by Deen, Shulem
My wedding day arrived a month before my nineteenth birthday. At three o’clock in the afternoon, I was to meet with the last of all groom instructors, Reb Shraga Feivish.
I awoke early that morning to recite the entire Book of Psalms. I would be fasting; the wedding day was a personal Yom Kippur for the bride and groom, a sacred day of atonement and repentance. After morning prayers, I had a brief audience with the rebbe, who sat wrapped in his prayer shawl as he read my kvittel, and then extended his hand. “May your celebration arrive at a good and auspicious hour,” he said, as he held my hand with the tips of his fingers.
Reb Shraga Feivish, an emaciated-looking rabbi with a beard down to his navel, led me into his study. Religious texts were strewn about on every available surface. He opened a large volume on the table and read aloud: One who marries a virgin takes possession of her, and separates from her immediately.
Reb Shraga Feivish went on to teach me about all the laws that come after “taking possession,” and as the minutes passed, I felt a rising panic. Had he flown right past the obvious? Had I missed a crucial lecture with no one realizing it? I needed the basics, not the laws on what came afterward. I wanted details of the act itself, but Reb Shraga Feivish seemed too absorbed in his stream of instruction, and I was too anxious and too stunned to interrupt him.
After about twenty minutes, Reb Shraga Feivish closed his book. “When you get home after the wedding, begin preparing right away.”
“Tonight?” I gasped in alarm.
“Yes. The mitzvah must be performed before daybreak. It’ll probably be very late when you get home, so don’t waste any time.”
I hadn’t been expecting this immediacy. I had thought that whatever it was, I would have time to process it all. Reb Shraga Feivish, however, only continued with his instructions. The mitzvah, he said, must be performed twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday nights, after midnight, in total darkness.
“Have you been to your apartment?” he asked. “Does the bedroom have a heavy window shade?”
I had been to the apartment but hadn’t thought to check the window shade.
“Well,” Reb Shraga Feivish said thoughtfully, “don’t worry about it now. If necessary, you can put a quilt over it.”
Then, at last, he described the mechanics of the sexual act. He used a series of hand gestures, and finally I understood, more or less. Shloimy and Eli had been wrong, I was relieved to learn.
Reb Shraga Feivish wasn’t finished, though.
“Before the act itself,” Reb Shraga Feivish said, “lie beside her and chat for a few minutes.”
“Chat about what?” I asked.
“It is recommended that one tell tales of the righteous. Only a few minutes are necessary. Until she gets comfortable.”
“What kinds of tales?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter. Any tale about a righteous man. About his fear of God, or his love of his fellow Jews. The usual tales.” He paused to make sure I understood. “Then you get on top, and tell her you love her.”
“How?” I asked simply, and the question felt stupid on my lips.
Reb Shraga Feivish paused, as if startled by so direct a question. “Just say, ‘I love you.’”
The notion of loving my wife had never occurred to me. Marriage was a duty, no more. To pretend otherwise seemed ridiculous.
“It is the law,” he said with a shrug. “The law says you must tell her you love her.”
There was no arguing with the law.
“You must kiss her twice,” he continued. “Once before the act and once during.”
The “mitzvah,” Reb Shraga Feivish explained, must not be done when in a state of anger. It must not be done during daytime hours. It must not be done when drunk, or after eating, or before using the bathroom. It must not be done if she is brazen (“she must not ask for it explicitly; she may only hint at her desire indirectly”). It must not be done in the presence of sacred books, or in the presence of a child. Most important of all, the mitzvah must be done the way it was done by the great sage Rabbi Eliezer: with awe and with fear, as if forced by a demon.
By the end of the lesson, I had more questions than answers, but there was no more time. It was four o’clock. The wedding was to begin at six. Reb Shraga Feivish gave me a reassuring look and a warm smile, and then led me to the door and shook my hand. “Mazel tov,” he said. “If there are any problems, call me.”
