Hannah said she was going to have to come and see me whether she went to Cherry Hazlitt’s funeral or not. I didn’t even know that she was there until we took the mourners back for the wake to old Mrs Hazlitt’s house in Jedburgh Road.
‘Roof come off last Thursday,’ the old woman said, as she pointed one black-gloved hand at the shattered top half of her house. ‘I’ve shut up the bedrooms. I ain’t ready to be bombed out yet, not so long as the range works and I’ve still got coal. You coming in for a glass of stout, are you, Mr Hancock?’
When I first heard that there were going to be a lot of women at Cherry’s funeral, I imagined that they were going to be members of her family. A lot of funerals are only attended by women these days, on account of the call-up. But only the mum and a sister were related to the dead woman. The rest, like Hannah, were friends. Like Hannah too, the friends wore rather more makeup than the average girl and their language, even in the face of death, was ‘colourful’.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Hazlitt.’
‘What about your lads? They want to come in for a drop and a ham sandwich?’
I looked at Arthur’s face and then at Walter’s anxious mug licking its lips in anticipation of a drink.
‘No, thank you, Mrs Hazlitt,’ I said. ‘The lads have to look after the horses.’
I didn’t look back at either of them as I went inside the house. I didn’t dare.
All those girls were a bit much for me so I made a quick dash out into the yard, beer in one hand, a piece of Gala pie in the other. It was here that I saw Hannah. She was leaning against the Hazlitts’ Anderson, smoking a fag and looking up at the shattered windows of one of the houses next door. I hadn’t expected to see her so soon and, in view of what I’d so recently learned about her, her presence came as a shock.
‘Cherry’s brother Archie used to live there,’ she said, as she pointed upwards with her fag. ‘His wife and baby died from the blast in that house. Lucky he never come back from Dunkirk or he’d’ve been devastated. Fucking war!’
There were tears at the corners of her eyes, but I ignored them for the time being. I had to say what I needed to say so I just launched in with both feet, so to speak.
‘So that pair of old frummers you took us to see in Spitalfields, they your parents, are they?’ I asked, brutally, I knew.
Hannah turned to look at me, her face blasted as if by a lightning bolt.
‘I know they’re still alive, Hannah,’ I continued. ‘I know you left them for a Christian boy. I know it didn’t work out. What I don’t know is why you never told me.’
Hannah took a deep drag on her fag, then swallowed hard. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Just answer my question,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘What? You mean apart from the fact that you’re only a customer?’ Hannah said haughtily.
I reached out and pulled her roughly towards me. ‘You know that’s not true!’ I said.
‘It might be! For me!’ Hannah hurled back violently. But then, as quickly as she’d lost her temper, she dissolved into tears. ‘Why do you think I do what I do?’ she said, as she sobbed against the buttons of my waistcoat. ‘You think I can’t do no better than selling my body?’
‘Hannah . . .’
‘Those people, those ones we met, were my parents long ago. But I shamed them,’ Hannah said. ‘I let that goy use me, I turned my back on my people and, when it all come to nothing, I went to the one place I could.’ She looked up into my eyes. ‘The street. They never ask you to leave on the street.’
I put my arms round her now. I bent down to kiss her. ‘But you can trust me,’ I said gently.
Mindful that others could come into the garden and see us at any moment – or, rather, that was how I read it then – Hannah pushed herself away from me. ‘My family are Hassidic Jews,’ she said. ‘Do you know what that means, Mr H?’
‘Not really.’
She looked down at the ground to where two of the Hazlitts’ bantams pecked mindlessly around her feet. ‘My father’s a religious teacher,’ she said. ‘All Hassidic men are scholars. They devote themselves to study of the Torah while the women raise children to wait, as we all do, for the coming of the Messiah. Hassidic women, H, are religious, chaste, they wear wigs to cover their natural hair – vanity, see. And . . . Bessie Stern . . .’
‘Yes, I know she’s Hassidic,’ I said.
‘Well, she doesn’t like me because of what I done,’ Hannah said. ‘You must’ve noticed how she didn’t like me.’
