The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (8 page)

It seemed to the Rebbetzin that her community concerned itself only with its own. Those who were not Jewish, or not Jewish in the right way, were of little consequence. Although to be fair, she did not see anyone from outside the community trying to help the poor woman.

The Bag Lady worked her shrivelled mouth in anticipation. She watched as the Rebbetzin opened the box and placed it into her hands. The hands shook but the box did not spill. The Rebbetzin pulled out a plastic spoon from her pocket.

‘Thank you, dearie. 'Tis very kind of you. God bless you.'

‘God bless you. Eat up now. I will bring you some more soon.'

‘Ahhh, there aren't many like yourself, I can tell you. May sweet Jesus love you and keep you.'

Indeed. She stuck the straw in the apple carton and settled it on the pavement within the Bag Lady's reach. ‘On Monday,' she vowed, ‘I will ring Social Services and get her some help.'

The Rebbetzin continued on her way. She was now out of her community's heartland. The food shops dwindled in number. A strip curtain fluttered in the breeze and from within came the relentless gabble of sports commentary. She glimpsed a huddle of bent backs and the flash of a TV screen. A discount bookstore, a Polish food-shop, an internet cafe and finally a beauty salon offering ‘clean, safe, speedy tanning in new upright booths'. Once upon a time, she had used a sun-bed. She remembered lying in a neon coffin wearing nothing but a tiny pair of black goggles, her body silhouetted against the brilliant white rods beneath the warm glass.

A fine drizzle had begun. The Rebbetzin passed Golders Green tube station. A herd of squealing teenagers had gathered outside. They smoked, flirted or punched numbers into their mobiles. Girls flicked their hair or coyly pulled their sleeves over their hands, stretching their jumpers, their long, coltish legs on display beneath pleated school skirts. They were taller than the boys.

She had been one of them once. She had not always been called Rivka. At eighteen she had been accepted to read History at Manchester University. But Rebecca Reuben had never attended a single lecture. She had swerved from her chosen path during her gap-year in Jerusalem. A year of desert heat, dust, ancient stone and the rustling of eucalyptus trees.

She had met Chaim that year. And God.

November 2008 – London

The bathroom was warm and damp. The mirror was clouded over save for the mosaic of old fingerprints. Hair clogged the plughole and wet towels lay in a jumble at her feet. She rubbed at the mirror, clearing a window. Leaning against the chilly edge of the sink, Chani stood on tiptoe and gazed at her reflection in the dim and misty light.

The pink bra and knickers seemed to float against her pale skin. Their colour seemed lurid, artificially brilliant in the gloom of the dingy bathroom. Satin cups forced her breasts inwards and upwards, faint blue veins visible above the soft material. The straps were taut and skimpy, tiny gold buckles perched on each shoulder. Below her cleavage dangled a diamante charm. She twisted to make it catch the light and caught sight of her buttocks wrapped like cling-film in a slither of chiffon. This is what a harlot wears, she thought. This was not the impression she wished to create, but still the image fascinated her with its vulgar unfamiliarity. It was the antithesis of the starched white corset and stockings her mother had bought her at Lieber's. The suspender belt had felt vaguely surgical, the straps thick and clumsy and the elastic had irritated her skin. Then there were the pants in white satin, plain and navel-high.

She wondered what Baruch would think of her looking like this. Would he find her alluring? The billposters along Queens Road showed pneumatic female pop-stars writhing in similar attire, their eyes inky with mascara as wicked and beguiling as a succubus. She didn't want to appear whorish though; God forbid he should think her cheap. Her purpose was to claim some ownership over her wedding night, to mark it as a threshold crossed willingly into womanhood. The pink bra and knickers were her personal celebration. She was delighted by the curves they had created. Yes she would wear them.

Her reverie was interrupted by a fierce hammering on the door. Chani grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders.

‘Chani! What are you doing in there? Shabbes is nearly here. Your friends have arrived downstairs. You're late!' yelled her older sister, Rochele.

‘Coming! Just combing my hair. Be down in a sec.'

‘Don't forget to say your broches after you've finished in there.'

‘Yeeeeesssss, Rochele . . .'

‘All right then, see you downstairs!'

A child wailed below and her sister hurried away. Chani scrabbled out of the bra and knickers, and changed into her smartest Shabbes clothes, a navy velvet skirt and jacket. She brushed her teeth, washed her hands and whispered a brocha. Finally, she thrust the lingerie back into its plastic bag and exited the bathroom. She hid it in the secret zipped compartment of her bride's suitcase. All set for Sunday night. She switched on the Shabbes night-light, closed the door and hurried downstairs.

 

In the living room, an old armchair had been decorated to resemble a queen's throne. An ivory silk sheet covered the worn corduroy and silver tinsel had been draped around the arms and back. Two plump red velvet cushions with gold tassels nestled in each corner.

