The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (3 page)

How could she bleed from down there each month? The thought was making him nauseous.

 

***

 

Two days before the wedding. Chani washed, combed, brushed and scrubbed herself raw. Sitting in the little cabin, she waited for the light to go on above the door. The bathroom was a delight. Immaculately clean, its surfaces gleamed, unlike the one at home. The walls were painted pastel pink. Matching pink towels lay neatly folded on a heated rail. There had even been a brand new toothbrush and a fresh tube of kosher toothpaste, a mini pack of earbuds, a nail file and a pair of nail scissors and tweezers. All laid out just for her.

That morning Chani had performed her last internal check just as Rebbetzin Zilberman, the Rabbi's wife, had instructed. The soft bedikah cloth had remained brilliant white. Not a drop of blood. She was ready for the mikveh, the ritual bath.

The Rebbetzin had accompanied her and was waiting in reception. Chani examined the framed notice on the wall:

 

Before beginning cleaning preparations remove:

a) jewellery

b) false teeth, dental plates (for temporary caps ask your Rabbi)

c) false eyelashes

d) bandages, plasters

e) make up

f) nail polish

Then cut and file nails of hands and feet. Brush teeth, floss, rinse mouth and use the toilet (if necessary).

Then bathe and shower before immersion. Check and remove any dried blood or pus, dried milk from nipples, remnants of dough, nits or lice, splinters or scabs, ink or paint.

 

Chani was pretty sure she did not have any lice or dried milk on her. Wrapped in a fluffy towel, her hair streamed as she sat on the edge of the bath. Under her breath she recited the prayer prior to tevilah – immersion.

May my husband's eyes look only towards me and my eyes look only towards him . . . may my husband consider himself more blessed because of me than of any other blessing in the world . . .

She imagined that behind the doors of the other cubicles, there were young brides waiting like her. It was impossible to know. It was one woman at a time in the mikveh.

Bing! The light went on. Chani leapt to her feet, checked that the towel was secure and opened the door. Outside, the mikveh pool shimmered invitingly. Its deep blue waters rippled, reflections glinting on the white ceiling and against the white tiled walls. It was larger than she had imagined. The pool was about ten feet long and seven feet deep. It filled the bare room.

‘Hellooo dalink, open your towel and let me check you.'

Chani jumped. Behind her stood The Mikveh Lady. She was a wizened nut of a woman. Her hair was wrapped in a faded blue headscarf. She wore wooden clogs and navy tights. Her smile was warm and honest but her eyes were as sharp as needles.

Chani opened her towel. The Mikveh Lady gazed intently at every part of her body.

‘Vat a sweet leetl brite you are,' cooed The Mikveh Lady. Chani felt ridiculous. All her life she had hidden her nakedness from prying eyes and now here she was, her body being scrutinised by a total stranger.

The Mikveh Lady asked her to turn so as to check for any strand of hair that might have been shed and clung to her back.

‘Nails, dalink?'

Chani presented her hands for inspection. The Mikveh Lady held them and examined each ragged crescent. Then she flipped them over and peered at her palms.

‘Feet?' Chani held each foot up.

‘And have you combed your hair down there?' asked The Mikveh Lady.

Chani was not sure what on earth could be hiding in the hair down there, so she nodded dutifully.

‘Ok zen, my dalink, in you go. Sock yourself vell, my dear. Immerse yourself fully.'

Three steps, then two strokes and she was in the middle of the pool. The water was warm. She sank down and it closed, womb-like, over her head. Her heart thudded in her ears. Rising to the surface, she could see two dark, watery shapes standing by the edge of the mikveh. She burst through and gulped a lungful of air. When she opened her eyes, she saw Rebbetzin Zilberman smiling down at her. Next to her stood The Mikveh Lady, smiling the same ecstatic smile.

Chani clamped her hands over her meagre breasts. She had not expected the Rebbetzin to come in and watch. A small bubble shot out from behind her. She prayed that the Rebbetzin had not noticed.

The Rebbetzin spoke softly.

‘Chani, you need to immerse yourself three times and then recite the blessing. Don't touch the walls to push yourself under because your palms will not be fully purified. Spread your fingers and toes as wide as you can. Let the water wash every crevice. Ready?'

