The large sapphire blue and white mosaic Star of David lit up the wall of the foyer across from the sanctuary doors. In the middle of the synagogue lobby, sixteen-year-old Fanny sat in a gold silk chair, awaiting the bedecken, the veiling of the bride.
Her four little sisters ran about, showing off their newly sewn frocks. Her mother hadn’t left her side. Brina stood behind the throne, her black eyes poking through the crowd of women waiting to greet them.
“Mazel Tov,” her aunt’s friend said, taking Fanny’s hand.
“Thank you,” Fanny answered, but she could hardly concentrate. Her heart pounded. Simon had arrived in England the day before. She hadn’t met him yet, although they’d written letter after letter from the day her father and his uncle had made the arrangement last year.
The men were down the hall in the Rabbi’s study where Simon was signing the marriage contract. She could hear their joyous singing and the crash of breaking plates for good luck.
Simon. They were both from Telz, a small town in Lithuania. He was five years older than she, and his family had moved away after his mother died. Fanny had been too young to remember them, but their families had known each other quite well. Her family eventually left too, but instead of resettling in another part of the country, they had come to England eight years ago to escape the poverty and harsh rule of the Tsar. It had taken quite a while to climb out of the slums in Manchester, but now her father earned enough of a living in the rag business–enough to make ends meet and then some.
Fanny’s dress inched into her waist, but she bore it, anything to give the illusion of being thinner. The weight of her grandmother’s small translucent amber beads around her neck gave her courage.
“Shana punim,” Ruth Marcus said. Her mother’s best friend pinched her cheek and then moved over to stand next to her mother so another woman in the reception line could wish her well.
“Schlepper,” her mother whispered to Ruth about Simon, but it was loud enough for Fanny to hear.
Fanny ignored them both. Simon was a scholar from the prestigious Vilna Yeshiva, a prestigious match. Her father couldn’t be prouder. Simon was not only a scholar and the son of a rabbi, he was from a long line of rabbis. According to her mother that meant he was penniless and without a job.
“Such a plain bride,” Ruth muttered in a low voice, “Maybe it’s for the best.”
The violinist started to play a lively tune, leading the men out of the room where her future husband had sealed their union with the signing of the ketubah. Her father and brothers led the march to the bride with Simon just behind.
Sunlight from the window danced off the top of Simon’s black silk hat. He walked up to her chair, touching the delicate toile veil that flowed down to the shoulders of her dress. He looked at her carefully and a small smile formed on his lips. She held tightly to the soft padding on the wooden arms, overpowered by his presence.
He was more handsome than she had imagined. Muscular but slim, probably a head taller than she, his black curls crushed under the brim of his hat. Her heart flipped. And then he drew the sheer fabric of her veil away from her face.