teenage boy in America. She finally chose the hat, which, though it showed most of her long hair, still looked the most respectable, with its cool white straw, band of apricot silk, and large apricot bow.
Choosing the clothes had been less problematic. She took out a lovely apricot silk suit, purchased as part of her trousseau, with a pretty scarf. It was an outfit that covered up everything without looking dowdy.
The women’s section was one flight up, a few pews tucked into an alcove like an afterthought. Its front row—the only one from which a glimpse of the men’s section and the actual service itself was visible—had a mechitzah of wooden shutters and lace curtains so thick it was almost impossible to see anything. Generations of frustrated women, however, had done their best to open it up. Many of the slats were broken, and numerous holes had been poked in the lace.
As she walked down the narrow aisle toward the front, Delilah saw the aged faces turn toward her and toward one another, nodding and smiling with pleasure. She was everybody’s just-married granddaughter, she realized. She felt a wave of approval and happiness and love beamed at her from every corner as she heard the whispered word for bride, kallah, echo off the walls in all directions.
She smiled with real joy at the old faces shining with love, feeling like a princess graciously accepting the homage of her people. She wondered where to sit. Not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings by rejecting the places they patted hopefully beside them, she chose an empty pew in front. As she sat facing forward, she could feel the buzz moving all around the room, finally landing at a spot on the back of her neck, where dozens of old eyes rested with curiosity and unexpressed friendliness.
When she took out her prayer book, she felt the room shift as the women leaned forward in anticipation, waiting to see if she would turn to the right page. And when she rose to pray, taking the obligatory three steps backward and three steps forward that usher in the Eighteen Benedictionprayer—steps that separate Orthodox Jews from their well-meaning, but ignorant, Jewish born-again cousins or from curious secular visitors or Gentiles—she could hear the small hiss of relief.
A shaine maidel . A beautiful girl.
A frum girl. A religious girl.
The rabbi’s granddaughter-in-law!
A good match for his brilliant, pious grandson Chaim, their future leader. She could feel their happiness for the good fortune that had befallen their beloved rabbi and his family. It pricked the layers of her heart, making her feel that she didn’t want to disappoint them, the way Princess Diana hadn’t wanted to disappoint her cheering, devoted subjects, no matter how that Royal thing worked out.
When Chaim got up to speak, she felt herself grip her prayer book as she watched him walk down the aisle and climb up to the podium. He wore a black Sabbath suit and a wide-brimmed hat. He looked like a generic yeshiva boy, she thought, a bit dismayed. The yeshiva day schools disgorged them in colorful crocheted skullcaps, sweatpants, and basketball jackets, and Bernstein got hold of them and turned them into dour, serious, prematurely aged men in dark suits and glasses. There were legions of them, all interchangeable, like those stuffed or plastic effigies mass-produced in the wake of some hit movie. At least he was clean-shaven, she comforted herself. A beard would have been the last straw.
She was anxious for him to do well. She sat back, listening at first. It was about buttons, she realized. Should a button sewn onto a shirt as a spare—the extra button—be considered muktzeh, untouchable, on the Sabbath? She stuck with him for a while, listening as he detailed the problem. Muktzeh was a rabbinical category in which all things forbidden to use on the Sabbath by Divine decree also became forbidden to touch by rabbinic decree. And if one lived in an area in which one couldn’t carry on the
Choosing the clothes had been less problematic. She took out a lovely apricot silk suit, purchased as part of her trousseau, with a pretty scarf. It was an outfit that covered up everything without looking dowdy.
The women’s section was one flight up, a few pews tucked into an alcove like an afterthought. Its front row—the only one from which a glimpse of the men’s section and the actual service itself was visible—had a mechitzah of wooden shutters and lace curtains so thick it was almost impossible to see anything. Generations of frustrated women, however, had done their best to open it up. Many of the slats were broken, and numerous holes had been poked in the lace.
As she walked down the narrow aisle toward the front, Delilah saw the aged faces turn toward her and toward one another, nodding and smiling with pleasure. She was everybody’s just-married granddaughter, she realized. She felt a wave of approval and happiness and love beamed at her from every corner as she heard the whispered word for bride, kallah, echo off the walls in all directions.
She smiled with real joy at the old faces shining with love, feeling like a princess graciously accepting the homage of her people. She wondered where to sit. Not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings by rejecting the places they patted hopefully beside them, she chose an empty pew in front. As she sat facing forward, she could feel the buzz moving all around the room, finally landing at a spot on the back of her neck, where dozens of old eyes rested with curiosity and unexpressed friendliness.
When she took out her prayer book, she felt the room shift as the women leaned forward in anticipation, waiting to see if she would turn to the right page. And when she rose to pray, taking the obligatory three steps backward and three steps forward that usher in the Eighteen Benedictionprayer—steps that separate Orthodox Jews from their well-meaning, but ignorant, Jewish born-again cousins or from curious secular visitors or Gentiles—she could hear the small hiss of relief.
A shaine maidel . A beautiful girl.
A frum girl. A religious girl.
The rabbi’s granddaughter-in-law!
A good match for his brilliant, pious grandson Chaim, their future leader. She could feel their happiness for the good fortune that had befallen their beloved rabbi and his family. It pricked the layers of her heart, making her feel that she didn’t want to disappoint them, the way Princess Diana hadn’t wanted to disappoint her cheering, devoted subjects, no matter how that Royal thing worked out.
When Chaim got up to speak, she felt herself grip her prayer book as she watched him walk down the aisle and climb up to the podium. He wore a black Sabbath suit and a wide-brimmed hat. He looked like a generic yeshiva boy, she thought, a bit dismayed. The yeshiva day schools disgorged them in colorful crocheted skullcaps, sweatpants, and basketball jackets, and Bernstein got hold of them and turned them into dour, serious, prematurely aged men in dark suits and glasses. There were legions of them, all interchangeable, like those stuffed or plastic effigies mass-produced in the wake of some hit movie. At least he was clean-shaven, she comforted herself. A beard would have been the last straw.
She was anxious for him to do well. She sat back, listening at first. It was about buttons, she realized. Should a button sewn onto a shirt as a spare—the extra button—be considered muktzeh, untouchable, on the Sabbath? She stuck with him for a while, listening as he detailed the problem. Muktzeh was a rabbinical category in which all things forbidden to use on the Sabbath by Divine decree also became forbidden to touch by rabbinic decree. And if one lived in an area in which one couldn’t carry on the
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