The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (9 page)

‘That's exactly what the Rebbetzin said – 'sighed Chani.

‘The Rebbetzin?' Mrs Kaufman's eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. ‘You talked to the Rebbetzin about your wedding night? Oh Chani, how could you? A little decorum, a little self-respect perhaps? Where's your modesty?'

‘I don't see what the problem is. We talked about everything else – in fact, she brought it up on the way back from the mikveh – '

‘The Rebbetzin Zilberman talked to you about your marital duties on the street? IN PUBLIC? Huh! I've always had my doubts about that woman, far too modern – ' sniffed Mrs Kaufman. She thrust the crumpled paper plate into the bin and wiped her mouth on her apron.

‘Mum – you weren't there, were you?' The accusation slid out. Chani winced as her mother's face sagged. Her mother released a ragged sigh.

‘I know, I know – I've let you down again – I'm sorry, but what was I to do? You know Chani, when you have children, there will be days when you make mistakes, when one child takes precedence over another – and there's nothing you can do – I'm sorry – if I could've been there – ' Words tumbled out of her mother, the regret and anger mingling together, her voice a croak.

Her mother faltered, her massive body shuddered like a blimp buffeted by strong winds. Chani crept over and wrapped her arms around her mother as far as they would go; inhaling her peculiar aroma, redolent of sweaty wig, fried onions and face cream. She felt her mother's tears seep under her collar and sensed the tension retained in her hulking shoulders. Chani stroked her mother's back, and the shoulders shook in relief.

 

Baruch pedalled up the hill, his coat billowing behind him, as he made his way home to wash and dress for shul before Shabbes arrived. His eyes watered from the traffic fumes. He wanted to wipe his nose but he dared not let go of the handlebars. Reaching the summit he freewheeled down Brent Street, standing on the pedals, bracing his weight against the bike's sturdy frame. He loved the rush. If he was lucky, he would make the traffic lights and careen across the North Circular into Golders Green without having to brake.

His head was full of Chani, a jumble of images, words and sounds. The catch of her breath. The pale blur of her heart-shaped face. His wife. The fear suddenly resurfaced, threatening to cloud his mood. He knew he wanted Chani but did she want him? Nothing was for sure. What if she didn't? His longing had grown stronger every day since he had first met her and now his need gnawed at him endlessly. He thought of the wedding night and began to pedal for dear life. What if she rebuffed him? What if he couldn't control himself? The wet dreams persisted. He had little hope of curbing his excitement with her if he couldn't manage it on his own.

Her small white hands, the nails that were ragged crescents, her smooth pale skin, her dark eyes bright and quick with a keen intelligence she had tried to suppress. Perhaps she would be a bold adventuress leading him to the Promised Land. The bike swerved beneath him. A crazy notion but he had seen the alertness in her face and liked it.

Baruch wanted to know all her thoughts. He wanted to share his with her, but he feared he would bore her. His thoughts were myriad and overwhelming; he didn't want to drown her. His mind was full of the future, their future – how would it be and how would he support her?

But he was getting to know her. She had been different this time. Until now the phone had made them both feel awkward, forcing them to fall back into a monotonous pattern of stiff, polite formality. This last conversation had felt more real and very soon she would be a tangible presence.

Baruch thought about living in Jerusalem with Chani. The move was imminent. In six months they would be leaving London. How would they cope in a new and unfamiliar environment? Neither of them spoke Hebrew. He would toil over religious texts for hours leaving Chani alone at home in a strange land. The idea filled him with dread. He didn't want her to be lonely. He would spend all his time with her if he could. But he had little choice. His parents had agreed to buy them a small flat in Nachla'ot and to fund his studies on the proviso that he continued them. He had savings of his own but no real transferable skills. Chani would have to find a small, part-time job somehow to support them. Perhaps they could give English lessons? But neither of them had any qualifications.

He cycled faster trying to outstrip his thoughts. The cold air stung but the speed matched the tumult of emotion coursing through his veins. Her voice reverberated through his head and he heard the halting rhythm of her speech above the roar and grind of juggernauts, buses and cars. Each turn of the pedal pushed the nagging doubts to the back his mind. He felt like he was flying, encased in his own bubble, protected by the intensity of his feelings for a girl he barely knew.

