Rose of Jericho

by Rosemary Friedman

  Sometimes she felt that the observance of the ritual gave her life the stability which, before meeting Josh, it had lacked. Certainly it did not irk her as it did Josh. She was willing to make the leap of faith necessary to conduct herself in accordance with the rabbinic rules, which she saw as cohesive and satisfying, rather than as a force making for denial. She liked the goodwill, even the humour, with which the precepts – in the case of Kitty and her family and Mrs Halberstadt – were carried out, and she had started to live her life in accordance with them. The Shema, asserting her belief in a single God, which she recited daily, did not reach back into her childhood as it did into Josh’s – it was the first sentence he had learned in Hebrew, his night prayers as a child – but it was comforting to feel that the very words had been repeated by Jews in diverse circumstances throughout the ages. If she could not be identified as a Jew by birth, she would, like Ruth before her, be accepted by her adherence to a way of life which was handed down unchanging, from generation to generation, to the statutes which they were now about to read. Of the three instructions incumbent upon the Jewish woman, Sarah was already observing two. On The Eve of the Sabbath she lit candles, symbolising the continuity of Jewish family life; she sanctified her Sabbath table with the traditional loaves of plaited, egg-glazed bread. The mikveh, the formal act of conversion carried out by ritual immersion, would come later, when Sarah had convinced the Court of the Chief Rabbi of her sincerity in wishing to adopt the Jewish faith. It would be, Sarah thought, as the first of the edicts was intoned by the Cantor… ‘The Lord is God, the Lord is One’…just in time, for she was to have a child. A fact that she would divulge to her mother-in-law, as soon as the Ten Commandments had been read. If her progress with Mrs Halberstadt kept up at the present rate, he would not be brought up to feel at home in neither the religion of his mother nor that of his father. With a bit of luck – contingent as it was upon her reaching the required standards – Sarah’s child would be Jewish and, together with Josh, she would raise him beneath the satisfying umbrella of his creed. With Kitty, Sarah recited the injunctions, the first five concerning Man’s relationship with God, the latter governing his behaviour towards his fellow. As the final phrases rose from the steps of the Ark to the light, which burned continuously – as had that of the Temple – above it, to the leaves and the giant hydrangeas, which adorned the holy place, Sarah, unable to keep her news to herself any longer, nudged Kitty:

  “I’m going to have a baby.”

  Kitty, considering the tenth commandment concerning, prima facie, the fact that she must not covet her neighbour’s ass, thought she had not heard correctly.

  “You’re what?” she whispered.

  “A baby. I’m pregnant.”

  Tears came to Kitty’s eyes. Carol and Sarah. Two more grandchildren. God was good. She covered Sarah’s hand with her own, squeezing it, and her happiness was complete when, from the corner of her eye, at the back of the Ladies’ Gallery, she saw Rachel, who had crept into the synagogue, Kitty presumed – where she looked ill at ease – to say a prayer for her father.

  Twenty-three

  Dear Kitty,

  It fits (the tuxedo), and reminds me how lax I have become about my person. There is no one to dress for except MM and he does not care, does not look into the mirror, for fear of encountering mocking eyes, six million pointing fingers. This will be my last letter (about myself). The time to weep is over, (was over long ago), and we must talk of Rachel and her wedding and my trip to England.

  There is not much more to tell you about MM. I have long ago stopped trying to reconcile the new Maurice Morgenthau with the old, to match the slim and even then optimistic medical student, who rode the box car three days, without light or air or food, with the pot-bellied (I’ve been doing push-ups) cynic in his flat cap. The pieces do not fit. We do not come out the same after any experience. Mine have left a shell around me which, until I met you, has been my protection against my emotional involvement with another person. I have many acquaintances but few friends (I show them respect but do not bare my soul). Many of them are non-Jewish and there is always a wall of glass between us. Perhaps I would not have been so alone if I could have gone to a synagogue (I did try once but they asked me if I had a ticket. A synagogue Kitty, not a concert hall!) or a church. But I could not pray. My father prayed. I heard the Shema recited by men with pistols in their necks. Praying is something I cannot do, any more than I can believe in a power which would be pleased if I ate this or did not eat that. I have been left with an ability to differentiate between what is important and what is unimportant, which sets me apart; to value life and freedom, to discard trivia, to learn tolerance, to despise hate and violence. Sometimes, you know, I look round my apartment for a sign (do you realize Kitty that there is not one photograph of my family, it is not only that they are not but it is as if they had never been), some mezuzah of the soul, some testament of ashes that I could touch on going out or coming in. ‘What is your duty? Goethe said. ‘What each day requires…’ So, every day I add to my deposition, a tear here, a brush stroke there, in the eternal hope that one single moment properly understood can shed light on the whole. I paint the dead but look forward, since meeting you, to life.

