The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (4 page)

She would bring this last one into the world even if it killed her.

 

***

 

Something was wrong. The bed was wet. The Rebbetzin sat up. A spasm. The pain came again as a dull ache.

‘Chaim? Chaim!'

‘Whatisit?' grumbled Rabbi Zilberman.

‘Something's wrong – the baby – I can feel wet – '

The Rabbi snapped on the light and kicked back the covers. A crimson stain had spread from between his wife's legs. They were lying in it.

He leapt from the bed and stared down at his pyjamas. The liquid had soaked through the thin material gluing it to his flesh. He trembled. Her blood was niddah and therefore so was she. Surely in an emergency all laws would be suspended? He was torn. One law forbade him from touching her and another law ruled that everything must be done in order to save another's life. He didn't know what to do. This had never happened before. This was women's business.

‘Wha – what should we do?' he stammered.

Her baby was leaking out of her and Chaim was asking her what to do. Such a husband she had. She heaved herself onto all fours, her hands scrabbling at the sheets. Where was it? Her fingers tangled with gloop.

‘Ring for an ambulance!' she snapped. No. No. Please HaShem. But she knew the baby was lost.

Rabbi Zilberman couldn't move. Which law must he obey? He felt faint sickened by all that blood. He had to help her but his limbs had rebelled. He remained where he was.

‘Chaim,
do
something!'

‘I'll – I'll call Hatzollah,' he mumbled.

He stumbled across the room to the phone on the bedside table not daring to look at the bed. He gripped the receiver. But he couldn't remember the number for the Charedi ambulance service. The Rebbetzin groaned.

‘I can't remember the number!'

His wife turned to stare at him. She lurched across the bed, snatched the phone out of his hands and dialled 999 instead. Pain rippled through her. Her thighs were warm and wet. The nightdress sagged between them, its material so dark, it looked black.

‘Hello – hello – yes, I need an ambulance. Yes, for me. For my baby. No, not labour – now, please. 36 The Drive, Golders Green. My name – yes – Rebbetzin – I mean, Mrs Zilberman – thank you, yes – I will – thank you.'

She sank back and waited. There was nothing else to do. Her husband remained standing, frozen by indecision.

 

Chaim felt a fool. How selfish he had been worrying about the laws. Saving another's life should always come first. On instinct he had leapt away from her blood but it had been more than that. He had been repulsed by it. Her belly had been so smooth, perfect in its gentle swelling. The life that was so carefully concealed had spilled out of her, creating such chaos. The illusion of containment had been shattered and the wet messy truth of her womb had been too much to bear. Beneath the disgust, he was afraid. More than the loss of his child, the blood seemed to carry with it an ominous meaning that he was unable to grasp.

He felt sick with self-loathing at his cowardly response. Why hadn't he just dialled 999? It had been a terrible mistake, a loss of self-control and now he had to try and mend things. He tried to form an apology in his head, but it was no good. The words seemed pathetic.

He shuffled closer to the bed.

‘Rivka – '

He could only say her name. Instead he reached out a clammy hand to pat her shoulder. She stared up at him, her mouth a rigid line of distaste.

She swatted his hand away.

‘Rivka – I don't know what came over – the sages say – '

‘I don't care what they say! This is not the time – ' she grimaced with pain. ‘Bring me a towel – bring me two . . . and go into my drawers and bring me a clean nightie.'

The Rebbetzin Zilberman slumped further into the bed. He obeyed the order relieved just to be useful. He emerged from the bathroom with a heap of towels in his arms. Bracing himself to deal with the carnage, he stripped the duvet off his wife. So much blood. Who would have thought that such a little baby could cause so much blood? He wanted to close his eyes at the sight but forced himself to continue. She parted her legs and he pushed a rolled up towel between them. Then he heaved her upright. Her nightdress was rucked up around her hips. She lifted her arms and he pulled it over her head. Then he slipped the clean one over her shoulders, helping her push her arms through its sleeves.

He was grateful that he could perform these small actions for her although he still felt deeply uneasy. But it was not enough. It would never be enough.

‘What else can I do?'

‘Nothing. Just get dressed yourself – they'll be here any minute,' she muttered.

‘Ok then.'