Chani nodded and sank deep into the mikveh. She knew that when a woman prays underwater, her prayer flies to HaShem immediately. She hung suspended in time and space, her limbs spread-eagled, the water entering every fold. She opened her eyes. The water did not sting. It was pure and natural.

Please HaShem don't let it hurt on my wedding night. Please HaShem make it easy and quick.

She dipped twice more. Finally she rose to the surface and recited the blessing. Reborn. She was ready to be married.

November 2008 – London

Another day. Another immersion. Another new bride.

The Rebbetzin and Chani walked to the end of the alley alongside the railway arches. Above them, the sky was a tumultuous blanket of grey and a chill wind whipped their long skirts into tangled knots. At the end of an unremarkable suburban street was a small industrial zone housing a mechanics' workshop and a car park. Right at the end, stood the low, flat mikveh building. Concealed, unobtrusive, no sign announced its presence but the women of the community knew where it was and valued its private location.

‘So maybe you could give Baruch a little gift on your wedding night, a token to mark the start of your new life together?'

‘Like what?'

‘A small box of chocolates or some new cufflinks? Or a new leather siddur with his name embossed onto it?'

‘Why would I need to give him anything when he's getting me? Aren't I enough?'

‘I'm sure you're plenty, Chani – I'm only making a suggestion.'

The Rebbetzin was smiling but she had seen the fear in the girl's eyes. It was easy to spot. She had taught many girls how to count the nights and the days, how to prepare themselves for the mikveh. Even the ones who were terrified of water, who could not swim – eventually they too had succumbed. And it had been fine. More than fine. The brides would emerge dreamy-eyed and smiling softly, the water pouring off their pale, smooth skin, their thighs pressing together modestly below the dark triangle of hair.

But Chani was different. She lacked the bovine passivity typical of many of the other girls. She was needy for answers but the Rebbetzin was not sure it was her place to supply them. She thought about Mrs Kaufman, Chani's mother. She hadn't been surprised when the woman had called to say she couldn't make it today. Mrs Kaufman had breathlessly explained that the youngest daughter had fallen down the stairs and needed to go to hospital – please could The Rebbetzin accompany Chani to the mikveh without her? Chani had arrived subdued, the disappointment reflected in her eyes.

And who would answer Chani's questions now? The Rebbetzin decided to speak. It was her duty. ‘Chani, it will hurt a bit the first time, but let it happen. Try to relax, breathe deep and slow. With time, your relations will get better. It's a whole new world for both of you. But a man's needs often outweigh the woman's. When you are niddah, you can rest. Still a woman can take great pleasure in her husband too, explore each other . . .'

The Rebbetzin had said too much and felt embarrassed. Chani was staring at her. She couldn't read the girl's expression. In the gloom of the railway arch, Chani's eyes gleamed. A train tore through the air above them. The Rebbetzin thanked HaShem for the welcome distraction.

They continued in silence, each deep in her thoughts. The Rebbetzin thought about Baruch. A talented yeshiva bocher and quite a catch. A little neurotic, it had to be said, but which boy isn't? He was friendly with Avromi, her eldest. They had gone to the same school, the same class in fact. Baruch came from a fine wealthy family. His parents were regular members at her husband's shul. It was also a healthy family on the whole. A little diabetes on the paternal side, but who doesn't have a little diabetes these days? On the other hand, Chani's family was of a poorer yet worthy lineage; full of tzadikkim and therefore more traditional in its leaning. But too many daughters alas. Poor Mrs Kaufman, what a headache it must be to find them all husbands. How she must have longed for a son.

The Rebbetzin had been a little surprised at the shidduch. Not only were there differences in familial background, Chani was not the malleable sort of daughter-in-law Mrs Levy had in mind. To begin with, Chani had not attended sem although in the Rebbetzin's opinion that was not an insurmountable issue. It had rankled with Mrs Levy, however. Chani was also spirited and had had a certain reputation at school, but then it was easy for any lively, curious girl to be branded in that way by the community. So why did Baruch choose her?

She was bemused that his parents had finally agreed to the match. The Rebbetzin knew that Mrs Levy had been dead against it. Had they been persuaded by Mrs Gelb­mann? The woman was a shrewd matchmaker and rarely made a mistake. Perhaps she knew of a suitable girl for Avromi. A good, haimisher girl from the right sort of family. Yes, that was exactly what was needed. Or was it too late for that already? Was he beyond that sort of girl now? Her mood grew darker as she thought of her confused, lost son.

