From the corner of her eye Kitty could see Maurice. Taller than she had remembered him, certainly slimmer, in his tuxedo. Expecting the zippered jacket, the flat cap, Kitty had scarcely recognised him. He was a fine looking man and in his youth must have been handsome. This morning, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of getting Rachel ready – amid the panic and excitement of the timing of the preparations, the opening of telegrams, the dashings in and out of Addie Jacobs, the missing bridesmaids’ posies – flowers had arrived from him. Kitty knew they were from Maurice, although there was no card. They were tall gladioli and palm fronds, their leaves tied in a knot, which took Kitty, for a brief moment, away from the wedding and back – how long ago it seemed now – to Avi in the Canyon of the Inscriptions. Maurice stood next to Harry, who did not recognise him and wondered – a palpable outsider – what he was doing on the Shelton side of the shul. Kitty’s thoughts had wandered. The choir, against the background of the organ, was on to Ma Tovu whose haunting strains and minor key brought a lump into Kitty’s throat. She hoped she would keep from crying. To preserve her make-up. Rachel had refused to wear any. Not even for her big day. It didn’t matter. She was lovely enough without it.
Kitty had left her in the brides’ room together with Carol, who was fussing over Debbie and Lisa – admonishing them to stand still during the Service – and Samantha and Lauren and Elaine. Kitty hoped that there was no last minute hitch, that Rachel didn’t want to spend a penny, or anything, in her layers of dress. Patrick was already beneath the chuppah, waiting for his bride. Ghostly pale, holding his grey gloves with hands which, Kitty thought, must have been sweating, he faced the indigenous rabbi and the cantor – in their long robes, their velvet hats – and Rabbi Magnus, on whose presence Kitty had insisted. Rabbi Magnus gave Kitty a reassuring glance which acknowledged past memories of Sydney.
Suddenly the synagogue was tangibly quiet. There was an expectant shuffle. The doors at the back were thrown open and the congregation, turning towards them, rose to its feet. The music, Baruch Haba, ‘Blessed be You’, was heart-rending, the bride on Juda’s arm, her bouquet of lilies trembling on the child she carried, magnificent. Kitty thought so. The lump threatened to occlude her throat. She sniffed and caught Maurice’s eye, and it was as if they were alone in the synagogue, as if he, of all the family and friends around her, could read her thoughts and she his. The synagogue, in its wedding glory, would not be consumed in the flames of a Kristallnacht, those within it, in their wedding clothes, men, women and children, would be spared the deprivations, the bestialities, the black cloud, which had consumed Maurice’s past. Among her unshed tears for Rachel and her unborn baby, for Sydney, for this day, Kitty shed a tear for Maurice’s absent family and added a prayer of thankfulness for her own.
Rachel, on the right of her bridegroom – ‘at thy right hand doth the queen stand’ – was shaking visibly beneath her short veil. Patrick discreetly took her hand. To Kitty’s amazement they had both fasted in accordance with the custom; to her greater amazement, Rachel had also visited the mikveh, immersing herself in the ritual bath – a symbolic purification – before her marriage. What a strange child she was. What a mass of contradictions. Behind their aunt, flanked by Patrick’s three cousins from Leeds, Debbie and Lisa – heart stealers in their organdie dresses with their posies and their missing teeth – stood sentinel, turned by their mother’s threats to stones.
Mi Adir, the chant of welcome: the choristers were in full and ecstatic throat. Kitty wished that she could sit down with the rest of the congregation, as Rabbi Magnus stepped forward for the address.
