The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (24 page)

Chani's eyes widened in shock. Her face lit up. Exhaustion was replaced by incredulity. He had asked!

‘Do you really mean it?' She had to ask. Maybe he was proposing out of guilt?

‘Yes,' said Baruch with greater conviction than he felt, ‘I mean it.' He brushed aside his doubts and stared down at the excited girlish face in front of him.

‘Ok, then,' said Chani. ‘I accept.' And she beamed up at him.

‘Oh, good,' said Baruch. ‘Shall I walk you home?'

‘I'd like that if you can manage it.'

So, on platform two of Hendon Central Station, their fate was sealed.

September 2008 – London

On Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, Avromi took his place next to Baruch amongst the fasting, swaying men of the community. It was mussaf, the mid-afternoon prayer and Avromi was lagging. A tightening band of pain gripped his forehead. He was beyond hunger but the thirst was terrible, his mouth a parched aperture. The shul's narrow benches and aisles were congested with worshippers, the atmosphere muggy and oppressive. From the benches at the back and from the women's gallery above, came a constant undercurrent, a murmuring of whispered admonitions to bored children, the rustling of long skirts and the patter of feet on stairs.

For each named sin, he struck the left side of his chest with his right fist in rhythm with those around him. The sins were endless. Harsh speech, insincere confession, denial and false promises, scorn, bribery, idle chatter, gossip mongering, baseless hatred, obstinacy, haughtiness and vain oath-making. He felt he had committed them all.

With every pounding of his chest, he was assaulted by another memory of her. The silken texture of her thighs, her tongue, her taut calves and pert buttocks.

‘We have rebelled, we have provoked, we have turned away, we have acted wantonly, we have persecuted, we have been obstinate, we have been wicked, we have corrupted, we have been abominable, we have strayed.'

Baruch bobbed and dipped next to him, unaware of his friend's inner turmoil. He envied Baruch's innocence, the peace of mind that came from remaining pure. Baruch, in his pursuit of Chani, was following the well-trodden, approved path towards matrimony and eventual sexual enlightenment. All the twists and turns encountered on his way seemed inconsequential, almost laughable, compared to the emotional mess he had created. Baruch would marry a good, frum girl. For a blissful moment, he allowed himself to daydream about how things might have been had he met Shola under different circumstances. If only he had not been born frum. If only he was not Jewish. If only she was. But fantasising like this only served to heighten his dilemma.

He thumped his breast harder and bowed lower. He screwed his eyes shut and pleaded with HaShem for forgiveness. Every word seemed to have been written for him. He was a fornicator. He had acted wantonly. He was deceitful. Could HaShem see right through to his very heart and soul? His hands shook as he held his machzor. Could the men around him and the women above him read his very thoughts? Beneath his suit, he felt utterly naked. His skin was soaked in a layer of cold, clammy sweat.

But still the images came hurtling through his feverish mind. Her body over his, her hands on his chest, her hair tickling his face, his hands roving over her spine, the echo of their laughter, the delicious taste of intimacy, the long, leisurely conversations that spanned the length of afternoons.

‘We have turned away from your commandments and from your god laws but to no avail,' moaned the congregation. His father's voice rumbled out, louder than all those around him. Rabbi Zilberman's tallis hung in neat, triangular folds from his rounded shoulders; the black and white stripes, unerring in their repeated pattern, seemed to reflect the harsh reality of his own situation.

Avromi shuddered. If his father were to discover his relations with Shola, he was sure to be disowned. They could not marry. There was no future in their relationship. He could never leave the kehilla. Nor did he want to. It had to end.

He knew he would miss her terribly. Her kindness, her friendship, her humorous warmth and honest opinion, her sharp mind and her bold, charming spirit. There were no girls like her in the frum world. She was so alive, so vibrant. She had introduced him to so many new experiences. The new music she had played to him, the books and magazines they had perused together, the cafes and bars they had frequented. He had ventured into art galleries with her, foraged amongst flea markets and explored parts of London that he had never known existed. He could never hope to find someone to match her.

Avromi feared the dull loneliness that life without her would bring. He wished he could find a way for things to continue. Conversion to orthodoxy was out of the question; his world was not for her. Shola valued her freedom and independence, and as she had already told him, she was not ready for marriage. She had laughed when he brought up the subject.

