She's Leaving Home (30 page)

Daniel saw him coming. He raised his own drink in salute. ‘Do we say Mazeltov to you yet?’

Maurice drew up a spare chair and plonked down in it. ‘Get me outa this, Danny. Can’t we start a game of cards or something? Plenty of card tables in the back room where the old people play canasta and I’m sure we’ll find a couple of packs. Not everyone wants to dance – or to get plastered, either.’

Daniel chuckled. ‘Annie’d have a fit.’

Maurice fixed him with a glare. ‘You’re the host. You’re paying the bill, for heaven’s sake. If I don’t sit quietly for the next hour I swear I’ll have a heart attack. She may be Sylvia’s idea of perfection but all night with a champion ballroom dancer isn’t mine.’

Daniel was still laughing inwardly but considered how to tackle Annie. It was best done as a
fait accompli
. Mr Mannheim was eager. So were Annie’s brothers and several others, delighted to be relieved of the obligation to cavort with wives and cousins. It was the women who adored the dance floor: the men found the whole business uncomfortable. There was no tradition of it, not of couples twirling around. In the old country men would dance in a line, arms linked across each other’s shoulders, with bottles balanced on tall stovepipe hats, but nobody present knew how or was sufficient of an exhibitionist to try. Only Simon Rotblatt demurred: he was reminiscing happily with Gertie. He could play cards any time he said, and concentrate better without the noise.

Two foursomes were hastily arranged. As the cardsharps slipped discreetly away to the back room, Danny squared his shoulders and marched to Annie.

‘I’m going to play cards for a bit,’ he announced.

‘You’re what? But you can’t. It’s your son’s barmitzvah.’

‘The men want a game.’ He gestured helplessly.

‘You mean
you
want a game.’ She prodded him, furious but impotent.

Daniel spread his hands self-deprecatingly. ‘Look, Annie, I can’t prance around like these youngsters. I’ve never been keen and my legs bother me. You don’t want me keeling over, now do you?’

She pursed her lips. ‘What are you going to play?’

‘Oh, nothing serious.’ Not all the volunteers could manage bridge. He failed to meet her gaze.

‘Poker. You’re going to play poker, aren’t you? Men!’

There was no response since it was true. He wouldn’t gamble, not properly. No question of him losing his shirt. A few quid at most. Shamefaced, with Annie’s eyes like gimlets in his back, he disappeared to the card room.

Sylvia and Vera reached for the wine bottle. ‘So?’ Sylvia asked.

Vera considered. ‘He’ll have to learn to dance,’ she said firmly.

Helen took her glass and sat down near the young Israeli. His provenance was a bit obscure. A relative of her mother’s had emigrated: he was the second generation offspring and lived in Tiberias. But since he was visiting Europe, he had been included. His name was Shlomo.

Shlomo was short and solid. His eyebrows met in the middle over black eyes. On his thick
black hair a knitted
yarmulkah
was perched which he would lift and replace in agitation. He seemed to point a lot too. He would be about nineteen, Helen guessed, dark-skinned, lightly stubbled (it was many hours since the morning) and fierce of manner not softened by a guttural accent. Next to him Jerry Feinstein appeared languid by comparison.

‘But of course you should come to Israel,’ Shlomo was saying loudly. He punched the air. ‘Look at me. I’m a
sabra
– native born. A soldier in the Israeli Army soon. I fight for my homeland. I have something to be proud of. What do you have to be proud of, here?’

Jerry leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. ‘I’m not the type to be proud,’ he confessed. ‘And I can’t say I fancy being in the Army. Getting shot at? Not me.’

His lazy resistance produced an agitated reaction. The index finger jabbed the air, the
yarmulkab
was lifted and replaced twice.

‘But you’re a Jew. You have no life here. And you have a duty to
Eretz Yisroel
, the new state. It is surrounded by enemies. Young men like you, and women –’ he turned to Helen, who was quietly attentive ‘– we have equality, you can serve too in the Israeli Army, the finest in the world. You are needed to defend your homeland. The Arabs have sworn to sweep us into the sea. It will be a second Holocaust. How can you live with that on your conscience?’ He paused, panting.

Helen leaned forward on her elbows in what she hoped was a mild posture.

‘I’m not sure about this homeland business. You say it’s our homeland. I can see it’s yours – you were born there. But Jerry and I were born here. If he wished to he could join the British Army – if they’d have him.’

