Reparation Page 4

  Mutti seems oblivious. Grinning, she whispers, “I can’t wait to tell Auntie Miriam. If I swear her to secrecy, it will be all over Cardiff by the next day.”

  “But you aren’t worried about the fact that Dave’s not – you know.” She looks at me, blank.

  “Not?”

  “Not Jewish. It’s always seemed such a big problem before.”

  “He can convert.” Yeah sure. Just don’t mention the circumcision.

  Chapter 4

  On Sunday, my parents and are invited to a dreary party at Uncle Bernhard’s house in Hampstead Garden Suburb. I was invited too, but I’ve made it clear that my weekends are too precious to waste munching kosher canapés with a load of wealthy businessmen and their dragon-skinned wives. Dave’s got us tickets to a lunchtime pub gig where some of his friends are playing.

  I’m woken at an unreasonable time in the morning by the clank of pans and the open-and-shutting of drawers in the kitchen of my flat. It’s my parents trying to be quiet. I emerge from the bedroom to find they’ve taken in the Guardian and spread its sections all over the table. What’s left of the toast is cold.

  “So,” says Mutti, scrutinising the jeans I’ve pulled on, “what are you going to wear?” I help myself to some lukewarm coffee. The skin which has formed on the milk hurls itself into my cup with gloopy abandon, and breaks into bits which bob on the surface.

  “Just a tee shirt and a jumper over this,” I say. “We’re only going to the pub.”

  “But I’ve told Bernie you are coming to the party.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you should.”

  “But I’ve already said that I don’t want to. I’m not coming. I’ve got other plans.”

  “Hanni will be there, with her fiancé.”

  “And – let me guess – you want me to be there with mine. It wouldn’t do to be outplayed by Uncle Bernie, would it?”

  “It’s nothing to do with—”

  “Look, Lisbet,” Dad interrupts. “Mutti and I would like you to come. It’s a family event.”

  “So you want Dave to come too?” They look at each other. I detect the merest frisson of panic. They don’t have to say anything. I get it. However happy they appeared to be last night, he’s a second class type of fiancé. A temporary face-saver while they scour Britain for the Jewish Prince of their dreams. Fine. “Why should I leave Dave in the lurch? He’s already got the tickets.” Mutti stands up.

  “I am going to get ready now, and when we are ready to go, I expect you to be ready too.” She behaves as though I’m still a spotty schoolgirl ready to do her bidding, on pain of being grounded.

  I retreat into my bedroom, and try to wake Dave. He’s still rubbing his eyes as I explain what’s happened.

  “I don’t get it,” he says. “Last night we were all best friends. I was welcomed into the bosom of the family. Now we are doing battle over ownership of you. What’s happened?”

  “It wasn’t a welcome,” I say, “It was a tactical surrender as she prepared to do battle on another front.”

  “So are you coming with me, or going with them?”

  Bernhard lives on a wide street, lined with fat detached houses, and the pavement is now jammed with Jags and Mercedes. Dad squeezes his battered Datsun in between a red convertible and a gleaming XJ6. Through the window, I can see waitresses in white aprons handing round drinks. The guests look like the kind of rich people who brag about golfing handicaps and compare the vital statistics of speed boat performance.

  Our host embraces my father in a giant bear hug, kissing him on both cheeks, in a great show of affection, which Dad reciprocates without enthusiasm. As I’m standing next in line, I move towards my uncle and put out my hand, poised to kiss and be kissed. To my surprise, Bernhard jumps back, as though he’s been stung.

  “Sorry, no, not with ladies.”

  “But I’m family,” I say as the realisation begins to dawn on me. I notice that his beard is shaggier than it ever was before, like an overstuffed teddy bear sitting on top of his bulging stomach. He’s wearing a skullcap with Hebrew letters crocheted into it, which can only mean one thing. He’s got religion hence the no-touchy business. My non-Jewish friends think that being Jewish means no bacon. They have no idea how much further it can go. My parents look weary.

