Sisters Weiss ~ A Novel

by Naomi Ragen

  Neither of her parents was happy about that. But what else could be done? Clearly, the Honored Rav’s advice had backfired. They had sent away an erring child and received back a sinning, wayward, and defiant adult. The only way to smooth things over was to hide this information from any future groom and his family and allow him to inherit the problem.

  Not that they liked the idea of having to hide things from matchmakers and prospective sons-in-law and their families. Indeed, it went against everything they believed in as well as their innate sense of decency and fairness. But blood was thicker than water. Why should their blameless offspring suffer because of one bad apple in the barrel? God would surely give Rose the husband she deserved, and vice versa. It wasn’t in their hands.

  The modern world was a strange, new place, they had to admit. They felt baffled, heartbroken, helpless, betrayed. She had proved herself a wild horse. If she was not reined in by a husband and children, who knew where her incorrigible rebelliousness might lead her? In any case, the sooner she was out from under their roof and no longer their responsibility, the better for everyone.

  This being the case, they understood that they had no choice but to negotiate with Rose about beginning the shidduch process. If she cooperated, they agreed to let her keep her camera and—after many furious arguments—even caved in and agreed to allow her to continue her photography classes. She was clearly determined, and, frankly, they were not sure they could stop her. Moreover, she’d already paid an outrageous sum in tuition up front. Why should it go to waste? Besides, whatever bad influences she had encountered there had already done their destructive work on her character. No use trying to nail closed the barn door now. They also agreed she could continue to take out books from the library. Their agreement had two nonnegotiable conditions: number one, in September, she would not be allowed to continue her education in school; and number two, she would have to cooperate fully in the process of finding her a husband.

  Rose readily agreed about school: since Bais Ruchel didn’t actually have a senior year, most of the girls getting engaged and married by the end of their junior year, and since Bais Yaakov would never take her back, what big choice did she have? She knew better than to dream about joining Michelle at a coed yeshiva like Flatbush or Ramaz. She might as well have yearned for a trip to the moon. Besides, over the past year she’d become accustomed to teaching herself. As long as her parents allowed her to continue taking books out of the library, her education would continue. The photography class was really what mattered most to her anyway.

  As far as shidduchim were concerned, the truth was she was ready to start dating, even if it had to be done through a third-party matchmaker. Her shy conversations with Professor Giglio and some of the male students in her photography class had helped to nurture her blooming womanliness, her sexuality unfolding within her like a gentle bud pulling back its petals for the first time.

  And so it began. Her mother took her on shopping trips to clothing stores, where she was introduced as a kallah moide, setting the saleswomen buzzing around her like killer bees. The dresses they urged on her all had high necks, sleeves that reached below her elbows, and skirts that fell modestly past her knees. (They even made her sit down in them so her mother could judge their length exactingly. It was surprising how many dresses looked fine as you stood before the mirror, only to become scandalously revealing the moment you innocently sat down and crossed your legs.) She cooperated, delighted by the promise of new clothes after months in horrible Satmar uniforms, but only up to a point, insisting on exercising her own taste. She chose stylish, pretty dresses in bright colors (except for red, the forbidden color of the harlot) that fit her slim figure flatteringly.

  And when it came to shoes, she picked out high heels that made her legs seem longer and more shapely. Only a girl going out on shidduch dates could get away with wearing such attractive shoes. When a girl was about to marry, the rules relaxed. After all, men were men. Even their world recognized that.

  Despite the fact that she was clearly aware of her mother’s ulterior motives (i.e., to dump damaged goods before anyone found out and the price went down on everything the factory produced), she still enjoyed the time they spent together, which harked back to a more convivial and comforting part of her childhood. Indeed, in many ways it was better. For the first time, her mother was no longer the all-powerful seat of judgment, but simply a middle-aged woman doing her best to further what in her mind was God’s will. Rose could accept that.

