Reparation

by Gaby Koppel

  So I’ve messed up at work and now I’ve sabotaged my home life, the only crumb of comfort is that at the moment my relationship with Mutti is having a harmonious moment, however brief it may turn out to be. I suppose that’s something to soothe me while I trawl my way through a stack of newsprint piled as high as my desk. The Westmorland Gazette, the Blackpool and District Messenger and the Hounslow News are waiting for my attention. Then there’s a list of fifty senior police officers to call. And if I do unearth any journalistic gems, they’ll go straight over to Andrew, who will get all the credit. At least there’s no trace of the work experience girl with the Jennifer Aniston haircut. Maybe she’s gone to help out Tony and Cherie as a media advisor.

  The day stretches out in front of me. I’m planning a latte at eleven. For lunch I’m thinking of an avocado wrap. If I find more than ten possible leads, I’m allowed a KitKat at four. And to burn that lot off, I’ll go to the gym on the way home. To forget about my own duplicity, if nothing else. I get the keys to the stationery cupboard. There’s nothing like a new notebook and some fresh pens to renew one’s appetite for a task. I help myself to a packet of Day-Glo highlighters, a roll of Sellotape and a shiny pair of scissors. Then I add a whole packet of HB pencils, some staples and a large ring-bound lever arch file. With some of those plastic document holders that clip inside them. I organise all my booty on my desk, and look at it. This is the infrastructure for my new role.

  Andrew swivels round in his chair to get a better look at what I’m doing.

  “Marvellous to see you really getting to grips with your new assignment,” he says. “I’ve got a new toy as well. But it hasn’t come from the stationery cupboard.” There’s a bag on his desk, from one of those hi-tech shops on Tottenham Court Road.

  “Really,” I say, loading the new staples into my stapler. “Let me guess. It’s a Rubik’s Cube to keep yourself amused on all those long train journeys to the fabulous locations you’ll be visiting. No sorry, it’ll be a new pair of Raybans because the sun in Doncaster is so intense at this time of year.”

  He smiles, taking a box out of the bag. Inside is a shiny device that looks like a bit that’s fallen off a camera. I’m reluctant to give him the satisfaction of seeing my curiosity, but I can’t help myself.

  “What is it?” I ask

  “A director’s viewfinder. You use it for sussing out the good shots in a location before the cameraman gets there. Three hundred pounds. Worth it, though.”

  “So you’ve borrowed it from a director, then?”

  “No it’s mine.”

  “Talk about ideas above your station. I bet you’re A-level results haven’t even come through yet. Bit early to indulge in expensive toys.”

  “As it happens, Sarah’s asked me to direct second unit.”

  It’s like a biff in the solar plexus, that is. But I just say, “Oh yes, are you going to film Mummy changing your nappy?” then turn back to the Westmorland Gazette, mentally adding a packet of gourmet vegetable crisps to my lunch order. I console myself with the thought of Andrew looking like a complete plonker. What kind of twerp arrives to shoot a couple of GVs with a stupid director’s widget, as though he’s Ridley Scott?

  At eleven I’m just leaving for the cafe when my phone rings. It’s Mutti.

  “Do you remember Mrs Schein?” she asks.

  “How could I forget. The lady with a massive bosom and a mole on her chin?”

  “That is very unkind. Mrs Schein suffers a great deal from her husband’s diabetes.”

  “And he suffers a great deal from her opinions, as I recall. They are as numerous as the stars in the firmament. And your point is?”

  “Mrs Schein has given us the details of a lawyer who specialises in these kind of claims. And you’ll never guess what?”

  “Well, if I’ll never guess you’d better tell me.”

  “He speaks Hungarian.”

  “But you can make yourself understood fairly well in English these days.”

  “No, silly, this is marvellous because he can read all the Hungarian contracts and legal papers.”

  “That’s – actually very useful. And how much is he going to charge us?”

  “Mrs Schein says he is very reasonable.”

  “And that could be because Mrs Schein’s husband made absolute squillions out of his chocolate biscuit factory so a few hundred quid here or there doesn’t make a lot of difference to her.”

  “Don’t be silly. Anyway. He will see us tomorrow lunchtime.”

  “When you say ‘we’…”

  “Daddy will only agree to the appointment if you come too.” I see, he wants to make sure Mutti’s outnumbered.

  “Look, I’m working. It’s not as though I can slip away without anybody noticing.”

  “They don’t allow you out for lunch? What kind of job is this?” I don’t have the energy to argue, and anyway I’m going to need a break from the Westmorland Gazette by this time tomorrow.

  “OK, I’ll work something out.” The phone rings again, and I’m just about to tell Mutti not to keep bothering me at work, as I have many important local newspapers queuing up for my attention. But it’s the switchboard operator.

  “Do you know a Mr Maurice Cohen?” I shuffle through my mental Rolodex.

  “I don’t think so. What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s calling from Staffordshire.”

  “I’ve never been to Staffordshire. It must be a mistake.”

  “We’re not allowed to put members of the public through unless they’re known to you.”

  “Sorry.” I put the phone down, and go back to the papers. The phone rings again, and it’s the switchboard operator once more.

