Jay shrugs. ‘We don’t know for sure that Ben qualifies as Jewish. We won’t know properly until we go back to England. Rabbi Zwyck tells us that the families’ synagogues will have records. These together with our birth certificates …’
‘Rabbi Zwyck may be correct in this. Who knows? But with your names and background I would say you’ll be confirmed as Jewish.’ His twisted smile appears again, accompanied by an exaggerated shrug. ‘Why would a gentile claim to be a Jew?’
‘What if he isn’t?’
‘Who knows? Have you seen the show? The audience is very wound up as the first half closes with your son’s song. There is an ambiguity – are they cheering the flags? Do they applaud the swastika that they see for the first time? We’re not happy. Mr Costidy doesn’t understand that our preference would be for the school not to put on this particular production. If it has to be Cabaret – why not some other symbol?
‘But he will do it. We have Rabbi Zwyck’s support … and her congregation’s.’
‘Rabbi Zwyck is a fine woman but she’s not …’ he tails off. ‘Look, Mr Halprin. I’m proud to have become a citizen of this great country. I’m proud that we have freedom of speech. Mr Costidy should have the right to put on the production. Your son should have the right to play this part. I don’t agree but wasn’t it a British politician who said he would defend such rights with his life?’
It was Voltaire – he was French.
‘I think it was Voltaire – French.’
Stern sticks out his bottom lip and nods. ‘Voltaire? I must look it up. But I and my congregation – we have the right to say it shouldn’t be so. We have the right to disagree.’
Jay nods. ‘I can understand what you’re saying. I can’t argue with it. As long as it doesn’t affect my boy.’
‘In my experience teenage boys can stand being the centre of attention better than we realise.’ He steeples his fingers under his chin. ‘We can agree to disagree on this then, Mr Halprin? ’
‘Jay. Call me Jay.’
‘You know, Jay, you’re an interesting man.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I’m referring to your escape from the towers.’
Here it comes.
Jay examines the bottom of his coffee mug.
‘God has given you a new start. What an opportunity!’
Butt out, Rabbi! This is Elayna’s job.
‘What do you mean?’ Jay stretches his neck to alleviate the tension building around his collar bones.
‘You’re already some way along the path by returning to the faith.’
Jay spreads his hands. ‘I’m confused more than anything. We’re going back to the UK. After that …’
‘Perhaps there you’ll find the opportunity to dedicate your life … fulfil your destiny.’
‘I have no sense of destiny – I don’t know what it feels like.’
I’ve told you. I know enough about destiny for both of us.
‘You’ll know it when it comes – a sign from God perhaps.’ Stern stands and offers his hand. ‘It’s been good to meet the enemy, Mr Halprin. Unbridled antipathy of a personal nature is seldom warranted.’
Jay takes the hand and shakes it. ‘I agree, Rabbi. I agree.’
When Jay arrives home, Rachel tells him there’s a phone message: Prentice Chervansky has set aside some books for him.
Chapter 28
The most striking thing about Ngaio Marsh, a woman in her late thirties, was that she had absolutely no bosom. The jacket of her blue woollen suit was buttoned low revealing a plain blouse which she wore with a feminine version of a cravat. The blouse was devoid of any protuberance whatsoever.
I have to confess I found her androgynous appearance and mannish bearing quite stimulating. I’m ashamed to say that, even while we were chatting, I was distracted by the unique – for me – thought of what this woman would look like with no clothes on. When later I read that Miss Marsh had denied being a lesbian despite having a succession of female ‘companions’, I found it hard to credit.
But, I digress. After Everley had introduced us he sat back and rather let us get on with it. Ngaio, as she asked me to call her, went through the tiresome business of praising the Dexter Parnes books. She said that she understood I was taking Parnes to Berlin for the third book and this was creating a difficulty for me. She picked up her empty cigarette holder – an ivory stub with gold banding.
I took my cigarette case out of my pocket.
“Everley here tells me your book is sure to be a best seller. He’s very taken with the veracity regarding police procedure. ‘It’s what marks it out,’ he says.” I offered her a cigarette but she looked at it, wrinkled her nose and turned to Everley, who offered her one of his Senior Service.
Ngaio inserted the cigarette and put the holder to her lips. Everley had his lighter ready. She only let the cigarette end touch the flame for a second before she pulled away, her cheeks hollow as she drew in the smoke. She tossed her head as if to flick away the cloud of blue which accompanied her exhalation. “Sorry. I don’t smoke Turkish.”
I waved the apology away.
“I do my research,” she said.
“That’s what I’d like to talk about.”
Twenty minutes later I left Ngaio and Everley to have their conversation about her Alleyn sequel with a name and address in my pocket. It was of a man who lived near Clapham Common. He was a reformed old-lag who was introduced to Ngaio by a policeman she had nurtured at Scotland Yard. The man – Victor Simons – made a precarious living on his wits and, if anybody knew anything about false passports, it would be him. There was no telephone number so I had no alternative than to hail a cab and ask to be taken to Clapham Common.
