by Gaby Koppel
I gasp. It’s the worst thing he’s ever said to me.
“Is this it? The big thing you wanted to tell me, that I was going to be so happy about?”
“What if it is?”
“Don’t be stupid. What happened to my romantic, candlelit meal?”
“Don’t be so insulting. It’s not stupid, and this is your romantic candlelit, traditional Friday night meal.”
“Why on earth would anybody want to be Jewish?”
“That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? I’ve spent nearly two years being made to feel like an ignorant heathen by your parents because I’m a goy. Meanwhile Mutti’s lining up a succession of more suitable candidates behind my back. You think I don’t know?”
“But you can’t just convert. That’s not going to suddenly make her happy.”
“It’s not just for her.”
“You just said it was.”
“That’s how it started. Not any more.” He takes a packet of matches out of his pocket with shaking hands. The box is covered by an ornate mother-of-pearl cover decorated with a Star of David. He places it next to the candles.
“And let me guess,” I say. “Has somebody called Naomi got something to do with this?”
“How do you know about Naomi?” It’s difficult to explain this without admitting that I’ve been nosing into Dave’s stuff.
“Well it wasn’t exactly hidden.”
“You’ve been poking round – you don’t trust me.”
“It’s not like that. I was looking for something else.”
“No you weren’t. You were checking up on me.” There’s an angry silence. I’m trying to think my way out.
“What did you find?” he asks.
“A note. And a phone number.”
“So what? I have loads of phone numbers and messages.”
“A woman’s name and a phone number. Why do you think that seemed significant?”
He bangs his fist on the table, so that the breadboard judders. “Nice to know you trust me, then.” It’s dark now. I sit in the dense silence feeling the weight of my own hypocrisy. And praying that even if Dave knows about Mutti’s matchmaking schemes, he has no idea about what really happened with Jon. Because of course it’s not he who has been unfaithful. I’m sitting here pregnant with what could easily be another man’s child. But why do I feel as though I’m the one who’s been betrayed? Because he’s becoming a different person from the one I signed up for. And that seems far worse.
“OK,” I say, “So you haven’t been seeing someone else. But you have been sneaking off behind my back to – to change yourself. That’s just as bad. Why did it have to be some big secret?”
“It wasn’t a secret at all. I’ve been trying to tell you. But it’s beginning to feel as though I’m the least important thing in your life.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Oh no? You put me on hold and then forget about me while you are running round Budapest and Stamford Hill. You don’t return my messages, and can’t seem to find a window for me in your busy schedule. I’d love to know what it feels like when you really decide to ignore someone.”
“So turning all Jewy on me is a ploy to get my attention, is it? Well I’m sorry to spoil the party.” I pick up my bag and grab my jacket. I stumble down the stone stairwell, catching a spiky heel on one of the steps. I manage to catch the banister soon enough to stop myself falling, but end up twisting my ankle, so that by the time I get to the bottom I’m hobbling. I can hear Dave calling my name down the stairwell, where the usual smell of rancid urine has now reasserted itself. The echo bounces off the tiled walls and stone steps as I plunge out into the dark of the high road. It’s pouring. The heat has burst, releasing a torrent of water from the skies. I hobble my way to the car, splashing my strappy sandals into the puddles that have formed in the dirt-caked pavement. My hair is dripping, and my dress is soaked by the time I’ve walked the few yards to the car, and there are filthy splashes up the backs of my legs.
Staring out between the swishes of the windscreen wipers, I can’t believe I missed all the clues. Dave’s interest in the prayers at Dad’s funeral, discussing theology with the rabbi. The lunch at Leah’s when he knew so much more than he should. It’s like one of those pictures that start with a few lines that don’t look like anything and then suddenly take shape with the final flourish.
Back at mine, Mutti’s doing crosswords in her dressing gown, the television blinking silent in the corner. While she makes me a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich, I towel dry my hair. Outside the rain is gushing down with naked energy, bringing a crash of thunder over our heads.
“He thinks it’s so simple,” I fume as I change into my dressing gown. “He doesn’t realise that it’s not possible to become a normal Jew, the kind that eats bacon butties at a football match on Saturday afternoon. The only way to convert is by becoming some kind of religious nutter. You can’t become a bit Jewish.”
“So, why don’t you find someone who’s already Jewish? Enough with all the nonsense.”
“I don’t need him to be Jewish at all. That was his idea. And he got it from you.”
“You’ll be happier with someone Jewish.”
“No, you’ll be happier. I don’t care.”
“You’ll have more in common.”
“I’d have plenty in common with someone who likes Bob Dylan’s songs and Jackie Mason’s shtick. Better still if they read Phillip Roth and cook Evelyn Rose. You don’t actually have to be Jewish for any of that.”
“So, are you going to tell Dave that?”
“I think it’s already gone too far.”
“Hasn’t he heard about anti-Semitism? What about the persecution? Does he realise what he’s getting into?”
