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The Groom
Anna Shusterman
Even in fading bodies,
there live undying desires —
to love and to be loved!!!

Berel diligently scooped green peas with a plastic fork from his half of the plate to "mine," but the little slippery spheres, slick with gravy, kept bouncing off the plate onto the table.
I gave him a teaspoon, and he painstakingly chased the naughty peas, oblivious to the fact that I had already eaten not only his half but also "my" share of the meal.
Berel had a hearty appetite and would have gladly finished his portion himself, but ever since he decided that I was his bride, he insisted on sharing the food evenly.
Berel's son shyly asked if I would play the role of bride. Being very religious, Berel would never allow a woman to touch him before marriage.
Of course, I agreed. A 96-year-old man with memory lapses... Today I am his bride, and tomorrow he won't remember — senile dementia will help me with that, I thought. How much I needed the job!
Berel was talking about something with his son in Yiddish; I only caught one word, and that was "bride" because it sounds the same in Hebrew. He exchanged cunning glances with his son.
My husband had a great sense of humor; he didn’t protest or get jealous when I told him I had become Berel’s bride!
I even felt a little hurt for myself, snorted, grabbed the remote from his hand, and turned off the TV!
The silence in the bedroom was tense. I wanted some attention, at least a hint of jealousy from him, but alas, my husband was willing to share me with the senile "groom."
“After all, the wedding won’t happen, right?” he teased me.
Berel surprised me: he spoke Russian with me; with the dark-skinned medical staff — whom he assumed were Gypsies — he spoke Hungarian; with women who covered their heads, Yiddish; with women who didn’t, Czech!
He always greeted me by asking about the little calf’s wellbeing.
“Did you feed the calf? Has the kelbele grown?”
He measured the distance from the floor to my waist with his hand, while I would lower his hand much further — indicating, alas, the kelbele had not grown!
He wanted to “slaughter the calf” at our wedding, but the little calf wouldn't be able to feed all the guests!
I used this as an excuse to postpone the "wedding" day… and so, the “calf” didn’t grow!
But I began to notice that he wasn’t in a hurry to get married… The reason was another woman!
After lunch, I would wheel my 96-year-old “groom” out to the yard, where anyone wanting fresh air would gather.
Berel looked around, often distracted from the siddur (prayer book) lying in front of him... Suddenly, Berel’s face flushed pink, his eyes squeezed shut, his neck tensed, fingers gripping the wheelchair — he even straightened up a bit!
Hava, a slender blonde Hungarian woman about fifty, was pushing a special wheelchair on which her old man lay dozing, his hair uncovered.
So he would speak Czech with her, I thought… Once again, Berel surprised me!
Berel puffed and huffed, admiring the slender blonde (while I was plump and dark-haired), but I wasn’t foolish—I quickly guessed what kind of women my "groom" preferred.
Shifting in the wheelchair, Berel spoke to Hava in Hungarian:
“Madam, is this your husband?”
“Yes, this is my husband,” Hava replied, apparently deeply disappointing the lovesick Berel!
He slumped; his face grew gaunt, opened the prayer book, and muttered to me:
“Well!” — I flipped to the correct page and, swaying, he began to pray...
His body visibly lost its shape, he hunched over, his eyes clouded; at that moment, he resembled a snail: if he could, he would crawl into his turbo-spiral shell forever...
I felt deep pity for Berel, suffering and in love with another woman...
I decided to remind him that we — he and I — were preparing for our wedding!
For a whole week, day by day, we planned the menu for the upcoming wedding.
He asked for pencil and paper, carefully scribbled, crossed out, wrote again, summarized something, and whispered: “Two herrings, two bottles of vodka, ten onions, potatoes to fill the cauldron… not too many guests… don’t forget to weed the garden and feed the kelbele.”
We were caught in the middle of this by his son and daughter-in-law, who came to visit Berel.
Berel didn’t recognize his son.
“Who are these people?” I asked Berel, whose eyes suddenly welled with tears and sparkled.
“That’s Yosela, my older brother, and his wife. They came from Munkacs to visit. Oops!”
I stepped aside as they tried to remind Berel who they were and what relation they had to him...
Memory, hidden under the shell of senile dementia, slowly emerged like a snail… and a smile spread across his face, which seemed younger by the minute!
Mischievous sparks danced in his eyes!
He busily questioned his son about the collective farm...
I could tell he was happy — the farm was taken care of, the calf was growing, and the wedding was just around the corner!

Другие статьи в литературном дневнике:

• 23.10.2026. ***
• 20.10.2026. ***