The cab-driver gave me a second look before saying, “Bit eager aren’t yer?” and it took the rest of the journey before I understood he was commenting on my appearance and the fact that I was very early if I expected an assignation. I decided to ignore his impertinence and withheld my customary tip as a punishment.
The house was in a run-down street. It had been a smart terrace once, built probably for the people doing the work I had done, it seemed so many years ago, in that insurance office in Cheapside. But something had marked this area out for near-dereliction. The paint was cracking on the window frames and the front doors were peeling. The windows were obscured with filthy net curtains or grey sheets. Children played in the dust that collected in the cobbled gutters. I went along the terrace counting the houses to number 19, pulled back the knocker and let it fall.
The woman who came to the door had rags in her hair and a loose none-too-clean housecoat that she pulled together across her bosom which was exposed inside a cotton slip. Her legs and feet were bare. “Whaddyer want?” She eyed me suspiciously.
“I’m looking for Mr Simons … Victor?”
“He ain’t ‘ere.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yeah. What’s it worf?”
“A shilling?”
“Let’s see it.”
I took the coin out of my pocket and laid it on the flat of my right palm. I was ready to close my fist if she made a move.
“See that pub on the corner. Saracen’s ‘ead?”
I looked in the direction of her pointing finger and could see a pub sign swinging at the end of the road. “Yes.”
“E’s in there.”
I looked at my watch. “But it’s not open yet.”
“Never shuts. Nah, piss off.” She took the shilling from my hand and closed the door.
The entrance to the pub was on an angle to the street corner. I pushed the door but it was locked. I could see the blurred outlines of figures sitting at tables through the etched glass. There was no noise. Nobody moved towards the door. I turned round and retraced my steps. There was an alley behind the pub and I went down it, stepping carefully over broken glass. There was a strong smell of stale beer. I knocked at the back door.
A shout came from inside. �
��S’open.”
I turned the handle and found myself in a hallway with stairs leading up on the left. There was a passage alongside it with two doors on my right. The first was ajar and I could see steps down into a cellar. The other open door led through to the bar – in the far corner was the frosted glass of the entrance I had tried earlier. I stepped through and it was as if the clock had gone back to the lunchtime licensing hours – each round table had a group of men with pint glasses in front of them. There was a woman behind the bar. “Can I ‘elp you?” she said.
“I’d like a gin and bitters, please,” I said, anxious to get into the way of things.
“We’re shut. Want me to lose my licence?”
I looked round me.
“They’re friends. We’re ‘aving a private meeting.”
“I see. Well, I’m looking for Victor Simons.”
She surveyed the room. “E’s not ‘ere.”
There was a movement to my right. It was a man standing. “S’all right.” He looked me up and down. “Looks like a man could put a bit of business my way.” He was now alongside me. “Am I right, Mr …”
I said the first name that came into my head, “Everley.”
“Why don’t we step into my office, Mr Everley?” With that he led me back the way I had come and we stood alongside each other in the back alley.
I took out my cigarette case and flipped it open. “Smoke?”
His hand snaked out and he held my wrist. “Gold, Mr Everley. You don’t want to be flashing it round here. Yes, I will avail myself of your generosity.” He took two cigarettes. In a well-practised movement, he swung one up behind his ear and the other into his mouth and then stood, chin jutting forward, waiting for the light. I fumbled a cigarette between my lips and then flicked my lighter into life. We both blew out smoke noisily while I returned the case and lighter to my pocket.
“Shall I start … here?” I said.
“Yeah. What seems to be the problem?” He smiled, revealing black, broken teeth. His face wasn’t stubbled but he was clearly a man who needed to shave twice a day. He was hatless and his hair was combed across to hide the baldness on his crown. His dark blue suit had a faint chalk stripe and his shoes were not clean. His neck was scrawny inside a collarless pale blue shirt.
He held up a hand. “Just so’s you know I’m not as stupid as I look, I know your name’s not Everley, is it Mr Everley? Else why would you have the monogram CEM on your smart gold cigarette case? But then maybe it’s best for both of us I don’t know your name. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
I stammered. “Yes. It’s probably best.”
“‘Cept you know mine and that might put me at risk. And we have to put this fact to the account, don’t we, Mr Everley? It’s a question for the account.” He put his hands out as a signal for me to tell him my story.
“I am a friend of Miss Marsh, the writer. I’m afraid I told her an imperfect version of the truth … my reason for wanting to see you. But, as you put it, this was a matter of mitigating risk. You see, I am a writer too. But I’m in a spot where I need to obtain a false passport. I don’t just need to know how it’s done, I need to do it.”
Victor Simons screwed up his eyes, studying my face. “And if I wanted to contact Miss Marsh, she would back up that she referred you to me?”
“Yes. Up to a point. She thinks I want to know the theory of getting a passport.”
“Is it for you?”
“No, a friend … a brother.” I looked down and shifted some of the broken glass with my toe.
“Hmmm. A passport to make somebody seem to be your brother.”
“Yes.”
“British then.”
“Yes.”
“Do you ‘ave a photograph?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Positive or negative?”
“Undeveloped film.”
“Better. Here?”
“Yes.”
“Better still.”