May 1982 – Jerusalem

Rebecca stood in the queue waiting her turn to go through security, a little frightened by the press of humanity behind and in front of her. Men dressed in black and white, wearing black fedoras or fur-trimmed hats swarmed through the barriers, pushing and shoving in their haste to say their evening prayers at the Wall. The tension was palpable as the pious grew increasingly irritable. The stink of sweat, stale clothes and greasy beards wafted through the air. She held her breath, not comprehending how they could tolerate wearing heavy wool suits in the heat. The women were bundled up too. Some wore sweaters over long-sleeved shirts that were fully buttoned. She couldn't help staring at their thick dark tights. The younger women wore long trailing cotton skirts that almost concealed their feet. They hung back from the men leaving a discreet gap.

She was relieved she had worn her longest skirt and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Shifra stood next to her similarly attired except that her top was baggier. They had met when Rebecca started to learn weekly at the campus Beit Midrash, where frum women volunteered to teach secular women the basics of Torah and Judaism. Chaim had persuaded her to attend just once. Shifra was her assigned mentor and Rebecca enjoyed her easy company and so the spiritual knowledge she passed on had not felt like a trial. They were the same age and quickly became friends outside class. Rebecca suddenly felt conspicuously aware of the thin cotton welded to her skin. She wished she had brought a shawl but it was too late to go back.

The female soldier barked an order and the line surged forward, making Rebecca stumble.

‘You ok?'

‘Yes, yes I'm fine,' she muttered, feeling foolish.

‘We'll be through in a minute. This bit is always annoying.'

‘Sure.'

But she wasn't sure at all. She felt uneasy, a hypocrite for being there. She had visited the Wall before on holiday with her family but never just before Shabbes. The precinct had always seemed half empty, peaceful in its vastness. The fervour that now filled the air had been missing. Rebecca was beginning to regret agreeing to come. But she had promised Chaim she would go. Just this once. She knew he was here somewhere too. Maybe he was through already.

The line lurched again and they found themselves in a small hall. Inside, there was a conveyor belt and scanner. She had nothing on her since it was Shabbes and it was forbidden to carry. Bored soldiers directed her through the metal detector. They appeared nonchalant, rifles swinging at their hips, jaws working overtime, pounding gum. They joked and flirted amongst themselves, shouting over the heads of the faithful.

The immensity of the precinct made her feel small and vulnerable. At the far end of the square stood the Wall. It reared up, massive and foreboding, its face cast in shadow. At its base supplicants had begun to mass, ant-like, insignificant compared to its bulk.

Tourists, soldiers, students and schoolchildren gathered in small excitable groups. The evening sky darkened to indigo. An Israeli flag fluttered proudly, fabric whipping against flagpole in the stiff evening breeze. There were trestle tables covered in white tablecloths offering an array of soft drinks and cake. Cameras flashed, teenagers hugged and grinned and tour leaders called out names. Young Hasiddim mingled with the secular inviting them to Shabbes dinners. Beggars rattled tins crying out ‘Tze-da-kah!' Rebecca spotted a tall, slender bride in a billowing gown and glittering bodice. The girl was laughing, her face suffused with joy.

At the barrier of the women's section of the Wall, a woman handed out cloaks to female tourists who were inappropriately dressed. She glanced at Rebecca and smiled and nodded. They made their way through the narrow gaps between the plastic chairs where elderly women sat hunched up, peering at their prayer books. Some smiled and whispered a greeting. She found herself gently smiling back.

Only a few feet remained between them and the Wall. All around her, women swayed and bowed and the air buzzed with whispered devotion. It was quiet, serene, the fractious disorder of the queue now forgotten. Singing from the men's section floated on the breeze, dying away until another wave of sound flooded the enclosure. She was sure Chaim was there.

They squirmed through the last row of congregants until there was nowhere else to go. She gazed up and up at the massive slabs. Plants had grown through the cracks, the dusty green of their leaves a contrast to the expanse of Jerusalem stone. Its colossal height and thickness gave an impression of perpetuity.

