by Claire Hajaj
‘God help us, what are you thinking, Judit?’ Dora said. ‘Are you in love with this shiksa goddess? Are you converting? There’ll be plenty of parties, young lady, but only one Batmitzvah. So let’s hear no more about it.’
But the argument went on and on, into Saturday until Dora stamped off in frustration to Shul and Judith retreated to her bedroom. On Sunday morning, she toyed with the idea of just slipping out. But in an unusual streak of foresight, Dora had called Gertie to come and hang around outside Judith’s bedroom.
Gertie was terrible at hovering; her large breasts and round hips made her awkward on the cramped landing. Judith sat in her room hating even the thought of Gertie, her disapproving glasses and her sanctimonious brown stockings.
Eventually, Gertie opened Judith’s door herself and said, blinking rapidly, ‘Judit, it’s nearly time for school. Shall we go together?’ Judith glared at her, but did not have the courage to refuse. Despising herself, she stood up and hoisted her schoolbag onto her shoulder. In just a few minutes, Kathleen would be knocking on Peggy’s door dressed in her best clothes, and Judith would be sitting with a sweating Rebbe, trying to make sense of ancient scrolls.
Suddenly, she heard an odd sound from Gertie, like a puzzled cry. Her sister was looking at something on Judith’s bed, and quicker than Judith had ever seen her move she crossed the room to snatch it up. It was Peggy’s invitation, in all its embossed glory.
‘Give that back,’ Judith said fiercely, but Gertie ignored her. She turned around to face Judith, her chest rising heavily, the invitation held out like a pistol in her hand.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, in a whisper. ‘Who wrote this to you? Judit, why didn’t you tell us about this?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Judith said warily. ‘It’s the invitation to my friend’s party. What’s the big deal?’
‘But what’s this?’ Gertie said again, whiter still, one finger pointing to the name on the front.
‘That’s my name. Jude. That’s what they call me at school.’ She saw Gertie step backwards, her brow furrowing in horrified disbelief.
‘You want them to call you that? Don’t you know what that name means?’ She had started sweating, pale beads on her broad forehead shining under the bedroom light. ‘That’s the word they called us. Jude. Juden. That’s what they called us in the ghettos and the Camps.’
She walked towards Judith, who backed away. ‘How can you let someone call you that?’ She shook the invitation in Judith’s startled face. ‘How could you?’ she said again.
Judith had a flicker of shame; but it was snuffed out the next moment by a quick, cruel pinch of self-pity. Godly Gertie, she thought, resentful. Always some way to make me wrong.
‘I didn’t let them call me it,’ she said, with affected nonchalance. ‘I called myself that name. I like it. It’s cool.’
Before the words were even out of her mouth, Gertie reached out and slapped her – a blow that burned like hot bread from the oven. Judith cried out in shock and Gertie covered her mouth with her fist, tears running between her fingers. From behind her hand, she whispered, ‘How can you say such a thing, Judit? You don’t understand anything, nothing at all about who we are and what happened to us.’
Judith’s face itched and stung. She couldn’t believe Gertie had hit her. Her sister’s fingers, round and unpainted, looked so gauche holding the delicate white card. For an instant it faded and transformed into another picture – Gertrude, Esther und Daniel Kraus, Wien 1939 – and hot anger at Gertie, at the endless guilt, rose scalding into her throat.
‘No, you don’t understand anything,’ she screamed, feeling her cheeks turn red. ‘I’m sick of you people always telling me what to do and how to be. I hate being Jewish. You just leave me alone.’
As she spoke she felt her legs propel her past Gertie, who called out her name, carrying her pounding heart down the stairs, racing across the hall and through the front door, slamming it hard behind her. The rush of the cold sea wind tasted of exhilaration and pain, like the first surge of oxygen into burning lungs at the end of the race.
She caught the bus to Peggy’s house. As it rattled from Ryhope Road to the smarter part of town, Judith clutched her bag to her chest. She felt dizzy with anticipation, watching the solemn rows of semi-detached houses reel by her as the road swept away from the dockyards. They’ll be so happy to see me. They’ll laugh when they know how much trouble I’m in.
