Free The Marrying of Chani Kaufman by Eve Harris Page A

feel better now.’
    â€˜So do I, Chani. Good Shabbes and get some sleep. See you on Sunday then . . . well, I guess . . .  that’s it for now!’ His voice squeaked a little.
    â€˜Good Shabbes to you too. Yes, see you Sunday.’
    Â 
    Chani leapt off the bus as the doors squealed behind her. She scurried around the edge of Hendon Park, along Queens Road, praying she wouldn’t bump into him. Her road could be reached down a small, damp alleyway. Pulling up her hood, she plunged into the safety of damp, overhanging yew, skilfully skirting the dog mess. It was time for afternoon prayers. She would be home in a few minutes.
    If Baruch had turned around he may have seen a small, drab figure disappear down the shortcut on the opposite side of the street. However, even if he had seen her, he probably would not have recognised her as the girl that was to be his wife. She would have been an indistinct feminine blur. His glasses brought the world closer to him, but it was never close enough.
    He did not turn around. He remained deep in thought, hands in his pockets as he leant against his bike. The bike was propped up against an old chestnut tree. At his feet lay yellowing spiky husks, their empty shells still waxy inside, as the last conkers lay brilliant amongst the rotting leaves.

Chapter 5
The Rebbetzin
    October and November 2008 – London
    In the first few days afterwards, waking was the only time the Rebbetzin felt alive. In those hazy moments she believed her belly still to be full. But then she would blink awake to the emptiness inside her. When the bitter reality set in, the dreams began. She was pushing a pram down Brent Street, her baby cooing at her from within. But when she looked down at him, all she could see was blood, dark and viscous, filling the pram to the brim.
    The Rebbetzin moved in a daze, her body carrying out its usual functions but food had no taste and sleep gave no relief. Her hands busied themselves with her daily chores but she could not pray. The words stuck in her throat. She tried to read her siddur but it gave her no comfort.
    Her husband was a constant reminder of her loss. She ignored him when he called her name. He had used to kneel before her to ease off her shoes, rubbing each hot, sore little foot until the life wriggled back into her toes. Now the thought of his touch repulsed her. The bleeding had stopped but she avoided the mikveh. By remaining niddah she kept him at bay. She had wanted him to disappear so that she could grieve alone in peace but the evidence of his existence invaded her domain and disturbed her silent lament. His hat still hung on the banister, his dirty underpants still surfaced in the mound of washing.
    Tears came and they would not stop. They poured down her face when she least expected it, making a visit to the shops impossible. She sent Michal instead. They blinded her suddenly when she tried to read a recipe. She constantly licked them away. Her chin became raw from her hand brushing against it. Her cheeks stung with salt.
    When the tears dried, the anger began. Her rage grew into a white heat. It lit her from within, turning her soft gaze into a hard stare whenever she saw an expectant mother, her stomach bulging with life. The women sensed her envy and would stroke their bumps protectively and turn away from her. Such jealousy attracted the evil eye and the Rebbetzin knew why these women crossed the street when they saw her. She was ashamed of her bitterness but she could not control it. The community’s tongues were wagging; she had been too old to carry a child. Let them talk. She had nothing to say.
    Her husband was an easy target when the screaming started. The Rebbetzin had never raised her voice against anyone; she had trained herself to speak gently even under pressure. Suddenly her throat belched accusations, harsh words and reproaches. Her husband bore them all, his head bowed as if it were his due. And it was.