‘Jack. The ducks are leaving.’
They were the first words she had spoken to him in several days and, realising this, he put on his spectacles and stared out the window at the dark shapes moving smoothly into the distance. The air filled with the sound of quacking, striking a melancholy note in the morning stillness. Jack shuddered; he hesitated and then, uncertainly, placed his arm around Sadie. In a minute the ducks were gone and the pond lay empty, its surface rippled only by the fish gliding underneath the surface. They were bereft.
‘Come, I’ll make tea,’ said Jack, feeling that this would mark the sorrow of the occasion.
After breakfast, Jack decided to light the fire in his study, and with meticulous care cleared away the piles of maps and books lying near to the grate – it would be a disaster if Robert Hunter or Old Tom Morris went up in flames. There was rustling behind him as Sadie rumpled the papers on his desk. He gave a tiny sigh – a man’s study was his own. She scrutinised the calendar on the wall above him.
‘What day is it?’
Jack peered at the date. Why was she asking him? The woman had eyes of her own. ‘Twenty-second of September.’
‘Nein, du Mistkerl. In the Hebrew calendar.’
Jack shrugged. ‘How would I know?’
He was now late – Curtis and the men would be waiting for him in the field and he did not like them to start without him, but Sadie was not to be dissuaded. She went over to the bookcase, pulled out a tattered Hebrew almanac and flicked through the pages.
‘I’ve forgotten. How could I forget?’ Sadie raised her eyes to the heavens and muttered an apologetic prayer.
Jack continued to look at her blankly.
‘It’s Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, the Day of Judgement, the Day of Remembrance …’ she snapped.
‘Yes? And what does it have to do with me?’
Two pink spots appeared on Sadie’s cheeks and her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Go. Go to your fields and your new friends, then. I’ll say Kaddish for the dead. I am sure they’ll understand.’
Jack stood up sharply, took one last look at the curling tongues of flame in the grate, and retreated into the kitchen. Lying on the table were the fruits of Sadie’s sleepless night: a platted loaf of challah, studded with currants, sprinkled with cinnamon and warm from the oven, with a jar of honey resting beside it. He studied the bread on the cooling wire, and considered his wife. One. She scolded him. Two. She was stubborn and indifferent to happiness. Three. She baked for him during the night, making all the treats and sweets he recalled from those brief months in Berlin – they were happy then, ignorant of what was to come. Elizabeth was conceived there, in that tiny flat with its glimpse of the stone elephants outside the park, and Sadie had laughed and been kind to him. Jack picked up the challah, tore off a piece, dipped it in the honey and popped it into his mouth. He chewed pensively, took another bite and then another. In ten minutes the entire loaf was gone. Wiping the crumbs from his mouth, he returned to the study.
‘I’ll sit with you,’ he informed her with a puff of resignation.
Sadie’s lips flickered into an almost smile. She liked the ritual of Rosh Hashanah and liked to think of all the other Jews, busy with their own recollections; it was a rite of shared sorrow, The Day of Remembrance. Most days, she thought about before alone, in silence, but this was a whole day dedicated to remembering. She thought back to the final Rosh Hashanah in Berlin, the last with her family. Back then, she had not known that soon she would be saying Kaddish for them. She was young in those days, a mere girl – she had been late to synagogue, arriving in a flushed hurry of joy, and apologised to the disapproving women as she squeezed her way through the tightly packed chairs to Mutti, who scolded her for her tardiness on today of all days. Sadie claimed it was because she couldn’t find her coat but this was a lie. She was late really because her new husband had persuaded her back to bed to make love. He kissed the backs of her knees and the inside of her wrists, and had tugged her laughing onto the small wooden bed. She did not know that day, but Elizabeth began to grow in her belly. Perhaps that was why she became so unhappy, because she conceived on the Day of Remembrance. The dead that she was too busy to remember grew alongside the child in her womb and, long after she gave birth to her daughter, wormed their way into her conscious, insisting that she say Kaddish for them every day. Once, she had confided this thought to Jack and he became angry.