The bus stopped at the edge of the town, where the houses had back gardens as well as front ones, and the sky was a smokeless blue. Judith climbed off and watched it roar away, standing on a silent pavement.
Walking up the street to the Smailes’ detached house, Judith felt as tall and straight as Peggy herself. She pulled down her skirt and pushed back her hair. A brief worry passed through her mind like a shadow: she hadn’t obeyed the party rules – she wasn’t in the least glamorous. But after pinching her cheeks and biting her lips she hoped she might pass if she made a good story of it.
She opened the front gate cautiously and saw a flicker of movement in one large, curtained window. There were roses in the garden, pink as schoolgirls hanging their heavy heads. Smiling, she jumped up the steps and reached out to knock on the door.
Then something stopped her. Stepping back, she saw it: at the entrance to the porch someone had stuck a large, yellow sign on the wall.
Written there, in capital letters, were the words NO JEWDES ALLOWED.
At first Judith’s eyes could not take it in. The words swam in front of her; her legs wobbled until she had to hold onto the porch pillars to stay upright. Her chest tightened and her throat felt full of stones.
She heard a click and looked up. The front door had opened, and standing in the bright hallway behind it was Kathleen. At her back stood Peggy. The blonde girl was grinning, a fox in bright red lipstick, one hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. Kathleen stared at the ground, red under her freckles.
Judith stood up straight, wondering if she was expected to smile or to cry. If she reacted the right way, would it all be all right? Was it a test? It’s all a joke, she thought desperately, and they’re going to ask me in. But she saw with brutal clarity the hand on Kathleen’s shoulder, its pale pink varnish shining lightly in the gloom of the porch.
The hand tightened, and Kathleen’s head jerked upwards to look at her. There was such genuine misery in her face that tears came to Judith’s eyes, and with them a sick certainty of abandonment. Still, she thought, she wouldn’t go inside. She won’t go.
For a second no one moved. Judith took a deep, hopeful breath. Then Kathleen closed the door, the slow groan of polished oak shutting her outside.
By the time Judith got back to Ryhope Road, the world was a very different place. The first thing she heard when she opened the front door was the sound of weeping. It seemed to come straight from her own heart and she imagined it must be herself crying. Next she thought of Gertie. Then, quick as a snake, the realization struck her. It was Rebecca. She knows, Judith thought. She’s crying because of me.
Suddenly, Gertie appeared in the living room doorway. Her face was blotched and red, and she reached out to clutch Judith’s hand.
‘Oh Judit, thank goodness. There’s been bad news. Your Uncle Max – well, Father will tell you.’
Judith was trembling as she walked into the sitting room. Rebecca was on the green sofa, rocking and wailing against Jack’s awkward shoulder. Dora was on the other side, her hand tight on Rebecca’s arm.
Rebecca’s eyes opened as Judith approached; she reached out to pull her granddaughter towards her. Judith instinctively resisted, shame lying like a stench on her skin.
‘What’s happened?’ she said, her throat thick and sore.
Dora answered from Rebecca’s side, her voice low as if confiding a secret.
‘Your Uncle Max is hurt, Judit. He was on a bus, and it was attacked. They shot him.’ Judith took a moment to comprehend this, to remind herself of other lives she was still c
onnected to. While she was mocking Gertie and running away from home, people who hated Jews were trying to hurt her family.
Dora looked at Jack, who clutched his mother tighter than ever and said, ‘He’ll be okay, Mama. Max is a fighter. He has the best care.’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘Oh my boy, my poor boy.’ Her voice was hoarse – it seemed to tear from her throat as she raised one open hand towards the ceiling. ‘Are we never finished with all of this? The Russians come and then the Germans and now my son gets shot on a bus. When will it stop?’
They put Rebecca to bed and Jack explained things quietly to Judith. Max was in a serious condition in hospital in Tel Aviv. Jack and Alex were going to take the first available flight to Israel they could.
Judith received Jack’s injunction to be a good girl with silent thankfulness. When he looked at her and shook his head, she thought for an instant he was going to tell her of his deep disappointment. But instead he only said, ‘It’s such a shame, Judith. He was just a farmer, growing and building things. Where’s the wrong in that?’