I had lost any semblance of authority. “I’ll want it to have some entry and exit stamps for countries in Europe – just a few to make it look genuine.”
He nodded. “No problem.”
“But it’s important it has an open entry stamp for Germany. One that hasn’t been counter-franked.”
“So he’s in Germany now – your brother.”
“Yes.” My face flushed. I was telling him too much. “How quickly can it be done?”
“Very quickly. Coupla days.”
Before we parted, I had handed over the film spool, five pounds and the details for Wolf’s passport. I realised that the surname of my “brother” on the passport gave mine away but assumed this wouldn’t trouble Simons as long as he received his cut of the deal. We arranged to meet in the Saracen’s Head three days later when Simons would hand over the passport and I would give him another £20.
“How do I know you won’t go off with my five pounds and I’ll never see you again?” I asked.
“You don’t,” Simons said, dropping his butt to the floor and grinding it into the glass with a crunching sound.
I had no trouble getting the cash together next day and I sent a telegram to Frau Guttchen to let her know when I would return. I hoped all was well. I received a reply to say that my brother sent his love.
On the appointed day I was outside the Saracen’s Head shortly before evening opening time. I heard the door bolts being drawn back and stepped inside. Although there were four or five men inside already with drinks in front of them, Simons was not one of them.
I asked for a glass of mild beer and took a seat on the bench below the window. Almost immediately a spotty youth in a cloth cap and muffler sidled up. “You Everley?” he said.
I had forgotten the subterfuge of the first meeting and nearly shook my head. I recovered in time. “Yes.”
“Vic says don’t worry, he’ll be here. Just sit tight. He said to check you’ve got the rest of the money.”
I nodded.
He sat beside me and I was engulfed in a fug that carried the odour of mouldy bread. “Show me,” he said.
I took out my wallet and, hidden by the table, fanned out four five-pound notes.
The youth swept out of the pub leaving the sour smell behind and I wondered what part he played in what was happening. Had the passport not been finished until they knew the money was assured? Were they only now pasting Wolf’s picture to the document and placing the all-important stamp across its corner?
In any event I had to wait with increasing nervousness for two hours before Simons sidled in with his elbows tight to his sides and his hands inside his jacket pockets, stretching the seams. He headed directly for the rear door and beckoned me to follow him by cocking his head.
He was sweeping a space clear of broken glass with his shoe when I reached him.
“Have you got it?” I asked.
He looked to left and right and held out his hand. “The money, Mr Everley.”
I stepped back; my heart was racing. Was he double-crossing me? How I wished I had Dexter Parnes VC alongside me at that moment. “Not until I see you have it.”
He fished into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced what looked like a passport. “Hand over the cash.”
I was determined not to be made a fool of. “Show me his photograph and the details.”
Simons opened it and turned the pages towards me. As far as I could tell, the style of the script, the way the picture was stamped, all appeared genuine. “And the entry stamp?”
He sighed and glanced up and down the alley again. He flicked through the pages and turned it to face me. The stamp was there and the date was written exactly as on my own. It all seemed to be as I had asked.
“Satisfied?”
I took out the four notes and we made the exchange hurriedly, anxious that neither lost control of their side of the bargain.
“Good to do business wiv you, Mr Everley.” He put a finger to his eyebrow.
I ignore
d him and as I stood studying the passport page by page, I heard the scrunching underfoot as he swivelled away and disappeared through the doorway. Hoping that what I had in my hand would do the job for Wolf, I went along the alley, out into the street and headed up to the main road where I hoped to hail a cab.
Chapter 29
Prentice Chervansky is wearing a caramel-coloured twin-set on this occasion and Jay wonders whether her choice is based on a rota or depends on her mood. Perhaps she has an infinite supply of these cashmere garments and once worn, each set is discarded.
She sees Jay come in and dips to reach a pile of books. She stands waiting while he unwinds his scarf, undoes his coat and removes his gloves. Her smile widens as he approaches. ‘Hi, Jay. I’ve searched our non-fiction catalogue and these are all about Berlin and the rise of Hitler.’
He raises a hand in greeting. ‘Biographies of Hitler?’ Jay’s not sure he wants to read them.
‘No!’ She glances up as if to check whether he’s teasing her. ‘We wouldn’t carry material like that.’
‘So what have you found?’
‘Well, these are based on personal experiences of people in Berlin.’ She hands him three hardbacks.
He reads the titles: Before the Deluge, The Past is Myself, and What I Saw and turns to the blurb wordings: ‘the tawdry, dangerous and undeniably exciting story of the sickness which overcame Germany in the ‘20s’; ‘immortalizing the everyday life of 1920s Berlin’; ‘an unforgettable portrait of an evil time’. ‘I’ll take them. Thanks.’ He hands over The British are Coming.
While she scans the barcode, Prentice asks, ‘Did you enjoy this one?’
‘Yes, it mentions Cameron Mortimer – the British author who lived near here.’
‘Oh! Does it say anything about Burford Lakes?’
He decides it would be too cruel to shock her with an account of Mortimer and his pool boy.
It would have been fun to see her mouth curl in distaste.
Out of Such Darkness Page 20