She rolled her eyes at her daughter. ‘So touchy your husband’s people, Chlo. You can’t even buy them a present without their getting aerated.’
I don’t know where she bought the rabbi. She travelled a bit when she could tear herself away from my company, so it was possible she had picked it up in some colony of ex-Nazis hanging out in Argentina. Or a friend could have found it for her, thinking of me, the sheeny son-in-law, in a corner shop in one of the more Orthodox suburbs of Jerusalem. Meer-sh’arim maybe. You can never tell with tat; bad taste narrows the gap between the sentimental way you see yourself, and the scorn with which others see you. Half of what’s for sale in Israel you’d consider anti-Semitic if you saw it anywhere else.
The one thing I knew for sure was that neither she nor her daughter had made it. They lacked both the patience and the aptitude for handicrafts. It’s also very unlikely, wherever Chloë’s mother came by the nodding rabbi, that she’d have shelled out much for it. ‘I’m as tight as you people are,’ she winked at me one day. ‘Only I’m a tightey-whitey, whereas you’re . . .’
She couldn’t think of anything.
‘A meany-sheeny,’ I came back, quick as a flash.
How did she do that? How was she able to lure me into being rude about myself? It was an astonishing gift. She could make you say the vilest things in the hope of saying them before she did.
But as far as the rabbi goes, wherever she got it and however much it cost was finally irrelevant. It was the thought that counted.
4
And among the thoughts it occasioned was this one: it looked like Manny.
A cruel thing to say, as it was a cruel thought to have, but that was the truth of it – the toy rabbi reminded me of Manny, rocking and rolling to Elohim in my Völökswägen’s rear-view mirror.
I wasn’t, you see, much better than my mother-in-law when it came to respect for the holy.
That was my only reminder of Manny in those day – the days before he broke all the Ten Commandments in the act of breaking one – the only reason I ever had to think of him. What had become of him I didn’t know. Not something I enquired about on my occasional visits to Crumpsall Park – whether he’d left home, whether he was still studying at the yeshiva, whether he had indeed become a rabbi, or whether he was tramping the watery pavements like the man with paper in his shoes who popped up all over Manchester, muttering and looking skywards – at one time a famous rabbi himself, people said. Had I seen him in the street I would have stopped to talk to him, of course. Had I bumped into either of his parents on my visits home, or even Asher – though Asher had become a sort of ghost in my imagination by this time – I’d have asked after him and sent him my best wishes. But they didn’t leave the house much, Asher never materialised, and I didn’t go looking.
When I sold the Völökswägen I remembered to retrieve the toy, faithfully repositioning it where it would be visible in the mirror of the new car. And I did it again with the car after that. A sentimental ritual, though whether it was Chloë and her mother I was sentimentalising, or Manny Washinsky, I couldn’t have told you. But after the phone call from my mother apprising me of Manny’s crime, it seemed proper to remove what all at once appeared to be a cruelly satiric effigy of him. I didn’t throw it away. But I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want a comical reminder, bobbing about in the back of my car, of someone who had passed out of comical remembrance into something more terrible.
Later, when they locked him up, I would picture him despite myself – for I tried not to picture him at all – as Goya’s blackchalked Lunatic Behind Bars, his head dehumanised, as pitiful as a caged dog’s, staring out at something he could not see, one naked arm out of the bars, the bars criss-crossed like a wooden crate, a creature as much boxed as barred, nailed away for ever, the more heartbreaking for his compliance.
My removal of him from my sight was more friendly. Not me scalding all trace of him from under my fingernails. More an act of piety.
* * *
I still have the rabbi among my possessions, wrapped in a silk handkerchief and folded into a black cardboard box which had originally housed an expensive set of pencils – a gift from Zoë, ‘To my juicy Jew Jew boy’ inscribed in the lid.
She should have seen Manny’s brother.
