ICHAEL AND I were married in the middle of March. The ceremony took place on the roof terrace of the old Rabbinate building in Jaffa Road, opposite Steimatsky's foreign bookshop, under a cloudy sky of dark gray shapes massed against a bright gray background.
Michael and his father both wore dark gray suits, and each had a white handkerchief in his top pocket. They looked so alike that twice I mistook one for the other. I addressed my husband Michael as Yehezkel.
Michael crushed the traditional glass with a hard stamp. As it broke the glass made a dry sound. A low rustle went through the congregation. Aunt Leah wept. My mother also wept.
My brother Emanuel had forgotten to bring a head covering. He spread a checkered handkerchief over his unruly hair. My sister-in-law Rina held me firmly, as though I were likely to faint suddenly. I have not forgotten a thing.
In the evening there was a party in one of the lecture rooms in the Ratisbone Building. Ten years ago, at the time of our wedding, most of the university departments were housed in wings of Christian convents. The university buildings on Mount Scopus had been cut off from the city as a result of the War of Independence. Long-established Jerusalemites still believed that this was a temporary measure. Political speculation was rife. There was still a great deal of uncertainty.
The room in the Ratisbone Convent in which the party was held was tall and cold, and the ceiling was sooty. The ceiling was covered with faded designs in peeling paint. With difficulty I could make out various scenes in the life of Christ, from the Nativity to the Crucifixion. I turned my gaze away from the ceiling.
My mother wore a black dress. It was the dress she had made herself after my father's death in 1943. On this occasion she had pinned a copper brooch on the dress, to mark the distinction between grief and joy. The heavy necklace she was wearing glittered in the light of the ancient lamps.
There were some thirty or forty students at the party. Most of them were geologists, but a few were first-year literature students. My best friend Hadassah came with her young husband, and gave me a reproduction of a popular painting of an old Yemenite woman as a present. Some of my father's old friends joined together to give us a check. My brother Emanuel brought seven young friends from his kibbutz. Their gift was a gilt vase. Emanuel and his friends tried hard to be the life and soul of the party, but the presence of the students disconcerted them.
Two of the young geologists stood up and read out a very long and tiresome duologue based on the sexual connotations of geological strata. The piece was full of bawdy insinuations and double entendres. They were trying to amuse us.
Sarah Zeldin from the kindergarten, looking ancient and wrinkled, brought us a tea set. Every piece had a picture of a pair of lovers dressed in blue, and a gold line round the rim. She embraced my mother and they kissed each other. They conversed in Yiddish and their heads nodded up and down continuously.
Michael's four aunts, his father's sisters, stood round a table laden with sandwiches and chatted busily about me. They did not trouble to lower their voices. They did not like me. All these years Micha had been a responsible and well-organized boy, and now he was getting married with a haste which was bound to cause vulgar gossip. Six years Aunt Jenia had been engaged in Kovno, six years before she had finally married her first husband. The details of the vulgar gossip which our haste would cause, the four aunts discussed in Polish.
My brother and his friends from the kibbutz drank too much. They were noisy. They sang rowdy variations on a well-known drinking song. They amused the girls until their laughter lapsed into shrieks and giggles. A girl from the Geology Department, Yardena by name, with bright blond hair and sequins all over her dress, kicked off her shoes and started dancing a furious Spanish dance on
Michael and his father both wore dark gray suits, and each had a white handkerchief in his top pocket. They looked so alike that twice I mistook one for the other. I addressed my husband Michael as Yehezkel.
Michael crushed the traditional glass with a hard stamp. As it broke the glass made a dry sound. A low rustle went through the congregation. Aunt Leah wept. My mother also wept.
My brother Emanuel had forgotten to bring a head covering. He spread a checkered handkerchief over his unruly hair. My sister-in-law Rina held me firmly, as though I were likely to faint suddenly. I have not forgotten a thing.
In the evening there was a party in one of the lecture rooms in the Ratisbone Building. Ten years ago, at the time of our wedding, most of the university departments were housed in wings of Christian convents. The university buildings on Mount Scopus had been cut off from the city as a result of the War of Independence. Long-established Jerusalemites still believed that this was a temporary measure. Political speculation was rife. There was still a great deal of uncertainty.
The room in the Ratisbone Convent in which the party was held was tall and cold, and the ceiling was sooty. The ceiling was covered with faded designs in peeling paint. With difficulty I could make out various scenes in the life of Christ, from the Nativity to the Crucifixion. I turned my gaze away from the ceiling.
My mother wore a black dress. It was the dress she had made herself after my father's death in 1943. On this occasion she had pinned a copper brooch on the dress, to mark the distinction between grief and joy. The heavy necklace she was wearing glittered in the light of the ancient lamps.
There were some thirty or forty students at the party. Most of them were geologists, but a few were first-year literature students. My best friend Hadassah came with her young husband, and gave me a reproduction of a popular painting of an old Yemenite woman as a present. Some of my father's old friends joined together to give us a check. My brother Emanuel brought seven young friends from his kibbutz. Their gift was a gilt vase. Emanuel and his friends tried hard to be the life and soul of the party, but the presence of the students disconcerted them.
Two of the young geologists stood up and read out a very long and tiresome duologue based on the sexual connotations of geological strata. The piece was full of bawdy insinuations and double entendres. They were trying to amuse us.
Sarah Zeldin from the kindergarten, looking ancient and wrinkled, brought us a tea set. Every piece had a picture of a pair of lovers dressed in blue, and a gold line round the rim. She embraced my mother and they kissed each other. They conversed in Yiddish and their heads nodded up and down continuously.
Michael's four aunts, his father's sisters, stood round a table laden with sandwiches and chatted busily about me. They did not trouble to lower their voices. They did not like me. All these years Micha had been a responsible and well-organized boy, and now he was getting married with a haste which was bound to cause vulgar gossip. Six years Aunt Jenia had been engaged in Kovno, six years before she had finally married her first husband. The details of the vulgar gossip which our haste would cause, the four aunts discussed in Polish.
My brother and his friends from the kibbutz drank too much. They were noisy. They sang rowdy variations on a well-known drinking song. They amused the girls until their laughter lapsed into shrieks and giggles. A girl from the Geology Department, Yardena by name, with bright blond hair and sequins all over her dress, kicked off her shoes and started dancing a furious Spanish dance on
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