Second Violin (43 page)

‘Why is Lord Carsington allowed his freedom? Why is Professor Charles Lockett allowed to teach his racist theories in universities . . . why is Geoffrey Trench, brother of our commandant,
allowed to retain his seat in parliament?’

‘Oh bugger,’Jenkins whispered to Rod. ‘I do wish the old boy hadn’t said that.’

Before Rod could say anything there was an interruption from the floor. Herr Rosen was on his feet, asking that Drax permit him a moment. He alone, it seemed, had used Jenkins’ pencil and
paper to take notes. He stood for a second looking down at them, then he looked straight at Drax.

‘It is undoubtedly true that the English could and should have been less naïve about the true nature of the Nazis. You and I, Professor, have both lived in Berlin, have both been in a
concentration camp. Let us call it the privilege of living the nightmare. We know. We do not doubt. We know. But . . . let us give the English perhaps the benefit of the doubt.

‘When I arrived here I spoke some English, but I was by no means fluent. Of the culture I was entirely ignorant. I knew so little of their history, their art or their literature. Worse
still, I had no clue as to the strange taboos and customs which make the English such a strange and exasperating people. I had no suspicion that such class divisions as the English still maintain
existed anywhere in Europe. I had never heard of “understatement”, and could not for the life of me see why when asked “How did your concert go?” it was wrong to answer
“Splendid, the house was packed” instead of saying “Not too badly.” I could not understand why I should not ask a man about his profession, income, how much he paid for his
suit, and whether he voted Liberal, Tory or Labour. All of them, one might have thought, perfectly justifiable questions in the eyes of any sane human being; and why it seemed to be “not
done” to get excited or indeed passionate about a subject, and why it would be wrong to try and shine in conversation . . . these were mysterious questions to me. I could not, indeed still
cannot, understand their preference for ball games over reading a good book.

‘I came from a country torn by civil strife, wrecked by inflation, where your liberty and indeed your life was often in danger, where you could be arrested and sent to prison or a
concentration camp without trial, and where your race, creed, political opinions could put not only you but your entire family in jeopardy. England – or so it seemed to me – was a
paradise, a country without suffering, changeless, excluded from the common lot of mankind, a happy isle of lotus eaters.

‘Most amazing of all, there were policemen who carried no guns, called you “Sir” and asked you to sit down when you went to report a change of address.

‘Certainly my first impressions were superficial, but I cannot see how they could have been very different. It seemed to me a stranger country than any I had known before, and her people
still seemed to be living in the Edwardian era. It is, as Herr Schwitters reminds us every day, a surreal country – in which a Minister of Defence can proudly announce that there have been
436 and a half volunteers for the army while Hitler has millions of men ready for war; a country where people, who seem to be sane in every other way, were until recently willing to believe the
word of a madman but refused to believe in concentration camps, and suspected that my motive for imploring my new-found friends to re-arm was due to nothing more than a refugee’s craving for
revenge.

‘At first I was very little impressed by London, which I compared – to its disadvantage – with Paris. Trafalgar Square was nothing beside the Place de la Concorde, Whitehall a
poor substitute for the Champs-Elysees, and the Thames was not a match for the Seine. But I fell in love immediately with rural England. Everything was new – everything unexpected. I
discovered the Cotswolds: Burford, Chipping Campden, Winchcombe; I discovered Cambridge and Bath. But above all I fell in love with the English people. What a change from the open rudeness of the
Germans and the thin varnish of politeness of the French. These people are tolerant, kind, helpful, good-mannered, disciplined, friendly, and less selfish than people anywhere else. Rudeness is
exceptional, violence rare.

‘This seems strange, because I cannot imagine any other country where one could live with so little interference from others. Yet all the time the influence is there. It is in the quiet
voices of people in buses and the Underground, making the excitedly talking foreigner drop his voice, unconsciously trying to adapt his ways to his surroundings. It is in the polite way in which
you are treated when you have dealings with the authorities at the police station, or the food office. Abroad, officials make you feel that you are a nuisance, a necessary evil. At first I was
staggered by British officials. I am sure they themselves do not realise how much the newly arrived foreigner is impressed by their quietness and courtesy.

England is an amazing country. To anyone coming from the Continent it is a haven and a heaven. Gentlemen, it deserves our thanks. And its people our understanding.’

With that Rosen sat down again, stuffed the sheet of paper into his pocket. Rod could scarcely believe his ears. Rosen had glanced occasionally at his notes, but he’d spoken unaided for
more than five minutes. And as he sat he’d brought the room to its feet. Jenkins stood and led, hands clapping furiously, like the winning captain at cricket leading a round of applause for
the gallant losers. And man for man they rose with him. Hummel, Spinetti, Schwitters . . . all clapping. Rod was almost the last to join. It was a stunning statement of ‘Englishness’
with which he was not wholly certain he could agree. But Billy Jacks abstained. As the ripple died away, he turned to Rod and said, ‘No copper ever called me “sir”. Chipping
Campden? Chipping bloody Campden? Rosen may know Chipping bloody Campden. Bet he’s never been to Stepney Green. Two cheers for England, eh, ’Ampstead?’

It had been a muddled speech, a disjointed speech – insightful, objective – a resounding, an optimistic, generous response to the bitterness of Drax – but also shot through
with sentimentality. Whilst he would never agree with Drax, it pained Rod to feel he agreed more with Jacks than with Rosen. But it was a hymn to Englishness, and he felt no impulse to make one
himself – just yet.