‘Life, that is the most precious thing! Life. It takes the place of death. Wedding has precedent over a funeral. I choose joy over this pointless sorrow.’
The shofar blowing was Sadie’s favourite part of New Year: the eerie note of the hollow ram’s horn calling through the centuries. It sang of the symmetry of time and was one constant in an ever-changing world. She listened to the shofar with her family and later, in England, she would close her eyes and pretend she was a girl again. She knew the shofar was the same for her grandparents, her great-grandparents and for King Solomon in the Temple.
‘Let us go and cast away our sins into the river.’
Jack perked up; he had abandoned any thoughts of working with the others on the third hole today. While he was dubious about the prospect of ditching his sins into a body of water, it meant going outside and quietly checking on the course. Curtis and Mike would be in charge; they were smoothing the tee and shaping the bunkers but some determined rabbits were continually disrupting progress.
Together, they walked down towards the dew pond at the bottom of the large field. The small duck pool by the house was rejected, as Sadie was insistent that the water must contain fish.
‘A fish’s need for water symbolises the Jew’s need for God and, as a fish’s eyes never close so His watchful eyes never cease.’
‘Well, there are bloody great fishes in the dew pond and the stream. Curtis saw a pike,’ added Jack, not awed by his wife’s reverent tones.
It was a damp morning, the clouds hovered low in the sky, and the air smelled moist and earthy. Jackdaws circled, cawing overhead in the trees and leaves lay in mushy piles that squelched as they trod. Jack peered up towards the third hole where he could see several men digging and Basset leading two great carthorses down the steep slope. They lumbered unsteadily, their huge hooves trying to grip the slippery ground, until they reached the flat area of mud that was to be the green for the third hole. Jack paused and watched with interest as two men hitched the horses to a pair of stone rollers.
He was reassured that they were managing spectacularly without him, despite wishing that he could climb up to admire the progress. Basset had promised he would bring the horses to level the ground before they put down turf. The horses were old, but Basset kept them in a rare gesture of sentiment, even though he claimed they were merely a back-up in case a tractor broke down. They were bred from a mare belonging to Basset’s grandfather, and Jack supposed the old farmer liked to think of the line carrying on. The horses were enjoying their brief respite from retirement, and steadily pulled the massive roller across the muddy ground.
A few more weeks at this pace and Jack would have another hole done. There was a chance, if the winter was not a cold one, that he would have all nine holes completed by spring. He uttered a little prayer to heaven.
‘Listen, please don’t be offended that I don’t really believe in you. But, just in case, I would be most obliged if you could make this winter a mild one. I’d very much like to finish my course. Otherwise, there is a very good chance that I’m finished – fertig. And, if you really are there, I am sure you don’t want that. There is enough unhappiness.’
He was not sure whether this was the right tone for a prayer – it had been quite a while since he last addressed God. He thought as a concession that perhaps he ought to cast off a few sins. If the slate was clean, God might be more inclined to favour his request.
The grass was vivid green under the blackening sky; rain began to drizzle and a fine mist slowly rolled into the valley below, obscuring Jack’s view. He
helped Sadie climb over the stream to reach the dew pond.
‘Are you sure there are fish?’
‘Quite certain.’
‘Then empty your pockets.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes. And feel contrite.’
Obediently, Jack emptied his pockets. There were several crumbs, a piece of string, a receipt for straw and a bag of humbugs. He tried his best to be contrite, but it was hard because he always tried not to dwell on regrets, although he did regret the paper bag of humbugs that was slowly sinking to the bottom of the pond. He watched Sadie, her eyes closed and her lips moving in prayer as she turned her pockets inside out and flapped them over the water.
‘Hey, there’s nothing in them. They’re already empty,’ he objected.
She opened her eyes and stared at him.
‘Of course I emptied them first. I don’t want to actually throw anything away. You cast away your sins metaphorically.’
‘Oh.’
Now Jack really did regret the loss of his humbugs – they were still on ration.
‘Say Kaddish with me, Jack.’