Baruch nudged him. He had been standing still, lost in his woes, chest thumping suspended.

‘You ok, Vrom?'

Avromi nodded, too tired to whisper. He forced himself back to the present, to the never-ending task of confession and adulation of HaShem.

‘For all these, O God of Forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, atone for us,' he muttered in unison with the congregation. He would have to do what was right, however much it was going to hurt. He would go and see her as soon he had broken his fast.

As twilight gathered in Golders Green and Hendon, the members of the community walked home from shul, the sound of the shofar announcing the end of Yom Kippur still ringing in their ears. Jubilant and purified, they returned home to consume platters of soft, white buttered bread and golden honey cake, washed down with hot, sweet tea.

The talk flowed as families and their guests ate, slowly regaining their strength. A contented weariness settled over the community, coupled with a sense of relief that Yom Kippur was over for another year. HaShem had listened to their prayers and they were starting a new year with a clean slate.

 

Avromi waited for the right moment to present itself. He had barely eaten. Moishe sat slumped at the table, picking at sweets and sliced fruit. Michal was helping their mother to clear away the piles of dirty crockery as Rabbi Zilberman entertained the last of the guests.

Avromi slipped on his coat in the hall, twisted the latch and padded silently down the garden path, his gut in knots as he contemplated the miserable task ahead of him.

 

The next morning, Shola woke early. For a few minutes, she remained burrowed beneath the covers and allowed the events of the previous evening to seep back into her heart. She had accepted his reasons without argument or question, having understood from the start that his faith would inevitably jeopardize their romantic involvement.

Perhaps she had simply not believed that his world would still hold sway over her secular world of university, liberated youth and independence. She had shut her eyes and thrown herself in, thinking he had done the same. And so it had seemed until yesterday.

It was not enough. There were questions to which she still needed answers and suddenly she was annoyed that she had acquiesced so easily. Had she mattered to him? She knew full well that she had, but how much? Did he love her? He had never said it but she was sure he had felt something close to love for her. Or perhaps she had been mistaken. Was it a mere dalliance? The sudden rush of hurt and shame at that bitter thought made her kick off the duvet and jump out of bed.

 

As the train roared through the tunnels towards Golders Green, Shola began to feel uneasy. She had wheedled Avromi's address from an acquaintance in the Admissions Department, but what if he wasn't at home? She should have called him first but he may not have answered or, even worse, declined to meet her. For obvious reasons he had never invited her to his home, so why should he welcome an unplanned visit? He would find her presence an intrusion. What if his parents were there? They knew nothing about her.

But then again she had every right to know how he had really felt about her. Avromi had not been the only one in the
relationship and she was not the sort of girl to be slighted, cast aside like a used Kleenex. No, he would bloody well have to stomach her turning up at his front door.

She rattled through Hampstead station and out into the surprise of daylight as the train surfaced above ground. Quickly, she pulled out her compact and dabbed at her nose, wiping away the traces of shine. Shola wore very little make up; a delicate flick of black eye-liner at the corner of each eye, followed by a swipe of cocoa butter to make her lips gleam.

The doors slid open and she stepped out, thinking that the platform – with its green and cream wrought iron pillars and benches – looked very rural. She had never been this far north before, having been born and brought up in Bermondsey.

Outside, she glanced at her iPhone for directions and having orientated herself, made her way swiftly up the high street, barely noticing the shops or passers-by in her adrenaline fuelled haste. The bright September sunshine flickered across her path as she sped past shadowed shop fronts. Soon she became warm, so she slowed her pace in a vain attempt to present an unruffled and collected front.

The crowds thinned until she reached a residential stretch. An elderly Orthodox Jew tottered past, a maroon velvet bag edged in gold tucked under his arm. She stared, fascinated by his black suit, by his grey ear-locks that coiled like heavy phone wires from beneath his old-fashioned hat. His small round glasses took her in with one dismissive glance. Then he looked away, making her feel ashamed at her rudeness. She wondered if he knew Avromi.

Soon Shola was in Avromi's street. She slowed down, observing the ordinary little houses, their front gardens overgrown and unkempt or paved over with concrete. Many houses had several bins parked outside. The road was quiet and unremarkable. No cats or barking dogs, no sign of life apart from a solitary magpie screeching from a shorn elm. A yellow privet hedge obscured her view of Avromi's house.

