This story undoubtedly went back to the days of the Pharaoh. Perhaps that is why no one laughed. Or else it was because just at that time the guests saw the bride.

Completely in white, with white shoes and long white gloves, Phelia Lubliver stood at the far end of the aisle. Franz Xavier Wohltat, in a cutaway coat, had his arm linked in hers. The bride took a step, and then another. Because of the shawl over her head she could not see where she was going. The Volksdeutscher, who was shorter than she was, had to guide her along the way. There was a chair on the platform, with many silk cushions. Miss Lubliver was placed on this throne. She sat with her knees together, her arms on the rests. Her whole head was hooded in the chalk-white veil.

Outside the church the crowd was cheering so loudly you could hear it through the stone and brick. The sound swelled and swelled. The rabbis holding the huppah stood straighter. The organ played the wedding march of Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, and Schotter, through his cupped hands, announced the groom.

Trumpelman appeared, in black. But his cloak was white silk, embroidered in purple, and swept down to the heels of his shoes. He did not look to the side, but strode firmly, without a cane, toward the front of the church. How fine he looked! Tall and splendid! His white locks curled from beneath his hat to his shoulders. An audible sigh filled the room. Compared to our Elder, Czerniakow of Warsaw was nothing, nobody.

A ninth rabbi, Nomberg, stepped off the platform to meet him. He had long since trained his hair to cover his missing ear. The melody stopped. There was a hush. The Minister of Religious Affairs asked Trumpelman if he was prepared to fulfill his obligations as a Jewish husband. The groom signified assent by grasping the handkerchief that Nomberg held out. Then both men stepped onto the platform.

At this point two gentlemen left the Judenrat section. One was Margolies, the former waiter, and the other was the Hungarian, whose name was Urinstein. They crossed the aisle together and stood at the base of the platform. Margolies reached into his jacket pocket and began throwing grain, for fertility, for many children, into the lap of the hooded bride. Urinstein’s beard had grown back completely. He was now the Minister of Vital Statistics. “May you have a sweet life,” he said, and hurled a handful of raisins at Trumpelman’s chest. Then the two Judenrat members, bowing slightly, returned to their seats.

The groom turned and faced the woman in white. How quiet it was. Not a rustle. Not a word. Slowly Chaim bent at the waist and took hold of the bottom of the veil.

“Oh, sister!” Nomberg chanted. “Be thou the mother of thousands of millions!”

I. C. Trumpelman lifted the veil.

“Ah!” everyone said, but from custom only, since the blinding flash lamps and the broad cloak of the groom blocked off any view. But Trumpelman nodded, satisfied. It was a Rachel, not a Leah. He dropped the cloth back over the face of the woman he had chosen.