Peep Show by Joshua Braff Page A

the
mechitzah
and he and Shaindee both stand together. I look at my mother and her eyes are tearing.
    â€œSvi and I,” says Shaindee, “wrote in to the grand rabbi last week.”
    My mother walks from her spot and is now behind Becca, who’s begun to yelp softly in what I believe is Yiddish.
    Shaindee takes a piece of paper from a pouch in her apron. “I’d like to read this to you. It’s what I wrote to the grand rabbi last week.”
    To the honorable and holy, our master, our teacher, our rabbi,
    My name is Shaindee Danowitz. Three years ago I saw you on the street in Brooklyn and you looked into my eyes before a man called your name and you looked away. Do you remember that? I have enclosed my picture in the hope that you might remember me. I know that you see many, many people each day and are so intelligent, wise, generous, giving, noble, selfless, and kind. I understand if you don’t remember me or my face. I am writing you today to ask for your blessing. I would like to become a
kallah
. The man I’d like to marry goes by the name of SviKutensky and he is a seller of fine jewelry in the diamond district of New York City, New York. I am the daughter of a
baal teshuva
rabbi named Pinchus Danowitz. His
shul
, Ohev Shalom, is located in Vincent, New Jersey. My mother is also a
BT
and her name is Becca Danowitz. Svi and I have obtained the blessing and approval of my parents. And although Svi’s parents, Jules and Edith Kutensky, are conservative Jews who live in Maryland, they are very supportive of our union and know that we will build a true and everlasting Hasidic home. It would please us both to no end if you allowed us to marry and to form such a family. I hope you will call or write us soon. Please feel free to keep the picture.
    Sincerely,
    Shaindee Danowitz
    â€œAnd?” says Avram.
Hut, hut, hut.
    â€œThe office called the house two days later,” says Shaindee.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd I am a
kallah
!”
    The group surrounds them and the
mazel tovs
are said loudly and often as the women kiss each other and the men pummel Svi with aggressive back patting. Peter Rabbi yells, “Now we dance,” and Svi and Yussi start pulling me by my elbow toward the living room. “No, thank you, no, no, no,” I say, yanking my arm back. “No, really, no thank you, I don’t dance.”
    â€œYou’ll like it, David,” says Peter Rabbi. “It’s a celebration. All the men must dance.”
    â€œIt feels good,” says Svi. “I promise.”
    I have to nearly throw my arm to get free of Svi’s grip. “Enjoy yourselves, okay? I’m not a dancer.”
    â€œYou must, David,” says Peter Rabbi. “A
wedding
has been announced. My daughter’s wedding and you are a guest in my home. All the men in this home must dance together in celebration. Please. Now. Come.”
    Svi has a record album, which he hands to Peter Rabbi and in seconds a fast and rockin’ version of some Hebrew wedding song starts, “
Od Yishama B’arai Yehuda U’Vchutzos Yerushalayim
. . .” Svi approaches me again and takes hold of my wrist. I cannot fucking believe this. I look down at my arm and then through the
mechitzah
, back at my stripper/Hasidic mother, who isn’t helping me at all.
    â€œJust do a little,” she says, and I’m taken, dragged, literally strong armed onto a pile of stale Lichtiger manhood. My God, a circle of bodies whose hands squeeze the shoulder of the guy next to him to form a sphere, a spinning wheel of black garb that attempts to keep up with the drums and horns of this fast moving song. And as I’m flung around and around it’s like a nightmare, truly I’m stuck on some Hasidic carousel of sweat and vodka and Hebrew prayer. I can only see the
mechitzah
and not the faces that look through it as I’m whipped around the room. Faster and faster we climb, these seemingly