Reparation

by Gaby Koppel

  Dad’s death hasn’t really changed anything. The phone stops ringing, it’s quiet again in the flat. She’s sitting up there in the smoke-filled kitchen, unable to face a cold bed without him. I play back her rambling message. Once, twice, and a third time. I go to bed.

  Chapter 21

  In the end, Pavel Wiśniewski, is released without charge after twenty-four hours. I don’t imagine that expunges the guilt of the entire Polish nation in the mind of Mrs Friedmann and her community. But it means the film can go out. Bill and I celebrate with a cold lunchtime beer.

  A week later I meet Mrs Friedmann and DI Jenkins in reception. She’s brought her sister along. One crumpled, one glam, they look like the “before” and “after” contributors in a makeover programme. The copper is accompanied by a junior officer, whom he introduces as DC Rogers and addresses as Ben.

  “We’re just rehearsing at the moment,” I explain.

  “Where are we in the running order?” asks DI Jenkins, with the air of an old TV pro. I flick through the thick script.

  “About halfway. Item eight.”

  We enter the studio and hover at the edge of the set. An assistant floor manager signals us to wait while the rehearsal is in progress. Cameras wheel around the studio floor in a silent dance.

  “What’s the…” begins Mrs Friedmann. All over the studio floor, angry eyes swivel towards us.

  “Shhhh,” I whisper, putting my finger to my lips.

  “Three minutes twenty-five on VT,” announces the floor manager. Loud rock music and the squeal of tyres followed by heavy footsteps and shouting. I use the pause in proceedings on the studio floor to usher my guests up the spiral staircase.

  At the control desk, Sarah is sitting next to the director. Without turning round, she waves us towards the back of the gallery, where we can watch the rehearsal, squeezed up against the wall. I can tell from the back of her head that today she’s wearing her charming face, not the angry one she usually saves for me, even now.

  “Coming to VT in five–four–three–two–one,” chants the girl sitting next to Peter, clicking one of three stopwatches in front of her.

  Mrs Friedmann is scripted for a live interview after the film has been shown. Sarah seems to reckon an appeal direct from the mother is our strongest card. I’m not so sure, but it’s my job to make sure she can deliver.

  “OK studio,” says Peter. Let’s take a fifteen minute break.” Sarah turns round.

  “While we’re paused, why don’t you show your guests round?” she says, which is what I should be doing anyway. I know that, so heaven knows why I need to wait for her to tell me. We retrace our steps down to the now empty studio. I let the two women stand in the presenters’ places, try out the autocue, and walk along the banks of phones. They giggle girlishly, and it lightens the moment.

  Where the foyers of three studios meet, there’s a tea bar. It’s now buzzing with technicians on their breaks. I switch my phone on to check my messages. There are three, all from Mutti. She’ll have to wait. The sisters won’t consume anything that doesn’t carry the seal of approval from an approved rabbinical authority, which means they can have – two bottles of water. I grab some coffees for the rest of us, and we pull up some chairs round a formica table.

  “So what will happen?” asks Mrs Friedmann..

  “You mean from beginning to end?” She nods.

  “Well, as I said, we are item eight in the running order.”

  “Why not item one? A robbery is so much more important than a child’s death?”

  “Well, item one is the pre-title tease – a sort of taster for what’s in the show. It mentions the most important stories we are covering and shows little clips from the films – and yours is included in that. And item two is the opening titles.”

  “And item three? This film about Bruchi, it should be three – you must tell them. Inspector Jenkins, please, tell them this is right.”

  “When you are building a show,” I explain, “you don’t always put the best, I mean most –umm – compelling – item first – you need to make sure that there’s something later on to keep the viewers hooked. The point of the pre-title tease is to make them want to hang on for something really good.” I can see something’s bothering her. “Er when I say ‘good’ you know I mean worth watching, interesting, moving.” Mrs Friedmann gives a grudging nod. “So your story is trailed both in the tease, and once more at the beginning of the show.”

  “Good,” says Leah, giving an encouraging smile.

  “And when we come to item eight, the presenter will read the introduction, which is here in the script.” Another nod.

  “Then we play in the film that Bill made when we came up to Stamford Hill. After that, Susan will interview Mrs Friedmann,” I try a tentative smile, “and you will appeal to anybody who saw anything to call the studio number.” She nods, looking as uncertain as I feel.

  As we come back into the studio, I point out the phone desks at the rear of the set again.

  “All these seats here are filled by police officers and researchers. The phones flash red instead of ringing, and they write down any details that callers can give.” Mrs Friedmann picks up a phone and puts it to her ear.

  “Is not working.”

  “No, they only switch them through just before the programme.”

  “But who will call, why should they call?”

  “Lots of reasons. Maybe they were on the street just before or after a crime and they saw something suspicious. The film may have jogged their memory. Maybe someone they know has been acting oddly.”

  “And do you really think anyone will call?” Mrs Friedmann looks at me with her child’s eyes.

  “We don’t know. All we can say is that a very young girl is involved, which makes it emotive. But every case is different.”