Jerry giggled but Shlomo was not amused. ‘It is yours too,’ he insisted. ‘Blood was spilled so that every Jew could live in freedom without discrimination. Where else is that possible?’

Jerry pulled a face, but mischief crept into Helen. Elaborately she gazed around – at the noisy dance floor where couples were clumsily jiving and her brother was swinging a pre-teen girlfriend, at tables littered with remains of a delicious salmon meal, at gaggles of relatives engaged in chatter, glasses of wine, beer, whisky and lemonade to hand.

‘How about here?’ she asked.

‘Rubbish. You are not free in this place. Only in your own land where Jews are a majority, where Jews decide the laws. There you can be a Jew without asking anybody’s permission.’

‘I don’t ask anyone’s permission here.’ Helen kept her voice calm. ‘But real freedom comes from being neither majority nor minority. It means being able to decide your own fate without interference. From anyone. I’m not sure I fancy Israel. I read that ultra-orthodox Jews prevent shops opening on
shabbos
, and attack women who walk around old Jerusalem with their arms uncovered. It’s supposed to be a secular state. Doesn’t sound like freedom to me. Or equality.’

The
sabra
mumbled about having respect. Helen could feel her heart pound. Here was an easy target, this man who wore arrogance like a badge of honour: but he was also a guest. Yet the opportunity to interrogate him and learn in the process was not to be forgone. He was far more of a stranger, she suddenly realised, than Michael. She pressed on.

‘And what about those Arabs who live within Israel’s borders? They don’t have the right to vote. Where’s the freedom for them?’

‘Israel is a country in a permanent state of war.’ The
yarmulkah
bobbed up and down. ‘We cannot give rights to our enemies.’

‘Perhaps if you gave them rights they wouldn’t be enemies.’ Helen was aware that this was naive. It was also heresy. ‘It looks to me a terrible shame that, coming as they did from such mayhem, the founding fathers couldn’t have set
Eretz Yisroel
up as a truly multi-racial state.’

Shlomo looked horrified. ‘But it’s a Jewish state,’ he insisted.

Helen and Jerry exchanged glances. The same argument had been repeated many times at Harold House. Jerry yawned and poured himself another drink.

‘All I know, Shlomo, is that I’m British and quite content with that. For the time being, anyway. I’ll go to Israel on holiday, and no doubt when I can afford to I’ll contribute to its upkeep as my Dad does. But I live here, thank you very much, and I intend to stay put.’

‘As long as they’ll have you,’ the
sabra
muttered darkly. He reached into the bread-basket, found a last roll and bit savagely into it.

The exchange came to an inconclusive end. Helen felt curiously elated. The
sabra
’s arrogance and bellicosity had been distinctly unappealing, but he had found no converts. As the band tried a Chris Montez number, Jerry took Helen out on to the floor.

The card room was fuzzy with blue smoke, mainly from cigars. The Majinsky barmitzvah was, after all, a big social event, though thankfully not so grand that penguin suits had to be worn. Ties were loosened, jackets removed and hung over the backs of chairs. Several male guests stood about, waiting a turn. A hum of concentration pervaded the air, with the slap of cards, the occasional jingle of coins, and brief snatches of conversation.

It was, most definitely, not a place for the ladies, which was precisely why the gentlemen had gravitated to it. So when Gertie appeared at the door and lounged, Marlene Dietrich-like in her gown, her presence dismayed several of the key players.

One portly man threw down his cards. ‘Lady Luck not in it for me tonight,’ he said. He addressed Gertie. ‘Hey, no female spectators. This ain’t a casino. Either take my place and play, or leave the big boys to get on with it.’

Eyebrows were raised as Gertie slid into the proffered chair. Before anyone could put the obvious query of whether she knew how to play, she motioned to the man on her left. ‘Cut for dealer,’ she instructed. With a gulp he complied. She grinned cheerfully, laid her gilt handbag on the table and perched half-spectacles on her nose. ‘Ready?’

The bandsmen took their break and sat about sipping pints thirstily. They were regulars at such functions, and as usual related to several of the guests. One was a brother-in-law of Simon Rotblatt, who took the opportunity to exchange a few words.

‘Bernie! Good to see you. Don’t you go deaf playing that kids’ stuff – what was it?’

