by
CHAPTER 1
It was March 10, 1906. Herschel Haverman woke with the crow of the rooster somewhere near his Boston flat. This was his last day here, and his wedding day. With gold crayon the sun scribbled on the windows and he began to sing. Like a dozen birds he sang, with the rich deep voice of the rabbi, which he now was; with the voice of a cantor. His father-in-law-to-be met him at the ship, which was delayed for a week. Abraham Frankel had brought him here; explained that his daughter was busy getting ready for the wedding day, which "will take place in only a week. You must be patient." "Herschel, you've worked hard at the University of Munich and received high grades. You've also done well in your rabbinical studies, I know. You'll make a good rabbi and with your university education you can do anything you wish and make money. I found you an orthodox congregation in Brooklyn." Herschel felt himself flush, "Abraham, I wrote you how we rabbinical students protested against orthodoxy. We hated the harsh inflexible laws of orthodoxy. God, the fights we had!" "You'll have to take what I could get, and make the best of it. I sent them a generous donation. A first term rabbinical student could pass the questions they'll ask. Your outfit for the wedding hangs in the closet. Good Luck!" He left, closing the door firmly behind him. On this most beautiful night of his life he didn't want to think any more of that. Tonight, Manya, Manya, I want to think only of you. Tonight he was Eros, bearing his sack of seed. He threw open the window that curved around the lounge. He breathed in the tang of late winter. With the cool breath in his lungs, he sang out, "The time of the singing has come and the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land. Oh freylache tug. Today my Messiah comes. Today I marry Manya." His voice lingered on the air as he sang to the two children playing double Dutch skip rope. They looked up and laughed. He sang to the old lady as she leaned out, one elbow on the windowsill. "Tonight, tonight, the moon will come, dressed in white and my bride will be dressed in white. Tonight I enter Heaven." The old woman's face was wistful. He leaped and pranced around the room, banged his fists against the wall until his knuckles turned blue. Manya, Manya, tonight you're mine, mine. Praise be to God, our Father our King. He started a 24-hour fast at dusk but at this time he felt no hunger. Tonight my hunger is of a different nature. "Tumbala, tumbala laka. No music hall girls for me. I've got the pure, the innocent Manya. Together we'll study and learn love." His fellow students spent their weekends at the music halls, came back bragging how available the girls were. He'd spent his weekends reading the English poets, and could speak English perfectly now. Abraham had noted that and he'd been proud. He kept himself pure for Manya, but in the dark of night he pleasured himself. Almost six years before, Abraham brought the poor orphan of the murdered rebbe and rebbetzin of Lithuania to his home in Cape Province, South Africa. "You're a lucky boy," he told the glowing-eyed youth. "I'm taking you where there are no Cossacks, no pogroms. You will not have to wander from family to family. I will send you to the University in Munich and you'll have a fine future. You will marry my daughter. You'll find Abraham arranges for everything, and everything turns out well. "I want to be a rabbi like my father before me." "Then we can arrange that you study with a great scholar evenings. You'll have to work hard." That first night on the farm Herschel saw Rifka, the older. She was golden lightning who appeared and disappeared. He was awed by her beauty. "She's betrothed to a medical student," Abraham told him. And then he met Manya. Manya, Manya, that first day, working in the field, I saw the bright shining girl walking toward us with a tray of cookies and lemonade, and I knew this girl smelling of lemon peel and oranges, this girl would be my bride. The other men ate at the inn that was on the grounds. He ate at Abraham's table and watched Manya and each day she grew more and more beautiful. After dinner she taught him English and when their eyes grew strained they walked outside to look at the moon. In the sweeping purple of the wheat fields he'd steal kiss after kiss. Manya, Manya, you let me kiss you and that is what has sustained me. Tonight, Manya, you'll satisfy all my thirsts, all my yearnings. Tonight he'd get it all. Papa, Mama, if only you could have lived to see this day. Come in spirit to my wedding. You will make a good bedding