by Gaby Koppel
After ten minutes she seems to have got the hang of it, and is making up for lost time. I am beginning to feel at a loose end. What exactly are they talking about? Now he seems to be expounding at more and more length. I catch a few Latin phrases amid Zoltán’s billowing Hungarian. She is saying less and less, listening reverentially to his dramatic declamations.
“Mutti – could you tell us what’s going on?” I say.
“Wait a moment, I tell you in a minute.”
She and Zoltán are getting more and more animated. At one point she sheds a ladylike tear, and he proffers the red handkerchief to her, which she takes despite her usual concerns for cleanliness. But the sadness does not last. Minutes later, they are both roaring with laughter, and then again expressing surprise and shaking hands vigorously.
“Is good, is good,” exclaims Zoltán to Dad and me. “Vee vill have a great victory – Hongarian government will pay for the terrible crimes committed against your family.” How this victory is to be achieved remains vague, as after we leave Mutti seems unable to fully explain the legal advice Zoltán gave her. Despite this, she maintains a high opinion of him. And best of all, I manage to slip back to the office by way of Stamford Hill, dropping off measurements and selecting fabric, but still get back into the office just at Bill is writing the final scene. Job done.
That evening, I’m hanging round at Dave’s, my parents having retreated back across the Welsh border to my overwhelming relief. We’re in the dark room, immersed in the blue glow of the safety lamp as he processes a roll of film. I’ve given him the rundown of today’s legal encounter, but now he’s concentrating on his pictures. The conversation has petered out amid the sloshing of liquids. As I watch him, my last phone call with Jon is still washing around in my head. What was it he said?
“Fuck the goy and marry the Jew.” How bloody cynical is that, anyway. Does that mean I should marry a pig-headed, arrogant, self-centred guy just because he’s Jewish? With stupid tassels on his shoes?
“This Zoltán character sounds like a complete chancer,” says Dave, immersing some photographic paper into a tray of liquid and jolting me back to the here and now.
“Sorry? Oh yeah, aside from the accent and the overly dramatic manner, he’s probably OK,” I say, pulling myself back to the present. “Anyway, he’s the best hope we’ve got so far.”
“Don’t defend him, you just said yourself he was untrustworthy.”
“I didn’t say that. I said that we need to check out his credentials. Is he as well qualified as he says?” Dave picks a dripping sheet, holds it up for a moment and then slides it into the next tray. “By the way,” I add, “Zak’s given me the contact details for a picture editor at an interiors magazine who might, apparently, be interested in your work.”
“Really? Are you sure the picture editor at this glossy doesn’t just want to keep his star photographer happy? And if it means he has to spend half an hour flicking through a portfolio he has absolutely no interest in, then it’s a price worth paying.”
“It’s a she, and does it matter? Once she sees your work, then she’ll be won over. Don’t worry about how you got there.”
“She won’t like my work. I’ve been there so many times before. It’ll be too dark, too moody, too this or that. Like they think I couldn’t do chic interiors too if I really wanted to.”
“Go and see her, or at least put in a call.”
“Look, Elizabeth, if you want to marry someone with a fabulous career, why don’t you do what Mutti wants, and find yourself a nice doctor?” I look at Dave. He glares back. There’s some kind of other meaning there in the narrowing of his eyes. Oh Christ, does he know? How on earth did I manage to give myself away?
I shut my mouth tight, sifting through what I’ve said for the fatal clue. Down in the tray of chemicals, an image is resolving itself onto a sheet of photographic paper. From the opposite side of the table, I’m looking at everything upside down and blurry from the rippling liquid. Even so, as it begins to take shape, I realise what I’m looking at. Dave lifts it out and dunks it in the next tray along.
I come round to his side, to see a photograph of a Hasid in full kit and fur hat hoisted out of the liquid and pegged up on a line. Chin out, barrel chest, full lips one stop short of a sneer, he’s radiating attitude into the lens. Reb Stern.
“I know that guy,” I stutter.
“They don’t all look the same, Liz. You’ve met a few of them, doesn’t make you the big expert on Stamford Hill.”
“No, they don’t all look the same. That’s Stern, the guy who stopped me from filming. I told you. Now my best buddy and filming contact.”
“The so-called Tevye?”
“The very guy. How did you get to meet him?”
“I didn’t exactly meet him, I went up there with a camera.”
“It’s a great photo. You are so good, I just wish you weren’t so fucking temperamental about it. What made you go there?”
“Well…” He’s dunked another photograph in the bath now. It’s a group of women in headscarves with overloaded double buggies, stopping to chat. I recognise the spot, near the supermarket at the crossroads. One woman is laughing, another is looking down, blushing. There’s a kind of relaxed intimacy, very unselfconscious.
I suppose I should be thrilled, but it’s such a sudden change I’m still trying to get my head around it.