Later that evening, I sat at a narrow table covered with a white plastic tablecloth, my shtreimel perched heavily on my head, etching a deep red ring into my forehead, my tall black boots stiff and painful. The betrothal agreement was read, a glass plate was broken to the joyous cries of “mazel tov.” The white shroud, in remembrance of death and the day of judgment, was pulled over my head, and soon I was led out to the street, accompanied by my friends’ singing:
Once again will be heard in the cities of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem,
Cries of joy and cries of gladness, cries of bridegrooms and cries of brides.
We moved to the women’s section of the wedding hall, for the badeken, the ceremonial covering of the bride’s face. I was led there as if in a daze by Gitty’s father and Berish Greenblatt, who stood in for my father, who was no longer alive. I walked tall but kept my eyes dutifully averted from the sea of females that parted in front of me. Gitty sat on her bridal throne as I approached, and our eyes met for a brief moment. During the six months of our engagement, we had neither met nor spoken even once, and we were still strangers in every way. Her eyes shifted downward quickly. A white veil was placed in my hands, and I laid it across her forehead, allowing it to fall over her face. My mother stood to Gitty’s left, her eyes glistening. My sister, Chani, at my mother’s side with her two young daughters, looked at me and smiled. Gitty’s mother, standing just to the right, stared at me, expressionless.
The chuppah, a canopy of deep-blue velvet with gold fringes, was raised outside the shul, where a crowd of men had already gathered. “Right foot forward,” my father-in-law said as I stepped under the canopy beneath the clear June sky.
I would later remember the ceremony only vaguely, with the dayan officiating and the rebbe swaying silently nearby, and from my eyes an ocean of tears flowed as Gitty circled me seven times. I remember being surprised when, weak from the day’s fast and emotionally spent, I stepped on the glass cup and it did not break. The second time, I raised my foot and brought the heel of my boot crashing onto the glass as if in anger. “Mazel tov, mazel tov,” the crowd cried, and burst into song.
Gitty and I were driven the short distance back to the wedding hall, together in the backseat, riding in silence. After a brief period in a small room at the wedding hall, where we broke our fast and exchanged pleasantries, we parted again, I to the men’s section on the first floor, and Gitty to the women’s on the third.
The rest of the wedding passed in a blur, a constant throb of music and throngs of men dancing ecstatically. Around midnight, the crowds thinned as we prepared for the mitzvah tantz, the ritual dance. Gitty came down to the men’s section, and then held the end of a prayer sash as the male guests, holding the other end, shuffled before her, fulfilling the words of the sages: He who gladdens a bridegroom and bride, it is as if he rebuilt the ruins of Jerusalem.
The very last dance was for the bride and groom alone. Among other sects, the sash was laid aside and the groom took his bride’s hands as they danced together, for the first and only time in their lives. But in Skver, there were no allowances for such improprieties, and so I took the end of the sash and performed the ritual dance while Gitty, swaying as if in prayer, held the other end.
At three in the morning, we arrived home to our new apartment. The gifts were hauled in, our parents said their good-byes, and Gitty and I sat down at our new dining-room table, completely alone together for the very first time. We regarded the mountain of wrapped packages piled up around us and counted the checks we had received. We spoke hesitantly, cordially, as
king each other how it went—“Did you dance?” “Did you eat?”—and hoping to postpone the awkwardness of what was to come next.
We didn’t have much time, though. It was early June, and dawn would break soon. From my prayer-shawl pouch, I retrieved a small booklet given to me by Reb Noach, a summary of instructions and prayers for the evening.
Lord, grant me pure and sacred seed, blessed and good. Purify my body and sanctify my soul. May I gather strength to fulfill Your sacred will.
There was also an incantation advised by the kabbalists, not in sacred Hebrew but in Aramaic, a warning to Lilith, the deviant first wife of Adam. Refusing to submit to her husband, the kabbalists wrote, Lilith was banished from Adam’s side. Ever since, she lies in wait for men who spill their seed, which she gathers up, greedily, hungrily, impregnating herself and giving birth to demons.
In the name of the Lord:
Do not enter and do not appear. Return, return, the sea beckons.
I am clasped to a sacred allotment, I am cloaked in sovereign holiness.