  I don’t want you to worry, Kitty, that when I come to England I will be sad. I am not going to embarrass you or your guests. I have said my kaddish (the el mohleh rachamims would extend into eternity and there are not enough candles). I just wanted you to know, to share with you my past, as you shared Sydney, trusting me (as I trust you) with his dear memory. I thank you, darling, but I will not come to England for the Aufruf – which for MM has other connotations which waken me, even now, from my sleep – but shall think of you, with your family around you, at the lunch afterwards. I shall arrive in time for the wedding (there is no need to make a reservation for me, my hotel room comes in a package with the air fare). Don’t be afraid. I won’t speak any more about the past and spoil your happiness with my neuroses (Freud said it was no sin to be a neurotic!). With my tuxedo I will put on joy and gladness and come to you a typical New Yorker, an American tourist from Avi’s bus. Have you told Rachel about me? I look forward to meeting her. And you Kitty. I can hardly wait. MM.

  PS. Did you know that the tradition for the Aufruf is so old, that the Talmud tells how King Solomon built a gate in the Temple, where residents of Jerusalem would sit on Shabbat, to perform kindnesses to bridegrooms who came there. After the Temple was destroyed the custom arose of honoring the groom in synagogue – some congregations throw candy and raisins for a sweet life.

  PPS. The fitting for the wedding dress should go well. I can see Rachel standing before the mirror. Will you have her portrait painted?

  PPPS. I am over the shingles now and am in good health. ‘Ich bin gesund.’ It was what the early prisoners had to write to pass the censor, when they were starved, beaten and maltreated. By the time the letters arrived they were often dead. No more I promise. I will remain silent and let my pictures speak. MM.

  “You’ve left Austin and Brenda’s children off the invitation,” Beatty said. “Was it a mistake?”

  Kitty sighed. She had done her best, lying awake at nights with names and faces circulating in her head in an effort not to offend, not to upset anyone. In an ideal world she would have liked to invite everyone to Rachel’s wedding, every friend, every acquaintance, every member of the WIZO group, the Day Centre, the Ladies’ Guild, with whom she had worked. The Ladies’ Guild had presented difficulties. In the interests of her limited numbers Kitty had decided not to include them, en masse, but she and Sydney had been asked to the weddings of both Joy Kaye’s, and Rika Snowman’s children. Could she invite them on this basis, without upsetting the other members of the Guild? She could not. Nita Cooper and Barbara Brill were distinctly put out. Not that they had said anything, but she had sensed it when they had assembled in the synagogue hall to prepare their weekly Sabbath kiddush. Joy Kaye and Rika Snowman had rallied round her, talkin
g of the wedding; the other ladies had arranged herring on plates, cut honey cake into squares. Nothing had been said, but there was an air of reproach. ‘You’re bound to offend somebody’ – Kitty could year Sydney’s voice in her head – and he was right.