The band’s last effort had been a version of the Four Seasons’ ‘Walk Like a Man’. Even Bernie the bandleader had to admit that their falsetto had been inadequate. He mopped his brow with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘So what’d you prefer, Simon? Always glad to oblige.’

Simon put his head on one side. I like my music romantic. Haven’t had a dance yet. How about a Strauss waltz? I can manage that.’

‘Dunno ’bout Strauss. What about “Tales of Hoffman”? The Barcarolle. I got that music.’ The bandleader hummed the tune and Simon smiled.

And as the bittersweet strains of the lush waltz floated out to cries of acclaim, Simon Rotblatt approached Annie, bowed formally before her and asked her to take the floor with him.

They started slowly, a little awkwardly, the dapper man, the small faded woman, his arm firmly round
her waist to guide, her hand lightly on his shoulder, their other hands linked and outstretched to balance. The gap between their bodies closed, cheek brushed cheek. As their timing and confidence in each other improved they whirled faster, almost as one entity, toes and legs in step to the lilting melody. For a few moments the pair were the centre of admiring attention, until new couples swept in and they were lost from sight.

Daniel had been on his way to the gents, cigarette in hand. His calves ached and he stopped briefly to observe the dancers. At first he was pleased to see his wife enjoying herself: she had put so much into ensuring the success of the
simchah
that her own pleasure had taken a back seat. But it was Daniel and only he who saw that the expression on Annie’s face was one of utter yearning, while Simon Rotblatt, his arm about her, had his eyes half closed in a look of inextinguishable devotion.

Daniel turned abruptly into the toilet. He entered a cubicle and locked himself in. It was ten minutes before he emerged, driven by the realisation that his absence might be noticed. The card game had lost its savour; he collected his small winnings and returned slowly to the top table. His wife, flushed and bright-eyed, was engaged in animated conversation with her sister and two women friends, her daughter at her side. Simon was nowhere to be seen.

Daniel touched Helen’s elbow to draw her away. ‘Had a good time?’ he asked. ‘Bit hard being big sister today, I know.’

In response she squeezed her father’s arm. ‘It’s been fabulous, Dad. You and Mum should be delighted.’

Side by side they surveyed the boisterous, happy scene.

Daniel spoke. ‘So: you think you can give all this up, Helen? Wouldn’t you miss us if you went away?’

‘That’s a bit extreme, Dad. I’d come back. Especially for
simchas
– of course I would.’

‘Once you go you lose contact, you know,’ her father warned.

‘I don’t see why necessarily,’ she defended. ‘Unless we meant to. If a family wants, they’ll stay in touch from anywhere in the world.’

‘It’s not that easy. Air travel costs a fortune. Globetrotting isn’t for the likes of us.’

Once again that attempt, so depressing, so insidious, to keep her in her place. In
their
place, the one they had chosen for themselves.

‘Well, Dad, you send the invites and I’ll turn up. Especially for functions like this.’

That was tactless: her father needed no reminder that their ordinary life was much more mundane, and that it was its very emptiness which pushed her elsewhere.

She turned to him, abashed. His face had a bleak air. What she should immediately have said was that she loved her parents, loved her home. There would have been no obligation to follow that up with a declaration that she would never leave – Daniel would not have believed her. Their relationship had never been based on deliberate falsehood, even if absolute truth had sometimes gone astray.

Her parents’ style had defeated them all. ‘I love you’ was not in their vocabulary. And at times, in her darkest moments, she wondered whether she did love them. Or whether they loved her, if loving meant understanding at any level at all. Naturally they ‘loved’ her in the sense that they worried about her, and wanted her to be a success – in their terms. Nothing would make her mother more deliriously happy than another
simchah
just like this one in five years’ time, for her own nuptials. But surely there had to be more to it than that?

She stayed near her father a while longer. His remarks had been spontaneous: he had not been attempting blackmail – nothing so crude, merely an emphasis on what was at stake. But Helen had no illusions. Her family would adhere to the rules. Ostracism would come into play. Should she choose to marry a
goy
, there’d be no celebrations in the Marcus Liversham hall, no clutches of aunts and uncles, no table littered with gifts and congratulatory telegrams. At least not from her side. Her family
would not attend her wedding at all, and could well refuse to see her again. The unremarked absence of her mother’s pharmacist brother Davy and his
shikse
wife was mute testimony to that fact.