It was a matter of duty, the last ritual of a long day. A quilt hung over the window to ensure total darkness. We fumbled our way into bed, moving about each other shyly as we adjusted to this unfamiliar intimacy.
“Call me if there’s any problem,” Reb Shraga Feivish had said, and as we lay in bed some time later, we found that not all had been made clear. We needed more guidance. We looked over at the clock—4:30, the green numbers read—and I hesitated but made the call anyway. Reb Shraga Feivish picked up on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting, then listened carefully to my questions, about anatomy and friction and physiological responses of various kinds. He suggested we keep doing what we were doing, that it wasn’t so difficult and we should, given enough time, figure it out.
It took several tries, that night and a couple of nights after, with several more consultations with Reb Shraga Feivish. The act was laborious and clumsy and entirely devoid of the erotic. But there were moments of tenderness—fleeting, but present—of shared frustration and deep sighs and suppressed giggles, even bursts of laughter. In hindsight, it was a bit like assembling a piece of furniture. You turn repeatedly to the instruction manual, to verify the shapes of parts and how they fit together, and it all seems kind of baffling, the screws and the holes appear to be sized differently from the diagram, and you’re not sure which goes into where, and as you place your index finger on your chin and contemplate it further, your partner reaches out and gives something a tug and a twist and you think, “No, that can’t be right,” and then, “Oh, look, it snapped into place.” And you look at her with a self-satisfied grin, as if you actually knew what you were doing.
Chapter Five
“GENTLEMEN! THERE IS A FIRE BURNING!”
The whites of Avremel’s eyes were blood-red, his eyeballs protruding, his bony hands tightened into fists as he raised them beside his head.
“The flames are rising from within these very walls! This sacred edifice, built by that sacred smoldering ember saved from the inferno of the Holocaust, our saintly old rebbe, is now crumbling from within! And our present rebbe carries the weight of preserving it….” His voice cracked and we, too, held back the sting in our eyes, our hearts melting for the rebbe’s weary shoulders.
It was shortly before dawn on a Sunday morning. Fifteen of us sat around two old tables in a dank room in the yeshiva basement. We were the elite, handpicked by Avremel to be part of a special group. Once a week, we would gather here to read from one of our mystical texts and Avremel would provide elucidation and commentary sprinkled with condemnation of all things impure. The timing was deliberate, to weed out those who preferred warm bedsheets to the fiery words of the Hasidic masters. All of us were married—a condition for inclusion. Marriage allowed that extra measure of holiness and purity, the pent-up virgin energy released, the lustfulness of adolescence appeased.
Avremel was known for dramatic pronouncements, but now he seemed gripped with genuine panic. It was the dead of winter, and our sidelocks, which had frozen into solid strands during the sixty seconds it took to walk from the mikveh to the yeshiva building, were dripping onto our books and into our laps, as we sat there stunned.
Avremel continued, his face flushed crimson, blue veins on his neck straining through his skin. “It has come to my attention that within these very rooms are students engaging in abominable behavior! And they are sweeping others with them to the depths of sheol!”
He told of students watching television on small, compact devices, sometimes within our very study halls; students listening to secular music, or sneaking out of the village to watch movies in darkened theaters; students taking taxicabs to sinful places where no decent human being should ever be found. It was up to us to stop it. To take up the spear of Phineas, and smite the evil within those who blasphemed within these sacred walls.
We headed to our morning prayers, each of us stirred with the call to action. The sun was now up, and the sanctuary filled with students donning prayer shawls and tefillin. It was the Tenth of Teves, a fast day, which included a special reading of the Torah.
And Moses beseeched God, his Lord, saying:
Why, my Lord, must You be angry with Your people? They are a stiff-necked nation.
And God said, I have forgiven them.
But only God could forgive. Man must act against those who anger God. Watching television and reading magazines and listening to secular music angered God; so when we finished our prayers, we huddled in a corner of the prayer hall for hushed consultations. We conveyed the urgency of our task to those who hadn’t been at the meeting, and the outrage grew.