She paused before opening the garden gate. She had expected something grander than beige pebbledash and a weed-filled path. It all looked so normal. It was hard to believe that he lived here. She raised her hand to ring the bell but was momentarily stymied. There were two bells, or so it seemed – a small, brass diagonal box fixed to the doorframe and a separate, lit buzzer beneath. She pressed the latter hesitantly. The curtains in the front room were drawn but a light came on in the hall, fragmented through the opaque, knobbled glass of the front door. Someone was home.

September 2008 – London

The woman stared at her blankly. She was tall and slim save for her pregnant belly. Her hair sat in an odd low, thick line above her brows, hiding her forehead. She was dressed in a long, dark denim skirt that swept the floor and an oversize, navy shirt with pearl buttons.

‘Yes? Can I help you?' she said.

Shola floundered for a moment, her courage waning. The woman had Avromi's olive complexion and sharp bone structure. She must be his mother.

‘I'm looking for Avromi. I am a friend of his from uni, from his tutor group.'

The woman looked startled for a moment then appeared to collect herself. A spark of recognition glowed in her dark eyes.

‘Ah, I understand,' she said quietly, almost to herself. ‘So you're the reason behind my son's late nights and his moodiness.'

Shola was speechless. She blushed, giving the Rebbetzin a nervous smile. The Rebbetzin crossed her arms and leant against the doorframe, taking in the girl's sepia skin, almond-shaped eyes, tight, copper curls, and finally, her long legs. Her skirt barely covered her toches. With reluctance, the Rebbetzin ushered her in, before the curtain twitching began next door.

The hall darkened as the Rebbetzin closed the front door. ‘I'm afraid Avromi isn't here at the moment. He's gone to a lesson at his father's synagogue.'

‘When will he be back?'

‘An hour or so at the earliest. It depends how long the discussion goes on for afterwards.'

The girl's face fell. She seemed to sag as she stood awkwardly on the doormat, exposing a fragility that the Rebbetzin had already sensed lay behind the bold facade of biker jacket and mini skirt. She had not imagined that Avromi could be attracted to someone so different to him. Yet in many ways their connection made sense. The girl was the antithesis of the frum prototype he was expected to marry and Avromi was her son after all. Had she not surprised and disappointed her parents by giving up her degree and choosing Chaim and a religious life?

‘Why don't you come in and wait for him in the living room? I'll make you a cup of tea. I'm his mother by the way. My name's Rivka.'

The girl's face lit up. ‘That's very kind of you, as long as you're sure it's no trouble. I'm Shola.' Shola offered her hand, giving the Rebbetzin a timid smile. For a moment, the Rebbetzin hesitated, unused to shaking hands, even with other women. Then she grasped Shola's palm.

 

Shola sat on the ancient sofa in the living room. She folded her long legs beneath her, tucking herself up as neatly as possible, and sat very still, taking in her surroundings. She strained at every sound, hoping for Avromi's arrival but all that could be heard was the roar of an electric kettle and the tinkling of teaspoons.

The room was shabby and bare. Shola noted the absence of pictures or ornaments, walls stained by faint handprints and, here and there, the scribbled evidence of a felt-tip pin. The room needed a lick of paint. A glass book cabinet took up an entire wall to her left. The books were heavy, bound in leather, and had gilt Hebrew lettering embossed across their spines. They filled every inch of each of the cabinet's five shelves. There were few in English, mostly religious reference books.

Next to the cabinet stood a small antique dresser. Family photographs were crammed on its dusty surface. She searched for Avromi and found him with his arm around a smaller and more sombre version of himself. Must be Moishe. Both boys were dressed in the customary black and white. Avromi looked happy, buoyant, his smile wide and genuine. He had not been smiling the last time they had met.

The Rebbetzin entered the room carrying a tea tray and Shola, embarrassed to be caught gawping at the photos, rushed to help her. An awkward silence fell. The two women sipped their tea, their heads full of unasked questions.

‘So Sho-la,' said the Rebbetzin eventually, trying out the girl's name. ‘Why don't you tell me about it?'

Shola tensed. The woman was a complete stranger and although she had the opportunity to unburden herself to the person who probably knew Avromi best, the situation felt very strange. The Rebbetzin stared at her. Shola squirmed beneath her dark, penetrating gaze.

