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DAUGHTER OF THE GROOM
How strange to watch a woman marry your father, thought Shaindele, a bit stunned, her eyes brimming with the tears she knew would earn her dark looks, if not outright scoldings and exhortations, if certain people in the family noticed. And who could blame them? she thought, hurriedly wiping them away. Her initial furious objections to Leah Howard, the bride, her blatant exhibitions of nastiness, indeed outright hatred, for the new woman in her father’s life had been so vicious, what else could they think now, seeing her crying at the wedding? But they would be so wrong.
She had not only changed her mind but had been forgiven, and with so much compassion by the woman now sitting quietly in the bridal chair, calm and beautiful, awaiting her bedecking; a forgiveness she believed she had not earned and did not deserve. With her whole teenage heart, she wanted to gladden the bride not simply out of politeness or religious obligation but because she deserved it. And then there was her father. After all he had suffered, would it not be inhuman, almost monstrous, to begrudge him the happiness that now shone from his kind blue eyes, at long last replacing the shock and hopelessness that had taken root there with such vicious tenacity—until now?
But as much as she tried, as much as she wanted to, all her good intentions were swept away like dead leaves by the raging current of fear coursing through her.
Her father’s unexpected marriage to an outsider, a woman brought up in the tainted secular world, a woman who had eaten pig and shellfish, had unsanctified sexual relations with who-knows-how-many men, and had once tattooed her flesh—an abomination specifically proscribed by God Himself!—was like plastering a plague notice across the door to their Boro Park apartment. Who among the matchmakers and their clients would be intrepid enough to push past it and venture inside? No matter that all now agreed that the bride was a pious and worthy penitent who had put her past firmly behind her, adhering to every religious precept—as far as true forgiveness was concerned, among the very pious who made up her world, there was the theory, and then there was the practice.
While in theory the Torah demanded that each Jew imitate a just and compassionate Creator, forgiving each other before each Day of Judgment so that they themselves could hope to earn forgiveness, in practice, the more pious Jews were, the more they adhered to stringency upon stringency, the less likely that was to occur. Ultra-Orthodox Jews, sometimes known as haredim—literally “the fearful ones”—referring to their terror of transgression, paradoxically never forgave or forgot even the slightest deviation from social rules etched in the reinforced concrete of community boundaries. And now with her father’s marriage to a baalas teshuva, he had taken a jackhammer to those boundaries, smashing through them.
While Shaindele hoped that time would eventually dissipate the heavy fog of communal disapproval hanging above their heads as people shifted their idle minds to some other scandal, she had no illusions it might benefit her or her older brothers the way it would her siblings—six-year-old Chasya and two-year-old Mordechai Shalom. Unless her Bubbee’s long and distinguished rabbinical lineage could be mustered to mount a successful defense, the matchmakers would be scraping the bottom of the barrel for all three of them, the place where all the ugly, stupid, poor, handicapped singles with bad reputations sank, mingling with the divorced and widowed, as well as the aging never-marrieds.
Her brothers would probably have an easier time, she thought, being well-respected Torah scholars and, most of all, men. Men always had the upper hand, especially when they could bring scholarship to the table. After all, weren’t some of the most celebrated heroes of the Talmud former thieves, thugs, and ignoramuses whose brilliance in the study halls compensated for all their former sins?
As for herself, a girl and no scholar, it would be quite another story. She couldn’t help her fear. At nearly seventeen, the question of her shidduch was pounding fiercely against the shores of her consciousness like huge breakers on some forsaken island, ravaging her serenity and reshaping the coastline of her thoughts.
But this was not the time to think about that, she berated herself, taking a deep breath as the sound of the flutist’s first plaintive notes broke through the chatter, replacing it with the hopeful, almost heartbreaking Jewish wedding song: “And so will be heard in the cities of Judah, and in the streets of Jerusalem, the sound of happiness and the sound of joy, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride.”