‘I could see that something wasn’t right,’ I said. By this time I was beginning to wish I’d never brought the subject up. Poor Hannah looked so sad. ‘Look, love,’ I said, ‘I know it must’ve been very hard for you to take us to your parents. I’m sorry I got cross, but I just—’
‘Bessie Stern the matchmaker come to see me this morning,’ Hannah interrupted harshly.
Taken by surprise at the sudden change of subject and tone, I said, ‘What? How did she know where to find you?’
‘One Yiddisher leads to another. Give a man or a woman a name they understand, they can find that person. Whatever Yiddisher told you about my past will know that,’ Hannah said bitterly.
I turned my head away, not wanting to mention the name Doris or even hint at her existence.
‘So what did Bessie Stern come to see you about, Hannah?’ I said after a pause.
‘You,’ Hannah said. ‘She wanted to contact you.’
‘So why didn’t she? She knows my name. Knows I’ve got a shop.’
‘Yes, but she don’t know you, do she?’ Hannah said. ‘I mean, you ain’t from our manor, are you? You’re a goy. I may be a tart and one that she hates too, but that’s still better than what you are in Bessie’s eyes. And, anyway, at her size it was probably as much as she could do to get to Canning Town, much less schlep all the way over to Plaistow.’
I didn’t like the harsh way she was speaking now. But partly because I’d caused it myself, I was trying to ignore it. ‘So do you know what she wanted, then?’ I said. ‘With me?’
‘She told me to tell you to go to the synagogue at nineteen Princelet Street, near to where she lives, as soon as you can.’
‘Why? What for?’
‘So you can find out more about Ruby Reynolds,’ Hannah said. ‘Maybe you’ll learn why all the frummers seem to like her so much. She’s a goy, like you, I don’t understand it.’
I put out a hand to her, but Hannah flinched away. ‘Maybe things have changed . . .’
‘Yeah, and maybe Hitler’s a friend of Churchill. Maybe my parents chucking me out never happened!’ Hannah snapped back viciously.
‘Hannah.’ I reached out towards her again and, once again, she pulled away from me.
‘I need to be on me own for a bit now,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ve told you what Bessie said, but now I need you to go.’
‘Look, Hannah,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry I was angry. I’m sorry – maybe I presumed too much. But I do feel . . . things for you . . .’
‘Yeah, all right. Don’t go on. You going to the synagogue or not?’
‘Yes. Well, I’ll go after I’ve finished here,’ I said. ‘I’ll make it the first thing I do.’
‘Good.’
‘Right.’
In the long silence that followed, I finished what was left of my beer, threw the crust of the Gala pie at the bantams and lit a fag. Eventually it was Hannah, still bitter and tearful, who broke the silence.
‘She was a good girl, Cherry,’ she said sadly. ‘If only she’d kept her head down in raids. Silly cow! Even when she was with a customer she had to know what was going on outside all the time. Bit like you, Mr H. Always got to know what’s happening and who’s doing what. Got to know the truth. Dangerous. Least, it was for Cherry . . .’
My heart in my mouth now, I said, ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Hannah?’
She looked away. ‘I’m only saying that Spitalfields ain’t your manor, Mr H. Y
ou don’t understand the rules.’ She turned back to me again. Her face was drawn with what looked like anxiety. ‘Just be careful is what I say, Mr H. Remember that you ain’t among your own and some people might not like that. I mean, look at Ruby Reynolds, out of her own place. She’s come to grief.’
Dad had always found the Jews of Spitalfields very friendly. But I’m not Tom Hancock. I’m not even the same colour as he’d been, and things have moved on since Dad died. Since Mosley’s Black Shirts, views in the East End have become entrenched. Although we’re at war with Germany, there’s still people about who favour fascism. The Jews tend to be of a socialistic mind, which is something I broadly support myself. But that view has its problems too and a lot of people don’t trust those, like Albert Cox, they call the ‘Commies’. The ‘Commies’ in their turn, and those who live among them, are not very open about what they do so any stranger in their area is suspect, as Pearl, Velma and I had found out when Hannah first took us over.
