Howard Jacobson

by Kalooki Nights (v5)

  Whereas Channa Washinsky was not only marking the Shabbes from what was not the Shabbes, she was honouring the concept of separateness itself, the beauty of one time not occurring simultaneously with another, ourselves not existing forever and unchangingly as ourselves. What the woman ushers in on the eve of the Sabbath, the man bids farewell to at its close, pouring out a glass of wine, lighting a single candle, perhaps shaking a spice box whose aromas symbolise the additional soul to which the Sabbath has given him access, and reciting the Habdalah benediction – a thank you to the Almighty for drawing a distinction between the holy and the profane, between light and darkness, between the six days of creation and the seventh day of rest. For that, simply, is what Habdalah means: separation. And whether you light the candle and shake the spices or you don’t, you cannot call yourself a Jew unless the concept is written on your heart.

  In its way, Habdalah is a justification for the idea of art. Here is the daily world of fact, there is the other-worldly domain of the imagination. Here is the tongue we are obliged as responsible citizens to mind, and there is the outlandish language we speak when we are otherwise possessed. So you would think the Orthodox, who thank Elohim for dividing this from that, would be hot on the separation which is art. But you’d be wrong.

  5

  Manny blamed the failure of Five Thousand Years of Bitterness to get beyond our respective houses on me. ‘You and your cartoons,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the cartoons that make it,’ I told him.

  ‘Yeah, that make it blasphemous.’

  That was his father talking. Blasphemy, impurity, uncleanness. Everything a sin against the Law. Everything an infringement. Leave aside the content, which Selick Washinsky was not the first and no doubt will not be the last to be repelled by, the mere fact that I drew a likeness at all offended him. Who was it – Feuerbach, Hegel, or simply every German philosopher there has ever been – who accused the Jews of being aniconic to their soul, eschewing the concrete because they would not envision God other than abstractly? Well, though I take no pleasure in their being right about anything, they were right about Manny’s father. In his eyes I was an idolater. I pause before that thought, because in my eyes I was an idolater too. The difference being that idolatry frightened Selick Washinsky whereas, primarily I suppose because I confused the word with iconoclast – and you can’t really be the second until you’ve been the first – it energised me.

  On his ownio, without the word of God at his shoulder, Manny himself liked my cartoons. They made him laugh. A pretty sickly laugh, but still a laugh. Our studio was the disused air-raid shelter in which we had talked of God and choked on poison gases. I thought of it as my air-raid shelter because you could only get to it by hacking your way through the hedge at the bottom of my garden or other gardens on my side of the street, but Manny considered it his by spiritual right – a dank, disused, overgrown underground space to which one fled to escape the irreverent light of day. Here, working with the help of those Second World War torches which everyone had lying around in those days, we would sit for hours on end, he rattling his chest asthmatically (there was a chemicals factory close to the shelter, which didn’t help), chewing his pencil and trying to think up adjectives to match the wickedness of one oppressor of the Jewish people after another; oppressors, I have to say, who didn’t only trip off his tongue but sprang from his ears and eyes, grew out of his hair and fingernails – Pharaoh, Amalek, Haman, Torquemada, Goebbels, Goering, Oswald Mosley – mamzers, bastards, the lot of them – I clicking my tongue and making Donald Duck noises as I sought for features grotesque enough to suggest their inner ugliness. Not easy when you can’t employ big noses, those having to be reserved, of course, for our own people, the eternally oppressed. In life, a button nose becomes a tyrant well enough, as witness Zoë, but it looks a lot less menacing in a cartoon. Big nose bad, small nose good – that’s just the way of it, in caricature as in race relations. Something, according to Horkheimer and Adorno, to do with the sense of smell and its embodying archetypal longings for the lower forms of existence. The nose a disgrace because the sense of smell a disgrace, a hankering after lowly origins, a refusal to embrace the liberating separateness of civilisation. Hence, presumably, Zoë’s wanting me to rid myself of mine. My solution as far as cartooning went, anyway, was the ruse of giving all the anti-Semites through the ages a Hitler moustache. Manny laughed like a drain at that. A field of Philistines with Hitler moustaches and their right hands in the air. The Pharaoh with a Hitler moustache. The Romans with Hitler moustaches. Ditto the Spanish Inquisition and the Roman Catholic Church and the Cossacks. Only Hitler himself – which seemed to me a novel concept – without. But then, as Manny observed – laughing like the dead, laughing as though his laughter were the ghost of laughter passed – how would anyone know it was Hitler if he didn’t have a Hitler moustache?

  Good point. So in the end I drew him just as a moustache. Which also made Manny do his drain thing. A disembodied moustache screaming ‘Heil!’ and banging on about the Final Solution.

  Had I painted rather than cartooned, I’d have been a surrealist. Which is peculiar because I’ve never liked surrealism. Another argument I might have had with myself.

