The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (7 page)

‘What are you thinking about – I mean, are you thinking about Sunday?'

This was a first. Her words were crisp and clear. Baruch paused, gathering his thoughts, preparing an honest, if somewhat abridged, censored and acceptable answer.

‘I guess I'm a little nervous – obviously Sunday means things will change forever for both of us and I think if HaShem allows it, the change will hopefully be for the better. In fact, I can't stop thinking about Sunday . . . how about you?'

‘Um, the same . . . yes, it's a little scary, isn't it?'

Come on Chani, say more. Baruch willed her to go on. ‘Yes it is. May I ask what scares you the most? Is it not knowing me very well?'

The-wedding-night-the-wedding-night-the – wedding-night. The words revolved in her mind like a washing machine stuck on spin cycle. The engine of the bus seemed to throb to their rhythm.

But of course she couldn't say them. ‘B'srat HaShem, all will be well. I will daven for both of us tonight so that HaShem may bless us and keep us, and ensure that our hasanah goes to plan – ' she trailed off, the fraudulence of these bland sentiments preventing her from continuing.

‘Amen,' said Baruch. Well, what else was he supposed to say? He had tried. His heart sank. Was she so frum that the barriers would never come down between them?

‘Baruch, yes, I'm scared, actually I'm terrified – I can't sleep and I can't eat – ' gabbled Chani.

She had revealed too much. The poise she had tried to cultivate lay in tatters. This was not how it was done. But there was a sense of relief in her, a welcome unburdening.

‘I'm the same – exactly the same – so don't worry – it's both of us – I haven't sleep well for weeks actually – well, since I met you – '

Chani smiled. The doubts still perturbed her, but his confession, although exuberant, had charmed her. ‘I have to go now, gotta get off here – I will see you in shul on Sunday, Baruch and . . . it was nice talking to you. I feel better now.'

‘So do I, Chani. Good Shabbes and get some sleep. See you on Sunday then . . . well, I guess . . .  that's it for now!' His voice squeaked a little.

‘Good Shabbes to you too. Yes, see you Sunday.'

 

Chani leapt off the bus as the doors squealed behind her. She scurried around the edge of Hendon Park, along Queens Road, praying she wouldn't bump into him. Her road could be reached down a small, damp alleyway. Pulling up her hood, she plunged into the safety of damp, overhanging yew, skilfully skirting the dog mess. It was time for afternoon prayers. She would be home in a few minutes.

If Baruch had turned around he may have seen a small, drab figure disappear down the shortcut on the opposite side of the street. However, even if he had seen her, he probably would not have recognised her as the girl that was to be his wife. She would have been an indistinct feminine blur. His glasses brought the world closer to him, but it was never close enough.

He did not turn around. He remained deep in thought, hands in his pockets as he leant against his bike. The bike was propped up against an old chestnut tree. At his feet lay yellowing spiky husks, their empty shells still waxy inside, as the last conkers lay brilliant amongst the rotting leaves.

October and November 2008 – London

In the first few days afterwards, waking was the only time the Rebbetzin felt alive. In those hazy moments she believed her belly still to be full. But then she would blink awake to the emptiness inside her. When the bitter reality set in, the dreams began. She was pushing a pram down Brent Street, her baby cooing at her from within. But when she looked down at him, all she could see was blood, dark and viscous, filling the pram to the brim.

The Rebbetzin moved in a daze, her body carrying out its usual functions but food had no taste and sleep gave no relief. Her hands busied themselves with her daily chores but she could not pray. The words stuck in her throat. She tried to read her siddur but it gave her no comfort.

Her husband was a constant reminder of her loss. She ignored him when he called her name. He had used to kneel before her to ease off her shoes, rubbing each hot, sore little foot until the life wriggled back into her toes. Now the thought of his touch repulsed her. The bleeding had stopped but she avoided the mikveh. By remaining niddah she kept him at bay. She had wanted him to disappear so that she could grieve alone in peace but the evidence of his existence invaded her domain and disturbed her silent lament. His hat still hung on the banister, his dirty underpants still surfaced in the mound of washing.

Tears came and they would not stop. They poured down her face when she least expected it, making a visit to the shops impossible. She sent Michal instead. They blinded her suddenly when she tried to read a recipe. She constantly licked them away. Her chin became raw from her hand brushing against it. Her cheeks stung with salt.

When the tears dried, the anger began. Her rage grew into a white heat. It lit her from within, turning her soft gaze into a hard stare whenever she saw an expectant mother, her stomach bulging with life. The women sensed her envy and would stroke their bumps protectively and turn away from her. Such jealousy attracted the evil eye and the Rebbetzin knew why these women crossed the street when they saw her. She was ashamed of her bitterness but she could not control it. The community's tongues were wagging; she had been too old to carry a child. Let them talk. She had nothing to say.

Her husband was an easy target when the screaming started. The Rebbetzin had never raised her voice against anyone; she had trained herself to speak gently even under pressure. Suddenly her throat belched accusations, harsh words and reproaches. Her husband bore them all, his head bowed as if it were his due. And it was. If it got too much, he left the house.

