The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04]
Page 78
Frowning, I studied the certificate. I laughed then. ‘But what is this, Mother?’ I had no idea to whom the thing referred. ‘This is for someone called Moishe Aaronovitch Peskonechnya.’ The only resemblance to my own name were the initials. The similarity of sound had no doubt confused the authorities. She had not looked at the document properly. Her eyesight was failing. Slowly I folded it back up. I looked from the beaming Esmé to the weeping, smiling old woman. She nodded. ‘That was your father. Peskonechnya. A kosher butcher by trade. His father was a rabbi in Kersen.’
I was in a terrible position. Somehow Esmé had been deceived. This poor Jewish matron had honestly convinced herself that I was her son. Whatever the circumstances, I could not in conscience maintain the charade. It would be too cruel.
‘For a Moishe.’ I handed it back to her. ‘Not a Maxim!’
‘But that is what we called you.’ She was insistent, almost aggressive. ‘That’s your name, Moishe.’
‘I am afraid —’ Unwittingly, I was taking part in some ghastly charade. I was more than embarrassed. This old woman, no doubt out of desperate need, had imposed her son’s identity on me. Esmé had probably persuaded her that they had been acquainted in Kiev. Perhaps Esmé, too, widowed and lonely, followed a similar psychological imperative?
I could not speak. How could I disappoint the poor, old creature? How could I tell her that I was not Jewish, that the very atmosphere of that wretched little synagogue was rather distasteful to me? How could I show Esmé she had been deceived, was deceiving herself? Before worse happened and the emotional disaster was compounded something had to be done and done rapidly, to bring this sad affair to an end. I summoned my courage.
With gentleness and courtesy I was at length able to address the poor old Jewess. ‘Madam, with all respect, I regret that I am not related to you. I only wish I did have a mother like yourself. I long for my family. Much as I would like to be the one you seek, I cannot pretend I am he. I am not, you see, Jewish. I was born Russian Orthodox and remain in that faith to this day.’
Esmé’s eyes widened. How I hated to shock her. But the truth had to be faced. I reached towards her. ‘Esmé, you have through no fault of your own brought two strangers together. You have been betrayed by your need to make your desires real. I understand that yearning all too well. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise. After these miserable decades . . .’
‘Maxim,’ she began steadily, ‘this really is your mother. You must remember her. And no matter how you and your circumstances have changed, you cannot deny your heritage!’
‘Heritage,’ I said. ‘I have never once denied my heritage. I am a Russian Cossack, descended from Russian Cossacks. I am not a fool. I know my own Slavic blood. My real mother told me everything. My father was related to the Romanoffs and served them as a captain of cavalry. I myself have served in that same cavalry! Believe me, if I could tell you differently, I would. Madam, I wish you nothing but good. I hope you will indeed one day be reunited with your son.’
At that moment Mrs Stein came uncertainly back into the room, the tea things shaking on the tray. ‘Is there something wrong?’
The old woman Esmé had mistaken for my mother was sitting down again. She was gasping, as if drowning. ‘Moishe,’ she said. ‘We always called you Maxim, I know. It was better. But you are Moishe, believe me.’
All my life I have been threatened in this way. And now here it was happening again with this old woman claiming to be my own mother, trying to achieve what Cossacks and Nazis had so often tried to do and failed.
I owed it to everyone to tell her the truth. ‘I am a member in good standing of the Bayswater Greek Orthodox congregation,’ I told her as calmly as I could. ‘That has been the case for years. I sympathise with your need to find your son, madam, just as I can understand how you persuaded my friend Esmé that you were a woman from her past in Kiev. Believe me, I cannot blame you. We have lived through dreadful times, and we would change them for the better if we could. All of us yearn to restore the past. But I have my own problems. I find this very hard to say. Like you I have borne a great deal. I, too, have been through the camps. Emotionally, I can take very little more.’
‘Maxim,’ Esmé was trying to be calm and rational, ‘you can’t deny your own mother. No man would do such a thing. Certainly when there is no longer a need. You don’t have to be afraid now. All that is over.’
‘Need?’ I replied. ‘When was there ever a need? I speak of truth. And I speak of falsehood. What is over? For years I have longed to see my mother, just as I longed to see you. You cannot know how many years I spent praying that we could be reunited. My mother did so much for me as a boy. She sacrificed herself. She had such wonderful ambitions for me. She saw to it that I was educated. She encouraged me in all my dreams. Do you think I would not recognise my own flesh and blood? But this lady is neither my flesh nor my blood. She is a poor, deluded old creature whom you met in Jaffa by chance in a dry-cleaner’s. You both knew Kiev, I’m sure she no doubt lost a son years ago, this Moishe. But whatever else she told you, one thing is certain. She did not tell you the truth. I she thinks she sees a resemblance in me to her son, she is deluded.’
The woman was muttering in Yiddish. Still sobbing she rose and came towards me, trembling arms outstretched. I could stand no more. Apologising to Esmé, I fled that nightmare. Something in the woman’s eyes reminded me of Hitler.
I walked most of the way home. I believe Esmé took the woman back to Jaffa the next day. She wrote me a note. It had a baffled accusatory tone. I hardly read it. I had disappointed her. Esmé’s taste for sensational self-deception probably came from reading too many Victorian novels. I blamed her experiences in the Civil War. What decent girl could emerge from that ordeal with her mind intact? I would have been so happy in my old age to enjoy friends and relatives from those days, but surely it is better to be alone and sane than complete one’s final years in the comfort of lies?
Sadly, I made a choice many of us are forced to make when age threatens memory, when death is no longer our enemy but our only friend.
I said as much last night in the pub to Mrs Cornelius.
She shook her head and winked.
‘I’ve got ter ‘and it to yer, Ivan.’ She smiled admiringly into her port and lemon. ‘Yo’re one in a million, an’ no mistake. Bloody amazin’! I sometimes wonder if yo’re real!’
Only she truly understands me.
She is my muse. My inspiration.
Mein Engel.