  Pearl tried hard to dwell on the joy of having her sister Rose back home, of having her own guilt assuaged. But while she grasped that the decision to move her out of her room had come from her parents and not Rose, still, she felt an irrational sense of personal rejection from her sister. Not only her room had been usurped by Rose but also that special place at the center of her parents’ attention she had comfortably occupied in Rose’s absence. But it was the shopping trips for Rose’s new wardrobe that were the last straw.

  “Why can’t I come, too?” she wailed.

  “Your time will come, child. Now it’s your sister’s turn,” her mother answered implacably. The less time her youngest daughter spent with her eldest, the better. As for Rose, while she’d forgiven Pearl, she wasn’t about to lobby for her to tag along when she would only get in the way.

  By the time Rose had “recovered” from her “illness” and was ready to date, she had a fully stocked wardrobe that presented her in the most favorable light possible. The matchmakers had already compiled their lists of eligible young men, and the phone started ringing. Her mother fielded the calls, writing down the information in a little notebook bought especially for that purpose. In there, she jotted down the name, age, education, family lineage (yichoos), and geographic location of each prospect, as well as their monetary demands on the family of any prospective bride. Usually, the financial demands were in direct proportion to the boy’s desirability as a future son-in-law.

  Mental illness, family scandals of any kind, a reputation for stupidity or laziness put the groom in no position to ask for anything at all. Indeed, in such a case, the bride’s family could expect to get off scot-free as the anxious boy’s parents coughed up an apartment (purchased in full or, at the very least, with a mortgage the parents agreed to pay off), car, and monthly stipend to keep the young couple afloat until such time as either bride or groom got a job. But on the other hand, if the groom was from a highly respected family, had a reputation as a serious Torah scholar, and came highly recommended by his Talmudic instructors, the bride’s family would basically face bankruptcy to haul in such a prize.

  Rose, by her behavior, had lightened this burden in advance for her parents. For no family with a Grade A son who did a minimum background check would consent to take her. On the other hand, depending on how much information had been leaked, the Weisses might find themselves held hostage financially by even the parents of a son little better than a yeshiva bum. It was their hope, however, that Rose’s natural charm and attractiveness, her lively personality and independence might be alluring to a certain type of good yeshiva boy, the kind who these days were demanding to go out only with girls who had been to college. If such a misguided boy could be found, he would be perfect, Rebbitzin Weiss thought, her reasoning being that while Rose hadn’t even finished high school, her attending photography classes (which of course the boy and his family could never know about) was certainly equivalent in its inappropriateness, hopefully giving Rose the same status and level of desirability.

  There was a rocky beginning, in which the matchmakers tried to unload all the damaged goods in their warehouses: a boy with annoying tics and a terrible, pimpled complexion; a young man who was so deathly shy he could hardly say a word; a boy who stammered horribly; and, last but not least, a man in his early thirties who was still single for whatever reason, the mere fact inexcusably damning except if the girl was the same age, in which case he’d be elevated to a prime catch. The problem was, he wa
nted a girl nearly half his age.

  Annoyed, bored, and ready to rebel, Rose put a moratorium on these awful, time-consuming exercises in futility, concentrating instead on photography projects. Now she had decided to take photos of Hassidic brides, even ones she didn’t know. Since men were not allowed to mingle with the bride and the other women either before the marriage ceremony or after, it was the perfect opportunity to capture scenes that few had been privileged to see. And the brides’ families were only too happy to agree that a frum girl take family photos free of charge.

  “Some of these are amazing,” Professor Giglio told her, fingering the prints. “You’ve got real talent, kid. And, better yet, you have access to an unseen world. That is the combination which gives birth to great photographs. And great photographers.”

  She held his words in her heart like an amulet as she plowed through her days. How quickly things changed was astonishing.

