got enough to deal with, what with Avromi and that girlfriend of his? And with you being so depressed after the recent mis – our loss?' He couldn't bring himself to say the ugly word.

‘But don't you see? It's the same thing. We've lost two now. We had a child a long time ago – we called him Yitzchak – he was our firstborn.'

‘Stop, Rivka! Just stop.' Chaim's hands were over his ears. Suddenly aware that the children had gone to bed, he dropped his voice. ‘I don't want to talk about it. I just can't.'

She stared at him in pity. At that moment she found him pathetic, cowardly. His shirt was undone and his braces swung from his waist. His hair stood in tufts around his skullcap. He looked feeble and worn.

‘It may help if we could just face the past. I'd feel better.' One last try.

‘I'm sorry, Rivka. It's too much for me right now. I'm tired of all our troubles.'

‘Ok, then.'

‘Ok.'

He left the room and shut the door. Rivka sat and stared at herself in the mirror, a wave of fury churning inside.

 

He knew as soon as he had left the room that he had been in the wrong. He had let her down again. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just be a mensch and talk to her? Chaim stood on the landing, lost once again in the wavering realm of indecision that he seemed to have entered on the night of his wife's miscarriage. He turned towards their bedroom door, his hand outstretched towards the door handle.

But he did not feel like raking up the past. The truth was he could not face it. It was all such an effort. He wanted to move on, to forget the recent miscarriage and the painful hullaballoo of Avromi's transgression. He wanted things to return to the way they had been. He wanted his wife back. He wanted to hold her and caress her, make her laugh, bury his face in her hair, in her skin. Talk like they used to. But when was the last time that happened, even prior to the miscarriage? Chaim could not remember.

He braced himself, fumbling for the right words to form an apology. Then he thought of the abyss in which he had buried all his memories of Yitzchak, and let his hand drop. Chaim stood still, listening for a sound from within, but the bedroom was silent. Then he went downstairs. Snatching his coat and hat, he stepped out into the night. He needed the sanctity of his office, where he could think clearly without distraction. It was almost midnight. The building would be quiet and empty. Chaim quickened his pace, his shoes tapping smartly against the pavement.

It was a peaceful night, cool and moist. Puddles gleamed against the kerb like miniature oil fields. Inside the modest houses lining both sides of the street, lights glowed and here and there, a human silhouette strode from room to room. The cars stood motionless in their bays, their windows and bodywork covered in a fine mist.

Without warning, a memory swam to the surface and broke through to shatter the calmness of the night. He was carrying Yitzchak on a silver tray. The tray was heavy and awkward and he remembered feeling anxious that he would drop his son before he reached Rabbi Yochanan. Yitzchak was a month old. He mewled and dribbled, his little hands reaching for Chaim whilst his soft, tender feet kicked at the air.

He proceeded with caution, his knuckles white with the effort of gripping the handles and bearing his son aloft. On either side, family and friends stood watching, smiling encouragement. Some of the men were davening. The women stood nearer the back but Rivka stood next to the rabbi. She was grinning at him proudly. Rabbi Yochanan leant against the table patiently. He held a prayer book in his hands and swayed lightly on the balls of his feet, his fleshy, wrinkled face grave and attentive beneath his hat.