Reparation

by Gaby Koppel

  I look round the table. From the expressions on everybody’s faces, there’s something going on that I don’t get, and everybody else does. Like the girl in the playground who has had a sticker attached to her back saying “I AM STUPID”.

  “In our community,” says Reb Stern, “we don’t tend to have televisions. We have other – diversions.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  I realise how stupid I must have sounded, and how ignorant about the people I am offering to help. Of course tapes are no use if you live in a world where nobody has a TV. “Er, maybe

  D I Jenkins could play them for you at the police station?” He nods.

  “Thank you. That would be good.” Mrs Friedmann looks across to Rabbi Stern, and he also nods approval.

  “Now, I’m really sorry to make you do this, but let’s go back to the day when it happened.” She sits there thinking for a few seconds. She has a nervous way of pulling down her turban, then pushing it back on her head.

  “It was Wednesday, we were making an upsherin for my Yakov Chaim. It was a drop-in, there was a buffet. Open invitation to all our friends, the whole kehillah.” Her English is accented, but I can’t place it. There’s a hint of German, or maybe Hebrew.

  “Sounds lovely, but I’m afraid you might have to explain some of the terminology to me.”

  “Yes?”

  “What was the occasion you mentioned?” She looks at me, uncomprehending.

  “The reason for the party?”

  “It was Yakov Chaim’s upsherin, I already said this.”

  “I’m really sorry, but I don’t know what that is.”

  “They say you are Jewish, no?”

  “Yes, I am Jewish. But not very – er…” She nods, she gets where I am on this.

  “Is hair cutting. For three year boy. We don’t cut the hair until he is three.”

  “Really? So little boys have long hair?”

  “A pony tail.” She shrugs. “Keeps hair out of his eyes.”

  “I see, so what happens at this event?”

  “Boy sits on chair, everybody takes turns to cut off a little bit. Then barber makes nice afterwards.”

  “Maybe,” interrupts Sergeant Evans, you could explain to Miss Mueller why the upsherin is important.”

  Mrs Friedmann looks at me. “Little boy now have payes and kippah,” she mimes earlocks and skullcap. “And he will go to school. No more playtime, is beginning of child’s education. Very beautiful. He lick honey off a letter, a Hebrew letter. Shows learning is sweet, you see?”

  “Sounds wonderful. And you said you invited all your friends, but who were the closest, the most involved in the hair cutting?”

  “My ex-husband Yisroel Friedmann, Rabbi Stern has come, my brothers Pinni, Avram, Dovid, and all my sisters. And their children. And few other friends, neighbours, members of our kehillah.”

  “So there was quite a crowd. And it took place in which room?”

  “In here.” She nods, looking around as though she can see the excited crowd of people in the room once more.

  “And when did you notice that Bruchi was missing?” She stares into space with a helpless look on her face. And utter exhaustion.

  Sergeant Evans puts a reassuring hand on her arm. “According to the statement we’ve taken, which we can give you, the smaller children were playing inside for a while. The they went outside, where they were riding around on some bikes and a scooter. Then, when it was time for the hair cutting—”

  “I looked out of the window and called them,” interrupts Mrs Friedmann. “They had on their Shabbes clothes, I didn’t want them get dirty.”

  “And they all came in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t remember seeing Bruchi come back in with the others?”

  “There was Channi and Chaye Sorah, Yankel and Rivki.”

  “And they are all yours?”

  “Yes, but also their cousins were there.”

  “So can I be clear about this one thing? Did she come in with the others when you called?” Mrs Friedman shrugs, an expression laden with hopelessness.

  “OK, so she may not have come in then. Do we know if anybody else saw her after that point?” She shakes her head. I turn to DI Jenkins.

  “We’ve spoken to several of the guests,” he says. “The accounts are – confusing. One person says this, another that. We are finding it almost impossible to work out a clear timeline.”

  “Other witnesses? Outside the house?”

  “There are a couple of neighbours, and we’ve managed to trace a young woman who was pushing her buggy down the road while the party was in full swing, and there’s also been some mention of a white minibus or van.”

  “For the reconstruction, we normally get a full set of all the statements. And the key thing is the appeal points – what are we asking the public for information about? You mentioned the white van. Did anybody see the driver? Can we put together an e-fit?”

  “Maybe that’s something we need to discuss back at the station.”

  Before we leave, I explain to Mrs Friedmann how we will put together the film. Everything should be based on known facts, taken from witness statements. We won’t speculate or make anything up. And to Rabbi Stern I say that we will need his help to reconstruct the party. We can’t afford hundreds of extras or the wardrobe full of black suits, hats and wigs. He’ll need to help us with the background action.

  “And just one other thing, before I go,” I say to Mrs Friedmann. “Bruchi’s an unusual name outside the Jewish community. What does it mean, exactly?”

  “Is short for Barucha. Blessing.”

  I nod. Mrs Friedmann nods. There’s nothing left to say because it all feels so horribly trite and inadequate, and I’ve said the only useful things I can. I hope she understands that.