  13

  His name was Shimon Yisasscher, but his family called him Shimmy, and to his friends he was known as Boomie, after his penchant for idly banging rulers against his desk. Anyone paying attention to him from the time he was young would have seen that phlegmatic Boomie was not Talmud-scholar material. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for his parents, those who noticed were not motivated to reveal this fact, believing that every Jewish boy who spent his days in front of a Talmud, his eyes nominally open, was going to save the Jewish people from disaster with the merit of his learning.

  And so his rebbes passed him from grade to grade, inwardly groaning, but forever in possession of the pious hope that one day a teacher would reach the child’s heart and brain, inspiring in him the desire to imitate Rabbi Akiva—the greatest Jewish scholar of all time—who until the age of forty was famously an ignorant shepherd. Each tried sincerely to deluge him with knowledge in the hope that by sheer volume a few drops would land inside.

  He grew up tall, handsome, and charming, adored by his family and friends, and looking forward to the day when he could pursue his real interests, whatever they might turn out to be. He was in no hurry to find out, the life of the all-expenses-paid yeshiva student suiting him perfectly. He got to the study hall late, took many coffee and phone breaks, and left early, secretly spending hours wandering the city, enjoying himself in ways innocent and not so. Luckily for him, he came from a well-to-do family with an unassailable reputation, who were willing to support their handsome son in all ways necessary to maintain his and thus their own reputations.

  Although his father and grandfather were not scholars, they were the next best thing: kosher butchers who owned a chain of shops with impeccable rabbinical certification trusted by even the most fastidious Hassidim in Williamsburg. But if there was one thing Boomie was even more sure of than not wanting to be a Talmud scholar, it was not wanting to be a butcher. And so he kept up pretenses, doing the minimum necessary to avoid getting thrown out of yeshiva, which would end his parents’ enthusiasm for financing his Torah-scholar lifestyle, and which might lead to demands that he put on a white apron and get behind the counter.

  Family life, which would make still further demands on him, he put off until scandalously late, agreeing only at the age of twenty-two to begin looking for a wife. His needs were simple: a cute, fun-loving girl who would pretty much leave him alone.

  His parents, of course, had other ideas, a laundry list of qualities they demanded in both the fortunate future bride and her family. She had to be pretty (no one wanted ugly grandchildren) and healthy (i.e., fertile) and to have been accepted into Bais Yaakov High School, and therefore scandal-free. Whether or not she graduated wasn’t important to them. They preferred hardworking to scholarly, piety to intelligence, obedience to charm. Fun-loving was not on their list at all, and it was their list that went to the matchmakers, along with many hints at the extravagant rewards a successful match would earn. All the matchmakers in Williamsburg, Borough Park, Monsey, Lakewood, and Spring Valley were in a tizzy of competition to find the girl whose foot fit that shoe.

  But one after another, their hopes were dashed against the breakwater that was Boomie. While all the girls liked him, he had no interest in any of them. The really beautiful ones intimidated him, as did those who were learned and intelligent enough to ask him with real interest about his Talmud studies, or how he expected to bring up his children. Right, that’s all he needed! An Inquisition! Most of all, they seemed overly anxious to please, their hands and foreheads moist, their eyes adoring, their voices high and brittle. Their very eagerness made him wary. Why would any of them agree to marry him, let alone approach the idea enthusiastically, if they were really as religious as they pretended to be? And if they weren’t, then they were fakes and phonies. And who wanted to be married to a fake and a phony?

  Inevitably, by sheer process of elimination, Rose was pushed to the top of the list.

  “He comes from an excellent family with means, who won’t be squeezing you dry,” the matchmaker, Mrs. Yachnes, explained to Rebbitzin Weiss. “It doesn’t matter that she didn’t graduate. He doesn’t want a scholar, just a frum, fine girl from a good family.”

  She didn’t mention “pretty” or “healthy.” That would be vulgar. Besides, she could see for herself that Rose Weiss had fine hips and a good complexion. She didn’t need a doctor’s note. As for beauty, well, she wasn’t as beautiful as the younger sister (who would be in great demand when her time came), but, as the Torah says of the matriarch Leah: “She had beautiful, soft eyes.”