for Manya and me when we are ready to join you. But, of course, that was in never-never land. Here there were no pogroms and only the old die. Manya, Manya, I'm so hungry for you. If you walked in now, I'd, eat you. The late afternoon had turned the color of mottled stone. It was getting chilly in the room. There was a clopping of horses on the cobblestones, but it was too early. He shut the window, took a bath, relaxed in the warm, smooth water and thought of the troubled years in the shtetl; how sad, lonely and uncertain life was for him as he went from family to family. Only his friendship with Reuven had been solid and certain. Some day, when he was independent and sure, he would send for Reuven; if only the people of the shtetl could come to his wedding. The poor people were glad if they had enough to eat. Their small huts had floors of earth, and the animals wandered in and out as if they too lived in them. Out of his bath, Herschel looked at his strong, naked body in the mirror. Tonight it would come to good use. He was muscular, a man. Didn't all religious men praise God they were born men? Praise God for Manya. Tonight, he told his image, tonight my sword will point the way to heaven. Tonight my sword will enter its sheath. Vigorously he dried the thick, black hair and the beard. Water made a constellation of the long, black lashes that curled around the mossy green eyes. The women of the shtetl had told him any girl would envy this combination. What would they think of him marrying a girl who graduated from Radcliffe? His mother and father would understand what that meant. Once when he was very young, they'd taken him to Vilna, a great city. They told him there were great schools and great rabbis there. "You will study here and you will become a rabbi," his father told him, "a great rabbi." The next Yom Kippur night, they'd been murdered in the pogrom and his spirit had been wounded. He'd become a traumatized child and had to share food with the people who didn't have enough for their children. Abraham had come and changed his life. Abraham, his savior.? He was hungry now. Light-headed. Tonight I shall get gefelte fish and schmaltz herring. I shall eat sponge cake and drink wine. But I must not eat too much. I must have strength. Manya must see how strong I am. Oh, we shall have sweet nights. Slowly, slowly I must prepare her for the bursting of my fruit. How sweet the moment when I pick up the veil and glimpse once again that wonderful face. Manya, it hurts that I cannot fully remember. A dimple in your chin, I remember, eyes soft as the moon, chambers of heaven. "I'll study the Talmud and the Torah and make a good rebbetzin," she told him. She had a mind like a tzaddik. She could learn anything. With Manya at his side he could even tolerate an orthodox congregation. He put on his long underwear and began prayers. He prayed God to bless Abraham and his family. He prayed for the simple bread of the shtetl. He thought of opening the window again so that he could give his message directly to God. The crass thought came to him that an open window would be a danger. He might pole vault. He smiled at the thought and hoped that Manya was not altogether innocent of such base thoughts. How much he wanted her to want him! The gaslights were going on in the streets. The dense green of night was creeping in. He dressed carefully in the black suit, startlingly white shirt and the high silk hat. An orthodox suit would have been knee-high stockings, short, black silk pants and long black silk coat. The outfit was becoming and gave him an air of grave dignity. He found a pocket for the engraved watch, a present from Abraham when he was back on the farm. That week when he and another young man had both been ill, he'd wait impatiently for the hour when Manya would come to nurse them. Again and again he'd let the watch spring open to amuse himself until she arrived. How jealous he'd been when she'd bestowed smiles on the other young man and the smiles seemed the same as the smiles for him. All waiting ends. It was almost seven o'clock. "My carriage will come for you at exactly seven," Abraham had told him. Herschel wondered if Rifka would be there with her husband, and, perhaps, had a child by now. Manya, Manya, his heart pounded, his heart sang. This was his wedding day, his wedding day. God, God, in your eternal firmament, come to my wedding. It was time. A carriage had stopped in front of the house, and he heard the snap of a whip, and a driver's "Whoa ho." He picked up the velvet, embroidered sack that held his yarmulke, talis and Bible. He