‘Shola, my son has been behaving rather strangely recently. He's been returning home very late, sometimes in the early hours of the morning. Sneaking in and out like a thief. He has been irritable and withdrawn and when I ask him what's wrong, he won't tell me. And now you've turned up on my doorstep looking for him. I may be a religious Jew but I'm not naive.'

Avromi's mother had spoken in a soft, gentle voice. The woman was looking kindly at her. Shola suddenly felt exhausted and tilted her head back to fight back the tears. The Rebbetzin laid a warm hand on her forearm. ‘Take your time,' she said. ‘I don't mean to sound condescending but I think it might help us both if we talked.'

What had she got to lose? Shola took the plunge.

‘All right. Avromi and I are more than just friends. But he ended it yesterday, because he said there is no future in it. It ended so suddenly. I didn't see it coming and there are questions I wanted to ask him. I just need to see him one last time. I'm sorry.' The tears threatened to fall again.

‘It's ok, Shola. Look, I know it hurts, and perhaps I'm biased, but I genuinely think that Avromi did the right thing. Look at me. Are you prepared to live like me? To swap your mini skirts for floor sweepers and wear a wig once you are married?' The Rebbetzin gestured at her sheitel.

‘I don't understand,' Shola said. She had not realized the woman was wearing a wig. ‘Why does it have to be so black and white?'

‘Because Avromi lives in a world where there are very firm rules and ways of doing things. If you want a future with Avromi, you would have to convert to Orthodox Judaism. Conversion can take anything from three to seven years of hard study. You would have to live with a religious Jewish family, to ensure you keep kosher and learn our customs. You would not be able to have any physical contact with Avromi until you become his wife. The rabbis would turn you away several times, testing whether your wish to become an Orthodox Jew stemmed from something other than a romantic relationship. They hold little faith in those who convert for someone else. The motivation needs to be pure and holy and yours alone.'

Shola had known it all along. Avromi had told her, but she had not taken it seriously. She had laughed, saying she was far too young to marry.

The Rebbetzin waited patiently.

‘I guess Avromi did mention conversion and marriage,' she said. ‘But it all seemed so unbelievable, so strict and far away from what was happening between us.'

‘I can imagine. But are you prepared to go that far for him, Shola?'

Shola paused. She did not have to think for long. ‘No, I guess not. I'm only twenty, and I don't want to get married yet. I don't even know if I believe in God. My parents brought me up as a Catholic and I went to mass at school, but that's as far as it went.'

‘For Avromi, God is part of everything he does, even down to what he can and can't eat. He needs someone with whom he can share that life.'

‘I know. I just wanted to see him one last time.'

‘Is there any point in prolonging the agony? I think a clean break is best for both of you. If it's any consolation, I've never seen Avromi so down before. He must really care about you.'

‘It does – at least I know I'm not the only one moping about.'

‘No, you're not. Shola, I don't want to sound patronising, but when you're ready, you'll find someone else, more suitable and from your own world.'

‘Maybe, but he won't be Avromi.' How would she ever find a boy as unique and fascinating as him? Or as considerate and gentle? She wished she could throw her arms around him, pull him close and dissolve against him, just one last time.

‘No, he won't be. But I hope he will allow you to stay as you are.'

Shola looked around the drab, austere room. There was not even a television. ‘You're right,' she said.

 

As Shola was leaving, a tall, thin man dressed formally in a black suit and overcoat was coming up the garden path. He regarded her with wary eyes from beneath the shadow of his fedora. There was something rigid and foreboding about the set of his mouth, a tightness in his jaw that his ashen beard did little to disguise. He gave her a peremptory nod and stepped off the path to allow her to pass. She murmured her gratitude but sensed his gesture had less to do with chivalry than disapproval of her presence. He held himself stiffly until she had passed, making her hasten towards the gate, glad to leave.

The Rebbetzin stood at the threshold watching Shola depart. Her husband was coming up the path and she observed their little dance with a heavy heart, having hoped to keep Shola's visit from him in order to protect Avromi. But as he made his way towards her with his mouth frozen in a grim, tight line, she sensed trouble ahead.

Rabbi Zilberman hung up his coat and hat and turned to her without so much as a greeting. ‘Nu, who was that girl?'

‘A university friend of Avromi's.'