  “I think no. People will not call for us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we are not like them. For an English girl in jeans they will call, but not for a frumm girl in a modest dress.” Leah puts an arm around her.

  “People don’t think like that, really they don’t,” I say.

  “No? I see the way they look at us in the supermarket, on the street. You pass another woman pushing her buggy, and she’s blank, as though I don’t exist.”

  DI Jenkins catches my eye. He thinks she’s right.

  “We wouldn’t have made this film if we thought it was pointless,” I say. “A child’s death is always upsetting, and nobody is going to judge you for being who you are. If anything, they will watch Bill’s film and realise that family is the most important thing in your lives.”

  There’s a silence. DI Jenkins turns away to talk to his junior, and the two women speak Yiddish to each other in an urgent undertone. It’s a total disconnect, of course. These people who think television is the work of the Evil One and have never heard of Paul McCartney being here in the middle of a massive, live studio show.

  I’m trying to break them in gently, but we’re on a tight schedule. Before we’re needed for the rehearsal again, I take the sisters into an empty dressing room where I’ve had a television set up, so they can view a VHS tape of the film. There’s a lot of nodding, and Mrs Friedmann gets out her hankie. I put a hand on hers.

  I start the tape, and watch the two sisters watching it. They seem astonished at all the detail we’ve managed to get right, thank God, there are nods of recognition and once or twice they ask me to stop the tape to tell me how real it seems. But then, they burst into laughter.

  “Have we got something wrong?” I ask, starting to panic. A recut is possible, just about, but at this stage it would be nerve jangling. I count the time between now and transmission, to see what the window would be. The two women try to explain to me just what the problem is, and as we wind the tape back and forward to isolate the shot they are worried about, I realise that only a couple of hundred people in Stamford Hill would notice this and none of them has a television. I start the tape again, an
d as the storyline develops, the tears start. When the video finishes, Mrs Friedmann buries her face in her hands, rocking back and forth. I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Are you OK? Bit of a shock, seeing it?” She nods, and wipes the tears away. And then I can’t help noticing that she seems to catch her sister’s eye. “It must be strange seeing yourself on telly,” I say. She looks at the dirty, crumpled hankie in her hands, and nods again, but there’s no suggestion she’s going to explain what passed between them.

  Instead the two of them rattle along in Yiddish to each other once more. I smile, my blank, uncomprehending smile and ask if they want to visit the ladies’ loo before we go back into to the studio. But something weird has happened and I haven’t let them in on it. I’ve started to tune into the Yiddish, a language I have no real knowledge of. When I first met Morrie and Sidney it just seemed like a blur of ‘ach’ and ‘vatt’. But then, you learn to kind of tune in to it, and it’s like fast, flattened form of German, which I do understand because at home that was the language my parents used when they spoke to each other and all their Mittel European friends.

  And though they were careful to rear me as an English-speaking girl, the other language rubbed off. It’s there, in my soul. And I’m pretty certain I’ve just heard Mrs Friedmann say something that sounded an awful lot like it meant “Did you see Nachmann on the film?” Nachmann. That rather odd, unmarried older brother. Now, why would she be interested in him? There were loads of brothers on the film. And brothers-in-law, uncles, cousins, nephews. What is it about Nachmann being on the film that worries them?

  Those two are hiding something behind that innocent, ever-so-naïve exterior. Maybe it’s all just an act. I remember how worldly their mate Reb Stern was when he needed to be. So, those big eyes and Oh-my-goodness in the face of TV’s latest technology. Really?

  It’s time to rehearse Mrs Friedmann’s interview. As people fuss around adjusting a lapel mic and dusting her with translucent powder, there’s a panicky look in her eyes. I give her arm a little squeeze before handing her over to the floor manager and beetling back up to the gallery.

  As we come to the end of Bill’s film, Susan turns to Mrs Friedmann.

  “So, tell us a little bit more about Bruchi.”

  “Well, I – she is little girl. I – what should I say? A good girl. Reads nicely from her siddur, and knows her davening. Normal little girl. She had lovely hair.”

  “Stop – stop.” It’s Sarah in the gallery. She turns to me. “Elizabeth, I think you need to brief Mrs Friedmann more. She needs to try to stick to conversational English if that’s at all possible.” I run down the stairs.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurts, white-faced despite the make-up department’s efforts. “I get it wrong. Please tell them not to be cross with me.” I’m squatting by her chair, rubbing her hand. It’s damp and trembling.

  “Nobody is cross with you. Don’t worry about that. If anything, it’s our fault, always wanting things to be done in a particular way. It’s just we have to think about an audience who don’t know anything much about the Jewish community, and don’t understand any Yiddish or Hebrew words. Can we try it once more?” I stay on the studio floor this time, hovering behind the cameras in case any more reassurance is needed.

  Take two and Mrs Friedmann tells us what a lovely girl Bruchi was, she could read her Hebrew prayer book and knew all the important prayers by heart. And she had strawberry blonde hair that shone in the sun.

