The Marrying of Chani Kaufman by Eve Harris

teased. Chayaleh lifted one shoulder and dropped it, then skipped out of the kitchen.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜No, not exactly – well, yes, mum.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Mum! That’s not helping!’ She could brook her frustration no longer.
    â€˜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. ’
    â€˜Amen. But did it hurt?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜That’s exactly what the Rebbetzin said – ’sighed Chani.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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 – ’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    Â 
    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