  And so, arrangements were made. They would meet informally first, so that Boomie could get a look at her, and she at him.

  “Aside from money, what does he have to recommend him?” Rose asked her mother point-blank.

  “He is in a prestigious yeshiva, from an excellent, highly respected family.” She didn’t add “beggars can’t be choosers,” but it was in the air.

  Rose shrugged. “I’m taking photos at the Erenreich wedding on Tuesday night. Tell him to come to the reception.”

  “What if he’s not invited? Really, Rose!”

  “Tell him to come to the chuppah then. The ceremony will be held outside. Who’s to know if he happens by? Besides, in a black suit and a beard, he’ll look like every other guest they’ve invited. Tell him I’ll be the girl with the camera. But how will I know who he is?”

  “You’ll know,” her mother said cryptically.

  She was curious, she admitted that to herself, even a bit excited by the fact that someone would be looking her over with romantic intentions. She put on a pretty lavender dress that hugged her slim figure and stiletto heels that were going to kill her feet by the end of the evening.

  The pre-ceremony reception was lively, held in two separate halls, one for men and one for women. The women danced around the young bride, who was seated in a large wicker chair decorated with fresh flower arrangements. She looked positively terrified, Rose thought sympathetically, her head bent over a book of Psalms, her lips moving with silent urgency as she turned the pages, hardly looking up. What was she praying to have, or to avoid? Rose wondered, wishing she could talk to the girl privately. That, of course, was impossible. She didn’t even know her, and her mother and mother-in-law, sisters and sisters-in-law surrounded her like bodyguards.

  Finally, the music started up. The groom was coming for the bedecking, the ritual of checking out the bride’s face before covering it with the heavy veil, a precaution inspired by the unhappy experience of the patriarch Jacob, who wound up in the marriage bed with the older sister when he had toiled seven years for the younger.

  Rose stepped aside as the women’s chamber was invaded by men, led by the groom and his father and father-in-law. The bride, her lips still moving, her eyes still lowered, just sat there as the groom looked down on her, until, finally satisfied, he pulled the veil over her face.

  Rose, who had been to other weddings, was shocked. Usually the bride was all smiles at this point, exchanging happy, meaningful glances with her young gro
om, who looked at her adoringly. She was very young, this girl, maybe her own age. Who knows what pressures had been put on her to agree? Who knows what had transpired in prewedding meetings between the two? What if she’d changed her mind? Tough luck. There was no escape clause, especially if a vort had been held previously in which an engagement contract had been signed. Those were harder to get out of than a marriage contract! She felt her skin prickle as she looked around at the large assembled crowd of hundreds. It would take inhuman courage for the girl to balk at this stage. She was stuck. When the men turned to leave, heading toward the marriage canopy, the bride followed discreetly behind with the women, literally supported on either side by her mother and mother-in-law, who linked arms with her, keeping her in place. Mercifully, it would soon be over, and whatever doubts the girl had would be left behind. Or not.

  It was a warm June night. A soft breeze wrapped the thin material of Rose’s silk dress around her legs, outlining them. She lifted her camera to her eyes, scanning the crowd.

  And there he was, staring at her: a head taller than everyone else, darkly handsome, his black suit a little more stylish than the other men’s, his hat worn at an angle with a slight swagger.

  She quickly lowered her camera, hiding in the depths of the crowd, as she waited for the bride, who soon appeared, blinded by the veil, stumbling down the aisle, supported by smug, bewigged matrons in their wedding finery. Following their lead, she circled the groom seven times until finally being set down firmly beside him.

  Mrs. Yachnes called the very next morning. “Yes, he’s interested. Very, very interested,” she sang in triumph.

  Her mother held the phone at arm’s length, covering the receiver with her palm. “Baruch Hashem!” she whispered. She brought the phone back to her mouth. “So, what’s next?”

  All Rose heard was a series of “hmms” as she waited impatiently for her mother to hang up.