  While I had grown up with knowledge of Hitler and extermination from an early age, thanks largely to Tsedraiter Ike, it was Manny who introduced me to the phrase ‘Final Solution’. We had just moved in to the opposite side of the street (part of my family’s downward social spiral), and as he was the only kid in the immediate vicinity my age – immediate vicinity meaning within my mother’s melodic shouting range – I was persuaded to make a friend of him. I wasn’t keen. He looked too historically Jewish for my liking. Too persecuted and unhealthy, his skin yellow and waxy, the colour of old candles. Farshimelt. I wasn’t exactly an athlete in the Benny Leonard mould myself, but I didn’t have that Asiatic blight on me that goes with being Orthodox. Or that fluffy moustache, which there was no explaining because Manny was otherwise physically immature, not to say underdeveloped. Was there a moustache you could go grow at that age which denoted the opposite of precocity? His chronology was all wrong, whatever the physiology. You couldn’t locate him satisfactorily in time; he was old too soon, and younger than he should have been.

  Whether it was his anachronistic moustache I was unknowingly alluding to every time I drew Hitler’s, is a question I have gone back and pondered – fruitlessly, I must say – many times since. But maybe I am just looking, in retrospect, for signs. He made my flesh creep, let’s leave it at that. He made me embarrassed for Jews, and therefore for myself. Which is probably the way it worked for my father too. ‘Where do they get the idea from,’ I remember him expostulating, with a gesture designed to take in not just Manny, and not just Manny’s family, but every household which allowed the noxious weed of Orthodoxy to take root, ‘that to be frum you have to look as though you’ve been lying in your own coffin all day? If the God they believe in had wanted us to look like death, why did He blow life into our nostrils in the first place?’

  But my mother thought it was a good idea for me to have a friend.

  ‘Swap comics with him,’ was her suggestion.

  I hung back. ‘He doesn’t look like a boy who reads comics,’ I said.

  But then I didn’t look like a boy who read comics either, and read them at first only to conform to my parents’ idea of what a normal boy ought to have been doing. There was something about the Dandy and the Beano, the mishaps of Dennis the Menace or Roger the Dodger, that depressed me. It was the look of them, partly: the skanky paper, the low-mirth smudginess of their production; but also the dismalness of the schoolyard world they portrayed: discipline versus cheekiness, small victories, practical jokes, jeering, every teacher undernourished, every kid drawn as though he had rickets. And then one day, Dodgy Ike, who was always dropping in on us with gifts of doubtful propriety and provenance – genaivisheh was my father’s word for them: knocked off, but somehow innocently, knavishly,
geknavishly knocked off – turned up with a cigar in his mouth and a stash of contraband American comics under his arm. Superman, Batman, Captain Marvel, Dick Tracy: a brave new Technicolor world of momentous, universe-changing action and teeming metropolises, even the ejaculations, SHAZAM! and BLAMM! and ZOKK! a thousand times more heroic than the small-time COO!s and CROAK!s of the meagrely illustrated, miserly minded Beano. I fell in love with them at first sight, not just because they were from somewhere else, and shouldn’t have been in my possession at all, but also because of the architecture of their design – the sculpted bodies, the masses of colour, the dynamic sense of movement, boldly futuristic and yet as classical in their density as any of the Renaissance paintings of annunciations and miraculous births whose reproductions hung in our art room at school. How did their artists achieve that? How were they able to appropriate everything, apparently so effortlessly? What was the secret of their pictorial plunder? Although I wouldn’t have put it to myself in quite this way, I recognised (correctly, as it turned out) something Jewish in them – Dodgy Ike Jewish, a bit genaivisheh in the knavish sense, full of spirited immigrant johnny-come-lately razzamatazz, and thus the antithesis to what the English expected of an illustrator of comics.

  Did that explain the anti-American sentiment of the careful Gentile world in which I grew up? Was that why our teachers were always warning us off American movies and music and bubblegum, and would have confiscated my Superman comics had I brought them to school – because what they really didn’t like about America was its Jewishness?

  Without doubt, some of this anti-Americanism rubbed off on me. Even though I was so smitten by Lois Lane I would draw her in the arms of someone bearing a striking resemblance to me just before I went to sleep, and so envied Superman his X-ray vision that for a while all my heroes had two yellow cones of light pouring from their eyes, I little by little rebelled from the extravagantly optimistic fantasy of it all. English culture called. If not the English comic book, then the English cartoon. Moralistic. Suspicious. Dour. Savage. Reductively ribald. Everything that I was not.