That Manny Washinsky was not going to have a conventionally happy life was obvious to everyone who knew him. You couldn’t picture him settled comfortably in a nice house with a loving family and in a fulfilling job – those being what a happy life comprised in those days. You couldn’t even picture him breathing normally. But had someone suggested he would wind up in prison on a murder rap, I’d have laughed and told them they had the wrong person. Right street, wrong person. You mean Errol Tobias, further up and on the other side. You mean Errol Tobias, whose depravity is such that it would be a kindness to the community if you incarcerated him now, the damage he was going to do being only a matter of time. Yet today Manny is the old lag, his imprisoned mind a charnel house, while Errol Tobias performs the functions of an exemplary husband and father, importing wines from Israel and living quietly in Borehamwood.
Whether there are any lessons to be drawn from that, whether Errol Tobias’s depravity was only skin-deep, a passing sinfulness which he would grow out of eventually, or whether it’s still in there, biding its time, I can no more than guess. But he was the most depraved person I had ever met and it’s hard to imagine where in the universe such depravity could have got to had it left him.
His version of the terrible fight he had with Manny – for me a high watermark (or do I mean a low watermark?) in the history of his depravity, though for him I suspect it was just another day – began with Manny biting him. When I disagreed, insisting that from where I stood Manny only started biting him when he started pulling off Manny’s trousers, he changed the story without a qualm to its all beginning when Manny laughed at him. I wasn’t there for that part, which occurred, if it occurred as Errol described it all, at the bottom of the street where Errol was ripping out the Golonskys’ garden. Manny had apparently swum past, on his way home from school, flailing his arms, his mouth opening and closing like a carp’s, at the sight of which Errol had plainly said something along the lines of – though I’m only guessing – Fucking freak! Fucking frummer freak! Not enough to make Manny stop. He was used to being abused. Not by other Jewish boys, it’s true, but then Errol Tobias wasn’t like other Jewish boys. To have got Manny so much as to look up – and I’m still guessing – Errol must have tried needling him about Asher, maybe at that very moment inventing the calumny (because he surely was its source) that Asher was sleeping with the fire-yekelte in Manny’s mother and father’s bed. Very likely, in that event, that Manny would have halted, wondered what to do or say, then grinned that ghastly ice-mask grin of his, the one that got him into so much trouble with Shitworth Whitworth, the one that served the single purpose of stopping his face collapsing altogether. Only someone even less self-possessed than Manny could have taken that laugh of evisceration as directed derisively at him. But that was exactly how Errol, by his own account, took it.
I knew him for a belcher, Errol Tobias. He was one of those boys who could roll belches out of his stomach for as long as he believed it amused people to hear them. An unusual gift in a Jew, who is usually at pains to keep his stomach to himself. And for the same reason especially abominated by Jews, who do not want that knowledge of another person’s. So I reckon he would have shouted Your brother’s fucking the fire-yekelte a few more times, then belched in Manny’s face, before returning to his massacre of the Golonskys’ foliage.
But he must have gone on brooding over what had happened, and nothing good ever came of Errol’s brooding. When he followed himself into his head it was always darker there than it was outside. Manny and I were in the air-raid shelter, refining another year of Jewish bitterness among the five thousand that there were to cover – though we never, I have to say, went at it chronologically – when he turne
d up. It was a shock to both of us. We weren’t aware that Errol even knew of the shelter’s existence, let alone that it was a hideout of ours.
‘This is between me and him,’ he said, holding the flat of his hand out to me, like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Me and the frummer.’
I’d been warned about just such a day, when the yoks would come with their white-boned fists and start knocking us about. Tsedraiter Ike had often told me what to do. ‘Give them everything. Your watch, any money you’re carrying, your yarmulke, everything. And if they call you a dirty Jew, agree with them. Don’t even attempt to defend yourself. You’re bound to lose. They don’t feel pain, remember that. Even if you were to beat their brains out they wouldn’t have the brains to understand that that was what you’d done. Unconscious, they’d still be able to beat you up. Cultivate the Jewish virtue of patience. You’ll get your own back another time, when you’re the judge and they’re up before you for housebreaking. Or when you’re the surgeon . . .’ Even my father, who of course set a very different example of standing up to Nazis, counselled caution when the terrible day, the little local pogrom we all knew was just around the corner, finally rolled round. But what nobody had anticipated was that the yok with the white-boned fist would be Jewish.