  Before heading home, I cruise around Stamford Hill. School must have just finished for the day, because the pavements are chocker with kids. The girls all seem to opt for the same neat, long-sleeved checked blouses and navy skirts, with thick navy tights, as though they forgot it was the middle of June when they got up this morning. The little boys’ faces are framed by ringleted ear-locks, which makes them look more like girls. But there’s one thing that worries me more than that. Some of the children look very young to be walking home by themselves. Girls who look no more than six years old are leading even younger ones by the hand, not a parent in sight.

  I’m now stuck behind a rusty minibus. It stops in the middle of a narrow road to disgorge a consignment of tiny girls. The driver doesn’t bother to park, even though spaces are available on both sides. Instead, he jolts to a halt, and opens the side door by twisting his right arm round behind him, allowing three tiny little tots to help each other down the steep stairs and over to the pavement. I’m in no hurry, but the three cars behind me sound their horns, and edge to the middle of the road. Then at last the door of the minibus slams shut, the driver honking as he drives on, and the little girls have disappeared.

  The pent-up clog of cars steams forward, only to stop a few yards down the road as our minibus gets stuck head-to-head with another rusting, overladen van. There’s an impasse while the two drivers work out which one of them knows how to use the reverse gear. And so it goes on. For parking, the centre of the road seems to be just as popular as the curb. Near some shops on Dunsmure Road, I have to negotiate a litter of double-parked Volvo estates, all of which have seen better days.

  The pedestrians appear to know the rules of this game, weaving their way down the middle of a road, adults flanked by handfuls of small children while simultaneously pushing heaped-up buggies. The concept of road safety seems alien, both to the wild-eyed drivers of the minibuses, and to the walking roadkill that seems to regard pavements as an optional extra. I’m astonished that fatalities aren’t a daily occurrence.

  Not far from the shops three little heads dart out from between two cars. I stamp on the brakes, juddering to a halt, just as they ret
reat nervously. I want to lean out of the car and yell at them, “Where are your parents?” They ought to make sure they can look after shedloads of kids before they bring them into the world. My hands are trembling on the wheel. Is it even possible to be a good parent to ten children, if you can’t keep your eye on them?

  Then I see myself. I walked to school by myself, too, couldn’t have been more than six years old when I started. Yes, sure it was the sixties and the provinces, so there was no traffic and paedophiles hadn’t been invented yet by the tabloid press. But the risks were just as real. Where was my mother? When I got home she was usually out cold on the sofa (fully clothed), or in bed (naked as a baby), with an empty glass and her beloved soda siphon next to her. And she only had one child to care for. Did that make her a bad mother?

  When she wasn’t unconscious, I spent a lot of my time trailing after her. Always just far enough behind to catch the disdainful looks on the faces of shopkeepers as she slurred and stumbled her way around. It was only later that I heard some of my aunties had taken my father aside to warn him that she was driving me around “under the influence”.

  How much gossiping must have gone on behind our backs to get to that point. All the “Should we tell him?”, and “Is it our responsibility?” Anyway, there was a scene. Mutti threatened to top herself if they pursued it, and the whole matter was quietly dropped.

  Chapter 12

  The following day there’s news – the second missing child has been found, and somewhere on Stamford Hill a family has been spared the torment Mrs Friedmann is going through. I try to be happy about this, but the truth is I’m worried that yesterday will now turn out to be wasted effort and we are back to square one. But no, it seems the change of heart has stuck and I need to get down to setting up the film. We’ve got just under two weeks to sort out locations, props, crew, script and cast. It doesn’t seem like the best time to mention that I need a couple of hours off to take my parents to the lawyer’s. I put it off until mid-morning when the witness statements arrive on a bike from Stoke Newington nick. The job has been assigned to Bill, one of our most experienced directors and I’m hoping that now he’s got all the information, he’ll be busy writing his script all afternoon. I’ve phoned the casting agency to set up auditions for later in the week, faxed over a full list of the principal roles, got the contact details for the best available crews, and sorted out the car hire.

  Then, as Bill is bent over his computer, I tap him on the shoulder.

  “I just need to – um – pop out for a while. Is that OK?” He looks at me as though I’m talking a foreign language.

  “Things are red hot right now, kiddo. I can’t really spare you.”

  “I need to meet someone – for lunch.”

  “You can pop down and grab a couple of sandwiches for both of us. And a packet of crisps as a reward for good behaviour. That’s all the lunch either of us are going to get today, kid.” There’s no way round it. I go across the road and get two lots of cheese and pickle on wholemeal. My parents are going to be arriving at Paddington station any time now, and I won’t be there. I’ve failed them again.

  I put Bill’s sandwich on the edge of his desk, and while he’s eating, I run through the list of what I’ve done, and what’s left. He seems pretty impressed by my efficiency, but just as I’m thinking he’s going to let me slide off, he starts with another long catalogue of things that need doing by the end of the afternoon.

  I’ve just got started when my phone goes. It’s Dad from a payphone at Paddington.

  “Look,” I say, “I can’t really get away at the moment. You might have to get in a cab and go round to the lawyer’s without me.”