Drax took it all in his stride. He knew that he had lost his audience for the day. They’d be back.

‘Until next week,’ he said, stacked his notes and left.

One day in the first week of August at nine o’clock in the morning Troy was putting off the paperwork, wishing Scotland Yard made a decent cup of coffee, leaning in the
window of his office, glancing out at the Thames, and reading a censored letter from his brother on the Isle of Man.

The telephone rang.

‘You busy, young Fred?’

‘Save me from it.’

‘Eh?’

‘Paperwork, George.’

‘Oh . . . if it’s a trip out you want, I’m your man. You’d best get back to Whitechapel as quick as you can.’

‘No problem . . . where do you want me?’

‘Market Street Synagogue.’

‘Not another dead rabbi?’

‘Yep.’

‘George, I was joking!’

‘I wasn’t. Old Rabbi Adelson. Found dead in his own synagogue this morning. Get yer skates on.’

Elohim
Synagogue, the formal name of Market Street Synagogue, E. 1., faced Market Street with a vast frontage. It was surprising Troy had never looked closely before. He
could hardly miss it. A huge circular window, a stained glass star of David twenty feet wide, and dozens of little columns, all contributing to a rather Moorish effect, a hint of southern Spain and
Granada. In short, it was grandiose. Brick testament to the first generation of Jewish immigrants to make money in Brick Lane – ‘we’re here, we’re staying, we’re
Jews’. They’d spent their money on this – a dignified statement about God or a fist in the face, depending on your viewpoint. The next generation had spent their money on detached
houses and pretentious porches in Golders Green.

All public buildings seemed to Troy like fakes, like pretentious porches. Promises and preambles that could not deliver. The synagogue reminded him of the casino at Monte Carlo – reminded
him of the Palace of Westminster and St Pancras railway station. What they all had in common was that they could never be what they pretended to be. This was as true of Elohim Synagogue as it was
of St Pancras. Public space lacked intimacy. Without intimacy space was hollow space. Gild it every which way, it was still the gilt of gold-leaf on gypsum. As fake as a film set, as real as a
casino. That God and Mammon should have tastes quite so similar was neither here nor there.

Bonham was waiting inside the door.

‘You wasn’t quick enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘His doctor’s here already. Mrs Adelson sent for him. Dr Guildenstern. A real stickler for the doins – wants the body carted off and cleansed. The works. You’ll have to
be sharpish or they’ll have the old boy under ground before you can say truncheon.’

‘Sounds like a pain in the arse.’

‘He is.’

The electricity to the synagogue was down. Oil lamps had been lit. Troy picked his way through the pews to find Dr Guildenstern kneeling over the body of Rabbi Adelson, medical bag open at his
side. A second man stood holding a torch, aiming it at the body.

‘Rosencrantz,’ he said. ‘I mind the place.’

‘Troy,’ said Troy. ‘Scotland Yard.’

At this the doctor stood up, dropped his stethoscope into his bag, turned to Troy. A small man of sixty or so, short white beard, wire-rimmed glases, a homburg pushed to the back of his head. An
I’ve-seen-it-all look about him that Troy so hated in the middle-aged. A voice that all but rippled with practised sarcasm.

‘So, someone sent for the big boys, did they? Well, there’s nothing here for you or Scotland Yard, Mr Troy. Aaron died of natural causes. Quite simply his heart stopped. Can’t
say I’m surprised. He was seventy-two and he’d been complaining of angina to me for six or seven years. And last night? Well, I reckon there’s a fair few dropped dead of fright
last night.’

Troy said nothing. He peered past Guildenstern to look at the body in the dim light. It was hunched. Almost foetal, as though Rabbi Adelson had curled up into a corner. He turned to the
caretaker.

‘You found him?’

‘S’right.’

‘Exactly where he is now?’

‘More or less.’

Troy looked at Guildenstern.

‘I turned him. Had to. Had to get at his chest. When I found him he was face down, against the floorboards.’

‘I see,’ Troy said. ‘Then he didn’t drop dead?’

‘Mr Troy, I’ve been a physician forty-odd years . . .’

‘He didn’t
drop
at all. He must have crawled in there.’

Guildenstern looked a little flustered at this, but stood his ground, made a fussy display of repacking and closing his bag.

‘People do odd things when they’re frightened . . .’

This was Troy’s point, but he saw no merit in spelling it out.

‘. . . And if there’s one thing you learn in my job, Mr Troy, it’s people.’

‘Frightened of what?’

‘Air raid. There was a false alarm last night. I know. I was awake half the night myself. I should think most of the East End was. We’ve been expecting it for weeks, months even. It
can be terrifying. Until you hear the all-clear. You haven’t a clue whether they’re up there or not. If I’d been here maybe I’d’ve crawled into a corner
too.’

‘But you were in a shelter?’

‘As it happens, I was. I’ve an Anderson in the garden . . .’

Those that had gardens had Anderson shelters. Most houses in this neck of the woods didn’t have either.

‘And the rabbi?’

The caretaker answered, ‘Rabbi has an Anderson too.’

‘Then I need to ask, why wasn’t he in it? If he felt the need to shelter, why here?’

‘I don’t think you do need to ask. A man’s found dead of heart failure after the sirens go off? I’ve no doubts. I’ve no suspicions. I’m happy to give the
family what they want.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘A funeral today. I’m signing . . . natural causes.’