Israel was born in 1948 and besides roads and houses for immigrants, a new industry sprang up. Those were the “Halls of Joy.” Sometimes there were even two or three on the same floor. When invited to one of them you had to pay attention not to sit near the entrance. That’s where the music from the other halls could be heard, clashing with the music of the hall you were in. Tables for six or eight were situated all over the floor, and lamps ranging from neon bars to more elegant fixtures hung overhead. As a guest you could be sure to find a tepid salad of peas and carrots welcoming you. You were wise to ignore it. The entrée was the obligatory quarter of grilled chicken, and that’s why we called the weddings:
“The Quarter Chicken Events.”
The bride always had a long white dress, and the groom his Bar Mitzvah suit—whether outgrown or not. Men didn’t possess suits in those days of a Socialist Israel. Not my crowds anyway.
And the presents?
First of all, one never gifted money. This was considered thoughtless.
You showed your love for the couple by buying them what everybody else bought, such as an ashtray. And the gamut ran from a small copper one to a heavy one made of real Murano glass.
You bought an espresso machine for the young couple if you were in business with the parents.
A set of six dessert spoons and/or forks was considered a very personal gift, and if you were a close relative like an aunt: a refrigerator. The parents of the bride, besides paying for the quarter-chicken extravaganza, could also offer an apartment.
The wedding usually had an orchestra that provided the loudest possible music—which drowned out any comments about the size of the bride’s waist and the dress of the bride’s mom. One invited everybody. Which meant all the neighbors, relatives, and acquaintances from work.
But when my big day approached, my father said “NYET” in Hebrew and German, and my wedding was different.
In what ways?
We invited only 32 people, which ruffled many feathers.
There were no peas or carrots.
My dress was short and theoretically could be worn on other occasions, and my husband didn’t have a Bar Mitzvah suit.
There was no orchestra, and we could hear the speeches, some of them I even remember. My in-laws made two parties in their house for all the uninvited guests, and that’s how we ended up with enough Murano ashtrays to give as gifts when going to weddings in the 1960s, many years later.
We kept the little spoons.
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