  There are so many conversational no-go areas that for some considerable time, none of us utters a word. We all stand there smiling at each other and nodding, as if we’ve challenged each other to see who can stay schtumm for longest. I crack first.

  “So, Uncle Bernie, how have you been?”

  He says something which sounds like “B’ruch ha shem, b’ruch ha shem,” and is presumably Hebrew for something. The expression on his face suggests a positive meaning, so I smile and nod. I’m floating in ignorance because I’ve been reared by Jewish atheists. Their faith is based entirely on a love of chicken soup and appreciation of the Marx Brothers. Let’s not bother too much about the troublesome spiritual bit because we are rational people, is the general idea. My dad’s an engineer, so he applies the fifth law of thermodynamics to religion and decides it’s rubbish. Oddly enough, that doesn’t seem to impact on their entrenched view of themselves as the rightful descendants of Moses. When we’re standing in a crowd of Jews like today, we feel as though we belong. The problem is that my intimate knowledge of chicken soup and all its variations and accompaniments doesn’t help much when Bernhard starts quoting the Bible in its original Hebrew.

  I turn to my parents for a bit of support, just in time to see them wave at somebody they have recognised on the other side of the room. It’s time to admit that I may not exactly been gracious about coming here in the first place, now they pay me back by beetling off into the crowd and I’m left standing there with my uncle the religious zealot.

  I scan the room, for support. Faces in the melee of guests look familiar. But it’s just the type I recognise, not the individual. Gold jewellery on wrinkled brown necks, English with a genteel trace of accent. They share a puzzled expression, as if they are wondering where the bridge tables have been hidden. In the distance I see a waitress offering my parents a drink. O God, if you do exist, could you make sure the buck’s fizz is mainly orange juice?

  Uncle Bernhard steers me across the room toward a young woman, whom I now recognise as the little girl I last saw when we played in the paddling pool in our back garden.

  “Hanni, here’s someone you haven’t seen for a long time,” he exclaims. Looking at her, I don’t think it’s not a coincidence that the words “frum” meaning religious and “frumpy” are so similar. They probably share the same etymological roots – a Yiddish word meaning a sack with a belt. I’m sure her outfit is all terribly correct. It certainly covers the forbidden knobbly bits, lest the merest suggestion of a curve underneath all that fabric should set torrid imaginations on fire.

  Next to Hanni is a bearded young man in a dark suit. She kisses me on both cheeks.

  “Elizabeth, it’s been so long,” she says, clocking my Lycra top, pencil skirt and suede stilettos with a wary expression.

  “This is Moshe Chaim, my fiancé.”

  “Hello, you must be the famous lawyer”. He shrugs, unsmiling. Either diffident or humourless, it’s impossible to tell. I turn back to Hanni.

  “You’ve changed since I saw you last.” I don’t mention the paddling pool in case the merest suggestion of semi-nudity in the distant past will trigger the collapse of the Wailing Wall. She smiles.

  “I hear you are getting married too.”

  “My goodness,” I say, “the bush telegraph is working very fast these days.”

  She looks puzzled.

  “So, your fiancé… is from?”

  “Luton.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know, Luton, just north of London. Known for its car plant.”

  I suddenly see that I’m talking to someone with a selective understanding of the geography of the UK. I try to imagin
e a map of Britain rearranged to reflect only how many Jewish people live in each place.

  “It’s about an hour from Golders Green, in the direction of Prestwich.”

  “Aha.” She looks embarrassed. Good.

  “So, is there a Jewish community in – Luton?”

  “He’s not—”

  “I see.” Awkward moment. I enjoy her discomfort and wait for her to change the subject. But there is no other subject.

  “And you aren’t worried about marrying out?”

  “Why should I worry?”

  “It’s a risk. You might regret it, later on.”

  “Marriage is a gamble for everybody, isn’t it?”

  “It’s less of a gamble if you marry someone like you.”