And, more ironically still, the very Jew who had made a corkscrew of the neck of Broderick ‘The Bull’ Chisnall, who until then had been a one-man pogrom of his own.
He pushed Manny to the ground – on to the broken bricks and dirt which we’d barely trodden in, so lightly did we occupy the place – and began trying to get his trousers off.
‘Errol . . .’ I said.
He put his hand up to me again. ‘Just me and the frummer.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s done what he’s always done – he’s sat on the khazi.’
‘Errol, everyone sits on the khazi.’
‘Not for twenty-four hours at a stretch, they don’t. Not eating khazi paper, they don’t.’
‘But what’s it to you?’
‘The same as it is to you – life and fucking death. It’s because of him that they march us off to the camps.’
‘That’s shit. It’s because of them that they march us off to the camps.’
‘Yeah, well,’ – he almost had Manny’s trousers off – ‘don’t tell me what’s shit. He’s shit, that’s what’s shit.’
Manny himself was saying nothing. He had curled himself into a ball, a quill-less hedgehog. He was more concerned to cover himself than to inflict any damage on Errol. And it was only when he could see he was losing that battle that he bared his teeth. Mistake, I thought. You don’t bite a mad dog unless you’re an even madder dog yourself.
Against Errol’s elbow in his windpipe, Manny had no defence. You can’t bite when you’re choking.
‘All right, let’s stop this,’ I said. Feeble, but what do you do?
‘The mamzer bit me,’ Errol said. He had fine skin, almost transparent nostrils, which made him appear more dangerous, as though there were some intervening tissue missing in him, some insulative wadding which keeps the peace, prevents internal heat escaping and making a bonfire of everything around. He was too thin of flesh for his own and everyone else ’s good. He was breathing hard. For a moment I thought Manny wasn’t breathing at all. But then Manny had been preparing for just such a moment.
I stood over them, like one of those referees who used to count my father out because of a minor nosebleed. The difference being that I had no authority.
‘The little mamzer bit me like an animal,’ Errol said, as though to himself. He was diaphanous with rage. An almost violet light seemed to shine through him. ‘And now I’m going to show him what we do to animals.’
He had Manny’s trousers round his ankles. Manny had gone foetal, trying to bring his knees up to protect himself, his hands on his genitals. Every boy knows this position from his nightmares. Every man too. Go into the male ward of a hospital and that’s how you will see the men lying. It’s the position in which we expect death to take us.
And what was I to do? If I’d attempted to intervene, to pull Errol off or threaten to get help, he’d have gone even crazier. You don’t provoke a man whose nostrils you can see through. As long as I stayed there, I thought, not taking sides, there would be a limit to any damage he could inflict. I didn’t want to look on, I didn’t want to be a witness to Manny’s shame, I didn’t want to see his nakedness. But I couldn’t risk leaving them alone together.
So now I have imprinted on my mind for ever the picture of Manny failing to cover his private parts, pink and helpless like something not yet born, not at all the colour of the nakedness Dorothy must have fallen for in Manny’s brother, and with nothing of a lover’s grandeur, least of all when he began to squeal, and then to scream, terrible inhuman wails, because Errol had taken hold of his testicles as though he meant to empty them for ever of their contents.
Not out of love have I ever squeezed another man’s testicles, nor can I imagine how I could possibly do it out of hate. If Manny was disgusting to Errol, then how could Errol touch him? Even to inflict humiliation, how could he put his hands on him, there?
I have thought about it since. Only the devil could squeeze the balls of a man he found repugnant. Only the devil or a camp commandant’s wife.
But what Errol did next I am not sure even the devil could have done. He released Manny’s testicles and snatched at his penis, grabbed it as though it were a clump of weeds in the Golonskys’ garden, and pulled. ‘So who do you think of,’ he said, ‘when you’re on the khazi day and night doing this to yourself? Your mother? I bet you think of your mother. I bet you think of your ugly fucking mother in her long dress. Or do you have a shikseh you like to think about, a little fire-yekelte just like your brother’s? Or . . .’ He looked up in my direction, treating me to that lewd gentleman’s gentleman expression he’d inherited from his father, and for a moment I wondered what I would do if he brought my mother or Shani into this. Would I let him get away with that as well? But it was a quite different confidence he wanted to establish. Ilse Koch. Can’t be sure. Can’t prove it. He didn’t finish his sentence. I just felt that Ilse Koch was in the air between us.