“My dear Rachel and Patrick. ‘From every human being there rises a light that reaches straight to heaven. And when two souls that are destined to be together find each other, their streams of light flow together and a single, brighter light goes forth from their united being…’” Kitty had known that he would do them proud. The congregation was silent, attentive, as Rabbi Magnus – Sydney’s Rabbi – followed the poetry of the Baal Shem Tov with a few warm and personal words to Rachel, whom he had known since her childhood, and to Patrick, who, he had confided to Kitty, seemed a splendid and upright man. He referred to Rachel’s upbringing, to Patrick’s noble calling, and expressed his confidence that, together, they would create a home in the Jewish tradition. The chuppah beneath which they stood represented such a home, ‘a symbol of good fortune that their descendants may be as the stars of heavens’, at which Kitty avoided catching Rachel’s eye. Despite the heat and her feet, the ceremony seemed all too short; the Betrothal Blessings after which Kitty lifted Rachel’s veil and held to her daughter’s lips the first cup of wine – which was afterwards handed by his father to Patrick – to remind them that henceforward they would share the same cup of life, no matter what it brought them; the hush, into which no one dropped the proverbial pin, when Patrick, in a quiet, clear voice, declared ‘Behold, thou art consecrated unto me by this ring, according to the Law of Moses and of Israel’ and placed the gold band symbolically upon the forefinger of Rachel’s right hand; the reading of the ketubah, the marriage contract, in its Aramaic original, followed by an English abstract: ‘…I will work for thee, honour, support and maintain thee in accordance with the custom of Jewish husbands who work for their wives, honour, support and maintain them in truth…’ The second cup of wine, which was offered as agreed – with much ado – by old Mrs Klopman whose unsteady hand was supported by Herbert; the Seven Blessings commencing with the blessing over wine, and going on to praise the Creator, who brought the world into being, created man in the divine image, instituted marriage and set the first man and woman into a life of Paradise in the Garden of Eden; the familiar and evocative sounding of the breaking glass, as Patrick stamped upon it, to temper the joy of the occasion with a reminder to the congregation of their tragic Jewish past, at which the cries of mazeltov echoed, inappositely, from the stained-glass windows of the shul; the Benediction, recited by the Rabbi, his hands raised high above the heads of the couple: ‘The Lord bless you and keep you: the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you; the Lord turn his face towards you, and give you peace.’ And suddenly it was over. Rachel was Mrs Patrick Klopman. She kissed her husband – with what Kitty thought to be unseemly passion – and arm in arm with him went joyfully to sign the register. Hettie kissed Kitty, their tears mingling on each others’ cheeks, then the best man – leaving an imprint of her lipstick – then the bridesmaids, and everyone else in sight until Kitty thought, for one horrified moment, that she was going to embrace the two Rabbis in her excitement. Against a joyful rendering of Dodi Li, My Beloved is Mine, they took their places: Hettie beside her husband (Kitty in a moment of aberration glanced round for her own), her parents, and her mother-in-law, and Kitty with Juda. There was a silent pause, then to the glory of Mendelssohn, and moist-eyed smiles and nods of approval from the pews on either side of the red carpeted aisle, led by Rachel and Patrick and their five bridesmaids, the procession swept in triumph from the shul.
From the top table in the Crystal Room of the King Solomon Suite, magnificent in its turquoise and gold, Kitty listened as Juda, in his splendid baritone, repeated the Seven Marriage Blessings which had been sung in synagogue, and looked out upon the culmination of the efforts – hers and Hettie’s – of the past six months. So far so good. Everything – apart from the Sorbet aux Citrons Verts, designed to refresh the palate between courses, which to Unterman’s mortification had got lost in transit – had gone according to plan.
Outside the shul the photographer had taken photographs of Rachel and Patrick, of Rachel and Patrick with the best man, of Rachel and Patrick with their best man and bridesmaids, of the wedding party with their parents, of the wedding party with their parents and grandparent, and of the wedding party with their parents, grandparent and the congregation who were finally released and surrounded them on the steps. The ushers, headed by Josh and Norman with white buttonholes of carnations, had courteously, eff
iciently, filled the wedding cars, shepherding the aged and infirm first into the larger models, and preventing Beatty, tactfully, from clambering into Herbert’s beribboned Rolls beside the bride and groom.