His voice quavered. Rabbi Zilberman felt impotent in the face of the painful female mystery unravelling before him. A few minutes ago, she had been pregnant and all had been well. It was hard to comprehend how their joy could dissolve so suddenly. The child must have been truly holy, for HaShem to have called it back before it had even taken its first breath. His child might have been a great tzaddik or rebbe. Still he had wanted to see his child, to see its tiny face screw up and hear it bawl for the first time. To hold his son. For he was sure it had been a son.

The memory of an old loss returned as keen and sharp as the shoyket's knife and the ghost of another child hung in the air between them, a small, spectral wisp.

She watched him as he dressed. There was nothing more to say. He had failed her, his wife, his beloved companion and best friend of all these years. Perhaps she had been too old to bear another child but Isaac was born unto Sarah when she was ninety. HaShem had made it possible.

When he turned to look at her, her eyes were shut. The lids were violet against her pallid skin. They flickered with movement but her face had the quality of a mask. It was only then that he noticed her hair was uncovered. To disturb her now seemed ridiculous but her immodesty bothered him. Other men would see her hair now. He was being absurd. What did it matter – surely HaShem would –

The doorbell rang and he raced to answer it.

The paramedics spoke in low, kind voices and lifted each limb carefully, as if she were a china doll. And indeed she had broken, broken open, the life was still flowing out of her. Her heartbeat had slowed, reverberating in time with the pain. The voices seemed to swim near and far.

They touched her. The Rebbetzin had always tried to avoid any man's touch but her husband's. But these strangers, these goyim had carried her and spoken to her with a compassion that she had desperately needed. And here she was, her flesh exposed. She no longer cared. These men knew what to do. They carried out their actions with a smooth confidence, showing no fear or hesitancy and she was glad of it. It was a relief that someone else had taken control.

Her husband had scurried about, clearing the way for the stretcher, busying himself with opening the door to the men, shooing the children back to their rooms. Dressed in their pyjamas, they had crowded the doorway.

‘Dad – Dad – what's wrong with Mum?' Moishe demanded. But Michal, his older sister, had realised what had happened. She gripped his wrist and pulled him out of the way. He shrugged her off easily.

‘Get off, Michal! I want to know what's wrong – '

‘I'll tell you later – let's just let these guys do their job.' Her voice shook a little but Moishe relented, retreating to watch from his doorway.

Avromi stepped forward to help the men.

‘Stay out of the way and don't interfere,' snarled his father.

The Rebbetzin heard the hurt in Avromi's muttered reply – her husband had still not forgiven their son his fall from grace.

She was grateful for the sheet they had laid over her, covering the cruel evidence. She did not want her children to see the stain spreading from between her legs, soaking the wadded towel.

The stretcher lurched down the stairs, the men negotiating each step. Rabbi Zilberman followed their progress, giving instructions as he watched his wife bump along downhill. ‘Careful, lower her a bit, left a bit – slowly round this corner please – ' It made him feel a little less useless. The men tolerated his twittering patiently, understanding his need to be involved – but finally the senior paramedic, a large and thickset Irishman intervened: ‘Rabbi, don't worry yourself – we've done this a few times before, we'll see her down the stairs all right now – '

So Rabbi Zilberman held his tongue. They carried her out of their bedroom, feet first – like a corpse. He did not like it, but what could he say to these goyim? Still they were good men, and had their place in this world and the next.

He felt stupid, a real nebbuch. He could not even help lift the stretcher, now there were other more capable men to do that. He wanted to walk alongside the stretcher so he could look into her eyes, but there was no space in the narrow hall. Besides when he had gazed down at her on the landing, she turned her head away.

 

The ambulance waited against the kerb. Its siren was silent but the lights flashed, bouncing and flickering against the dark windows of the little houses. And sure enough, the curtains twitched and the lights came on. Faces filled the windows. Mrs Meyer and her husband stumbled out, wrinkly with sleep. His skullcap was lop-sided, his dressing gown cord dragged through the puddles. Mrs Meyer wore huge, monkey faced slippers with beady eyes, a present from her grandchildren. Her stripy socks had concertinaed around her ankles but her hair was wrapped in a snood.

More neighbours appeared peering at the stretcher. ‘The Rebbetzin . . . the Rebbetzin . . .' they muttered.

And there she lay, her hair dangling over the edges of the stretcher.