looked around the flat that had been home to him that week. He lived here in anticipated joy, learning to love Boston, its narrow streets, quaint storefronts, the smell of the sea. He poured water over his fingertips, grabbed the sack, kissed the mezuzah and ran down into the night's invigorating air. Like an old friend, he greeted the driver. "You'll come to the wedding, and have schnapps and sponge cake." With a light jump he was in the carriage and they were off. Young couples walked arm in arm. There was more liberty here than in the old country. One couple, in earnest conversation, walked along slowly, hand in hand. "Stop!" Herschel told the driver and jumped down between them, startling them apart, "Please come to my wedding," he said. "It's at the Reformed Temple. Tell them at the door, that I, the groom, invited you." They looked at him, looked at each other, then in slow comprehension, eyes dancing, the girl said "Yes, yes, we'll come. Thank you for asking." Herschel climbed back into the carriage, elated, and sang into the night, "Hazen, kola. Mazel tov..." After all, did the Jew not invite a stranger to his home on every joyous occasion? Did he not share his joy? As the horse trotted on, picking up speed, Herschel made a silent prayer, "Give me the strength to break the glass with one stomp. Let Manya see that I can handle life even when it is difficult. One must remember there will be troubles." But tonight he didn't believe it. Herschel's eyes opened wide as the carriage stopped before a temple of such magnificence as he'd never seen before. It was lit by innumerable bulbs of electricity. Children slid across the walk. Inside they slid across the highly polished floor, screeching, laughing. A group danced to the music of "Hava Nagila." Men and women were dancing in each other's arms. How beautiful! In orthodoxy this was forbidden. Was that not a silly thing? Men and women who sleep together cannot dance together! There was no time to think of such things. Tonight was too wonderful. Abraham came to him, smiling, and told him that he would sign the marriage contract after the ceremony. Now he wanted to introduce Herschel to the minyan of ten who were waiting to pray for him. Everything was set up. He took Herschel into the small room where the men were gathered. A waiter was there to serve wine and sponge cake. Herschel eagerly broke his fast. "When the service is over, you will walk out," Abraham said, "and that will be the cue for the musicians to begin the ceremony." Half an hour later, a flushed Herschel walked out into the vast social hall. There was a loud chord, then the strains of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" hushed the guests. The ceremony had begun. The best man was already under the chupah. The chupah was topped by a red velvet roof, covered with roses. The four columns were held up staunchly by four bar-mitzvah boys. He felt all eyes on him as he walked down the aisle on trembling legs, his heart racing. One by one, the bridesmaids walked down to make two rows. They were like the buds of spring, each in a dress of a different color, each carrying a large bouquet. Now the bride walked slowly down on her father's arm, diminutive, a doll bride. He hadn't remembered how delicately small she was. His mouth went dry. His eyes filled with tears. The vast hall was carpeted in a warm wine color. He would uncover that face and kiss those lips. This panorama was for him, for Manya. Here in this reformed world he could hold her in his arms and dance with her. For all the years to come, for all the nights of his life, he could hold her in his arms. The rabbi spoke with great feeling but he barely heard the words. "You must love and cherish each other, for all the days of your years. You must not forget to smile at each other at the end of the day. You must be faithful, and may your union be blessed with children to sustain you in your old age." "Adir, Aloheynu simentov u mazel tovachazen. Boruch, hu cola. Borucha v'na. Blessed is the bridegroom, blessed the bride. Put this ring on the forefinger of the right hand. Say after me, Behold thou are consecrated unto me, with this ring, in accordance with the laws of Moses and of Israel..." Tears rolled down Herschel's cheeks. He was finding it hard to speak. The bride's voice was low, soft, almost a whisper as she spoke her vows. Slowly, slowly, gently he lifted the veil. The face that Herschel Haverman saw with the mocking blue eyes was not Manya's. It was a face he hardly knew, Rifka's, Rifka's face, Rifka. |
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