He sighed, but he supposed, as the English say – in for a penny in for a pound. Round his neck he wore his battered sun hat on a string – it would have to do for a Yarmulke. He placed it on his head and started to sing, his voice mingling with the cries of the birds and the falling rain. Yet, there was a strange sort of harmony to the sound. The wind shook the branches of the willow tree above their heads making tiny drops of water spatter their faces.
‘Yis’ga’dal v’yis’kadash sh’may ra’bbo, b’olmo dee’vro chir’usay v’yamlich malchu’say.’
The dead are held in our memories; we carry them with us through life; one generation to the next, so that our people live on in the minds of our daughters and our sons.
Jack sang the names of those they had lost while Sadie pictured their faces and, for a few brief moments, saw them dancing on the water before her.
Then there was another sound: the rich long note of a horn. It rose up through the mist and echoed against the hillside. Sadie clutched Jack’s arm.
‘A miracle! Thank God! It’s a miracle!’
Tears ran down her cheeks. God had sensed her loneliness and here, in the wilderness, he had found them and sent her the sound of the shofar. They were alone no more; the note of the ram’s horn united them. It rang out across the centuries and cut through the fog to find them. She rubbed Jack’s knuckle with trembling fingers, whispering Papa’s old words, ‘The sound of the ram’s horn is sharp. It is like no other sound. It pierces the armour of the heart.’
For a moment the mist cleared and there was a flash of scarlet and rushing limbs. Jack moved to the edge of the pond and stared towards the horizon. There was the sound of barking and pounding hooves, and then a pack of hounds raced into the meadow below, closely pursued by red-coated riders on thundering horses. The horn cried out again and the hunt disappeared back into the haze. In the distance the note rang out for a final cry, and then silence.
Sadie was sobbing now. Jack passed her a rather grubby handkerchief and noisily she blew her nose. ‘It’s a miracle, Jack isn’t it?’
He reached for her hand, ‘Yes, darling, a miracle.’
Autumn slid into winter. The leaves fell to the ground, blew into piles, turned crisp in the frost and rotted away. The branches were jagged against the pale winter sky, and at night Jack and Sadie listened as the windowpanes rattled and the winds rose up and hissed through the empty attics above their bedroom. Jack dug out extra blankets from one of the boxes and they huddled under it at night, hostilities suspended as they clutched one another for warmth. Each evening Sadie filled the earthenware water bottles in an attempt to ward off chilblains. She kept a chamber pot underneath the bed; it was too cold to traipse down the landing to the bathroom, and in the morning the urine in the bowl was ice covered.
Progress on the golf course was halted by the thick frost. The ground froze one night and did not thaw the next day or the day after that. There was nothing to do, except wait. Jack paced his fairways, admiring the five chequered flags, each one frozen mid-flutter. He now realised his course was rather testing (though he was sure it would be much admired by expert players). From each tee the respective hole was invisible, hidden behind the slope of the valley or masked by scrub. The greens were uneven and steep. The rough was a mixture of wild grass, dogwood and gorse and a ball entering it would be lost for ever (in Jack’s view adding to the challenge). Despite these drawbacks, it had a magnificent position. The view across the countryside was vast and open, and Jack felt his smallness against the great expanse of earth and sky.
November eased into December, bringing the thickest frost of the year, and Elizabeth. Jack was filled with joy at the prospect of seeing his daughter. He missed her noise. Young people filled the house with bustle and life; one could feel the world turning and moving onwards.
Elizabeth was the only girl in her class to go up to Cambridge and Jack was a little in awe of his daughter’s achievement. He’d left school at sixteen eager to join the busy world and was unsure as to the proper English method of educating girls. (The information in Helpful Information was entirely unhelpful on this point, merely stating that Jews should not expect their sons to be doctors, lawyers or dentists since those occupations must be reserved for the offspring of English professionals). Once a year (or so it seemed) Mr Austen presented to Jack a neatly folded copy of The Times announcing the marriage of Miss Marianne Austen or Miss Jessica Austen to a Mr So and So Esq. This appeared to be the pinnacle of an English girl’s achievement, until the following year when the same paper was waved under Jack’s nose so he could admire the ‘safe arrival of Henry Edmund So and So, seven pounds and six ounces’.