Later, she crept upstairs to Rebecca’s room. The house was eerily still. Dora and Gertie were sitting in the kitchen over cold cups of tea. Jack was out at the shop, scouring the books for the price of an airfare. Rebecca’s door was ajar, and Judith could see her propped up on her thin pillows. She tapped lightly on the doorframe and saw Rebecca’s head rise slightly.
‘Come in, mommellah,’ she said, her voice so frail it made Judith ache. She knelt down and took Rebecca’s hand in hers. ‘I’m so sorry, Bubby,’ she said. Rebecca nodded, turning her head towards the window and the white summer sky sailing past them. Judith sat in silence for a minute, feeling Rebecca’s gentle pulse. But eventually the weight of unsaid things tipped her mouth open and she found herself blurting, ‘I had a fight with Gertie today.’
Rebecca turned back to look at her with tired eyes. ‘Oh yes, she told me. About the name.’ Judith’s face went red and she waited for Rebecca’s verdict. But instead, Rebecca laid her head back on the pillow and sighed.
‘I’ll never forget the day she came to us.’ Her eyes turned to the window, looking far away. ‘Just a little girl, even smaller than you – and thin too, although you’d never guess it now. She came on the rescue trains, the Kindertransport from Austria. Your mother and I went down to Liverpool Street station to meet her. Gertie had a sister with her, and she held that girl’s hand so tight I thought she’d never let go. They looked like two peas in a pod and it broke my heart to separate them, but we couldn’t take both. Gertie cried all the way home and for weeks afterwards. She didn’t speak any English at all, so I had to try in Yiddish. Don’t tell your mother, but Gertie is the reason her Yiddish is still so good.’ She paused to cough into her hand.
‘Gertie didn’t want to talk about her mama or papa or the brothers she’d left behind. She didn’t want to eat or sleep. She just wanted to see that sister of hers. I thought it was a strange thing to rescue a child from murder only to have her die of sorrow in a safe place. Then I found out that her sister was living just a few miles away, so Dora and I took turns to walk Gertie there every Friday before prayers. It took us four hours there and back but we never missed a Friday. I’d listen to her and her sister talking away in German and Yiddish, and it did my heart good. But that was before the war. Her family went to the Camps, and they never came out again. Then the sister moved away because their house was bombed. And that was the last Gertie saw of her, apart from letters.’ Tears were running down Judith’s face, and she didn’t dare wipe them away. Gertrude, Esther und Daniel, she remembered. Rebecca’s voice was running on.
‘You don’t know how hard it was for Jews when the war came. The Nazis had plenty of friends here who thought they had the right way with us. When the dockyards were bombed I saw it in people’s faces. They thought we’d brought a plague on them. Maybe they were right. Wherever we go, hate follows. We always dream the next generation will shake the curse.’ She sighed and squeezed Judith’s hand.
‘I said something terrible to Gertie.’ Her confession was a relief. ‘She didn’t like my nickname and I was angry, so I told her I wished I wasn’t a Jew.’
Rebecca smiled and tapped Judith on the cheek. ‘You and that name of yours!’ she said. ‘Let me tell you something. Your name has a very impressive history. When Nebuchadnezzar sent a wicked general to destroy the Jews, young Judith came sneaking inside his tent. And then do you know what she did? She got him drunk and cut his head off. His army ran away. So Judith saved her people. A modern woman, my Judit. Not a bad name to have, don’t you think?’
Judith forced a smile. From inside the haze of exhaustion, Peggy, Kathleen, Gertie and the faceless children of the Kindertransport all seemed to be calling her. She wanted to lie down and block them out.
‘You’re tired, Bubby,’ she said, standing up. ‘Let me get you a cup of tea.’ Rebecca nodded and said, ‘Let me give you something first, mommellah.’ A pale arm was pulling open the bedside drawer, and Judith saw an envelope with her name on it, in Rebecca’s slanting scrawl. ‘I was saving it for your Batmitzvah, but I’ve finished it already so you should have it. Don’t read it until the day, though. It’s bad luck.’ Judith took it carefully and her grandmother settled back down onto the bed and closed her eyes. ‘What is it?’ Judith whispered, feeling the weight of paper inside.