  “But,” I say, “someone doesn’t have to be Jewish to be like me. He can be like me in other ways. Like sharing the same brand of toothpaste. Let’s face it,” I shrug, “I’m not exactly all that Jewish.”

  She looks at me as if I am a small child. “You are most definitely Jewish, as your children will be.” And then, “Don’t your parents mind?”

  “They haven’t said anything.” Well, it’s almost true.

  “These things come out, Elizabeth.”

  It’s a merciful relief that Bernhard now announces lunch.

  We shuffle into the spacious dining room, and find our places on five large round tables. When everybody has found their place, he stands.

  “Welcome to you all, and thank you for joining me on this very special day,” he says. “Now, some of you will be familiar with the concept of gematria – each letter of the Hebrew alphabet has a numerical value. And today it seems especially apt that the Hebrew words for wine, mystery and knowledge, all have a value of seventy.” There are smiles and nodding, while Bernhard gives a short discourse on the inner essence of Torah, and the knowledge of the seventy elders.

  As he sits down, beaming, there is a round of applause. Two of Bernhard’s closest friends reply, telling funny anecdotes about their holidays together in Jerusalem, and adding their own biblical homilies.

  Now I notice with horror that my mother has risen to her feet, and is standing there. And there’s one thing I know with complete certainty. She’s had far too much buck’s fizz. While she struggles to find her words, people start fiddling with their cutlery.

  “Dear… Bernie.” This took a huge effort, and she now seems lost for words again. A pause of the right length can make a speech. It adds drama and tension, bouncing the reader from one thought to the next. Mutti’s pause starts like that, but as is lengthens and crumbles, its drama shifts into something darker. The audience begins to worry about the speaker, and whether she’ll make it to the other side of the pause. As if she’s jumped across a ravine and missed her footing. She catches onto the edge with the tips of his fingers and struggles to pull herself up on the other side. The odds are against her, but she does it.

  “You have been… my brother-in-law for forty years…” Uncontroversial. There’s another long pause during which I bite my lip. I take a gulp of wine, it stings. What on earth could she say next? I brace myself. The matron opposite me puts a hand up to the heavy gold chain around her neck. She plays with it, and looks thoughtful.

  “I would just (pause) like to say (pause) we are very (pause) fond of you. I will never forget that many years ago you helped me to (very long pause) come into Britain from Budapest at a very difficult time.” Though her words are slurred, this sentiment seems appropriate, even moving, and there is a murmur of agreement from the room. For a moment, Mutti seems lost in her own memories of those difficult times. Then she adds, “But I must (pause) say (pause).” Her eyes are closed now, and it looks as though she is asleep on her feet. I hope she manages to sit back down on her chair and thank God that she has stopped speaking. She hasn’t.

  “But why all the religion now, Bernie? You got a message from God? Maybe he told you to stop eating the ham and cream cheese sandwiches. And stop schtupping the cleaning lady while your wonderful wife is dying from cancer. Or is all this piety now all about guilt?”

  Shit. Jaws go limp. Hands clench. “Some of us have long memories, you know.”

  She starts swaying precariously from one side to another. At any moment, she will lose her balance and topple over. Bernhard is sitting next to her. If he cannot touch Mutti, even to stop her falling, she will crash to the floor. Anger and indecision are fighting it out on his face.

  Everybody in the room is watching him sitting there rigid as an ice sculpture. And just as intently, he is watching her. She shudders and open her eyes, and we all breathe a sigh of relief. But just as soon as she regained awareness, she’s gone again. Like a great tree that has been cut away at its base, she is floating on the wind for an elastic moment in time, before the inevitable collapse. Just when that moment cannot stretch any further, Bernie leaps to his feet and holds her steady, until my father has time to come round from the other side of the table and take her arm.

  Dad tries to guide her out of the room, but she’s like a bumper car. They collide with several tables and chairs, sending Bernhard’s biblical beverages spilling onto the pale carpet. One of the women at my table raises an eyebrow. “She meant well. Yes, she meant well.”