A half hour later, in one of the large lecture rooms off the building’s main corridor, two dozen of us sat around a list of names we had drawn up, names of those we suspected of sin—peers, classmates, friends with whom we’d shared countless hours of study. There was little time for establishing facts. Vague suspicions and Avremel’s talk were all we had and all we needed.
Nuta Margulis was the first to be summoned.
“Please sit,” someone said when he entered. Nuta looked confused, but complied. It was a pitiful sight, Nuta alone on one of the long cast-iron benches, his palms resting on his knees, the rest of us standing against the walls, an impromptu tribunal.
Somebody spoke. We, as a group, would not tolerate the kind of activity we’d heard about. Any one of our friends caught with a forbidden device, a radio or a portable television, or a secular magazine or forbidden musical cassettes, would be wrapped in a prayer shawl and beaten. Association with certain undesirable persons, known transgressors, would also be forbidden. This time, it was only a warning. The next time, we wouldn’t be so tolerant.
Nuta tried to protest: “I didn’t—I have never—I don’t—” We silenced him quickly. His words did not matter.
Other friends were summoned, each told to sit and given the same speech. For each student summoned, before he entered, there was a call around the room—“Who’s speaking this time?”—and someone would volunteer. The things said were the same. The reactions, too, were similar, always the same look of horror as each of those summoned sat wondering what could have turned longtime friends into inquisitors. Only Yossi Rosen declared that he would not be cowed.
“Mi somchu le’ish?” Yossi shot back at us, citing the verse in Exodus. “Who appointed you as master?”
Menashe Steiner, who was doing the talking, held up his hand and said: “That’s what the cursed Dathan said. And what happened to him?” Swallowed into the pit, of course, along with all the other Israelite rebels in the desert, and the thought hung heavy in the air as Yossi was shown out of the room.
A half dozen of our friends had been summoned and released, but we weren’t pacified. Unsatisfied with the relative moderation of warnings, we wanted more.
Mendy Klein had not appeared when summoned, so a handful of students were dispatched to find him. They checked the synagogue, the study hall, the lecture ro
oms, and the basement dining room, but Mendy was nowhere to be found. His dorm room was reported locked, the persistent knocking on the door unanswered. The thought of Mendy’s locked door ignited our imaginations. A locked door meant something hidden, something forbidden.
“Let’s get in there,” someone said.
We looked at one another in silence. “We can’t go into the dorms,” someone said finally.
All of us in our righteous clique were married, and yeshiva policy—as ordered by the rebbe himself—forbade married students to enter the dormitory area. The reasons were never made clear, but like the rule that two students alone were never to lock the door, this hinted at fears of sexual transgression.
The sense of urgency was now heightened. An opportunity for acting on our zeal was slipping away on a technicality. As we stood outside the study hall, Reb Yankel Gelbman, a rabbi at the yeshiva and one of the village’s foremost scholars, came up the stairs carrying a stack of texts. One of us left the huddle and approached the rabbi to ask the question.
Reb Yankel furrowed his brow, and looked around at our group. “And thou shalt be rid of the evil within your midst,” he said finally, quoting the Bible. “An unequivocal biblical command!”
A ransacked room is an ugly thing, but for us it was a thing of beauty. The door smashed in, blankets and linen ripped off the mattresses, dressers overturned, its contents on the floor in disarray, the mob of dozens searching, picking through items, certain that somewhere in that room lay the evidence of transgression and abomination, proof that our zeal had not been in vain, our impassioned assumption of a sacred guardianship justified.
A locked cabinet was discovered, a hammer procured, and the lock smashed. We didn’t know what we were looking for but were sure that the evidence existed somewhere. A cheer went up when someone found a pile of unmarked audiocassettes. A cassette player was found and one of the cassettes inserted. Hebrew music by a male singer came out of the tinny speakers, and someone hit the Stop button in disgust. The singer sounded secular, Israeli, though we weren’t sure; even so, it was not a sin worthy of our zeal. If the singer was female, that would’ve been something else, but it wasn’t, and the cassette was ejected with disappointment. A second unmarked cassette was inserted but was only a scratchy recording of one of Avremel’s old talks.