“Come on. You’ve never been interested in reportage since I’ve known you.”
“It was just when you were talking about the people… I dunno. Curiosity or something.” The line starts filling with pictures now. People shopping, picking up children, carrying those velvet embroidered bags I’ve seen them all with, women perched on the front step of terraced houses. That sitting on the stoop is so old world but it really captures the atmosphere of Stamford Hill, a place that seems decades behind the rest of London. Elsewhere most people just go home and watch television, but here there’s real life out on the streets. He’s captured the feel of the place in a handful of shots.
“You drive me mad, sometimes, you know.”
He puts his arms round me, and kisses my neck. “I know. But Elizabeth?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I have Tevye’s phone number?”
And I feel as though I’ve been dipped in developing fluid myself, the image of who I am and who I want to be is coming into sharper focus as I stand there in the dark. I’m watching Dave dipping and dunking and looking and I’m thinking How can I have been so stupid? I just want to expunge any memory of Jon and that awful night. I kiss Dave on the cheek and leave him sorting out his chemicals.
Chapter 13
Three days later, we receive a letter from our legal friend Zoltán setting out his plans for the case. According to legislation introduced by the Hungarian government only this year, surviving relatives are entitled to the grand sum of one hundred and fifty US dollars for a parent killed during the Holocaust, and seventy dollars for each sibling. In Mutti’s case, that means she might be eligible to receive one hundred and fifty. By coincidence, Zoltán’s fee for obtaining this compensation comes to one hundred sterling, which is almost exactly the same amount. I phone home for a long distance council of war.
“One hundred and fifty paltry US for a life – it’s derisory, it’s an insult, it’s…” I have to stop myself, for the second time this week there just are no words.
Mutti defends Zoltán to the hilt. It is not his fault that the Hungarian government has introduced what turns out to be a derisory piece of legislation, Yes, she can see it is intended to offer symbolic value rather than true compensation. But symbolism is important too. The Magyars are a warrior nation, she reminds me. It is a matter of national pride and tribal honour.
“You are not a Magyar,” I point out. “Around the time the Magyars were settling in the Danube plain, your tribe were tending their herds on the banks of the Jordan, which is thousands of miles away. And I think it was dishonest of Zoltán to lead us up
the garden path like that, making grand speeches about putting right the evil that has been done to our family. What rubbish!”
In the squashed silence that follows, I regret being quite so vehement. There’s a crackling noise on the line before Dad intervenes. “You have to admit,” he says, “that a hundred and fifty dollars to compensate for the death of a parent is inadequate, whether or not it is intended to be symbolic. Frankly, it’s an insult.” There’s a rustling, clicking noise which I recognise as Mutti fiddling with her cigarette holders near the speakerphone. I can just imagine the miffed look on her face, so I put on a more conciliatory tone.
“Do you really want to spend a lot of time and energy on this application, when almost all the money simply ends up in your friend Zoltán’s pocket? And what if his fee goes up, and we are left paying him money you need to live on?”
For a moment, all I can hear on the line is heavy breathing. I start wondering what’s happening up there, but actually I realise I can probably work it out. It goes like this – he squeezes her hand, they look into each other’s eyes, and she nods reluctant but finally submissive.
And just as I think this little drama should be coming to a conclusion I hear her say, “Ja, ja, okay. You are right.” Bingo.
The following day we are auditioning actors for the reconstruction. We’ve called four for the role of Mrs Friedmann and five little girls to play the murder victim, ten-year-old Bruchi. They are spread out through the day, which means I’m up and down the lifts, shepherding people in and out. I have to deal with their train fares and get them all hot drinks and sandwiches or orange juice and biscuits. But between all the running about, I’m going to have to call Zoltán. The third try-out for Mrs Friedmann looks hopeless. She’s wooden and far too pretty. This is going nowhere, so halfway through her audition I slip out.
If there is supposed to be a secretary in his office she must be on a day off, because Zoltán answers the phone himself. I tell him that my mother does not deserve to have her hopes toyed with like this.
“My dear young lady,” he protests. “The nature of the compensation is out of my hands, I have not determined amount available.”
“Mr Zoltán,” I retort, “You gave the impression that the compensation we were entitled to was an – appropriate amount. How on earth can a few dollars compensate my mother for any of the things which her family endured during the war and after. It’s an insult.”
“My dear young lady, do not be naïve,” retorts Zoltán. “This is not compensation for what happened. Believe me, I know vott happened.” He has dropped his mannerly language. “This scheme created for von thing and von thing only. To prepare vay for Hongary enter European Community.
“So are you telling me it’s nothing to do with genuine regret? The whole thing is a piece of political public relations that has been cooked up as a matter of expediency.”
“So now you get it! Miss Elizabett, welcome to real world.” Zoltán snorts. “I see your parents have done good job – they bring you up to believe in British way of doing things, no doubt. Fair play, justice, and other such ideals. Hah!