On the steps of the King Solomon Suite, Unterman himself – the Crown Prince, in his impeccable evening dress – was there to welcome them. He ushered the two families into the ante-room where they would receive the wedding-guests and where he had thoughtfully provided refreshment for them, and Rachel and Patrick into a side-room where they would break their fast and spend a few quiet moments together in private – yihud – denoting their newly acquired status, as husband and wife, entitled to live together under the same roof. The line of parents, crammed to capacity in the foyer and snaking up the gracious staircase, seemed to Kitty to be never ending. Standing next to Rachel, who appeared to be enjoying the whole procedure, she shook hands, and kissed the cheeks of a cavalcade of faces whose names were announced with a sonorous majesty by the sergeant-major of a deep-chested, twirly moustached toastmaster, in his be-meddled red. From the corner of her eye, a solitary figure on the staircase between two chattering family groups, Kitty caught sight of Maurice.
“Mr Maurice Morgenthau!”
Morning Dew, Kitty thought and held out her hand, her pulse quickening, to the handsome figure in his tuxedo. Still clinging to her hand Maurice put his face to hers. His cheek was freshly shaven. They did not speak.
“This is Maurice Morgenthau,” Kitty said, her voice unsteady, to Rachel.
“Your mother’s told me about you,” Maurice said.
Jostled by the next in line he moved on to Patrick, offering him congratulations on his bride. Kitty watched his receding back then turned her attention to the next outstretched hand.
When the staircase was empty and the last guest had been received and ushered through into the Reception – Hettie’s hot spinach pastries and Danish tartlets filled with smoked roe – there were more photographs, posed this time, with infinite care, against the background of an improbably urn of flowers. Patrick smiled at Rachel, and the two mothers smiled at the bride, and Kitty, sotto voce, reminded Rachel to hold her bouquet in front of her.
The dinner, under the aegis of the vigilant Unterman with his army of white gloved waitresses, had gone smoothly, from the entry of the wedding party, accompanied by hand-claps, to the Grace After Meals – although in her excitement Kitty had only picked at the Sole Dorée and had not so much as tasted the Caneton à la Bigarade.
To the tune of ‘The More We Are Together’ played by the band, Patrick, standing – ‘will the guests kindly remain seated’ – had taken wine with his friends and relatives, and Rachel had followed suit. Herbert had taken wine with his business associates, Patrick with his medical colleagues – cheers and catcalls! – and the wedding party with all the guests who had travelled from afar and crossed the Atlantic to be with them, at which Kitty had drunk a silent toast to Maurice at table number ten, which had been intercepted by his to her. The words of the final Marriage Blessing – praying that the bride and groom might live a life of ‘joy and gladness, mirth and exultation, pleasure and delight, love and brotherhood, peace and companionship’ – winged round the room. Juda sat down to congratulatory cries on his performance, the toastmaster, importantly, adjusted the microphone and prayed silence – ‘Reverend Gentlemen, Ladies and Gentlemen’ – for the best man.
Kitty, her mind beset by a tumult of emotion, keenly aware of Josh by her side in the place that by rights was Sydney’s, listened with only half an ear to the speeches. The health of the bride and bridegroom, proposed by Patrick’s best friend, who was an obstetrician, ended with the hope that together, Rachel and Patrick would keep him in work – they’d made a good start, Kitty thought; Patrick’s reply was short, able and from the heart. There were speeches by Herbert, who told three funny stores, but whose voice was affected by the excitement of the day and the acquisition of a daughter – by Hettie, who with raised glass thanked everyone for coming and making it such a wonderful occasion and by Mrs Klopman, who told Rachel publicly, what a fine husband she had got for herself in marrying Patrick. There were calls for Kitty from her family, but she found herself unable to speak, and Josh rose to his feet to say a few words on her behalf. After the reading of the telegrams and the representation to Rachel and Patrick of a certificate – commemorating the planting of trees in Israel in their name – presented by the secretary of the Joint Israel Appeal, as an acknowledgement of Herbert’s unceasing work on their behalf, the toastmaster, beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead, called for Roy Grose and his band to strike up for ‘dancin” and the Bride and Bridegroom to open the ball. After the first few circumventions, during which Kitty, watching them, thought – with a pang for her own past – how young and beautiful Rachel and Patrick were, and how exciting it was to be starting out in life, they were joined by Herbert and Hettie, by Debbie and Lisa – partnering each other – and by Josh, who escorted his mother on to the floor.
