The Devil in Jerusalem by Naomi Ragen Read Free Book Online Page B

Her mother was even calling up distant cousins to interrogate them on what they were planning to wear!
    Her grandmother had connections with a bead salesman who got Daniella into one of the few bridal gown factories still on American soil (although the seamstresses were illegal aliens paid wages little higher than those of their overseas counterparts). They’d custom-fitted her dress, lining the sheer sleeves completely so that no flesh at all peeked through.
    While she’d wanted to do her own hair and makeup, she’d compromised, allowing her mother to engage a religious woman who would come to the house on the day of the wedding. She had nothing against makeup per se; she just didn’t want to look like Jezebel when she walked down the aisle, like so many other, usually sensible girls who mistakenly relinquished their faces to the ministrations of “experts” on their crucial day. And even though no one ever said anything bad about a bride on her wedding day, it was obvious to her that this was the case.
    She’d already had a consultation the week before. A little lipstick and mascara, that was it, she’d insisted. “Shlomie, my fiancé, doesn’t like thick makeup and, after all, it’s for him I want to look nice, right?” she’d explained to the affable, bewigged young woman, who nodded approvingly. “My hair—can you just put it up with tendrils floating gently down on either side of my cheeks? With all that dancing, it’s bound to come undone anyway, so I might as well start out that way!”
    The only extravagance she’d permitted herself was the loan of her grandmother’s diamond coming-out tiara, to which she planned to attach her veil. Ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d admired the photos of her granny in her white debutante dress at the Cinderella Ball. She’d been one of the only Jewish girls in Pittsburgh to be invited, thanks to Daniella’s great-grandfather’s wealth and well-known philanthropic works. No one could say no to his face, no matter what they surely must have said behind his back in those anti-Semitic days.
    Daniella’s mother, Claire, had also participated in the ball, even though by that time the family had become more religiously observant. She simply wore a dress with less cleavage, danced with her brother, and avoided the non-kosher champagne.
    The Cinderella Ball was still going strong. Daniella, too, had been invited but refused. What would have been the point? Was there ever anyone less eligible to be presented to Pittsburgh society in hopes of finding a suitable husband than herself? She had found the only man she could envision being married to: a kind, gentle, scholarly, devoutly pious boy who shared her dreams and ideals and who had never owned a pair of black, lace-up dress shoes, much less learned how to waltz.
    They were very much in love, very much in sync, she told herself. She understood that her family couldn’t begin to fathom this, but that was not her problem. She was going to live a better life than the one they’d chosen, a life in which every act and emotion was genuine and pure, unpolluted by hypocritical social demands or money and materialism. No one in the yeshiva world had lots of money, but they all managed somehow. With God’s help, she and Shlomie would, too.
    Across town, at the very same time, Shlomie Goodman was trying on a brand-new black suit. As was usual with religious Jews, he had not seen or spoken to Daniella for more than a week. Their next meeting would be in front of hundreds of people as he walked toward her, accompanied by his parents, and a twenty-piece orchestra, smiling into her face just before veiling it, as had been the custom ever since Jacob got stuck with Leah.
    â€œWhat about a tie, Dad?” he asked his father, who wasn’t really an expert.
    A machinist in a tool and die factory, Arthur Goodman had exactly two suits