I have just finished
The Marrying of Chani Kaufman
Eve Harris and it left me wanting to know what happened next – for Chani, Baruch and Rivka Zilberman, the Rebbetzin, and her son Avromi. For me, that is the highest accolade – it feels as though, for a period, I become involved in the lives, comical, romantic, tragic and mundane, of real people. To feel myself truly engaged with these people and that I am being in some way honoured to sharing their thoughts, feelings and daily activities. And like any friends or acquaintances, their story does not end with the narrative, but goes on in the same or different directions. I suppose this is what good writing does – not simply entertain for a period, inform on a particular aspect of life – it draws the reader in, and because it can do so much more than real life, allowing us access to those parts of the Johari Window which are denied in most cases, it allows us to empathise with people we have never actually met. And that is something truly valuable – a real Treasure.
 

     It also gave access to a strictly frum life, that of members of a Hasidic community which does not normally have any contact with outsiders. In real life we would never have this opportunity, and it is sad that, with so many natural barriers to communication in the world, there are peoples who erect their own, artificial walls behind which we cannot see, only glimpsing the people themselves because the walk the same streets as ourselves.
 
     It is this Ghetto which exists in parallel with the outside, it's inhabitants passing us on the pavement, seeing and being seen, but never knowing, that militates against everything I hold dear about life today. I suppose it is the same as my feeling about Muslim women who wear the niqab, which, as I understand it, is more of a cultural dress than an actual requirement from the Quran. The hair covering which is shared by orthodox Jews, is a different matter – intended to hide the wearer's hair for fear it may arouse the passions of men, and in Islamic cultures takes the form of a scarf or shawl, in Hasidic Jews the wearer's own hair is hidden by a wig, (a sheitel) which is usually made of
 
someone else's human hair and can be drab or coloured and styled , which to me seems to contradict the essence of the stricture – what's the point of hiding your hair and it's attractions under what may be an even more attractive wig? A headscarf or snood is much more honest.
 
     So far as the niqab is concerned, I suppose that in Western Culrure we assosciate masks covering part or all of the face with Robbers – from 17th century Footpads or Highwaymen, down to modern ram-raiders who cover their heads with a stocking mask, So that reference makes us instinctively wary when presented with what we have been conditioned to regard as a threat and so be wary of. The Guy Fawkes masks worn in political protests carry the same association for many of us.
     Which has all been a digression – this is a lovely book, very heartwarming and funny alongside the pain and heartache; and any work of fiction which can open doors and give us an insight into the lives of those we may pass on the street but never know, is surely welcome in these troublesome times.