  I glare at her meaningfully, then gather myself with as much dignity as I can scrape together, and go upstairs to find Mutti on the guest bed. A three-quarters empty bottle of vodka is peeping out of her bag. She’s out cold. My father is sitting next to her looking resigned. I want to shake her awake to tell her what I think of her for putting us through this. But when I touch her, she jolts in her sleep, like a troubled child having a nightmare, and I end up stroking her cheek.

  “What shall we do?” I ask.

  “Let her sleep.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Ja, ja.” He shrugs. We go back downstairs, where waitresses are serving plates of poached salmon and potato salad. I sit back down in my chair, and discover that my dining companions are still carrying on an analysis of my mother’s performance, like the panel on Radio 4dissecting an avant-garde play.

  “Is OK to say a few words,” says the gold chain woman through her jutting chin. “But one should think it through first. Or make some notes on a card.” I try to convey my disapproval with an icy stare. The woman smiles back at me.

  “Really, Gretchen…” says her neighbour, shaking her head. Her aggressive, gold perm doesn’t budge as her head moves. “I don’t think she was in any state to make notes.” In a stage whisper loud enough for us all to hear, she says, “Too much to drink!” And just in case any of us hadn’t quite understood, she makes a gesture with her hand as if tipping a glass into her throat. I want to kick her under the table, and leave. But out of the corner of my eye, I can see my father engrossed in conversation with an academic looking man in a bow tie. There’s an old-fashioned air of courtesy about the way they nod to each other in response to each point. It wouldn’t be fair to march him out just when he’s finally enjoying himself.

  “Maybe she’s taking some medicine on prescription, then after just one glass you get knocked out. Even one sip.”

  “I think she is Bernie’s schwägerin. She is a lady with – problems.” I can feel my bones tingling under the flesh, as I listen to these two wealthy, spoilt women talking about my mother. But what is most unbearable of all is the thought that Bernie has been sitting round with a gaggle of his smug friends picking apart my parents’ lives.

  I stand up. “That poor, pathetic woman – the lady who has drunk too much,” I mime the drinking gesture, in an exaggerated way, “is my mother.” Now the whole room is looking at me.

  “How dare you wrinkle your noses up at her for daring to show her weakness in public. It’s such hypocrisy. You are all the same as her, but she dares to show her scars. That’s the only difference.”

  I look round at them, shaking. “You integrate, assimilate and God forbid that you, or you, or you,” I jab my finger in the air, “should ju
st for one moment show the world what’s underneath the surface. Yes, you go along to your meetings of the Anne Frank Trust, once a year you shed a tear for the victims, praise the courage of survivors, and light a candle for the dead.

  “It’s all very dignified. Then you pack it all away until the next time. Let’s make sure we never have to look at the mess underneath.” At the end of the sentence my throat tightens, making my voice quiver away to nothing. I look round the room at the pinched eyes and wobbling double chins. My face goes hot, as if fifty red spotlights are trained on me. The rims of my eyes prickle. I can’t bear the thought of this bunch seeing me cry, so I grab my bag and lurch out. Turning right out of the doorway I crash straight into a young man in a dramatic purple silk shirt, banging into his violin. I push him aside without bothering to apologise and bolt towards the door.

  Then I’m out, and heading somewhere along the spotless pavements. I don’t know where. Just away. I don’t hear any footsteps coming up behind me, probably because I’m sobbing. A familiar handkerchief is pushed into my hand, and Dad falls into step besides me.

  “What about Mutti?” I say. “What if she wakes up?”

  “Someone will look after her.”

  “Like they are all her best friends after what she said.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’ll be out for hours.” Actually, she could wake at any time. I know that, and he knows that. But we’re so desperate to escape that we pretend it’s not true. Dad marches along the pavement, breathing deeply. As we get further away from the house, I can see the lines on his face relax under the afternoon sun. We find ourselves by the car, though we weren’t looking for it. “Let’s go up to the Heath,” I say.