End of event. He belched twice in Manny’s face, then was gone. A minute later so was I. Whatever Manny needed to do to recover, I sensed he needed to do it on his own.
What I needed to do to recover I am still trying to find out nearly half a century later. But if I imagined that Ilse Koch thing, if I conjured her out of the horrors of that disgusting scene, grew her like lilies out of manure, what does it say about me?
Manny Washinsky would do an unimaginably evil thing and rot away for it among the criminally insane; Errol Tobias assuredly sups with Beelzebub most nights whatever else he does in Borehamwood; only I have gone on to live a wholesome life, allowing that being a cartoonist, even a marginally failed cartoonist, to say nothing of being a marginally failed husband, does not disqualify a man from wholesomeness. Good citizenship. Kindness to old ladies. Attentiveness to my own mother, who lived to the fine age of eighty-five, all but the first five of them devoted to kalooki. A good boy is what I am. A gutte neshome. Which cannot be said for the other two. Inner life for inner life, though, how much was there to choose between any of us?
5
We were all fucked. There are fifty chapters on the subject in Five Thousand Years of Bitterness, subtitled The Fucking of the Jews, one for every hundred years of it. Not easy to accomplish in pictures only, though I say so myself, without any of the ameliorating charms of prose. Just panel after panel of unrelieved fuckings-over. Not excluding fuckings-over by ourselves, though most of those I was conscientiously reserving for a further volume. It’s important you take responsibility for your own history, but not until you’ve finished blaming all the other bastards first. Credit where credit’s due: we are a self-defeating, self-disgusted, self-eviscerating people, but we couldn’t have got there without outside help.
The Jews, of course, were the first to reject this analysis when Five Thousand Years of Bitterness was published. Fucked up? Us?Who are you calling fucked up, you sick fucker? Or words to that effect.
You can easily upset the Jews. We are dainty-stomached, with no taste for obscenity (I am a case in point: I weep, thinking of Manny with his trousers off ), and a proud sense of reserve, most especially in the matter of having attention drawn to us by other Jews. If someone must depict us we would rather it were a Gentile. The Jewish Contribution to Civilisation, by Sir Shaygets St John-Shaygets-Shaygets, goes down a storm whenever it is reprinted. We suck on praise from Gentiles like babies on the tit. In the praise of Gentiles we find justification for everything we have been through. Thank you, thank you – now would you like to see us go through it all again? But Jews on Jews embarrass us. They put us in mind of Ham, the son of Noah, uncovering his father’s nakedness and discussing it with his brothers. It isn’t just unseemly, it is parochial. If anyone’s going to uncover our nakedness, let it be a goy, preferably one with a title.
So no, if you’re wondering, they didn’t like my cartoon contribution to Jewish art, my lot. Neither did anyone else, much. Not in this country, not in America, not in Israel, not even in Germany where no publisher for it could be found. I like to think the timing was unfortunate. Winter 1976 was when Five Thousand Years of Bitterness saw the light of day here and in America, the warm pro-Yiddler glow of the Entebbe Raid not yet faded. If you were Jewish you were proud again, just as you had been after the Six Day War in 1967, no longer finding your reflection in the furrowed brows of rabbis and philosophers, but in fighter pilots and one-eyed generals. So the last thing you wanted to be reminded of was five thousand years of loss and jeering. Jeer at a Jew post-1967 and you risked a strafing from the Israeli Air Force. Now, post-Entebbe, anyone stealing a Jew could expect to wake to see commandos in his garden. We took no shit. And people who take no shit don’t have to go round making jokes about themselves. Jokes are the refuge of the Untermenschen. Hadn’t that been one of the declared aims of Zionism – the creation of a people who would no longer value themselves only for the wit they brought to bear on their misfortunes? A people, maybe, who would never have to make a joke again. Least of all against themselves.
Kalooki Nights Page 17