I left Hannah after that and went to speak to Mrs Hazlitt and her other daughter, Joan. I knew my girl needed to be alone for a bit. What I hadn’t reckoned on was that she’d leave the wake without saying another word to anyone.
A horse-drawn hearse does tend to draw attention to itself and its occupants. But after we’d finished at the Hazlitts’ house, and especially after my difficult conversation with Hannah, I didn’t feel that inclined to walk to Spitalfields and getting a bus, or even a tram, is always a problem. Depending on bomb damage you can’t be sure where your transport’s going to start off or finish.
Young Arthur had some reservations. He thought the sight of the hearse might upset people, but he agreed to drive for me anyway. I said we’d park up on Commercial Street rather than going down into Spitalfields proper. I couldn’t see any problem for him to park over by the Ten Bells or even in front of Christ Church. Besides, I had a feeling I should be discreet about going to Princelet Street. I left the boy and set off alone.
Number nineteen Princelet Street has had quite a history. Dad told me that, like a lot of the buildings in Spitalfields, the ‘Princelet Synagogue’, as he called it, had been built by the Huguenots. Being young at the time, I didn’t know a Huguenot from a poke in the eye, but Dad soon told me that they were Protestant French people who’d come to London a long time ago to escape persecution. They really set the tone for the place, as it happened, the Huguenots, and after they went the Irish came and lodged in the building, escaping from the famine back at home. And when the Irish left, in came the Jews, escaping persecution in Russia and Poland and more lately in Germany too. The old Princelet Synagogue is a place well used to people hiding in its many rooms and cupboards.
As I entered the street, I did keep an eye open for the ample figure of Bessie Stern who, I knew, lived at number five. But she wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
They’re impressive buildings, the old Huguenot places in Spitalfields. At least three storeys high plus a cellar, many also have wooden attics built up on the roofs. In their day they were elegant old places because the Huguenots, although they were refugees from their country, were wealthy. But in common with a lot of the houses, number nineteen, although in constant use as a synagogue, looked a bit run-down from the outside. I’d never been inside before, of course, and didn’t know what I might expect. But the picture was somewhat different when I finally crossed the threshold.
The door to number nineteen was shut when I arrived so I knocked. I waited a long time for an answer, but when someone finally opened it it was done slowly and only wide enough for me to be able to see a nose and a pair of very blue eyes.
‘Vass?’
I moved closer to the door so that I could keep my voice down. There was, I could just make out, very dim light, probably from gas, inside.
‘My name’s Hancock,’ I said. ‘I’ve been asked to—’
‘Wait here.’
Almost a minute of unlocking noises happened before the boy, no more than sixteen at the most, opened the door and let me in. As I entered I saw, even through the yellowing gloom in the corridor, that he had the most startling red hair I had ever seen, and that included Alfie Rosen’s shining mop.
‘Come with me,’ he said and, without turning to look back at me, he disappeared down a dark flight of stairs into what I imagined had to be the basement.
I followed, past a grimy little sink on the wall and past the entrance to the synagogue, which sticks out the back of the house in what I’ve been told since was once a garden. Unlike the corridor, the synagogue was far from gloomy, being lit by several large, ornate chandeliers. These fittings, which were fashioned in the shape of double-headed eagles, threw a lot of clean and clear light on to the many rows of pews on the ground. Plain like all synagogues, apart from a cupboard where they keep their holy scrolls, it nevertheless had a wonderful stained-glass roof, which I stopped to stare at for probably longer than I should.
‘Come on,’ I heard the young man say, so I ran down to catch him up, smiling as I went. But he wasn’t too amused either by me or my probably unwelcome curiosity.
Down below street level now, on the dark little landing I shared with the boy, I could see three doors. As he pushed open the one directly at the bottom of the stairs, the boy said, ‘I’ve got to go and put the blackout up now. Some of the comrades are meeting here tonight, so you’ll have to be quick.’