‘Nothing special,’ came the answer, even softer. ‘But promise you’ll read it when the time comes.’
Judith said, ‘I promise,’ but this time Rebecca showed no sign of hearing. She stepped quietly from the room, stopping at the door to look back at the sunken form in the bed. ‘I love you, Bubby,’ she heard herself saying. But her grandmother was already breathing gently, lost in the beguiling sleep of old age.
She set the letter down on the bed, which still bore the imprint of Peggy’s invitation. After a moment of hesitation, her hand eased under the envelope flap. Several sheets of paper fell out, crossed with Rebecca’s writing. She read the first line:
Judit, my darling girl,
Today is your Batmitzvah – such a special day for you, to become a grown woman. I know that you will do everything so beautifully, and that you will make us proud.
Her eyes blurred and she rubbed them, pressing fierce hands down until they ached. As her room came into focus again, she saw her swimming bag hanging over the doorknob. Pulling it down, she clutched it to her chest. The bright red canvas was still musty with friendly smells, the sharpness of chlorine and damp rubber. Kath had drawn a yellow heart on the fraying corner, on her first day at Wearside. She felt the hard outline of tomorrow’s Junior Tryouts schedule pressing against her shirt.
Shame and revulsion rose inside her; pulling out the schedule she ripped it up and thrust the pieces under the bed. Then she opened her cupboard door and pushed the bag into the depths at the back, heaping shoes on top of it until it was buried, until she could pretend it had never existed. Then she curled back under the blanket, Rebecca’s letter falling to the floor. Make us proud. How could she, with only a hole inside her where certainty should live? I’m not a mensch, Bubby, she whispered to the pillow. I’m not, and I never will be.
There was no frantic scurrying to get Salim’s mother back, no threats or phone calls or demands. She was gone as completely and irrevocably as if she had just lifted herself out of the sea.
Even in his anger at being left, at being cast on the scrapheap of her life, Salim could not find it in his heart to hate her. Pain pulled the needle of blame towards the Jews, towards fate, and most of all to his father. He came running out of his room that day and pulled Abu Hassan’s hand; clutching it to his chest he begged him to find her. ‘She can’t be far,’ he sobbed, feeling his stomach twist and the shame of water leaking down his leg in a child’s grief. But Abu Hassan just stood there, his mouth gaping, his eyes muddy pools. Something came out of his throat that sounded like ‘No, no,’ and then he turned away from his son, as Salim screamed, �
�It’s your fault! You made her miserable! You did everything wrong! Now we have nothing.’ Tareq pulled him roughly into his arms, half a restraint, half a hug. He whispered into his hair that he should never blame his father, who loved him despite everything. ‘He only can’t tell you because he’s old, and life has buried his words.’ But at that moment Salim knew only rage and despair; so much that if Abu Hassan had still owned the Orange House, Salim felt he could have burned it down himself.
At night there was a cold space beside him where Rafan used to sleep, an empty room where all three brothers had once lain and plotted their return. And his dreams were full of his mother, of opening the door of strange houses he did not recognize, and finding her there.
The ache in his heart refused to fade with the months. Most of all he grieved that she had taken Rafan and not him, hooks of jealousy and sorrow catching him whenever he tried to rest.
But despite himself he spent hours picturing where she might be, a flutter of excitement in his throat. Maybe the tall boulevards of Europe, or the bright streets of Beirut. And then the pain of her escape became somehow animating – cutting through his ties to Palestine, letting his imagination float upwards into the sky, over Nazareth’s crowded tenements into the great unknown.
In one concrete way, his mother’s flight did set him free. Buoyed up by Abu Mazen’s blood money, and with two fewer mouths to feed, Abu Hassan became more persuadable on the matter of how to dispose of his remaining son.
Nadia and Tareq truly loved Salim, and worried for his future. Sensing trouble ahead if he stayed in Nazareth, they began to concoct a plan. Suppose, Tareq said to Abu Hassan one night, Salim were to improve his English and learn a proper trade? If he were to go and stay with Hassan in England, he might be able to send money back here and be a better support to his father.
Abu Hassan was quick to acquiesce. After all, he was too old to be looking after a teenage boy. Visas these days were not hard to come by if a sponsor could be found.