She moved down the row of women who stood like phalanxes on either side of the linen-and-flower-bedecked wicker chair in which sat the bride, staring at the little book of psalms in her lap, her lips barely moving in recitation. Only the slight furrows around her eyes revealed the turmoil and sincerity in her heart. When the bride finally raised her head, her eyes looked directly into Shaindele’s. For an instant, Shaindele blinked, terrified her thoughts might be leaking out of her eyes. But to her relief, the bride smiled warmly, reaching out to her and grasping her hand with a gentle squeeze of encouragement. Despite all the young girl’s efforts, the forbidden tears now overflowed. She smiled through them, hoping that would be enough to dispel any misinterpretation.
But soon the bride’s eyes left hers, focusing with joyous intensity on the man moving slowly down the aisle, flanked by his brother, Abraham, and his Talmud study partner, Meir. A light sheen of sweat coated his handsome face beneath the heavy, dignified black hat. His blond beard had been neatly combed, his golden payos hidden behind his ears.
His face gave nothing away, thought his daughter anxiously, failing to notice the upturned mouth, the slight overbite as he attempted to quell the rising tide of his hilarity, his eyes like the ocean dancing in the morning sun. Dazzled by her own overwhelming sense of doom, of looking down from a precipice with a mad desire to jump and get it over with, almost relishing the suicidal release that would accompany the long fall, the crash, and oblivion, she was blind to the extent of his utter rapture.
What if right now, a person—respectable and not insane—stepped forward and firmly demanded that the whole thing be called off, the hall cleared, the guests dispersed? Oh, oh, the horror of it! Oh, oh, the sheer relief of it! she thought with panic and strange joy. She waited, forgetting to breathe, hoping, dreading. But it was not to be, she understood, as the band picked up the tempo and everyone around her smiled, caught up in wedding happiness. They all seemed so … so pleased, so normal. She exhaled in resignation.
The weight of a soft, heavy hand suddenly fell upon her like an admonition, draping her shoulder. Shocked and filled with guilt, she looked up. Bubbee. Her rotund and elderly body was clothed in the utmost of sumptuous yet subdued and modest Boro Park finery. Shaindele felt herself clasped in sure hands like a wailing infant put to the breast. “Ich farshtey,” her grandmother breathed into her ear, so low Shaindele wondered if she’d imagined it. I understand. The girl exhaled, her body suddenly limp as her heart slowed with relief and a strange acceptance. She squeezed her bubbee’s hand gratefully.
All around the wedding hall, male friends, relatives, and acquaintances frolicked and danced as was the custom, steadily encroaching upon the women’s space, forcing them to move aside. The women, crushed together, refused to give way completely, intent on catching every nuance, their faces expectant and amused, but also slightly puzzled. Grandmother and granddaughter wondered if the bride had noticed, praying she had not.
They needn’t have worried. Leah Howard had no eyes for anyone save the man who was slowly, steadily bringing himself to her. She watched, mesmerized, as his face grew brighter with each step, the years sloughing off and the shine of renewal and youth washing over him.
When Yaakov finally came within arm’s length, he stopped, trembling, as he looked down upon her face. This young woman, this stranger, he thought, marveling once again at her willingness to give herself to him, to become part of his pitiful life, in full knowledge of all his shortcomings and tragic mistakes. This lovely woman who knew him completely, yet still could love him so wholeheartedly. How is that possible? he wondered. It was a miracle. A gift from God. He drank in her glowing face, her sweet eyes filled with hope and happiness. My dear God, thank you! Please, please, never let anything happen in our life together to wipe that look off her face.
And then, despite himself, those thoughts were silently pushed out by others that encroached, unbidden, desperately unwanted. He fought against them. No! he exhorted himself, his smile contorting with the effort. He mustn’t think about that time, the very first time he had pulled a bright, white veil over the face of another lovely, smiling young woman who had, in the end, disfigured by despair, become almost unrecognizable. He had not been able to make her happy. He had not been able to save her, the wife of his youth. Zissele. Poor Zissele. Oh no! Not now, please, he begged for the countless time, for absolution, for forgiveness and ultimately for release. Please, he begged some implacable force in the universe that controlled all that was meant to give human beings joy and meaning. Please, let me …
The bride, blinded by love and happiness, saw none of this. Thankfully, the almost-opaque veil was soon gently lifted over her head and pulled down over her eyes, sparing her the astonished looks and pinched mouths of many who followed her progress down the aisle toward the marriage canopy.
Copyright © 2021 by Naomi Ragen