  That I became a cartoonist rather than that more verdant creature, a comic-book illustrator, let alone an accountant or a dentist, only goes to show that you don’t always follow your own best impulses, or even know what your impulses are. I recall my mother telling me with horror about a friend of hers who had suddenly fallen victim to a sort of science-fiction sickness known to doctors – in so far as it was known to them at all – as Anarchic (otherwise Alien) Hand syndrome. The poor woman had had a stroke, as a consequence of which the right part of her brain had become disconnected electrically from the left, leaving her right hand in a state of enmity with the rest of her. Sometimes the wayward hand merely wanted to grab on to something which she didn’t – a door, a handle, an object in a supermarket – but at others it sought postively to hinder and embarrass her, and once she woke up choking in the night, on the point of being strangled by it. We are psychologically at war with ourselves, that’s what it comes to. One half of us would destroy the other half if it could, and only the impartial intercession of the body, when it’s well ordered, saves us from self-murder. Let the body become unstrung, however, and we are once again at the mercy of our feuding psyches. So it was with my illustrator’s hand. Although it hasn’t yet attempted to throttle me or put my eyes out – and there is no saying it still won’t – it did, by wanting to draw satirically at all, act independently of me, in mischievous defiance of my nature, which was always melancholy and withdrawn, resistant to laughter and exaggeration, and not at all given to the crude and often cruel hilarity of caricature. To say that one part of me drew cartoons in order to spite the other half which abominated them, might be going too far; but I don’t doubt there was subversion in it, as though my drawing was impelled by hobgoblins or other spritely things of darkness I did not want to acknowledge mine.

  ‘All boys read comics,’ my mother said.

  But I was right and she was wrong. Manny Washinsky had never read a comic in his life. But he, too, wanted someone to play with. So for a dozen Beanos and one Tarzan he swapped me The Scourge of the Swastika. ‘Only I’ll be wanting it back,’ he told me.

  ‘Then I’ll be wanting my Beanos back.’

  ‘You can have them back now. I won’t look at them anyway. I’m not allowed.’

  ‘So why are you giving me this?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just lending it you.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ I asked.

  ‘The Final Solution.’

  ‘Is it any good?’ It looked good, if the cover was anything to go by. Blood-red lettering on a cowardy cowardy custard-yellow background. A figure in jackboots, seen from behind and below, as a trodden worm might see him; in his belt a revolver, the jackboots themselves astride the globe, like the very portals of the earth. And between his legs, viewed from a distance, cowering and hopeless, with nowhere to hide, the trodden-worm masses of the Jewish people.

  More than that, it appeared well thumbed.

  ‘There are supposed to be photographs in it,’ Manny told me, ‘but my parents ripped them out.’

  I wondered why that was.

  Manny pulled a face. ‘They said I could see them when I was older.’

  The book itself, though I can recite half of it to this day, I have no memory of actually sitting down and reading. So I must have imbibed its contents some other way. And eventually, courtesy of Errol Tobias who had his own copy – the street, it turned out, was awash with The Scourge of the Swastika – I got to see the missing photographs as well.

  On consideration I think Manny’s parents were right to have kept them from him. The pity was that he got to see them in the end.

  The pity was that any of us did.

  6

  Emanuel Eli Washinsky was found guilty of manslaughter on the basis of diminished responsibility in 1973. The year of my first divorce. And the year Syria and Egypt coordinated a surprise attack against Israel on Yom Kippur, also on the basis of diminished responsibility. So a big year for Jews. In fact the Yom Kippur War was a bit of a godsend for Manny, in that the consternation and anger it generated distracted attention from his trial. That’s assuming he cared one way or another by that time.

  The crime itself had been committed the year before. I was gone from the neighbourhood when it happened. I was plying my trade. Living modestly in London and selling my cartoons – this was well before my Tom of Finland phase – to whoever would buy them: Punch, Private Eye, the Spectator, I wasn’t particular. I doubt I had yet developed an individual style. Baleful I suppose was the word for what I did – incongruities, absurdities and falsities eyed splenetically and in the English manner: Gillray, Rowlandson et al, but more fingery in the line, more persnickety, and without the current affairs. Not yet on an epic scale, you might say. But then the epic scale I was reserving for what really mattered to me – Five Thousand Years of Bitterness. Yes, it had been our book, a Stroganoff Brothers production, but Manny had washed his hands of it, both spiritually and intellectually, years before. Blasphemous. Unclean. Unfunny. So I felt that the moral rights to it had reverted to me. Besides, I wasn’t using any of his words. Beyond a few necessary AARGH!s and SPLAT!s and SKREEAAAK!s there were no words. Just pictures. Illustrations, in the grotesque mode and with lots of colour – think Dr Doom as drawn by Goya – of what successive generations of bastards had done to us in every corner of the globe. Graphic novels hadn’t even happened yet, so I was at the vanguard of comic history. Not that I was drawing fiction. This was graphic history. And not just any graphic history. The graphic history.

  I wasn’t rushing. No one was breathing down my neck. When I finished it I finished it, and when I finished it the world would notice. That wasn’t arrogance, merely the certainty without which you cannot do the work. The only people I couldn’t imagine reading it with pleasure were the Germans, though I have since learned that collective guilt, if you know how to work it, can sell books in piles as high
as bones. In the meantime I could just about earn enough to keep me in cigarettes, Bell’s whisky, and the sort of Gentile women – awe-inspiring and essentially ill-disposed to me – who made me go weak at the knees. Being squeezed through the divorce courts by Chloë, post St Matthew Passion, had depressed my spirits and strained my finances, but I felt that when I needed more I could always draw more. As for running out of ideas, the proposition would have struck me as laughable. I was the fruit of Five Thousand Years of Bitterness which meant that I was heir to Five Thousand Years of Jokes.