  “I’m sorry, but this caller is very persistent. He’s saying something about a synagogue, in Staffordshire.”

  “Stamford Hill, not Staffordshire! It’s Morrie! Put him through.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Morrie, is that you?”

  “Could I speak to Miss Mueller, please?”

  “Yes, speaking. Call me Elizabeth.”

  “You are the young lady who came to see us at the shul?”

  “Yes that’s right. How can I help you?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling. I heard your last visit didn’t turn out too well. For you.”

  “Gosh, word travels fast.”

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t think we wanted to get you into trouble.”

  “It’s OK. I’m over it.”

  “Good. You see, it’s happened again.”

  “Another television researcher has turned up at the synagogue?”

  “No, another little girl.”

  “Killed?”

  “Well, not exactly the same. Someone tried. B’ruch ha shem they didn’t get away with it.”

  “But what can I do about it? Surely it’s a matter for the police.”

  “The police don’t know.”

  I inhale, but don’t say anything. It’s an exclusive, and it’s been put in my lap. I could sell it to the tabloids and make a killing. In another life.

  “I think it would be a good idea to tell them.”

  “The community leaders don’t want to.”

  “But why not?”

  “They are worried about the impact this would have. The publicity. They’ve seen what happens once. The police, newspaper people, television, radio. It was a madhouse here. People felt like they were in a zoo, being stared at all the time. If word gets out that it’s more than one, you can just see the headlines. CRAZED NAZI MADMAN ATTACKS JEWISH CHILDREN. Stamford Hill will be overrun.”

  “Yes but don’t you think they are running a huge risk by not telling the police? What if he does it again?”

  “The frumm community believe they can pull together.”

  “Er – that didn’t seem to be quite the line Reb Stern was taking with me, when we were – when we met. He seemed ready to completely put his trust in the police.”

  “Thing
s change. It’s not just him, there are others.”

  “So he got overruled? Either way, that’s a big risk to take with the lives of their children. So, why the phone call? I’m afraid I do work for a television production company, so maybe I’m the wrong person to talk to right now if you are intent on avoiding publicity.”

  “Look, my dear. Rabbi Stern has asked me to apologise if he seemed – abrupt. It’s nothing to do with you. You are obviously a nice girl.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, but Reb Stern has an odd way of showing his appreciation of my finer qualities.”

  “That was unfortunate.”

  “I’m not bearing grudges. But I don’t quite understand what I can do for you.”

  “You asked about a film. You wanted to – act out – what happened to the little Friedmann girl. To help catch the person who did it. Reb Stern thinks it would be a good idea to do this now.”

  “So he’s changed his mind now he realises it may not be a one-off? I can talk to my boss about it, and it’s brilliant that he wants to go ahead. But Morrie, I don’t think I’ll be allowed to work on it, however nice a girl I may be. I’m kinda confined to base. I’ll have to hand it over to my colleagues.”

  “Because of us, you are punished?”

  “Sort of. Well, to be fair, there’s more to it.”

  “Well I’m sure we all feel bad that we get you into trouble. And now we would like to make up for it. Maybe you have an idea?” There’s a terrible twinkle in his voice.

  “Crikey, well – er – I mean just how bad do you feel? If you’d be prepared to say…” Listening, I whisper, “Yes?” just in case anybody else in the office is listening to me. “Gosh, Morrie, it does sound a little bit dishonest.”

  “Even if nobody is harmed? Go on, tell me.”

  “Well maybe you could say that I need to be part of the filming. Because you trust me, since we already met and discussed it – ”

  “Well of course we trust you. You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”

  “Umm I’m not sure that line is going to carry much weight with my boss. And maybe I’m not all that Jewish, anyway.”

  “You know my dear, I’ve been around long enough to recognise a Yiddishe Maydel when I see one and it matters, here in Stamford Hill it definitely matters. After all, what do we know from these other people?” He chuckles. “I’m sure Reb Stern will agree with me on this.”

  “Tell you what, Morrie, you’re a mensch.”

  Sarah’s busy in a meeting, which runs on past lunchtime. Through the glass of her goldfish-bowl office, I can see a group of people poring over scripts. They watch a clip of a tape, then rewind it and play again. And again. I loiter outside for so long that I’m starting to get on her PA’s nerves. She suggests I take a lunch break. She’ll call me when the meeting’s through. I slink off, but my appetite’s gone and I make do with a polystyrene cup of lukewarm mushroom soup.

  Sarah takes a bit of persuading. But, like a shark scenting blood, her instincts get the better of her. She makes me wait while she calls Reb Stern to confirm my version of events. She nods a lot, and as she puts the phone down gives me a look which is half grimace, half smile. There’s to be a strict protocol in place. Every step I take will be under police supervision. That makes me wince. Whatever Reb Stern and his friends think of the cops, we can’t afford to work behind their backs. So that’s another hurdle for yours truly – I’m going to have to explain the rules of engagement to the man with the big beard. But at least by mid-morning, my shackles are cut, and just after lunch I’m meeting DI Jenkins at Stoke Newington Police station.