  “So,” says Susan, “What would you like to say if somebody out there knows what happened to her?” Mrs Friedmann’s lip trembles as though she’s trying to open her mouth, but it’s glued shut. Is it the thought of the person out there who knows something? Or is it the fact that she knows something herself? A battle is being waged across her face, and it dislodges a tear. When she manages to say something it’s, “I–I–I–I, I miss her so much.” She’s shaking and crying, hand on mouth, blubbing uncontrollably. I’ve stayed on the studio floor this time, so I go over to put an arm around Mrs Friedmann, just as the floor manager calls out, “Cut, cut…”

  “It’s OK,” I say. “Not your problem. Honestly.” The studio floor has gone silent. Sarah declares it’ll be better if DI Jenkins does the interview. Can’t we see that Mrs Friedmann is too fragile for such a role? Er, yes. I think I did say that. But then there’s a tugging at my top.

  “I will do it. I can do it.”

  DI Jenkins is put into position next to Mrs Friedmann and the rehearsal kicks off again.

  The programme is due to go on air in just fifteen minutes. In the break, I put in a call to Mutti. Since coming back from hospital, she’s been in touch with the bridge circle, there’s even been talk of a poppy seed cake. She doesn’t know that I know. But I am cautiously optimistic.

  “How are you?” She ignores this question, and gets straight down to business.

  “I have decided there’s only one solution.”

  “For what?”

  “The compensation.” OK, deep breath.

  “And that is?”

  “I need to go to Hungary.”

  “Well, yes. I think we will need to go to Hungary. I’m on to it, honestly. But you’re not long out of hospital. How about a few rounds of bridge? If you feel up to it.”

  “I’m going to Budapest next week. I’ve just been to the travel agent.”

  “You’re broke, have you forgotten?”

  “Bit savings. Was keeping in case.”

  “Hang on to it.” The assistant floor manager has put her head round the studio floor, and is beckoning at me. Oh shit, I’m the last one in. I put up my hand and spread out the fingers to signal “Give me five.”

  “I need – evidence,” Mutti is saying. Since when did she deal in evidence? I’ve never heard her utter the word before. She trades in emotion. “It’s there, not here. I found lovely hotel. Very cheap. And I will have coffee at the Gerbeaud, swim on the Margaretteninsel, walk along the Danube.”

  “I don’t think the Café Gerbeaud is where they keep the evidence. And anyway, you can barely walk round the supermarket. How are you going to stroll along the Danube?”

  “I will manage.”

  “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Mental instability, physical infirmity and problems with alcohol all spring to mind as good reasons why Mutti should not go to Budapest. Alone. And that’s before she tried to kill herself.

  “You’ll get lost.”

  “It’s where I was brought up. I don’t think it has changed that much. And I believe they do have maps. Why are you are so keen to stop me going?”

  It’s impossible to explain to my calm, rational and sober mother that she’s not always like this. While her diabolic alter ego is cowering in the wings. The way she’s presenting it now, her wish to go back to Budapest seems reasonable. It’s me who’s got it wrong.

  “It’s just a really bad idea. You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “So come with me.”

  “I can’t just drop everything and waltz off to Budapest with you. I’ve got work. But I will come, honestly. We will go together, once we’ve done all the ground work properly and put together a case.”

  “What is more important, work or your family?”

  “That’s not fair. You are talking about my future, and it’s my livelihood. One of us has to earn some money!”

  “They don’t allow you to take holiday? What kind of job is this? Really…” I don’t hear the rest of it because I’ve cut off the call and switched off the phone.

  It’s dark by the time I slip into the studio, the programme is going to go live on air any second and I’m breaking all sorts of rules by coming through that soundproofed door right now. To make things worse, I stumble over a cable guard, making a sound that must be audible during the opening headlines. As soon as the title sequence starts, I know I have exactly thirty seconds to find my place manning the phones on set.


  There’s an embarrassing scraping of chairs as the cops move to help me through to my seat. The title music blasts out of the speakers, I collapse into my chair and sit there inhaling the smell of floor polish, a policeman’s after-shave. There’s a surprising preference for sweetish cologne among the boys in blue.

  A voice near me cuts in above the music, “Oh no, camera on me wrong side again. I told them to shoot my left.”

  “Speak to my agent about it, darling, and we’ll try to do something for you next time.”

  “Yah, but do tell the fans that I’ll be doing me autographs after the show.”

  Muffled laughter.

  “Settle down, gentlemen.” The floor manager. “And coming to studio in fifteen. Ten–nine–eight–seven–six–five–four–three–two–one – and cue.

  Sitting next to DI Jenkins, Mrs Friedmann puts in a near perfect interview. She’s emotional, of course, but still manages to answer the questions and make an appeal for help finding her daughter’s killer. It’s a kind of balanced performance, that yet again has me wondering. I watch her being led away afterwards, her bulky frame retreating through the heavy studio door.

  “So, what did you think?” As we trickle back into the green room after the programme has finished, the two sisters are sitting together, in one corner. It doesn’t look as though they’ve spoken to any of the other guests. In front of them is a tray ofkosher sandwiches we’ve had sent in from Golders Green, still untouched. I remove the cling film.