  Among those she had offended there would have, of course, to be Beatty. No, it wasn’t a mistake, Kitty said, the parameters of the guest list had stopped at Rachel’s first cousins. “A couple of little children!” Beatty said, missing the point. “How much do a couple of little children eat?” Kitty had tried to explain, but Beatty took the omission as a personal affront, an assault upon the persons of her grandchildren, and would not be mollified. Her curiosity, however, overcame her pique, and when she wasn’t going to and from the hospital, with little foil-covered dishes of calves-foot jelly and of junked she had made for Leon, to receive which he opened his mouth like an obedient child, Beatty made the journey to Kitty’s to inspect the wedding presents, pricing them up as they arrived. Kitty had cleared her dining-room for them and already it was well filled with crescent salad dishes, chopping boards and coffee grinders, and heat-resistant table-mats with Florence views. “You’d think they could do better than that,” Beatty would say, picking up a pair of towels and inspecting the card that came with them. “They got them in the sale, you can tell because the label’s been marked,” or “Pity they couldn’t manage more than a travelling clock considering what Sydney – olovasholem – did for them.” Decanters, which she could hardly lift, and solid silver bread baskets (‘who wants a silver bread basket?’) were identified immediately by Beatty as having come from ‘the other side’. She was generally right.

  Kitty had never seen such generous presents, china and silver, crystal and glass. Together with Rachel, who had finished her exams, she entered them all in the book she had ruled with headed columns, suggested by the practical Patrick: the name of the guest, with his address, the nature of the gift, and a final space to be ticked when an acknowledgment had been sent. While Patrick was at the hospital Rachel sat at the kitchen table chewing her pen. ‘…Thank you for your unusual ramekins…’ ‘Patrick and I were thrilled to receive your Fondue Set…’ “I hate Fondue!” “Never mind,” Kitty said. “If people go to the trouble…” She knew she was on to a losing wicket, that Rachel, amenable as she was being, engulfed in a sea of jam spoons and steak knives, Martini jugs and flower vases, which belonged to an alien lifestyle, was becoming increasingly disenchanted.

  “We don’t have to go through all this!” she’d said to Kitty one night, from the floor where she was sitting with Patrick, surrounded by brown paper and tissue paper and cardboard boxes and polystyrene snowflakes and by string. “All Patrick has to do, according to the Talmud, is to give me an article of value and a written document and we have to cohabit…” “You do that all right,” Kitty said, “…in the presence of witnesses, and that’s it. It doesn’t say a thing about butter dishes and deep-fat fryers…” “You’ll be glad, later on,” Kitty said, winding string round her fingers (Sydney had never thrown away string), with more conviction than she felt, “Don’t muddle up the cards!”

  It was a time of stress for all of them. Hettie was panicking about the catering (what if it was a hot night, would the Caneton à la Bigarade prove too heavy?), Kitty about her table plan (where could she put Beatty so that she would create the least waves?), Herbert about the synagogue and the cars (would Kitty supply him immediately with a list of those guests on the Shelton side who did not have transport), Rachel about what she had let herself in for, and Patrick about his speech. Between Kitty’s flat and Hettie’s house the telephone lines burned: Hettie’s parents would be arriving from Florida, would Kitty invite them for the Aufruf? It would be nice, Hettie suggested, if old Mrs Klopman could participate in the Marriage Ceremony, could she give Rachel her second cup of wine?; corsages for the bridal party; buttonholes for the ushers (led by Norman); presents for the bridesmaids, which Hettie would choose and Patrick would present; frilly knickers and socks for Debbie and Lisa (who had to be brought up from Godalming for fittings) and garlands for their hair.

  A telephone call, concerning the decision as to whether or no the two mothers should wear gloves beneath the canopy, was interrupted by the appearance of a shaking Freda on Kitty’s doorstep. It took two cups of coffee and a piece of Kitty’s ginger cake to calm her down. She looked a wreck. Kitty’s heart went out to her.

  “There’s been a summons,” Freda said, taking a paper from her bag and putting it on the kitchen table.

  Kitty read it. It was from the Magistrates Court on behalf of Miss Catherine Turnbull, an Affiliation Order naming Mr Harry Goldstien as the father of her child. It silenced Kitty who had privately thought that Freda’s menopausal imagination and her childlessness had lent credence to the whole affair. She tore off a piece of kitchen roll and handed it to Freda for her tears.

  “What does Harry say?”