In the kitchen, she clattered the pots and pans, banged down the food on the table and stirred the soup with unusual venom so that it spilled over the sides and congealed in olive splodges. In front of the children, they tried to maintain an edifice of normality, their voices falsely cheerful, but their eyes no longer met. The children were adult enough to sense the unease lurking between them; it surged like an electric current fuelled by their mother's unspoken anger. Meal times had the surreal quality of a farce but no one was laughing. Even sixteen-year-old Moishe behaved himself, relenting from his adolescent sullenness. Between her husband and Avromi a grudging, unspoken truce had been established.

Her pain poisoned her cooking, burning the chollah and souring the cheesecake. Her gefilte fish, usually sweet and delicate to the palate, left an acidic aftertaste. Her tzimmes that had given guests so much pleasure now gave them indigestion. But nobody dared complain. The family chewed and swallowed with difficulty. Moishe would sometimes ask to be excused only to spit out the gristly lumps of goulash hidden in the pouches of his cheeks.

Over the space of a few weeks the initial fury receded into a seething contempt and finally a cool indifference. She returned to her teaching, but the irony of teaching girls like Chani to use the mikveh every month as part of her wifely duty made her feel deeply uneasy.

The Rebbetzin stared at herself in the mirror. It all seemed such an effort. She felt she was drifting at the bottom of the ocean. The bedroom walls seemed to close in on her. Shabbes was due in four hours. She couldn't think clearly in the presence of their separated bed. The Rebbetzin decided to take a walk in the park and return in time to prepare.

 

Rabbi Zilberman missed his wife. He ached for her and his yearning formed a knot in his stomach. His chest felt constricted and his heart seemed to beat faster. It was a kind of pain he had not felt before.

When she bent to unload the dishwasher, he gazed at her soft, round rump. Her skirt clung to her hips and he longed to grasp them and press himself up against her, his hands roaming over her belly and across her breasts. But he restrained himself, seeking distraction by sorting out the cutlery, checking each tine for rust or stubborn food particles. He would polish them vigorously with a tea towel and throw each utensil into the meat drawer so that they crashed against each other – which was more than he did with his wife these days.

They had not touched for so long. How much longer, HaShem? A man must wait. He was tired of waiting. It was his own fault – he should have talked about things when she had approached him. But once again he hadn't been able to face it.

It was another Friday afternoon. He sat in his dusty, grey office and thought about the young hossen who had just left. He heard his footsteps clump down the stairs to the street below. Last week, he had spoken to Baruch Levy and the week before to another young man. Marriage was a never-ending business. The young men wore the same dark suits and white shirts, and the same anxious, fearful expression. They sat on the edge of the plastic chair and listened intently to his words. He was a broken record, intoning the same advice each week.

Rabbi Zilberman wanted to lunge across his desk and grab each young hossen by the lapels, look him in the eye, and say: ‘Love her, listen to her! When she needs you, run to her. Give to her with your whole heart for in time, if you're lucky, she will be more than a helpmate. She will be your best friend. Forget about talking too much to her! Talk to each other all day and all night if you need to. You must give even when you don't feel like giving. For
this
is what it means to truly love another.'

But he restrained himself. Instead he spoke of duty and moderation. And felt like a fraud.

He would pray. He opened his siddur but the psalms offered no comfort. The words seemed distant and cold. He would talk to HaShem. Rabbi Zilberman cleared his throat. ‘HaShem? Are you listening?' He looked up at the ceiling and saw the cracks. He felt foolish. Perhaps this was not the way to address the Master of the Universe. He tried again. ‘Ribbonoh Shel Olem, help me reach my wife, Rivka Zilberman. She's a good woman, a good wife – but I've let her down in so many ways . . .' His voice tailed off. What if someone overheard him in the corridor outside? They would think he was a meshugganeh for sure. And then the whole world would know his business.

There seemed to be no immediate answer from HaShem. He would talk to his wife. He would admit he had been wrong about many things. He would call her and tell her he loved her. No, he had told her already this morning. Nu? So he would tell her again. She would be preparing for Shabbes now. Perhaps now was not the time. If not now, then when?

Rabbi Zilberman dialled home. He imagined his wife wiping her hands on her apron, reaching for the receiver. It rang and rang. Perhaps she had gone out. He waited a little longer, hypnotised by the empty mechanical bleeps. They seemed to intensify his loneliness.

‘Hello?'

‘Rivka? How are you? It's me, Chaim.'

‘Yes. I know it's you, Chaim.'

‘I – I was just wondering how you were getting on, if there is anything I can do to help?'

‘No, Chaim – it's all under control, thanks.'

Undeterred, Rabbi Zilberman ploughed on. ‘Well, how are you feeling? Are you tired?'

‘No, I'm fine. I need to go. I need to pick up some things before Shabbes comes in – I haven't got time – '

‘I miss you.'

There was silence. He heard her breathing.

‘I know you do.'

‘Do you miss me?'