“I think that’s one of the attractions.”
“That’s not funny. Not everything is a joke, Elizabeth.”
I’m about to answer, but nothing comes out and she gives me one of her looks. I’ve been found out. It’s not as though Mutti’s always been Dave’s greatest fan, but she knows loyalty when she sees it, and I suddenly feel ashamed. In that moment I have a sudden overview of my relationship with him – on-off, up-down, warm-cold – it’s always been about my needs not his. I’ve given him mixed messages, used him for emotional support when I needed it, dipped in and out of his life when I felt like it, and when he’s going through something big, I’m just not there for him. I feel shallow, but don’t really know what to do about it. I should apologise, just not tonight. I don’t know where to start. So I just snuggle up on the sofa with Mutti, who puts a big, meaty, comforting arm around me. At least she forgives me.
An hour later we are still watching television when the doorbell rings. Or rather buzzes, as the flats are all equipped with an entry system that comes with an angry-sounding beeper. Today it sounds more furious than usual.
“Are you expecting anyone?” asks Mutti.
“At ten o’clock on a Friday night?”
“You know who it is. You can’t keep him waiting out there, it’s pouring.”
I walk over, pick up the handset, and without listening to see who’s there, press the door release button.
Dave is sopping. His hair is wet, his tee shirt soggy, and his jeans are the kind of dark blue that denim only goes when it is quite, quite saturated. He comes in, making a damp trail on my cream carpet. He stands there, looking at Mutti and me, silent, belligerent and soaking.
“I get you a towel,” says Mutti.
When she’s gone he says, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Why did you just leave like that?”
“I’m sorry, you ambushed me.”
“Yeah sure, I ensnared you with roast chicken and chollah. Must have been terrifying.”
“But why?”
Eyes raised to the heavens. To the god he has found salvation in. “Because I love you, and I want you to be happy.”
“You don’t need to convert to make me happy. I liked you
the way you were.” He shakes his head, spraying a fine mist of water droplets around him.
“No you didn’t. It was when we were in the church I saw it. You said you were scared your parents might be right. That’s what did it. I thought yes, OK, if they are right, what can I do about it?”
“But my parents aren’t right. You don’t have to be Jewish to marry me, I thought we’d established that. I was cool with the quaint country church and the row of podgy bridesmaids. ”
“Who are you trying to kid? I saw the look on your face, Elizabeth. That’s what made me go back and ask myself what both of us want.”
“But it takes years to convert.”
“Absolutely. We’ve got to both live as observant Jews – keep kosher, go to synagogue on Shabbat, the works – and then after two years or maybe more we’ll be a happy, Jewish family. And what I’ve discovered is – it’s wonderful, meaningful, rich. And you will too.”
“But I don’t want to do that. And I can’t wait years for you to be Jewish. I’m having a baby. You need to be Jewish now.” There, I’ve said it.
“A baby?” You’re not! You are? I can’t believe it.” Dave’s next to me, clasping me in his strong, soggy arms. He’s cold and wet to the touch, and he makes a sodden imprint on my dry clothes.
“Careful, don’t squeeze the baby.”
“Oh God,” he lets go suddenly. I laugh, despite my fury.
“It’s not that delicate. I think. But it’s not going to wait for you to convert.”
“Well, it’s going to be Jewish anyway, because you are Jewish.”
“So it’ll be a little Hymie or Rachel anyway.”
“B’ruch ha shem.”
“You can drop that B’ruch ha shem stuff right now. I don’t mind you being Jewish, but I’m not marrying some mad frummer.”
“Please God that our baby will be a little Hymie or Rachel. Am I allowed to say ‘Please God’?”
“Certainly not.”
Mutti’s come back with a towel, and a fresh shirt and pair of jeans from the drawer of Dave’s stuff that he keeps here. She puts it down on the coffee table, then stands there as though she can’t decide whether to sit down. She perches on the edge of an armchair, and fiddles with an empty cigarette holder.
“David,” she says in a voice so quiet it is little more than a whisper. He looks up at her, still beaming. “Is not so easy to become Jewish.”
“I know it’s not easy. But it’s straightforward if you observe and study.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m very sorry, Aranca, but I think you’ll find Rabbi Levi—”
“Rabbis.” She interrupts. “What do they know?”
“That’s the whole point isn’t it? Rabbis, teachers, leaders…”
“No.”
“In Jewish law, a convert is just the same as a person born Jewish. No different at all. That’s the halacha.” It sounds as though he is making a huge effort to keep his voice steady.
“They say that, but it’s a trick. Nobody believes this.” Now Dave has gone white, and starts to tremble as though he’s just realised he’s standing in cold, wet clothes.
“You don’t believe it, maybe,” he says. Mutti is standing, anger flashing from her dark eyes.