It had stood here for almost two thousand years. Instinctively she ran her hands over its wrinkled surface. The stone was still warm from the sun and its crevices were crammed with hundreds of tiny folded notes. Rebecca wished she had brought a secret plea of her own but she had not known what to ask for. She had had a vague idea but was too scared to put it into words in case the note really worked. She was not sure she was ready for the outcome.

She looked around her. To her left a woman lent motionless against the Wall, her face buried in the crook of her arm, absorbed in invocation. To her right another woman sobbed. She hadn't expected to witness such an open display of emotion in this sacred place. Shifra handed her a small leather prayer book, the diminutive print impossible to discern. It made no difference, as she couldn't read Hebrew anyway.

Shifra had started to pray. She did not know how to pray. She felt lost. She tried praying in English, saying the words in her head but it felt false. The only prayer she knew was the Shemah. She had no idea if it was the appropriate time to recite the prayer but she had to say something. She leant against the wall and covered her face with her open prayer book emulating the women around her. Under her breath she recited the Shemah, her delivery hesitant and rusty.

‘Shemah y'Israel Adonai Elohaynu Adonai Echad.'

Hear O Israel The Lord is Our God The Lord Is One.

She didn't think she believed in God, but nor could she fully deny His existence, frightened that when she needed His help He would not offer it. Instead she wandered in a spiritual no-man's land, too cynical to believe fully, yet too fearful to cut herself off completely. Her parents were Polish refugees from the Holocaust. They did not believe.

But here at this strange, ancient site, she felt something different. It was as if the Wall was a symbol of – and a connection to – a people. Her people. She hadn't thought of them like that before. The Wall was all that remained of their holy place and she understood then that it was not enough just to survive. One had to return.

 

Darkness had fallen and the heat of the day had faded quickly. Rebecca shivered. They hurried through the twisting, narrow streets of Meah Shea'rim until they reached the main street. The traffic had stopped but the place hummed with human energy. Under the street lights, children scurried. Old Hasidim wearing round fur-covered hats paced slowly, murmuring in Yiddish, hands clasped behind their rounded backs.

The street was bleached of colour, causing the shadows to seem blacker and denser than usual. The men's faces, hands and brilliant white shirts hovered in the darkness. Even the dirt and litter that featured so prominently in the daytime were camouflaged at night. Here and there a bottle gleamed or a chocolate bar wrapper had been wedged between railings, small tokens of modern life. The smell of cooking drifted from every open window and doorway. Salty noodle soup, fried onion, the sweetness of freshly baked chollah, rosemary, golden potatoes and roast chicken. The pots had been covered, the ovens had cooled and the women were waiting for their husbands to return from synagogue. In the windows, candles guttered but remained alight.

On every exterior, peeling white placards were glued, filled with angry Yiddish. The stark block script seemed to suggest an ominous presence that watched and judged and demanded obedience. She could not read the words but she could sense the flickering glances as she entered the ghetto. She was being watched too.

 

Shifra quickened her pace and entered a dilapidated apartment block. The mirror in the entrance hall was cracked and smudged. A bin bag had burst open and rubbish was strewn at the base of the stairs. A cat shot out past them. There was no light and the stairs twisted upwards into blackness. Suddenly apprehensive, Rebecca put a hand on Shifra's arm to slow her down.

‘Wait, I feel a bit weird coming here – I mean are you sure this is ok, for me to be here?'

‘Of course it is, Becca. Don't be silly, I want you to be here. I've told my parents all about you and they're expecting you. Come on, my sisters really want to meet you.'

Her anxiety diminished but still she hesitated. ‘Shifra, I don't know any of the blessings – nothing – your parents are going to think I'm – '

‘They aren't like that, I promise you. They don't judge people like that. Remember, they were like you once. Don't be scared. Don't be put off by these streets and people – they don't know you! You're here and you're with me.'

‘What about my clothes? Are they ok?'

‘More than ok. I'll lend you a sweater if you like.'

‘Yes, please do. I'm freezing.'

‘I will. Now let's get up these stairs.'

They climbed in darkness, the marble making their steps and voices echo. The building smelt musty. Cooking odours hung stale in the air. The trapped heat of the day assailed them as they reached the fifth floor stairwell. A strip of yellow light from beneath the closed door illuminated the doormat and handrail. The door was not locked. Shifra pushed it wide and they entered.

