Free Christmas for Joshua - A Novel by Avraham Azrieli

grinned. “I’m just psyching the groom, giving him strength.”
    Mordechai seemed oblivious to Aaron’s humor. He sat down and resumed reading from the prayer book. He must have been obeying some Orthodox rules. Was he required to recite a set number of verses before the marriage could take place?
    We stepped aside.
    “ Nice kid,” Aaron whispered. “Has he had his Bar Mitzvah yet?”
    “ Don’t be stupid,” I said. “He’s a senior in college.”
    “ That means nothing. I’ve read about a twelve-year-old who graduated from Duke summa cum libidio .”
    The last words Aaron said loud enough for Mordechai to hear, and we both turned to look at him. Nothing. He was completely focused on murmuring the verses from the book.
    “ A righteous boy,” Aaron said. “Shouldn’t we also be praying?”
    “ Too bad Rabbi Rachel isn’t here. She’d know the protocol.”
    “ It’s better she stayed in Arizona.”
    “ Why?”
    “ She would stick out like a bagel on Yom Kippur.” Aaron squeezed my arm. “I spoke with her earlier. She sent her love and blessings, but I could tell she was hurting—the president of the synagogue is marrying his daughter, and the rabbi can’t attend.”
    “ Are you trying to make me feel worse?”
    Aaron grinned. “Don’t worry. An e-mail has already gone out to the congregation to remind everyone of the Sheva Brachot dinner on Thursday. Rabbi Rachel thinks we’ll have at least a hundred people or even more.”
    “ Better be more. Rebecca ordered enough food for an army.”
     
     
    Dr. Levinson came in with Rabbi Mintzberg and his stocky assistant, who took their seats at the table. I sat across from the rabbi, Aaron on my left, Mordechai and his father on my right. The klezmer music filtered through the closed door as if trying to inject jolly into this somber, ancient ritual in which the bride’s father transferred ownership of his daughter to the groom, who assumed legal responsibility for her living expenses and wellbeing.
    “ Rabbi,” Dr. Levinson said, “this is the bride’s father.”
    “ Mazal Tov.” Rabbi Mintzberg’s round spectacles focused on Aaron. “God has blessed your daughter with a fine, fine match—”
    “ That’s the father.” Aaron pointed at me.
    “ Azoi. ” The rabbi turned to me, smoothing his white beard. “Mazal Tov to you, then. Your daughter is blessed in joining such a wonderful family.”
    “ Thank you, Rabbi,” I said. “The blessing is mutual. We’re grateful to Hashem.”
    His gnarled, tremulous hands unrolled a large parchment and held it flat on the table before us. The letters resembled the script of a Torah scroll. “You are here today,” he said, “representing your daughter in executing this ketubah, by which you agree to transfer her from your possession to her husband’s, yes?”
    I nodded.
    “ It is the greatest mitzvah,” Rabbi Mintzberg continued, “bringing your daughter under the chuppah.” He closed his eyes and chanted, “May God reward you with the joy of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who will grow up to a life of Torah and good deeds.”
    We all chorused, “Amen!”
    The assistant, swaying as if in prayer, read from the ketubah, starting with Mordechai’s ancestry and continuing with Debra: “The bride, the virtuous virgin, Debra, daughter of Rebecca, daughter of Leah and Melvin Greenbaum of Warsaw, Poland, later of the Bronx, New York.”
    The reason for the long description of Debra’s ancestry, I knew, was to satisfy the Jewish hereditary test of a kosher Jew, based on her maternal line.
    The assistant switched to Aramaic, except for numbers, which he recited in English, setting forth Mordechai’s future monetary obligations to Debra. It went on for ten minutes. Then it was time for signing.
    The rabbi’s assistant signed as a witness for Mordechai, who then executed the ketubah deliberately, his fingers slightly trembling. In an hour or so, my daughter would bear his last name: Debra