He had to ask. He saw her standing in the hall, twisting the phone cord between her floury fingers, her headscarf slipping back. There would be a smudge of flour on her forehead, from where she had rubbed the sweat away.

Another silence followed by a long sigh.

‘I love you, Rivka.'

Another sigh.

‘I know you do. I have to go now – or I won't be ready for Shabbes.'

He sensed she had relented a little; he would grab his chance. ‘I'm sorry. We do need to talk. About . . .' He couldn't say it. He couldn't hear her breathing and then she spoke.

‘It's late. I have to go already.'

He had lost her again. Desperate he plunged on. ‘Rivka, you can't keep grieving like this. HaShem doesn't want you to grieve like this. It's not right. We're not right. We need to talk, we need to change things – please – I'm here for you.'

‘I know – I know. But I need more time.'

‘How much longer Rivkaleh?'

‘I don't know. Just a little longer that's all.'

‘Ok, a little longer then. What can I do? I'll see you at home after shul.'

‘Ok then, bye.'

‘Bye. Rivka – '

‘Yes?'

‘Good Shabbes, my darling.'

‘Good Shabbes to you too, Chaim.'

The phone clicked and returned to its usual hum. He held the receiver in his hand until the line went dead.

The loss of their baby had hurt him too. His grief had been less intense – she had carried their child for four months. He thought of a time before Avromi had been born. His poor Rivka, she was punishing them both. The anger flashed through him – he did not deserve to be treated like this. He had hurt her, but enough was enough. They had three children, plenty to be grateful for. HaShem had been good to them. There were some couples who could not conceive. She should count her blessings and stop with this nonsense. A little longer, that was all he could bear, for to love is to give even when the giving feels like a burden.

 

The Rebbetzin replaced the receiver and stood for a moment in the cool, shadowy quiet of the hallway. He was trying – she would give him that – but he didn't really understand. It was more than just the miscarriage. A wave of guilt washed over her; her own callousness irked her.

No, this was her time. First she would pack a box of leftovers for the bag lady who lived in the doorway of a greengrocer's that had closed down. She entered her silent kitchen and marched up to the milk fridge. She pulled out a little potato salad, some smoked herring, a large spoonful of egg mayonnaise and a dollop of shredded beetroot. She pressed the lid down firmly and placed the box in a shopping bag. Rummaging in the bread tin, she located two crusty poppy-seed rolls and from her larder, she took a carton of apple juice.

The Rebbetzin strode past her neighbours' houses, her tall, bony figure wrapped in an old raincoat. Inside, the good wives of Golders Green would be chopping and stirring, their hands moving with a blind certainty as they prepared for yet another Shabbes.

The high street was calmer now. A few remaining shoppers hurried to and fro. Even the traffic had slowed.

The Bag Lady was squatting in the narrow doorway of the shop. The glass windows sheltered her from the wind and rain, but at night she froze. A stained duvet covered her bandaged feet. Her head was wrapped in a filthy headscarf covering her bald, bruised scalp. All her worldly possessions surrounded her and most of these were plastic bags, stuffed into larger plastic bags, some of which had been torn into strips and knotted into brightly coloured ribbons which she wore as a garland around her neck like the flowers draped around a Hindu deity. They fluttered in the breeze. A supermarket trolley filled with stinking rags was parked behind her and she sagged against its metal frame. Her hands lay in an arthritic heap in her lap.

Who was she and whose wife or mother had she been? Whose daughter or whose sister? The Rebbetzin had never ceased wondering. And how could her family abandon her to live out her final days like this – to suffer the cold and the violence of wicked strangers? Or had she abandoned them? Her head was as empty as her plastic bags and in her rare moments of lucidity, she claimed to have been evicted by the council but could not remember from where. Society left her to rot in a doorway, her old bones rendered immobile from sitting on a stone floor. Such neglect made the Rebbetzin ache with bitterness.

It would not happen in her community. The old and the sick were cared for. Her own ageing mother lived in a plush nursing home nearby. Their bones were warmed by central heating and their hearts were warmed by filial love or duty. The visitors arrived like clockwork, bearing gifts of home made blintzes and honey cake. At every Shabbes, Yom Tov or family occasion, these beloved fossils were wheeled out and settled in their favourite chairs at the family table. When they lifted their quavering voices to ask for more cholent or to tell a tale that had been told a thousand times before, they were listened to with respect and their every whim indulged.

She approached with caution. When angered, the Bag Lady had a foul mouth. The Bag Lady squinted at her from her one good eye. The other was sealed with pus. The Rebbetzin knelt before her, holding her breath – the Bag Lady was more than a little ripe.

How can we continue to grow fat and happy and leave such a miskenah to rot on our doorstep? The Rebbetzin had seen the women push their strollers past The Bag Lady as if she were invisible, quickening their step as if she weren't there. These were women who gave tzedakah each week and considered their generosity a mitzvah. She thought of their daughters, the schoolgirls that shrieked and sprinted past her when she cawed at them, believing her to be an old witch and her stare to be malevolent.