  Freda had watched him open the letter. He had looked puzzled then pale. She had thought that he was going to have a heart attack. Half-dressed, he collapsed on the bed and handed her the summons. She waited for him to speak. He picked up the envelope from where it had fallen on the blue waffle-nylon eiderdown and examined it. His face was ashen.

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “I’ve known for a long time,” Freda said.

  Harry looked at her. “Known what?”

  “About the baby. She wrote to me.”

  “Who did?”

  “Miss Catherine Turnbull, I suppose. She never signed letters. How could you?”

  Harry stared at her. He looked ill. “How could I what? You don’t believe…?”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Freda said, “we couldn’t have a child…”

  “Freda…”

  “Don’t Freda me.”

  “You don’t believe this?” He held the paper aloft.

  “It’s got your name on it.”

  “You must be mad!” Harry said.

  And she was. She had gone made. She felt herself going. Things had been bad between them before the summons. Now it was a house of silence. Harry had tried to explain, tried to reassure her, but she would not listen. He was visibly shaken. Preoccupied. Freda knew that he had spoken to his solicitor with whom he played golf. Had consulted him.

  “I’ll divorce him,” Freda said to Kitty, blowing her nose. “He can marry her if he wants. I won’t stand in his way. I hope they’ll be very happy.”

  Kitty had never believed Freda’s stories about Harry. Now she was not so sure. She looked at Freda, thin as a stick, ugly with weeping. No man would have her.

  “When’s the case?” Kitty said.

  Freda repeated the date which was engraved on her memory.

  “Two days before the wedding,” Kitty said.

  Kitty did not know where the time had gone. Could not believe that there was now only a fortnight to go, and wondered what she had thought about, what she had talked about, before. She was as excited as Rachel, who sat in the car by her side on the way to Cupid of Hendon for the final fitting of her dress. More excited. Rachel herself seemed calm. It was as if having finished with her exams – the results were expected any moment – a great weight had fallen from her and she could concentrate on her marriage.

  Kitty could no longer complain. Rachel had entered into the spirit of the proceedings and to Kitty’s surprise had put all her energies into her prospective role as bride. Kindly, sweetly, willingly, she had penned her ‘thank you’ letters, supervised the fittings for the bridesmaids’ dresses, helped Kitty to prepare the flat, and with the cooking for the Aufruf. She had spent a private evening with Patrick at the house of Rabbi Magnus – who had discussed with them, among other things, the sanctity of the union into which they were about to enter – and they had taken the Licence together with the ketubah – the Jewish Marriage lines – of both sets of parents, their birth certificates and their Hebrew names to the Office of the Chief Rabbi for his authorisation. Kitty
(for Rachel) and Herbert (for Patrick) had accompanied them as witnesses – Hettie was spending the day at the hairdresser’s for her wedding ‘highlights’. Rachel had agreed to a haircut (quarter of an inch), chosen her ‘going away’ outfit (puce dungarees with a puce beret) and had trudged Kitty round a myriad different shops – making herself heard above the disco music, which deafened Kitty – for her wedding shoes.

  “My nest will be empty,” Kitty said, putting a hand over Rachel’s as they negotiated the right turn at Hendon Central.

  “Come on Mum!” Rachel said. “It’s ages since I’ve lived at home.”

  “You don’t understand,” Kitty said. “Nor will you until you’re a mother. I wonder if they remembered the blue bow for the underslip.”

  The dress hung, a white cloud, on the door of the fitting-room. Rika Snowman was as excited as Kitty.

  “Take off your clothes, darling,” she said to Rachel. “I can’t wait to see what it looks like. The girls have really worked hard on it. There’s only the hem to finish. Did you bring your shoes?”

  The fitting-room was too small, for the flowing underslip, the layers of lace. Rachel put her arms out and Rika dropped the dress over them. Kitty sat in the salon, her heart beating, watching her younger daughter. ‘Are you having her painted?’ Maurice had asked. Even now, her hair in an untidy knot, Rachel looked like a picture. Rika smoothed the lace over the bust, the shoulders, struggled to fasten the long zip.

  “Breathe in darling.”