Sadie was the one who vocalised concern and consternation – ‘Don’t you want to find a nice boy? Your father will give you all the carpets you could ever want.’ But Jack wanted something more than carpets for his daughter, and if it was Cambridge she wanted, then Cambridge it must be.
Elizabeth knew she was her parents’ connection to the alien, English world and was not above exploiting their ignorance. Most girls went home for the weekends and when at college they were strictly supervised, but she was expert at circumventing rules and avoiding home visits. Even so, she was deeply curious about her parents’ strange journey into rural England. They had never really done anything interesting before, her father made lists and sold carpets, while her mother gossiped and wept when she thought no one was listening.
Sadie cleaned the house and made up the little bedroom under the eaves for her daughter, filling it with all her old childish things. There was the school desk, scratched with ten years of homework, and volumes of Dickens and Shakespeare. In a packing crate she discovered a stash of bedtime stories that she used to read to Elizabeth. Jack didn’t want his daughter speaking German – it was the first and second rules on his list. But, Sadie wanted Elizabeth to hear a little of her language and so read auf Deutsch, the pranks of Till Eugenspiel and the macabre adventures of Stuwelpeter. She wasn’t sure the little girl understood every word, but Sadie wanted her to know that Deutsch was also a language of stories and magic. She wouldn’t let those Schweinepriester take all her words from her. The child promised her mother that she wouldn’t tell Papa about the German storybooks. Sadie cherished their secret. As a girl Elizabeth shared everything with Jack – they were forever laughing at some joke or disappearing off to cafés without inviting her – but those forbidden bedtime books belonged solely to Sadie and Elizabeth. During those minutes, she could be Mutti at last.
Leaving his wife fussing, Jack left early to collect his daughter from the station. There was a deep frost, the leaves coated with white and the grass hidden beneath an arctic layer. The ponds froze and birds pecked miserably at the solid surfaces. The Jaguar was parked inside the barn, covered in a horse blanket and it took him a good ten minutes to fire it up. He packed hot water bottles, which h
e wrapped in blankets, along with a flask of tea mixed with brandy for the journey. The roads were icy and he wondered about the wisdom of driving a sports car; he would have to put chains on the tyres if it snowed.
Elizabeth was waiting on the platform, stamping her feet to keep warm, her hands buried in a pair of red woollen mittens. She had two ancient suitcases, filled with a term’s worth of books, washing and memorabilia. For a moment Jack didn’t recognise the young woman standing very straight in the smart caramel-coloured coat; every last trace of the schoolgirl had vanished. He was the same: small, balding, bespectacled and smiling. Elizabeth ran to him and planted a kiss on both cheeks. He received her affections awkwardly and bashed her nose with his, not expecting the second kiss. Suddenly embarrassed before this elegant, adult creature he tried to prise her cases from her grasp. A moment later a porter appeared and firmly piled the luggage onto a trolley.
‘Let me look at you, Daddy.’
She stood, hands on hips and gazed at her father, who shifted from foot to foot under her scrutiny.
‘You’re thinner. And browner. Your hat’s on funny.’
She reached out and fiddled with Jack’s trilby for a moment, took a step back and shrugged.
‘It never sits right,’ she sighed.
Jack felt himself flush like a schoolboy and walked briskly after the porter to hide his mortification. All his hats were purchased from Lock of St James, the best hatter in London, and yet they never sat right. He wished she wouldn’t always draw attention to it; he was trying as hard as he could and hated it when he shamed her. They caught up with the porter, who loaded the bags into the trunk as Jack slipped him sixpence. Elizabeth rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.
‘Oh Daddy, when will you learn not to tip so much?’ she said when the porter was out of earshot.
Jack winced; she’d told him that before – people sneer at you, if you tip too much.
Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman Page 16