Chani was led to the chair by Shulamis and Esti, another close friend from school, the three of them surrounded by a cluster of friends and female relatives. The girls whooped, whistled and clapped. The house shook as they stamped their feet and pounded the carpet. Clumsy with joy they welcomed the Bride with song and dance. The men were praying mincha at shul. The women had already prayed together at home and now out of male earshot, they could sing as loudly and tunelessly as they liked.

‘Mazel tov Chani!' they shrieked. The older women ululated, their throats trilling their happiness. Blessings rang out from different corners of the room as the Fahr-Shpiel began.

Chani basked in the attention as her friends gambolled about, entertaining her with ridiculous sketches and jokes. Rochele thumped away at the piano; notes clashed as her fingers forced the dusty keys. Her son, a chubby three year old, was squatting under the piano stool. An elaborate tea party had been set up on a trestle table at the back. Apple cake, cinnamon rogellach, miniature cream puffs topped with syrupy apricot halves, a solid looking cheese cake topped with shiny, scarlet strawberries, tuna and egg filled bagels and an enormous black forest gateau waited to be eaten. Shuli, Chani's oldest sister was pouring the tea. Devorah, Mrs Kaufman's third daughter was arriving early Sunday morning from New York, whilst Sophie was too far on in pregnancy to fly.

‘A speech! A speech! The Kallah has to speak.' cried Aunt Frimsche, her mouth full, a crumb quivering on her upper lip.

‘Oh, leave her alone, Aunt Frimsche. Let the Kallah relax and enjoy herself.' This was from Rochele, ever protective. Chani didn't want her to leave after the wedding. She hadn't seen her in two years, since she had married and settled in New York. She was shocked at the change in her. Her sister had grown stout, her cheeks bulged and a double chin trembled as she spoke. Her arms stretched over her belly to reach the keyboard. It was impossible to tell whether her stomach was swollen with child or just cake and Chani dared not ask.

‘I think – I can manage a speech – ' Chani strained to be heard over the clamour. The noise died down the moment she spoke. ‘As you know, I'm quite fond of speaking . . .'

‘Noooo? Really?' Someone quipped at the back.

‘Thank you, Naomi – if I may continue . . . well, it's been quite a journey as you know, it took a while to find the right hossen – but er, here I am and thanks to HaShem and my parents – I'll be a good wife in two days – '

‘Amen! But good? Good?! Since when have you been “good”?' This was from Shulamis.

‘All right, all right, Shulamis – I will
try
to be good!'

Her school friends nudged each other and sniggered. Chani gave them a mock baleful stare.

‘Baruch HaShem! You'll be his helpmate, his right hand . . . may you bring forth healthy and happy children . . . B'srat HaShem,' muttered Aunt Frimsche, swaying gently in her chair.

Ignoring Aunt Frimsche's pious input, Chani plunged on. ‘So I want to say thank you to all of you for being here, and celebrating this big moment with me. I can't say I'm not nervous, but I really hope that all my lovely friends that are still waiting and searching, Shulamis, Esti and Sophie – '

‘And me! Don't forget me!' hissed Shoshanah, prodding Chani's shoulder. Chani turned round.

‘Oh yes, oops – and Shoshi – very sorry, Shoshi, didn't see you there – all find the right man soon and get married! I will daven for you on Sunday and then I will dance at all your weddings!'

‘Amen!'

‘Hear, hear!'

The women raised their teacups and the room grew quiet save for the clinking of china. A lull descended. The unmarried girls became pensive, avoiding eye contact, absorbed by their private fears. Naomi and Maya, both recently engaged, whispered about their choices of wedding venue and exchanged admiring glances at each other's rings. The older married women shuffled over to the table and examined the carnage. They picked at the leftovers, their fingers sticky with syrup and sugar strands. The sandwiches were beginning to curl at the edges and the black forest gateau was butchered. They stood in small cliques, speaking quietly, ruminating over the week's events, exchanging juicy morsels of gossip.

And soon those that were not family bid Chani farewell and took their leave. Chani was left alone again, save for Aunt Frimsche and two older sisters. Of her school friends, only Shulamis remained. These four busied themselves with tidying up and would not let Chani intervene. She was ordered to sit on her throne and relax, which was easier said than done.

With nothing to distract her, the panic that lurked at the back of her mind overwhelmed her again. She eyed the four women in the room. None of them was approachable. Shulamis was ignorant of her fears and her comprehension of the carnal act itself was even more muddled than her own. She had tried broaching the subject on one occasion in Orli's café over hot chocolate, but Shulamis had become wildly agitated, reeling off crazed assumptions in a loud stage whisper. The woman at the next table had given them a disapproving glare and Chani had had to kick Shulamis hard under the table.

Aunt Frimsche was a definite non-starter. Chani wondered whether Frimsche had even consummated her own marriage to Uncle Ephraim, for theirs had been a fruitless union. Frimsche was a bony, desiccated, old stick; she preferred the ethereal realm of prayer to the physical world. Her aunt was a kind, anxious and quaint soul; Chani found it hard to envisage her as a curious bride, let alone naked and writhing in blessed passion with Uncle Ephraim.