  He leads me into a small interview room and sits me down, as if I’m the suspect in a crime. His lengthy briefing about the Stamford Hill Hasidic community tells me far less than I learnt in twenty minutes with Morrie and Sidney. But I nod respectfully, and make copious notes.

  “There’s one other thing,” he says as we are leaving the room. “You are dealing with a group of people who don’t watch television. They have never heard of Coronation Street, let alone The Crime Programme.” He shuts the door behind me and locks it. “So don’t make any assumptions about how much they understand.”

  Together we get into his unmarked police car and drive towards Stamford Hill in silence. Down at St Kilda’s, the incident tape has been removed from the end of the road, but the huddle of paparazzi is still there. The uniformed officer on duty outside the house nods at DI Jenkins. In the garden, weeds threaten to strangle the few shrubs, which are evidence of some long passed fit of optimism. A kid’s bike has been abandoned on the path. I wonder if it belonged to the dead girl.

  Paint is peeling from the window frames, but as Mrs Friedmann answers the door she seems too preoccupied to notice the state of her surroundings, or the dank smell of boiling fish which fills every corner. Going through the hallway, I feel my soles sticking to the carpet. Its few remaining fibres have been smothered by dirt and the residue of old cooking oil.

  Mrs Friedmann wears a floor length garment which is a throwback to my sixties childhood. Known as a ‘housecoat’, its overriding characteristic is a complete lack of shape. On her head is a black turban thing made out of stretch fabric. She dispenses orders to the older children, comforting the tinies and cuddling the baby. As she turns to deal with us, she’s like a mournful entertainer, setting just one more plate to spin.

  It’s a front room, but not as we know it. Instead of sofas, it’s been set out with a huge dining table and at least fifteen mismatched chairs. There are a few bookcases filled with books, I scrutinise the spines and the ones I can make out are all in Hebrew. Some of the volumes have been pulled out, and are scattered around. There are a few dishevelled toys and a broken cassette player. But, as DI Jenkins predicted, no sign of a television. It’s the scene of chaotic family life, and could have looked quite wholesome had it not been frozen by the glare of the fluorescent lighting tube.

  As we are deciding where to sit, there’s another ring on the doorbell. One of the children shows a bulky figure into the front room. As he enters, I see it is the Topol lookalike himself, Reb Stern. He gives a curt nod in my direction and shakes hands with DI Jenkins. The men sit on one side of the table, opposite Mrs Friedmann, me, and a uniformed female police officer. I hadn’t noticed her before, though she was there all along. She is introduced as a family liaison officer, Sergeant Evans.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Friedmann,” I start. “It’s very good of you to see me about this.” She nods. “If it’s OK with you, I’d like to go through all the events of the day in question. That will help us work out what we can show.” She nods.

  “Just take your time, and go through it step by step.”

  Mrs Friedmann looks at Sergeant Evans, who gives an encouraging nod. But she’s scanning me, looking down at my bag. I know I need to say something warm and reassuring, but it’s difficult to come up with anything when she’s radiating pure apprehension.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, “but are you worried about something?”

  She blinks. “You are not recording this now? Not filming?”

  I don’t react to this. It’s critical that nobody in the room suspects me of sneering at her naivety. I’ll have to take it straight and very slow.

  “I don’t have a camera or microphone, Mrs Friedmann. I’m not trying to catch you out with secret recording.” I unbutton my leather jacket, and put it on the back of the chair, to show that I’m not hiding anything – and then suddenly feel very exposed in my short sleeved tee shirt when everybody else is completely covered up despite the clammy heat in the room.

  “It’s not that kind of thing. We are on your side, believe me.”

  I’m desperate to inject some warmth into the solemn proceedings to comfort the poor woman. But with the combined police and rabbinical presence in the room, it’s clear there’s a significant risk of appearing too frivolous if I do so much as smile. I take her hand and look her straight in the eye. “We want to catch the k
iller of your little girl, believe me.”

  She nods, seeming embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m worried to do the wrong thing.” I shake my head.

  “There is no wrong thing. I understand why you are wary of me when you’ve got a bunch of paparazzi camped on your doorstep. We aren’t like that. I want you to trust us. What might help is if I give DI Jenkins some tapes of the programme.”

  She looks at me. To misery has been added something else – bafflement – embarrassment – or a mixture of the two.

  “Tapes?”

  “You don’t know anybody at all who has a TV? Or a VHS player – maybe?”

  She shakes her head. I haven’t forgotten what Jenkins said about this being a community without TV, but I just hadn’t thought it through. To be honest, I’m slightly nonplussed, and not just because I work in it. No television, a complete world without it. That’s a first for me and I’ve seen a lot of the awfulness that comes from having no money. I’ve seen rampant damp and boarded up windows, rat droppings and filth, people sleeping and eating on top of each other in squalor with rank, repulsive bedding you wouldn’t want to touch let alone lie in. And I have to admit, this place is right up there. The whole house seems to sag and crumble with despair, from its grimy carpet and tatty mismatched jumble of decrepit bits of furniture. But no telly, I suddenly realise that I’ve never, ever been to a home that’s too poor for a box.