Chapter Four.
The wedding took place early in the month of Tammuz [June]. Both the service and ensuing reception were held, of course, in the Grand Synagogue. The two fathers had agreed that the music for the reception would be provided by a band led by the groom’s friend from Jaffa, one Meir Garidi. The name of this band was “Meir and the Meshuganas” [מטורפים, or crazy people]. Not to beat the earthquake metaphor into the ground, but the horns, cymbals, and other instruments whipped the younger wedding attendees into a dancing frenzy, which made the floor of the reception hall shake so violently that I, for one, feared it might collapse, hurtling the revelers directly down to gehenna. Luckily, however, the building was relatively new, and the floor was constructed of stout limestone blocks.
With that, I will finally cease to belabor the metaphor of earthquakes. This is no subject to joke about, either, since Antep has by no means been exempt, even in recent years, from such seismic catastrophes. Am I superstitious? Maybe, a little.
Let me just say, then, that the wedding went well, especially considering that neither family wanted it. Once we, the Mitrani, learned that our daughter had been impregnated, we made the best of a bad situation. As to the feelings of the BinMafouz clan, I cannot say, because they did not share them with us. However, since there was no preliminary Talbis [ceremony for Yemenite grooms], and since we did not agree to their surgestion that our Dorit be decked out in Yemeni bridal garb —not even a gargush [Yemeni conical-shaped hat]— I imagine that they regarded the marriage as just the latest in the string of misfortunes that the Lord had visited upon them.
As for the religious part of the event, let us say that our illustrious rabbi, Levy Pinchas Arkaday, did his best, ably performing the expected rites (on a Friday night, of course), managing to steer a passage through the perilous channel of Yemenite talmudic [scriptural] practices and our own. (Arkady bey is an accountant, by profession.) Leading the singing in the service was our hazzan [cantor], a cousin of Moise's with a pleasant, if undistinguished, tenor voice.
What else can I say? The food and drink at the Sunday reception were delicious, of course, and the young people, especially, seemed to enjoy themselves. But not to put the cart before the horse, I almost skipped over the financial elements of the wedding. Whereas the Mitrani women did all of the shopping and cooking, and the Mitrani men paid for all the food and drink, this was only according to mizrahi custom. Negotiations over the drahoma [dowry] were, of course perfunctory, as was the sum arrived at, since the family of the groom was so much wealthier than that of the bride. In fact, the Yemenis might not even have asked for any drahoma, at all, if the omission would not have constituted a mortal insult. But, to give the man his due, Bin Mafooz did insist on paying to bring the band from Palestine. Presumably, he also paid the fee for the performance (which lasted almost six hours). This was generous of Bin Mafooz bey, since normally the bride’s family would have shouldered these costs, as well as all the rest.
When, in the wee hours, the affair had finally ended, and we were back in our room relaxing, Moise put an uncharitable construction on the generosity of Ishak BinMahfooz, characterizing it as yet another act of condescension. Always a good mimic, my husband pretended to squint down at me (I was seated) through a pair of pince-nez (for which his reading glasses did duty), as he intoned, in an exaggeratedly high-pitched, nasal voice, “Oh, that’s all right, Mitrani bey, we know how this wedding must strain your meager resources. So please allow us wealthy Yemenites to pick up the tab for the music, at least!” Moise could make a living as a mimic. I almost died of laughter.
When, in due course, the baby was born, and he turned out to be a big, healthy boy, with obvious features inherited from both sides of the family, it seemed as if “all losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.” (Shakespeare, again!) After the blessed event, we seemed to accept the fact that we were all fellow mizrahi, and we acknowledged that the forced union was merely the latest proof of how completely our lives rested upon finding consolation amid the incessant woes of the יְהוּדִים [Jewish people].
“Consolation”! The word can be said to characterize our long history under Ottoman rule. Of course, this history has not been an unbroken string of בְּרָכוֹת [blessings]! But neither should the periodic Turkish oppression of their Jewish guests be considered the norm. Since most people (myself, included) love to compare things, the Turks seem like angels, compared to the Spanish, Russians, and all the rest, who have persecuted and slaughtered us throughout history.
Ignorant though I may be, even I know that the first Jews fled to Turkey before the destruction of the first temple, in the year of 3175–3176 [586 b.c.e.] And I pray that we may live in peace here, forever, or at least until whichever comes first, a thousand more millennia, or the advent of the reign of our Blessed מלך המשיח [Messiah].
But we have more immediate worries, do we not? Take, for instance, those Greeks. (And would that someone would take them!) Seriously speaking, my husband tells me that our economic rivalry with these people has begun to tilt in their favor, thanks to the ability of their merchants to capitalize on religious and cultural ties with western countries, such as England, France and, especially, the United States, all of which have recently added large numbers of Greek emigres.
“But don’t the mizrahi have our own emigre’ populations in these countries?” I objected.
“Well, no,” Moise replied, his tone, condescending. “Most of the Jews with serious money in those places are Germans or ashkenazi. The English or American mizrahi, of note, are mainly just artists or intellectuals. Even among the Turkish-Jewish diaspora, the deepest pockets are those of the sephardim. And you know what they think of us!”
I do know this. In fact, it has been said to me, more than once, by other women in the community, something to the effect that those Sephardic gonovim [swindlers] would not give us the sweat from beneath their breasts (or testicles).
Although I was tempted to pursue this topic of discussion, by asking Moise about Turkish-Jewish trade with Russia, the Baltic states, and so on, I assumed that his knowledge would not extend to those places. All that I would get, if I had gone on, would have been resentment. Asking more questions might even provoke one of his rare outbursts, when he would tell me, basically, to mind my own business. Not in so many words, he would then be saying, “Shut up, woman! Who asked you, anyhow?” So I dropped the subject, and I have since learned nothing more about it.
Do you wonder that Malka Mitrani, housewife, mother, and wife of a man who (I must say) is no scholar, should have any political, or other, opinions? Let me tell you, then, that Antep is known for its excellent literacy rates, including among the female part of the population. Some day, I hope, boys and girls here will attend school together, up to and including high school, and even (G-d willing!) University. When that happens, women will become teachers, bankers, even lawyers and doctors. The sky will be our limit! If, that is, our Ottoman protectors manage to survive for that long —which is fast becoming a big if!
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