‘I came as soon as I—’
But he’d gone now so I walked into the room and looked around. It was, I reckoned, some sort of social area for the synagogue. In one corner there was a sink with a big tea urn beside it as well as a load of cheap white cups and saucers like the ones I’d seen on my infrequent visits to Church events. Cups and saucers for the masses, be they religious groups or the ‘comrades’ my young friend had spoken about earlier. Quite a lot of the Jews are Communists these days, except the really religious, the Frummers, like Hannah’s people. They don’t do much beyond study their books, pray and get rid of their kids if they don’t do as they’re told. Not that I could afford to think about Hannah and my problems with her now.
Opposite the corner with the sink, across from the chimney-breast, stood a woman probably in her late thirties. Thin, she had long, dark hair, which, on closer inspection was a very dense black wig. She was unknown to me.
‘You Mr Hancock the undertaker?’ she said. Her voice was rough, smoke-dried.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You . . .’
‘My name’s Ruby Reynolds,’ the woman said. ‘Bessie tells me you’ve been helping our Pearl out.’
As soon as she and Bessie Stern had found Shlomo Kaplan’s body, Ruby had decided that it would be best to make herself scarce.
‘I was frightened. Coppers can’t be done with having to look for criminals with this war on,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And with my background . . . Shlomo and me was in on our own all that day. He never went out because he was tired. So it was only me saw him before he died. I could’ve killed him. I didn’t but I could’ve. Bessie and this lot here,’ she said, as she flicked one hand around the room, ‘they believe I never hurt him.’
‘Bessie Stern knew about your mother?’
‘Yeah. But not Shlomo. I couldn’t tell him. This rabbi here, Numan, he’s a political type and him and some of the boys in the Party know too. Bessie, although she’s not one of them, she knows them all. They let me be here because they don’t trust coppers no more than I do.’
I was, I admit, genuinely surprised. The old match-maker had played the part of someone who knows nothing very well.
‘Which is why, I suppose, you’re allowed to be here,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ She had little of the almost delicate beauty of her sister Pearl but, as I had been told, the Reynolds sisters all had different fathers.
‘So why have you asked to see me, Miss Reynolds?’ I said. ‘I’m really no one and—’
‘When we first found Shlomo dead, I knew it had nothing to do with me. I knew the coppers’d probably com
e and ask all of us lots of questions. But then when I got to thinking about who I am . . . I thought they might take me in. As I’ve said, I’ve no alibi. I was terrified so I hid. I shouldn’t have maybe, but . . . But then when Bessie come and told me about Pearl too, well, I wondered. Two Reynolds girls, two murders . . . I know Gerald, Shlomo’s son, don’t like me and what I was to his dad . . .’
‘What were you to his dad, Ruby?’
She looked down at her hands in her lap and said, ‘Once I’d done everything to convert properly, we was going to get married.’
‘Which Gerald didn’t like?’
‘No. Shlomo, like Bessie and a lot of other people around here, was frum. Hassids. They, we, go to the big synagogue up on Brick Lane. Some people, Gerald I know, feel you can’t become one, feel you have to be born to it. Also he was worried about what money he was going to get if his dad died and left me a widow. Started spreading all sorts of horrible rumours about me being a money-grabber and a tart and everything, and when that didn’t work he started on his own dad. Told the coppers Shlomo beat me up, he did. I know some people round here believed it too! But he never so much as touched me, Mr Hancock. Bessie’ll tell you.’
Although, according to Doris, Bessie Stern was a less than reliable source when it came to bad things done by Jewish people, I was inclined to believe her in this instance. In a sense Ruby was Hannah’s opposite, an outsider becoming a Hassidic woman. Wearing a wig like the rest of them, not a scrap of makeup on her face. She had to believe it all and be dedicated to her future husband to put up with it. Not daft, I felt sure that Ruby wouldn’t do such extreme things for someone who was a brute.
‘Harold Neilson, the bloke my mum . . .’ She looked down again into the hands. ‘He had a sister, Phyllis. She used to come round before it all happened. But I only saw her once – after Neilson died. She looked at us little girls like the devil was in her mind. She’d loved Harold, see. Mum’s defence even said she’d loved him more than a sister should.’
‘And did she?’
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