Chapter 1
Chapter 1Chani. Baruch.
November 2008 – London
The bride stood like a pillar of salt, rigid under layers of itchy petticoats. Sweat dripped down the hollow of her back and collected in pools under her arms staining the ivory silk. She edged closer to The Bedeken Room door, one ear pressed up against it.
She heard the men singing. Their shouts of ‘lai-lai-lai!’ rolled down the dusty synagogue corridor. They were coming for her. This was it. This was her day. The day her real life started. She was nineteen and had never held a boy’s hand. The only man to touch her had been her father and his physical affection had dwindled since her body had curved and ripened.
‘Sit down, Chani-leh, show a little modesty. Come, the Kallah does not stand by the door. Sit, sit!’
Her mother’s face had turned grey. The wrinkles gleamed as the make-up slid towards her collar. The plucked brows gave her a look of permanent surprise. Her mouth was compressed into a frosty pink line. Mrs Kaufman sagged under the weight of her mousy wig. Beneath, her hair was grey and wispy. An old woman at forty-five: tired. Chani was her fifth daughter, the fifth to stand in a Bedeken Room, the fifth to wear the dress. Nor would she be the last. Like Babushka dolls, three younger daughters had emerged after her.
Chani remained at her post. ‘Shouldn’t they be here by now?’
‘They’ll be here soon enough. You should be davening for all your single friends. Not everyone’s as lucky as you are today, Baruch HaShem.’
‘But when will they be here? It feels like we’ve been waiting forever.’ Chani let out a long, bored sigh.
‘When they’re ready. Enough now, Chani-leh.’
From mother to daughter, from sister to sister, the dress had been a faithful friend, shrinking and growing with each bride’s need. The silver embroidery and countless pearls concealed a thousand scars and jagged seams that chafed the skin. Every alteration marked another bride’s journey, delineating her hopes and desires. The yellowed underarms that had been dry-cleaned so many times, spoke of her fears. The cold prickle of anxiety, the flash of white sheets and the enormous waiting bed loomed in each bride’s mind. How will it be? How will it be? The question pulsed inside Chani’s head.
She stumbled across the carpet. Parting like the Red Sea, her mother and sisters shifted their ample backsides to make room on the divan for her small, neat bottom. Her bride’s white prayer book was gently pushed into her hands. The women whispered and mumbled as the prayers rose and fell in time with the rhythm of their breathing, the beat of their hearts. The Hebrew poured out in gentle, female gasps. Chani imagined the words floating up, up, up – winged letters melting into the ceiling.
The hot air throbbed with the mingling of perfume, masking the stink of body odour and stale breath. Their parched mouths were sticky with drying lipstick, their rumbling stomachs hidden under layers of clothing. Some wore twopiece suits consisting of long skirts with matching jackets buttoned up to the hilt. Others paired the compulsory long skirt with a white high-necked shirt underneath a plain navy blazer. The colours were purposely dull, enlivened only by a small brooch, or perhaps cream piping around the pocket. A self-imposed uniform, lending a dowager air to even the youngest in the room.
Like Mrs Kaufman, the married women wore their best wigs – heavy, shiny locks that hid their hair from the opposite sex, the false hair inevitably more luxurious in texture and hue. Young single women announced their state by going bareheaded, although even the most glorious mane was tamed and tied back or cut into a tidy bob.
The rounded backs and shoulders of those who had been brides before her swayed back and forth, their knees cracking as they bowed low. They prayed and sighed for Chani, for the marriage to be good and true, for HaShem to look kindly upon her and her husband. Chani’s eyes burnt with tears at their loyalty and kindness.
But where was the Rebbetzin? After the lessons had ended, she had promised to be at the wedding. Chani blinked and scanned the room once more before allowing disappointment to set in. She comforted herself with the prospect that the Rebbetzin was already inside the shul watching from the women’s gallery. Chani vowed to look up before she entered the chuppah.
Instead, she had her prospective mother-in-law for company. Chani caught her eye and immediately regretted not being immersed in prayer. Mrs Levy sat resplendent in a dark turquoise silk suit. A matching pillbox hat finished off the ensemble, giving her the air of a glittering, bourgeois kingfisher. She sidled over and breathed noxiously in Chani’s ear.
‘Lovely dress, Chani – although a little old-fashioned for my liking. Still, very pretty all the same. It suits you, my dear.’
Her mother-in-law’s hat had tilted, giving her a jaunty air. Chani suppressed a smirk. Mrs Levy’s extravagant copper wig had been coaxed and teased into poker-straight curtains beneath, framing her wily smile. A leopard grinning before it pounces. Chani knew better than to trust it. She stood her ground.
‘Thank you, Mrs Levy, it’s a family heirloom. My grandmother got married in this dress. I feel honoured to wear it.’ She smiled pertly and turned towards the divan, leaving Mrs Levy staring in her wake. Having got this far, she would not let the woman rile her now. In time, they would have to learn to tolerate each other. The loathing was mutual, but it was Chani who had carried the prize and this day was hers.
The dress creaked as she sat down. It flowed over her knees and sank in sheeny billows around her feet. The only bits of Chani left free to breathe were her face and hands. The dress crept over her collarbones and clutched at her throat. The silk…
THE MARRYING OF CHANI KAUFMAN © 2013 by Eve Harris; reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Grove Atlantic.
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