“And if you got thousand dollars instead of hundred fifty, would it make one bit difference? Would compensate your mother for loss of her loved ones? It would not! Or hundred thousand? No. Will you feel better about loss if compensation so great it bring about collapse of Hongarian economy? What happen then? More crimes, more cruelty, and more compensation. Compensation without end.
“Money cannot compensate for such losses, so really does not matter how much. All equally worthless.” I wasn’t prepared for this foray into philosophy.
“Mr Zoltán,” I say, “you are getting carried away. We just want to find out if there is more than one option for us. Or is this scheme and the one hundred and fifty dollars all that we can hope for. Because if so, we might as well stop now.”
But Zoltán is on a roll, and carries on, disregarding what I have said. “And what about your motives and mother’s motives for applying for this money? If money cannot compensate you, then why apply? What good it do? Maybe you need money now – so you exploit name of late grandfather in order to solve problems of your own making. Nothing to do with respected grandfather. And nothing to do with war. Is you who is being cynical, no? If you feel bereaved by this loss, your family has suffered a terrible injustice, yes. But how can money put that right fifty years later?”
He’s right, of course, I have no answer for this. But just as I am about to put down the phone he seems to swing round and take the opposite tack again, as if he’d just been playing with ideas, “You take my advice, Miss Elizabett, you think of dear mother. She carries huge burden. She grieves for the life she could have had.” I’m feeling a bit dizzy but I also think I have underestimated Zoltán. He has assessed my mother’s state of mind with surprising lucidity.
“Never mind. You apply for this. If you don’t, you give strength to people who say nothing happened here.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are people, you must know this. People who say there was no Holocaust, no camps. No one applies for compensation, so then these will say, see! Are no relatives, because no one was killed here.”
“So now we are all that stands in the way of Holocaust deniers?”
“Think about it.” I no longer know whether he is manipulating me, and if so what he is trying to achieve.
“As for my fee, you go to big West End legal firms, they will charge you same amount for five minute consultation. More. And they will engage translators, work with lawyer in Hongary. All at extra, extra, extra.”
He’s probably right about the cost of a big legal firm but the language is beginning to get over-excited once more. So I say goodbye.
“One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“There may be better way for you to get justice on behalf of late grandfather. No,” he corrects himself, “for dear mother.”
“Really?”
“Elizabeth!” Bill’s stuck his head out of the door and is yelling at me.
“Hold on a second, Mr Zoltán. Yes?”
“Shelley is waiting for you to take her back to reception,” fumes Bill. “And Amelia Smith is here with her chaperone. They’ve been waiting for twenty minutes, because your phone has been engaged. This really isn’t the time for personal calls.”
“Gosh, look I’m really sorry. I’m on it. I’ll be there in a tick.” He gives me a furious look and slams the door.
“Sorry,” I say to Zoltán. “I’m going to have to go. But what’s this other justice thing? What thing?”
“Weeeell,” says Zoltán, as if he’s deliberately taking his time. “She say her family owned property in Budapest. If you can prove they owned apartment, say, or industrial buildings, and this was stolen by Nazis, or nationalised by the communists, then maybe you regain that property for use of your family, now that I-ron Curtain has fallen.”
“But, but that could be worth thousands.”
“Maybe.”
“So why haven’t you mentioned that before?”
“Goes beyond my professional expertise,” he says. “But Miss Elizabeth, is always risk of disappointment. Is she strong enough for this?”
I’m still pondering the answer to that as I push my shoulder against the door and prepare to grovel to Shelley for keeping her waiting.
Chapter 14
On the weekend, Dave and I drive out to Broxbourne, leave the car in a pub car park and walk along the River Lee. I’m not a great one for nature and I don’t know the names of trees or wild flowers, but there’s lots of them and it’s pretty. I never realised there were so many different shades of green. There’s a field on one side, with some horses. The ducks swim along the river in straggly little families, fluffing their feathers in the sunshine. We hold hands, ambling along the towpath. And it’s like we’ve turned the clock on our relationship back to how it used to be. That’s when he says it.
“I’ve got some news.�
�
“Good news?”
“Remember that friend of Zak’s you wanted me to phone?”
“How could I forget? It’s OK, you don’t have to. Carry on with the Hasidic portraits.”
“I called her.”
“You don’t have to, honestly. I understand. No compromises with commercial crap.”
“I wanted to. You’re right, I need to start thinking a bit more practically. Raise some funds.”
“Really?”
“I’ve been to see her. Big woman, red hair, garish dress sense.”
“This is Zizi?”
“I think her mother named her Susan.”
“And?”
“Says she’ll try me out for a magazine shoot.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Sort-of home and garden type of stuff.” He’s half looking away from me, and half muttering it.
“That’s just the kind of thing you’ve always loathed. Are you sure you really want to do that?”