Norman, to a Piaf tune – sung in a voice not too dissimilar from that of the chanteuse herself – which he had requested from the band, circled the floor with Sandra, ethereal in grey chiffon which billowed behind her as she moved in his arms. Her lips were close to his ear, into which she whispered: ‘Ce n’est plus Madame Piaf qui chante; c’est la pluie qui tombe, c’est le vent qui souffle, c’est le clair de lune qui met sa nappe…’ Norman had never heard any words more beautiful, had never been happier.
“Sandra…?” he said into her hair.
‘La Vie en Rose-er’ The vocalist, in her sequinned dress, gave it her all.
“Mm?”
‘Quand il me prend dans ses bras…’
“I love you.”
‘Il me par-le tout bas…’
“I love you…”
‘Je vois la vie en Rose-er…’
“Will you marry me?”
‘Il me dit des mots d’amour…’
“I thought you’d never ask,” Sandra said.
Freda and Harry were almost professional dancers. In their youth they had won competitions. Now they swung and pirouetted in unison, expertly round the floor.
“Look at Freda,” Mirrie, sitting at her table by the dance floor, eating a reception pastry, said to her sister Beatty, who was looking for a smoked salmon one among the sandwiches. “She’s like a young girl.”
“I was really worried about her,” Beatty said, parting the two triangles of bread to make sure her find had been successful. “But whatever it was, she seems to have got over it.”
“You’d think she was the bride,” Mirrie said, momentarily wistful, as she was on these occasions, for her own maiden state.
“She could be.” Beatty’s mouth was comfortably full. “She’s hanging on to Harry like she’ll never let him go.”
“I don’t dance,” Maurice said to Kitty against the deafening beat of the hora whose circular dance, arms around shoulders, Beatty was instigating. “Can we go somewhere quiet?”
It was the first chance they had had to talk during the long evening. Kitty led him outside to the bar where they sat down on a pair of gilt chairs. Maurice took a Tootsie Roll from the pocket of his tuxedo and gave one to Kitty.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”
“I’m happy to see you,” Kitty said.
“Letters are okay…” He looked at Kitty’s turquoise dress, her coiffed hair. “You’re beautiful!”
Kitty thought of the zippered jacket, the flat cap and regarded Maurice, distinguished, in his tuxedo.
“You too.”
Maurice took her hand. “There’s something I want to say Kitty. It won’t wait.”
The strains of the Hava Negillah from the ballroom took Kitty back to the dark journey from Beersheba, to Avi’s lighted coach.
“I told you I’ve got two apartments, one is my studio, where I paint. Why don’t I move the painting into my apartment? There’s a bed in the studio, it has its own bath. I co
uld fix it up, you’d be really comfortable…”
Kitty looked at him. She no longer saw the King Solomon Suite, heard the rousing beat of the music.
“Come to New York. No strings attached. We’re not kids Kitty. See how it goes, for both of us…”
“New York!” Kitty said.
“Why not?”
Why not.
“I couldn’t possibly,” Kitty said. “There’s Carol’s baby, they’re all coming to stay, and Josh’s baby – Sarah’s mother’s not a bit of use – and Rachel’s baby, they’re moving in after Carol, and the Day Centre – nobody else wants to work in the kitchen – and the WIZO – we’re planning a big function after Succoth – and Norman…”
Maurice took Kitty’s hands in his, looking into her eyes with his own which had been witness to so much horror, so many obscenities, so much distress.
“Kitty…”
“I didn’t thank you for the flowers,” Kitty said.
Maurice refused to be deflected. “It’s time you started living for yourself. The children have their own lives. They can manage without you. The Day Centre won’t starve. Give it six months. We’ll see how we get on…”
Rose of Jericho Page 23