 

A large oval table shimmered with light. A pair of ornate silver candlesticks stood at its centre. The cutlery glistened against white cloth. Shifra's father poured wine into a goblet and raised it to recite the blessing. He had nodded gravely at Rebecca when she had arrived but had not spoken. She sat at the other end of the table amongst the women and waited to sip from the cup. She watched as it was passed down from husband to wife and from oldest to youngest. As it reached her, she took a sip. The wine was cloyingly sweet and she had to fight the urge not to grimace.

She passed the cup to Shifra. Again she sensed she was being watched. She looked up and briefly met the rabbi's eyes. He regarded her carefully, his gaze steady. She sensed he was measuring her worth. Behind the beard, she realised, he was younger than he looked.

The room was close, crammed with people, although calmness pervaded. The younger children wandered freely. Nobody minded. A toddler chewed Lego on the floor while two others hid under the table whispering and giggling.

She had been warmly welcomed and her plate had been filled but she could not eat. Her appetite had evaporated in the heat and the food was too stodgy for her liking; the chicken drumsticks had congealed in their own oily juices and the cabbage salad was soggy and overly sweet. The children stared. She had not known the blessing for washing her hands and had repeated the words after Shifra in a jolting fashion. The water had soaked the stitching around her wrists. Her ignorance embarrassed her and she felt on edge, anxious not to cause offence or humiliate herself. She was determined just to get through the evening, to go home to all that was normal and reassuring. But these people had cast their own spell over her. She stared in turn, mesmerised by the gentle voices and unfamiliar rituals.

At home Shabbes was a miserable affair. They would plod through the blessings over the candles, wine and bread in a desultory fashion, her father usually muddling them up in his halting Hebrew. Her mother's cooking was abysmal. The soup was always tepid and over-salted, the potatoes burnt and shrivelled. The atmosphere was invariably melancholy. She had felt lonely. An only child with her ageing parents, her father lost in his memories, consumed by the need to talk and talk. Just beyond the brightness of the flickering Shabbes candles lurked unspeakable horrors. In the corners of the room, shadows would shift, re-enacting atrocities that had terrorised her dreams. There had been nothing to hold on to, no hope or joy to counteract the gloom. After supper, her father would slump in front of the television and she would be left to scrape and stack the dirty plates.

‘So you have come to Jerusalem for your gap year?'

The Rabbi's voice interrupted her reverie. She was surprised to be addressed so directly by him. The table grew silent. The children chewed and stared again.

‘Yes. I'm on a one year programme for foreign students at the university.'

‘And where are you staying?'

‘At the dorms. On Mount Scopus.'

‘How is it? Great view, I imagine, of the Old City.'

She pulled a face thinking of the cockroaches in the kitchen. ‘It's ok – cramped – I share a room but I'm lucky, I get on well with my room-mate. She's Scottish.'

‘Glad to hear it. And what's the plan for afterwards?'

‘Oh, a history degree at Manchester. Then maybe law. Or journalism, which I'd prefer – law's so dry. But my parents want me to be a lawyer.' She was rambling now.

The rabbi nodded his appreciation. ‘Ahh the parents – always getting in the way! So how are you finding living in Jerusalem?'

‘It's strange. It's taken some getting used to. Actually, I think I'm still getting used to it. The new part is nothing like I expected, but I love exploring the Old City. There's something about it I can't explain. It pulls you in.' She hoped that answer would suffice and the attention would shift away from her.

The rabbi smiled, his teeth white and even against the hairiness of his beard. ‘I know. It was a shock for me too after Golders. But now I couldn't live anywhere else. The city gets under your skin, seeps into you . . .' He broke off to attend to his small son who had clambered into his lap. The moment had gone.

The rabbi started to sing grace, his voice fluctuating with each cadence. The family responded in an easy, natural manner, flicking through tattered pages of the prayer books. The rabbi sang louder and thumped the table, carried away with his own enthusiasm. The children smirked. She did not know where to look so she stared at the page, any page, desperate not to look out of place.