They passed the garage and as usual the mechanics were gawping at them. Two frum women in their dowdy clothes, their long, dark skirts hobbling them. Chani's wet hair had left a stain across the back of her jacket. How did they look to the outside world? To men who were used to seeing female flesh from every angle? The Rebbetzin pulled her cardigan tightly around her, crossed her arms and walked swiftly on. She held her head high, not looking to the left or right. Let them stare. There was nothing to see.

They stopped at the end of the residential road. The Rebbetzin gently embraced Chani. ‘Call me before Shabbes if there's anything you need,' she said.

‘But I'll see you on Sunday, won't I?'

The Rebbetzin pulled back holding Chani at arm's length. She examined the small, bedraggled creature in front of her.

‘Of course, I'll be there. Now stop worrying and try to enjoy these last couple of days at home with your family. I'm here if you need me, Chani.'

And then they had gone their separate ways. The Rebbetzin walked slowly up Golders Green High Street. She felt like a fraud, having not been to the mikveh for months. She had her reasons. The attendant had stared at her stomach but the Rebbetzin had worn her loosest, darkest clothes. They flapped around her, turning her into a giant crow. Let her think what she likes.

The roar of traffic engulfed her. A Hasid dressed in sobre black like a spectre from the Polish past, gabbled Yiddish into his mobile and dodged between two red buses, his woollen stockings winking as he hurried along. A bus driver slammed on his brakes and thumped his horn. The Hasid ignored him, hopped onto the kerb and began to weave his way expertly along the crowded pavement, still talking furiously as his ear locks swayed in rhythm with his pecking gait. In his right hand, he clutched a plastic bag bulging with pastries or pickled herring. He looked downwards, avoiding female eye contact, hurrying, hurrying, because there is never enough time in the day to do all that HaShem commands.

The world of the goyim passed him by regardless. Some stared a little, but most of the non-Jews were used to the be-hatted, be-wigged members of the Charedi community living in their midst. The Rebbetzin watched him disappear into a Judaica shop. Two Japanese women stopped to talk in the doorway of a Chinese restaurant. Behind them, headless, plump Peking ducks sat on their skewers, gleaming in all their non-kosher glory under the hot lamps. An elderly African man, bundled into a navy wool coat, pushed a wicker shopping basket past a Big Issue seller who stood numb with boredom and despair, against the sleek, dark glass of a pizzeria. She entered the Jewish home stretch.

Past the little kosher cafes. Past Carmelli's the baker's. Inside, people were pushing and shoving, handing money over the counter in exchange for plastic bags bulging with sweet, warm bread or poppy seed bagels. The door opened releasing a doughy fug. Cinammon rogellach, syrupy baklavas, doughnuts oozing jam, marzipan rolls, crisp florentines, giant macaroons each with its own cherry nipple. The trays were emptying fast. In a few hours, the stampede would disappear leaving till receipts and greasy napkins to clog the gutter. It was Friday and that meant only one thing.

Shabbes. It was due in six hours and the Rebbetzin had done nothing in preparation. And Shabbes waits for no man or woman. On the seventh day HaShem ceased from all work and blessed the seventh day and declared it holy – a day of rest. Shabbes. It would arrive at precisely 4:12 pm. At 4:13 pm, she would no longer be able to flick a switch. Even this was considered work. She had ten people to feed, five of them guests. She hadn't even made the chollahs. There were a few honey-coloured plaited loaves left. Should she buy two?

The goyim dawdled by, unaware of the mounting pressure their fellow Jewish citizens were under. The women were already in the kitchens preparing for the evening feast. A gaggle of schoolgirls dawdled past, chattering, laughing, avoiding the inevitable list of chores that would be mounting up at home upon their return. She walked on and crossed the street. She nodded to fleeting acquaintances. The rush of Shabbes filled the air. Past Yarok the grocer's, where the fruit shone in obscene shapes, the brilliant colours tempting a long queue of customers. The carrots were giant fingers, heaped in a barrel. She needed potatoes and onions for the cholent but she did not stop.