“I don’t,” she says, shouting now. “Is a – a – a, what you call it? A con. A trick. Is not real.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just desperate for a reason to decide I’m not right.” He starts pacing up and down the room, gesticulating and spraying drops of water around. “Not good enough for your daughter. That’s been the story from the start. And I was stupid enough to think it was just a matter of faith. I’ve done everything anybody could reasonably expect to accommodate your – your whims. And to show my love for your daughter. Why is that not good enough?” He’s screaming at the top of his voice. She shouts back.
“Because nobody really accepts a convert.” She spits the words between her teeth. “They whisper behind their hands. They ‘forget’ to invite you to their son’s barmitzvah. They tell their daughter not to play with yours. As if it’s catching. And you can never, never, never overcome this. You are tainted for ever,” she screams at Dave, then shuts her mouth, as if appalled at what she has just heard herself say.
“But,” she adds, limp and defeated, “when the anti–Semites come, you are Jewish just like the rest of them.” Blinking hard, she turns and leaves the room.
We look at each other. “I think you’d better go,” I say. “I’ll call you in the morning. I’m sorry.” The towel and dry clothes stay untouched on the table.
Chapter 28
The weekend hangs heavy. Mutti and I circle each other like cats staking out territory. By Sunday morning, I’ve read too many newspapers and drunk too much coffee. I get into the car and drive up to Stamford Hill.
The Victorian terraces of St Kilda’s Road look empty minus the police tape and paparazzi, let alone all their peripheral vehicles, silver boxes and step ladders. I want to see what it looked like here on the day Bruchi was murdered. Not exactly quiet, from what I can see. Cars whizz up and down the cross streets. Out of open windows, boys’ voices float down to the street, chanting prayers in unison. There’s something sterile about it. A young orthodox woman pushes a buggy past me in a tearing hurry. I track her as she heads towards me on the pavement, to see if she’ll make eye contact. No. What about this older man with a bushy grey beard that matches the cardigan under his long black coat? I try a tentative smile. Nope, I may as well not exist. I’m a ghost. If Bruchi’s killer was walking along instead of me, no one would want to notice.
I scan around 360 degrees, suddenly spooked by the thought that I’m being watched. I am. In an upstairs window a girl in a navy and white-striped jumper is peeking out from behind greying nets, but the moment she sees me looking she pulls the curtains back together and shrinks away. It’s like a throwback to the fifties when respectable people minded their own business. That’s why somebody could whisk a child away without being challenged.
I feel as though I ought to be looking for clues as to what happened. But of course, there’s nothing to see now. Just small signs that this is not like every other street in North London. The huge number of rubbish bins, all overflowing with bulging black bags and surrounded by piles of other detritus – cardboard cartons, old toys – the amount of waste tells a story about the sheer number of people there must be crammed into each house. There’s something about the concreted over front gardens that give it an air of concealment.
The warm breeze blows around some empty crisp packets, and with a lull in the level of activity, it reminds me of one of those desolate towns in cowboy movies. In that silent moment before the guy in the black hat rides into town.
Who knows what’s lurking inside. I scan from house to house, but those nylon nets keep a thousand secrets. If anybody’s spying on me now, as I clumsily survey what was the crime scene, they are well hidden. This is it, number eighty-eight, with its estate agent’s board listing in the light breeze. I go quickly up the path and ring the doorbell.
“Any interest yet?” I ask Mrs Friedmann, pointing at the For Sale sign. She nods me in. We go into the kitchen, where there’s a big bag of carrots, half of them peeled. She picks up a vegetable knife.
“Yes. A couple came yesterday to see.” She peels as though it’s a life sentence.
“I’ve got something to ask you, Mrs Friedmann. It might sound odd, but have you got anybody working for you?”
“I’m not that, well… you know. I receive money.” I know that she’s bringing up the children on benefits, which doesn’t worry me but she seems to embarrassed to spell it out. “I get a little money from my ex-husband. But I can’t afford…”
“Do you have any help at all around the house? A childminder, a cleaner?”
“A cleaner, she comes once a week,” she concedes. I wish I could afford more often.” She sighs, throwing a carrot into a glass bowl f
ull of murky water, where it sinks onto a pile of others.
“How long have you had the same woman?”
“About a year.” The cleaner is a woman called Danuta who seems to have escaped Mrs Friedmann’s blanket condemnation of all Poles. The only other person is a window cleaner. Mrs Friedmann doesn’t know his name, only that he comes on the first Tuesday in the month and charges nine pounds for front or fifteen for front and back. I wonder if he drives a white van.
It’s Monday, a week later, when I wake to the sound of the coffee grinder. It’s still dark in the flat, but out of the French windows, I can see the sun rising over a misty Holloway. A few straggling rays, pulling their way up the sky. We sit on the balcony at the back of the flat, so that Mutti can smoke. And for once, I don’t complain about the wind blowing it all my way.
“You don’t have to come, you know,” I say. “You might find it – upsetting. May not be the moment of triumph you are expecting. It’ll be an anti-climax, after all the build-up.”
“I come. I want to see the look on his face.”