A small crowd had gathered and the paramedics found themselves surrounded by an audience. They were used to rubbernecks as long as they did not get too close. The men worked quickly and efficiently ignoring the onlookers but this crowd was different. It whispered, it spoke, it wailed and worse; it gave advice:

‘Pray for the Rebbetzin Rivka Zilberman! HaShem will save her!'

‘I am a doctor and I am telling you, she needs oxygen – '

‘My son Simcha – he is a doctor – I'll call him – '

‘Her hair – what about her hair? For shame that a married woman should appear like this!'

It was this last comment that spurred the Rabbi into action. He knew he should have done something before they brought her out. If a woman's glory was her hair then the Rebbetzin had been crowned with greater glory than most. Her hair was long, lustrous and had remained conker brown marred only by a grey streak here and there. From the day of their wedding, she had covered it as the Torah dictated. He had run his fingers through it so many times in the privacy of their bedroom, that even now his hands retained the memory of its smooth, glossy weight. Long snaky locks brushed the tarmac.

‘Cover her up!' he cried. He moved next to the burly Irishman and shook his shoulder. The senior paramedic had been kneeling next to the Rebbetzin as the stretcher was being lifted into the back of the ambulance. He turned to gaze at the Rabbi over his shoulder. The Rabbi's hair formed a wispy halo as the streetlights shone down on him. His eyes were pools of terror.

‘Sir, Rabbi – she is covered – we put a blanket on her to keep warm – please just let us get on with our job.'

‘No – you don't understand – her hair, you see – just pull the sheet over all of her – '

‘Sir – she isn't a corpse.' The senior paramedic was losing his patience.

‘Yes – yes – I know that – but her hair, it's uncovered – ' Rabbi Zilberman was gabbling.

The crowd swayed in agreement. Suddenly Mrs Gottlieb barged her way to the front, her magnificent bosom constrained by her camel hair dressing gown. She flourished a long, loose piece of material like a victory banner and waved it under Rabbi Zilberman's nose.

‘See, here we are – no need to make a fuss,' she announced importantly. She knelt at the Rebbetzin's side shielding her. With a flick of her wrists the hair was caught up and neatly bound. The scarf was twisted and knotted tightly. Every stray curl was hidden. The Rebbetzin's eyes flashed open and stared up at Mrs Gottlieb. Mrs Gottlieb was struck by the emptiness in those eyes – ' as if no one was there' she would repeat to her enthralled guests at her coffee morning, later that day.

The crowd breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, yes, much better.

The men heaved the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. The Rabbi clambered in after them. The doors clanged shut and with a roar, the ambulance jolted into life. The sirens screamed and it screeched away from the kerb.

The show was over. The residents slowly dispersed. Tomorrow there would be plenty to talk about.

November 2008 – London

Baruch rose early and donned his phylacteries. Although he intended to recite Shacharit, morning prayers, in synagogue with everyone else, this particular morning he had woken feeling the need for individual prayer. In shul, he enjoyed the sense of unity and fellowship brought by communal prayer. It was pleasant to start his day immersed in ritual, surrounded by familiar, friendly faces. However, the mutter of male voices was also a distraction, and he was not always able to muster the intensity achieved when praying alone.

To make matters worse, in the week leading up to the wedding, his father had insisted on accompanying him to shul each morning rather than davening at his office, as was his custom. Mr Levy's presence always seemed to suck the air out of the room, not least because of the musky aftershave that made Baruch's head swim.

Baruch loved the silence of the early morning and the cold glow of the light. His family were still asleep. The only sounds were the flutter of wings and chime of birdsong coming from the tree outside his window. He felt safe and alive, every thought sanctified, his mind empty of everything but HaShem. The leather boxes were bound securely to his forearm and forehead, the dark straps laced so tightly that the pale flesh of his inner arm tingled.

After, he carefully unwound the tefillin, kissed them and put them back in their black velvet bag, pulling the drawstring tight. The bag was stored in his desk drawer with his tallis folded neatly on top.

His room was narrow but cosy, a simple cell containing his few possessions. Soon he would leave this room behind forever. It had become a temporary respite between one yeshiva and the next. His old school uniform still hung in the wardrobe and his dusty, dog-eared files and exercise books remained stacked on the shelves. Gazing at these familiar objects comforted him, warding off the sense of fear that had been nagging away at him for weeks.

Fear of the unknown. First, marriage and then, eventually, a new life with Chani in Jerusalem, pursuing his rabbinical studies at a top yeshiva chosen by his father.