  There’s a bleep bleep bleep, followed by some shuffling and the sound of coins being loaded. “What you mean? This won’t take long. Surely they can spare you.” It’s always been a bit difficult to get Dad to take my work seriously, mainly because I’m not an engineer. On some level he still thinks I’m in some kind of nice job for a girl to do until she gets married. He thinks I’m “helping out” with a bit of filing.

  “Well, actually they can’t,” I snap. Silence, more bleeping, scuffling and coins being loaded, and then the murmur of my parents talking to each other. Mutti comes on the line.

  “Darling. Please come, we appreciate it.” Wheedling.

  “Look,” I say, “If you really think I am essential to this meeting, then just have a coffee and hold on. I’ll do my best to get away.” Even as I say it, I think why am I bothering? We’ll be here until ten tonight, at the very least.

  As I put the phone down I look over at Bill. He looks up at me, and I make like I’m terribly busy doing lists and things. Shit. For once, just cut loose. Do your work, I say to myself, do your very important work. Let them get on with their thing, you do yours. Ha. I can’t even concentrate. Then the brainwave.

  “I’ll have to see this bloke about the suits for the actors,” I say to Bill. “It’s not the kind of thing you can do on the phone.” He looks pretty distracted by now, and hardly takes his eyes off the computer, scrolling up and down the script he’s writing.

  “Sure, kiddo,” is all that he says. And I’m pretty sure he winks at me.

  Tottenham is only a few miles up the road from my flat, but I never go there. It’s a place I pass through on the way to somewhere else, moving on as fast as the traffic allows. Until now. I’ve managed to scoop up my parents and get them in the hatchback, and now we’re edging up the High Road, a confused litter of fried chicken joints and emporia devoted to hair products for black people. This is the land the high street chains forgot, but it doesn’t care, surviving on its own brand of visceral energy, and dominated by a huge police station.

  After we park, my parents walk along the pavement clinging to each other, with the uncertain look of people who think the borders of civilisation stop at Swiss Cottage. Above a shop selling roast nuts appears to be the office of the legal practice of Mr L Zoltán.

  This is not a solicitor’s office as we know it. There’s no brass plaque, or coiffed receptionist, just a stained stair carpet and wood chip wallpaper painted cream a very long time ago.

  A mismatched, collapsing set of filing cabinets is spewing out its contents. There are files on the desk, piled up on the floor, pushed against the wall in great heaps. There is nowhere to sit because there are files on every chair. An inappropriate tasselled lampshade in scarlet dangles above, casting a boudoir tinge over proceedings.

  Mr Zoltán greets us with theatrical formality, kissing my mother’s hand in an exaggerated display of Austro-Hungarian etiquette and uttering an elaborate multilingual torrent starting with “Gnädige Frau”. He shakes hands with me and Dad, adding something which is I think is supposed to be English. The accent is thick as the legendary cherrysoup at the Gay Hussar restaurant in Soho.

  As we are now looking round for somewhere to sit down, Mr Zoltán moves files off some of the chairs. There is a lot of puffing involved, because he is a large man well into middle age, bursting out of his clothes, as though they are unable to contain his exuberant personage. He sits down, mopping perspiration from his face with a crimson handkerchief, which clashes violently with the rust-coloured locks of hair, draped in Bohemian fashion over his right eye. He addresses my mother.

  “So, my dear lady, where shall vee begin?” Dad is nodding encouragement at me, so I butt in.

  “As I think you know from your phone conversation with my mother,” I nod towards her, “she would like to find out about the possibility of – would like to know whether she can make a claim for compensation from the Hungarian government.” Zoltán nods gravely, as I add, “For things that happened to her and her family, during the war.”

  “Yes, yes, many tragic events swept our homeland during these difficult years,” he says grandly, and Mum looks at him with an expression of extreme respect. He sweeps onward.

  “This is a subject vizz vitch I am very much conversant. I, László Zoltán, am a very rare pr
ofessional – fully qualified in legal practice of both British and Hongarian jurisdictions, and of course bilingual. You vill find that I am at the forefront of legal developments in this specialist field, and I am fully up-to-date vizz all the very latest letchislation.”

  He surveys his domain with a regal demeanour, and our gaze followed his around the room. The ramshackle surroundings did not appear to reflect well upon his bilingual legal expertise.

  “Do not be deceived by the appearance. Zoltán is at this moment residing in a temporary premise, while new office being refurbished. In Finsbury Park,” he says with a flourish as if the aforementioned location was anything other than a public toilet en route to Arsenal football ground.

  “Mr Zoltán,” I say in my best business manner, “could you please summarise the legal situation, as it currently stands, and give us some examples of cases which you have successfully concluded?

  “Of course, of course, young lady, no problem. But first let us talk about the dear lady’s case. Excuse me, but vill be best if I discuss the matter in our mother tongue.” He turns to Mutti and addresses her in rapid fire Hungarian. She looks ready to dissolve with gratitude. I have not heard her speak what is supposed to be her first language since my grandmother died twenty years ago and it doesn’t seem to come easily. She is struggling for words, responding to Zoltán’s questions in hesitant, stuttering phrases. He prompts her benignly at intervals.