The bride stood like a pillar of salt, rigid under layers of itchy petticoats. Sweat dripped down the hollow of her back and collected in pools under her arms staining the ivory silk. She edged closer to The Bedeken Room door, one ear pressed up against it. She heard the men singing. Their shouts of 'lai-lai-lai!' rolled down the dusty synagogue corridor. They were coming for her. This was it. This was her day. The day her real life started. She was nineteen and had never held a boy's hand. The only man to touch her had been her father and his physical affection had dwindled since her body had curved and ripened. "Sit down, Chani-leh, show a little modesty. Come, the Kallah does not stand by the door. Sit, sit!' Her mother's face had turned grey. The wrinkles gleamed as the make-up slid towards her collar. The plucked brows gave her a look of permanent surprise. Her mouth was compressed into a frosty pink line. Mrs Kaufman sagged under the weight of her mousy wig. Beneath, her hair was grey and wispy. An old woman at forty-five: tired. Chani was her fifth daughter, the fifth to stand in a Bedeken Room, the fifth to wear the dress. Nor would she be the last. Like Babushka dolls, three younger daughters had emerged after her. Chani remained at her post. 'Shouldn't they be here by now?' 'They'll be here soon enough. You should be davening for all your single friends. Not everyone's as lucky as you are today, Baruch HaShem.' Excerpted from The Marrying of Chani Kaufman by Eve Harris All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