 

***

 

The small, plain side-room lent an intimacy to proceedings. Men stood behind benches made of a light wood that creaked with the supplicants' movements. The walls were white and the carpet a deep, soft blue. The black and white stripes of the married men's prayer shawls provided pattern and the golden Hebrew lettering above the ark was its only decoration.

Baruch tried to ignore his father's gravelly singing voice, but serenity evaded him. He wondered briefly at his father's need to stand so close. The room was small but it was not full. He realised that this was probably the last time in a long time he would daven Shacharit with his father. In a few days' time he would daven as a married man, wrapped in his own prayer shawl that had been chosen and bought for him by Chani.

How different he seemed from his father. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed his father, catching him as he rocked forward on his heels. He had always thought his father to be taller, but over the years he had shrunk and hardened to the compact, muscular mass occupying the space on his right. He towered over him now and the difference pleased him. To Baruch, his father represented the cold, hard outside world, a world of smooth talking wheeler-dealers that laughed and shmoozed each other over the phone. Even now, the flash of his father's mobile glowed eerily through his tallis, a flickering neon heart.

He was glad he would not be entering his father's world. His father had made sure of it. Baruch was not businessman material. There was only room for one mache in the family and his father had retained his heavyweight title. His brothers Yisroel and Ilan would swim in their father's stream, snapping at his heels, small dog-sharks defending family territory and increasing profit by collecting rent from tenants packed like rats in a hole. His two younger sisters, Bassy and Malka, would eventually marry into equally wealthy, powerful families.

Baruch could never understand how his father could daven with a clean conscience when he made his money from other peoples' discomfort. His father wasn't a bad man. He gave generously to charity, albeit in large, public gestures. The new Torah scroll at shul had been commissioned and paid for ensuring his father was always mentioned in the rabbis' prayers. And the decaying roof of the girls' school his sisters attended had been replaced at his father's cost. A small plaque on the wall on the top floor clarified any doubt as to who had made the improvement possible.

His father's eyes were shut tight, a fissure of wrinkled flesh scarring the right side of his face. His dark beard was trimmed neatly. His cufflinks glinted, their shine replicating the glossy leather of his shoes. On his head sat a fedora, black as night, containing not a hint of lint. Every morning Mr Levy would lovingly brush his hat before setting it at a jaunty angle, hiding his black velvet skullcap beneath. His father's hair was thick and curly, like his own, and showed no sign of thinning.

Beneath the tallis, his powerful body was neatly hidden, folded under a crisp white shirt, cloaked by a fine, bespoke suit. But when his father placed a hand on Baruch's shoulder and squeezed, his boxer's grip remained tight as a steel clamp.

His father had been a Whitechapel boy and a local champion. The cabbies had loved him for his mean left hook. But at the age of eighteen, someone bigger and faster had left him reeling, and unable to rise to the count of ten. When the world had returned, he had found that he couldn't see out of his right eye, the enlarged, warped pupil eclipsing his hazel iris, giving him a dark Belladonna stare. The blow had torn his retina and shattered the orbital bone below. That was the end of his days in the ring. Another punch and he may never have been able to read his siddur again. Besides, boxing was not a seemly pastime for a nice Yiddisher boy.

Mr Levy had been hungry for success. As the son of a lowly Hungarian refugee, his need to prove himself was powerful. Baruch's grandfather had been a fishmonger selling pickled herring to the Jewish wives of the locality, women who spoke only Yiddish. Mr Levy, though, had wanted acceptance not from his own kind, but from the white lads, the rough and tumble non-Jews who had tripped him up and trampled his skullcap in the dirt. He was sick of the stink of fish, the wet slither of briny entrails, and when his boxing days came to an abrupt end, he knew he had to find another way to make his fortune. No matter how hard he washed his hands and scrubbed his nails, rubbing lemon juice into the raw cuts, the stench of ripe cod lingered.

His sons had never had to plunge their hands into vats of slimy herring. He had made sure of that. Mr Levy was a provider. His house was large and luxurious, the carpets plush, the windows triple-glazed. Baruch had grown up warm, comfortable and loved. For all his materialism, Mr Levy was a doting father. Baruch appreciated his father's efforts and had never lacked for anything. Nor had he ever wanted for anything. Apart from the freedom to choose his own path.