Kosher Kingdom beckoned. The supermarket window was full of neon offers. She had neither any Kiddush wine left for the blessing nor any kneidele for the chicken soup. Instead the Rebbetzin turned into her small road. She padded down the quiet street. The privet hedge hid her from view, but she felt the eyes watching her receding back. The net curtains twitched. There goes the Rebbetzin Zilberman the mouths muttered. Let them mutter. The bins overflowed, the front gardens were a jungle or ugly bare squares of practical concrete. Elms shorn of their foliage spread amputated limbs skywards provided the only relief from the greyness of the pavements and the repetition of humble semis. The houses sagged against each other. No one really cared about appearances here. Who had the time or the energy when there were so many more important things to do?

Her front door banged shut. The house seemed to wrap itself around her, hold her in its dark corridors and soothe her with its familiar smell. It was hers for now; her husband was in his office at shul and Michal and Moishe had not returned from school. She had no idea where Avromi might be. She quashed the familiar flicker of anxiety. She would worry about him later.

Peace. Silence. The house sighed as she kicked off her shoes and stalked through the hall in her stockinged feet. Each step left a faint, sweaty print on the dusty wooden floor.

After the darkness of the hall, the sunlight in the kitchen blinded her. She squinted against the glare. The fridges hummed their usual tunes. The meat freezer clicked and gurgled. Meat to the left. Milk to the right. The meat fridge gleamed silver, the milk fridge blazed white. In their separate cupboards the pots and plates lined up like opposing troops ready to be mobilised. The meat plates had gold scalloped edges whilst their enemies in the milk camp, bivouacked in pale green. In separate cutlery drawers, the foot soldiers slept uneasily. The dairy spoons were stacked one on top of the other secure in their own tray. In the darkness next door the meat knives glinted knowing their turn would come.

She opened the meat fridge. The huge chicken leered at her; its gaping hole a mocking mouth.

Roast me!
Eat me!
screeched the mouth.

‘Roast yourself,' muttered The Rebbetzin and slammed the fridge door.

Her wig itched. Where was her knitting needle? She needed to poke about and give her hot, tight scalp a good scratch. She thumped upstairs, her feet registering the threadbare carpet through the gossamer of her stockings, her hand sliding up the chipped banister.

The bedroom was a mess. It smelt of morning breath and apathy. One sock here, one sock there – her husband had been too tired to dump them in the laundry basket. Yesterday's skirt lay in a crumpled circle on the floor. The curtains were still drawn. In places, the heavy material had come off its hooks and sagged unevenly. Fingers of daylight stretched across the ceiling. She yanked back the curtains and shoved open a window.

Better. She could breathe.

The wardrobe yawned open. Her husband's suits swung gently on their hangers. She gave them a push making them dance like merry Hasidim at a wedding. All black, all the same cut. Her husband had thrown out his navy pinstripe, his charcoal grey and summer linen years ago.

The Rebbetzin sighed. There was no change on her side of the wardrobe. As usual the same long, drab skirts lined up in a thrilling variation of navy, black or dove-grey. Her shoes sat in obedient pairs underneath; they were all the same soft black Italian loafers; save for one white pair for the summer. The Rebbetzin sighed for all the shoes she used to wear. Vicious winkle-pickers with their brilliant silver buckles, red patent stilettos that had crippled her, brash yellow trainers with neon green laces, squidgy flip-flops and wobbly cork platforms.

The dressing table was squashed up against the bay window. Her wigs rested on their stands; each a hard white faceless balloon. She sat at the mirror. It reflected their bed, a huge mahogany wonder that divided into two single beds for when she was niddah. The bed parted silently rolling on greased wheels. The heavy mattress hid a zip that could not be felt when done up. It had been a wedding present from her parents. She had been overwhelmed at their generosity as a bed such as this one must have cost a few thousand. Their understanding had also moved her for theirs did not separate.

The bed had remained in half for weeks and the pine chest of drawers deliberately placed in between was covered in a thin layer of dust.

 

***

 

Several weeks ago. Tiny kicks. All day long. The Rebbetzin was forty-four and she knew this child would be her last. Her pregnancy had been a gift. After Moishe she had thought it impossible. His body had ripped its way through her and she had believed the damage had done its worst. For a time, being barren had seemed a relief until the old longing had returned sharper than before and had remained unanswered for many long years. Yet here she was, her stomach rising once more like dough in a tin. The old stretch marks tautening like rubber bands. The joy swelled her heart, softening the lines on her face, her smile a beacon. She had pushed the old fear away, the tearing and clawing at her insides, the splitting open of her body. It had been like dying.