‘I wasn't aware he had any female friends let alone those that favour mini-skirts. What was she doing here, displaying her wares for the whole street to see? So this is what he gets up to at that university of his, instead of studying? Admiring the goyim in their skimpy clothes!' The Rabbi's eyes flashed as he marched into the kitchen. He began opening and closing cupboards as if hoping to find evidence of other young women flaunting themselves immodestly inside.

The Rebbetzin sighed and trailed after him. There was nothing for it; she would have to tell him. She could not lie to him.

 

That night neither the Rebbetzin nor Rabbi Zilberman could sleep. The after-shocks of her husband's explosion over Avromi's affair still reverberated through the house. The air trembled with the echo of his harsh words. She lay curled up on her side staring at the pale outline of the door, a pillow between her knees to relieve her back of the burgeoning weight of the baby, and listened to her husband toss and turn in his exasperation. When she shut her eyes, she saw her son's wounded expression and remembered the way he had flinched as if to avoid the blow, when her husband had accused him of desecrating HaShem's name.

Rabbi Zilberman had ranted and railed the length and breadth of the kitchen. Then he had stopped, gripped the back of the kitchen chair and blasted her with the full force of his wrath.

‘Rivka, this is all your fault! You insisted that he attended a real university – this would never have happened if he'd enrolled on an Open University course like the rest of the kehilla! Oh no – you had to have your way. And stupidly I gave in. I should have stuck to my guns and sent him to yeshiva.'

She stared down at the sticky plastic table cloth trying to shut out his fury, gathering herself to reply whilst attempting to stem the rising tide of her own anger.

 

The alarm clock ticked away the minutes and hours of lost sleep. The Rebbetzin was aware of every sound her husband made. Every cough and grunt served to increase her misery and irritation. Despite the ache in her right side, she refused to roll over and face him. She sensed he wanted to talk but the anger he had ignited within her still curdled in her veins.

Suddenly he spoke out in a hoarse whisper. ‘What will people say if this gets out? It will affect everything. My standing in the kehilla. People will stop coming to the shul. Everything I have worked for will be jeopardized. Have you thought of that?'

Rabbi Zilberman was lying on his back, arms folded over his chest, his profile in silhouette against the grey half-light. His beard wagged as he spoke. He had known she was awake all along.

‘I can't believe your selfishness! What has happened to you since you came over here? All you care about is the kehilla and your job! What about us, what about Avromi?'

Chaim lay as still as an effigy considering her words.

‘Whatever he has done, he's our son and he deserves our support. He is heartbroken. You were young once, Chaim, and I know you slept with non-Jewish girls. Don't you remember what it was like falling in love and breaking up with someone?'

Her husband sighed, ‘True, but Avromi was born frum. He knew what was forbidden to him and he still flouted all thought of HaShem – that's what really hurts.'

‘So what are you going to do? Sit shiva for him? Come on, Chaim, it's over! He had the foresight to end it. You could at least give him credit for that.'

‘Not until he shows me he has redeemed himself through davening and going to a proper yeshiva in Jerusalem.'

The Rebbetzin hauled herself upright.

‘Well, I'm sure he'll thank you for your understanding and support later on in life,' she spat. ‘Your lack of compassion disgusts me.'

She rolled onto her feet and snatched her dressing gown off the back of the door.

‘Where are you going?'

‘To sleep on the sofa.'

His father had demanded that he give up his degree and attend a yeshiva in Jerusalem. Avromi conceded and his father had begun making enquiries on his behalf. He had lost the heart to pursue his studies. Jerusalem seemed far enough away from London and university – and his father. His only desire was for his world to return to normal, even if it was a duller existence. He welcomed mundanity; his previous life seemed more appealing than ever in its lost tranquility and blameless sleep. At times, his father could barely look at him and when he did, Avromi sensed glowering disapproval. Sometimes his father was unable to contain himself and stormed out halfway through dinner, leaving the rest of the family to pick at their food in subdued silence.

The house had become a gloomy prison and through its thin walls he could hear and sense the tension he had created. Even Michal gave him the cold shoulder. Outraged, she would march past him on the way to the bathroom, her nose in the air, slamming the door behind her. However, despite her disapproval, she did not speak of his shame outside the family and for her loyalty he was grateful. Only Moishe remained unchanged, demanding gritty detail about Shola and what she looked like naked, which Avromi refused to divulge.