As for Rochele, it had been a while since they had had a truly intimate conversation. Seeing her sister again had been a strange and awkward experience. There had been much to adjust to, including her sister's unfamiliar nasal American twang.

She was not close to Shuli, so that was a no-go too. When Chani was fourteen, Shuli had been married and went to live in Stamford Hill. Now, although she was only twenty-six, in her musty tweed suit, her oldest sister resembled a dowager. She insisted on wearing a woollen beret over her wig, just in case someone mistook her for being unmarried. How anyone could possibly be so deluded was beyond Chani. She was wrapped up like a parcel in all her layers and preferred to speak Yiddish to her children, having married a man who had gone to yeshiva in Antwerp. It was always a struggle to decipher her cousins' English. Their diction was garbled, the words buzzing like wasps trapped inside a bottle, and Chani was often left perplexed as to what they were actually saying.

She would go and visit her mother in the kitchen and bring her a slice of cake. Chani shovelled a dishevelled lump onto a paper plate and carried it to the kitchen. The door was ajar and a strip of neon light glared through the crack. Her feet clipped over the sticky linoleum. The heat engulfed her as she entered. Her mother stood over an enormous soup tureen, patiently stirring, her wrist moving in a slow, circular dance. Her face was covered in a light sheen of perspiration. Behind her, Chayale clung to her skirts, rubbing her face against her mother's bottom. The bandage remained, although now it had been knocked askew and had acquired a few jammy fingerprints.

A toddler, Chani's youngest sister, Yona, sat in her high chair idly eating Play-doh; gazing at Chani in silent wonder. Out in the yard under the plastic roof, Chani watched Yael dragging washing out of the machine and sorting it into soggy piles. She was fifteen, tall and willowy and wore her long hair in a smooth dark plait. Chani observed a subtle poise and refinement in her mien that had previously been absent. Now that Chani was getting married, Yael knew her time was coming and hence her self-awareness had grown. She spoke quietly and had grown more shy and introspective. Chani felt momentarily wistful at the prospect of her younger sister becoming a woman; the Yael that had gambolled at her side had gone forever.

‘Mum.
Mum!
' called Chani and waited for her mother to focus blearily on her.

‘Hello, Chani-leh – how was the Fahr-Shpiel? Did you have fun, my darling?'

‘It was great, Mum – they made such an effort, so sweet of them – Shoshi and Sarahleh wrote all the sketches and they had rehearsed them at Shoshi's house last week. Here, I brought you a slice of cake.'

‘Leave it on the side-board, I'll have it in a minute – mustn't let the soup boil or it will lose its flavour . . . and the chickens haven't even been stuffed yet, I'm running so late . . .'

‘Mum, stop, just for a minute and eat a bit, just a pitsel for me – I haven't seen you all day.' Chani refrained from mentioning her mother's absence at the mikveh. She knew her mother felt guilty. Instead, she watched as her mother muttered a blessing and gobbled the cake, the sweetness infusing her weary features with pleasure. She wondered if her mother could allay her fears.

‘Mum . . . um, I was wondering – do you remember your wedding night?'

Her mother paused, her jaw frozen like a cow chewing the cud, momentarily startled. She swallowed noisily and stared at Chani, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Chayaleh, go on and lay the table for mummy like a good girl,' said Mrs Kaufman.' Find me eighteen matching forks and knives from the meat drawer please.'

Chayaleh stomped off to do her mother's bidding, sticking her tongue out at Chani as she passed. Chani ruffled her hair.

‘Ow! You're hurting my stitches!' squealed Chayaleh.

‘Oooh . . . I'm so sorry your Highness . . . I beg your forgiveness – ' Chani teased. Chayaleh lifted one shoulder and dropped it, then skipped out of the kitchen.

‘You're frightened, my darling, aren't you?' said Mrs Kaufman. She reached over and placed her warm flabby palm over Chani's white knuckles.

‘No, not exactly – well, yes, mum.'

‘Well . . . I guess every Kallah has to do what she's got to do. All your sisters seemed to manage perfectly well . . .' pondered Mrs Kaufman.

‘Mum! That's
not
helping!' She could brook her frustration no longer.

‘I know, darling, but it's been so long since I was a bride . . . I'm trying to remember what I felt like . . . your father was very good to me that night . . . I think the important thing to remember is that there can only be one first time for every woman. And to get on with it – let your husband do his duty. Don't stop him. And you must do yours . . . the less fuss, the better . . . and may Ha Kodesh Ha Borech Hoo bless you with a child – He has already blessed you with a hossen, hasn't He? A boy from a good Hasiddisher family, the right sort – and he's a yeshiva bocher. I am sure it will all be fine. '

‘Amen. But did it hurt?'

‘Did it hurt? Hmmm . . . eight children later – Chani, I can't honestly remember! If it did, it's a fleeting pain . . . it won't last and it will get better with time and practice my darling, you'll see.'