She's Leaving Home (46 page)

‘Cambridge?’ The question was an order.

‘I don’t know if I’d get in.’ The eyes were lowered, modestly, but only for a split second.

‘Nonsense.’ Dr Swanson stopped herself. Hopes must not be raised. She yearned to lift the child’s chin with her fingertip but a thousand people were watching. Instead she cleared her throat so
that the girl looked at her sharply. ‘You must apply. If you’re good enough, you’ll have the same chance as everyone else.’

Majinsky nodded and seemed reassured. It was so difficult, Dr Swanson reflected, to convince these northern girls that her college sincerely desired to accept more of them, although naturally merit alone would determine that private schools would fill most places for many years yet.

The next pupil was also on her mental list. A slight figure, pale face with black hair tied back in a lacklustre style, head down. As the girl mounted the steps she almost stumbled, and walked the twenty yards across the platform with a diffident air. Dr Swanson pursed her lips. Something about the child was not quite – clean.

‘Colette O’Brien – physics and form prize,’ came Miss Plumb’s voice, as if from far away.

Dr Swanson shook the hand held out awkwardly to her. It was limp and clammy. Alarmed, she tried to peer into the girl’s eyes but caught only a glimpse of their unusual hue. ‘Congratulations, Colette,’ she began formally. ‘And are you planning –?’

A deep groan came from Colette, as if her body had been winded by a blow. Her grip slackened, then she began to sag. Dr Swanson put out her other hand. Behind her Elizabeth Plumb took a quick step. ‘Colette – are you all right?’

‘Help me – oh – o –’ came the sigh. There was a sudden terrified plea in her green eyes. Then the eyeballs rolled upwards so the whites showed, and she staggered a step away from the two women. In a second she had collapsed into a crumpled heap at their feet.

Helen had reached the far end of the platform when she heard the thump and ensuing commotion. That Colette was in trouble somehow did not surprise her. Promptly she dropped her books and ran back. The two academics were standing over the insensible girl in mute shock; in the background Mr Magnay danced and yelped for a doctor. Other teachers flapped about in their gowns like old scarecrows. A hubbub arose as the audience craned to see.

As carefully as she could, Helen knelt at Colette’s head and cradled it in her lap. The girl’s skin was white as a sheet and tinged blue around the nostrils and lips. Gently, unsure what to do, Helen patted her friend’s face. ‘C’mon, Colette, wake up,’ she murmured anxiously. The eyelashes fluttered and a little cry came. Helen looked up at the adults. ‘I think she’s only fainted. She hasn’t been feeling too well in class lately.’

A doctor, all stolid eminence, had emerged from the stalls and climbed the steps to the platform. The prone figure in its crumpled school uniform was lifted by the men and set on tottering feet, then assisted backstage to the green room. Helen went with her, for Colette would not let go her hand. It would not have occurred to Helen to do otherwise.

Elizabeth Plumb and Edith Swanson stared fixedly at each other. In the hall the inquisitive chatter had crested then calmed to a fierce buzz. It was the don who broke the impasse.

‘Duty first, my dear. I think we’d better carry on, don’t you? The other girls are waiting. Who’s next?’

‘Tekiah – Tekiah
–’

The ram’s horn was lifted reverentially to the young acolyte’s lips. A hush fell upon the congregation. This was the instant they would be called to account: when their sins, and
mitzvahs
if they had any, were being weighed in the divine balance. To most of the assembly the shofar-blower looked ridiculously youthful for such a weighty role, indeed barely old enough to be out of school. The thin strands of beard on his cheeks did not reassure. His tongue flickered wetly. Then he took a deep breath and blew.

For a dreadful moment nothing emerged but a puff of air. The entire assembly swayed,
open-mouthed
. Surely the young ordinand, sent specially from London, would not fail them? A silent ram’s horn would be too humiliating, not to speak of a dismal portent for the new year.

Red in the face under his horn-rimmed spectacles and white velvet hat the youth tried again. His elbows flapped as he raised the horn to a sharper angle and his silky robes, white for the New Year, billowed about his thin figure. A raw squeak emerged, then suddenly he got the hang of it and blew hard and true. The unearthly noise rose in the synagogue, piercing and ethereal. No one spoke, but on the front row someone sighed deeply.

‘Tekiah – Shebarim – Teruah –’

This time it was short blasts, angry and unpredictable, like an alarm bugle, the echo of tribal trumpets as a rallying call to war. Wrapped in their fringed shawls the elders moaned and swayed. The blower gained the instrument’s measure and barely paused as each cue was called:

‘Tekiah – Tekiah – Teruah – Tekiah Gedolah –’

The wail of the ram’s horn rose and sobbed and drove into the furthest corners of the synagogue. In the gallery the women leaned back as if to avoid it. One old lady twisted her head this way and that as if she had heard it long ago in some more terrible circumstance. To every listener the cry seemed to go on for ever until the pain was almost too much to bear.

Then as brusquely as it had begun, the utterance came to an end with a single drawn-out note, high and fine. The faithful let out their breath with a slow hiss. Murmured words of gratitude came as they bowed and nodded to each other. For another year their identity had been revealed to them, their godly covenant confirmed. They knew themselves once more.

‘Excellent,’ commented Reverend Siegel. Shofar-blowing was not the Minister’s forte and it did no good to the singing voice; he was happy to see it delegated.

The visitor adjusted his hat on his head and slumped in his seat. He had played no formal part in the devotions up to that point and had appeared morose and self-absorbed, as well he might, for he was required to do no more than to blow for service after service during the ten days of prayer and penitence from the New Year to Yom Kippur.

In the next to back row, partly protected by a pillar, Daniel Majinsky stared down at his feet. That weird sound, so powerful yet so full of grief: unmistakable, and unreproducible by other means. It chilled the bones as if some genetic memory had been disturbed – he felt himself like a wild animal, drawn to bay aloud in unison. The shofar troubled him in ways he could not easily analyse.

For the rest of the year the pale yellow horn would be wrapped in white silk and hidden at the back of the Ark behind the Torahs. Nobody would dream of breaching its sanctity by taking it out to demonstrate or even to practise. In earlier times it had been used much more often, to announce the start of sabbath on Friday nights village by village, for example, but not now. Its infrequent appearance added to its potency, for this was not magic nor witchcraft but the heart of a people, before words and beyond understanding. To handle the horn was itself a
mitzvah
, to blow it a
terrifying responsibility, to hear its cry an awesome challenge which year by year made him shiver.

An air of self-congratulation hovered about Daniel’s neighbours instead of the anxiety of a few minutes before. Two rows ahead he could see the shawled shape of Simon Rotblatt visibly relax. In middle age Simon had become quite
frum
; a true adherent, who paid well for his better view. It was a sentiment Daniel did not share as he watched Reverend Siegel mount the podium and adjust his robes, ready to deliver his sermon.

Through the high windows the September sun slanted in. One side of the synagogue soon became warm and stuffy. The wood of the pews where the sun lingered turned hot to the touch. Upstairs women in their best hats and the latest fashions fanned themselves discreetly and passed around a bottle of lavender water. A fly buzzed lazily at a window. Daniel could see Maurice Feinstein squint against the light and try to shift away from its merciless passage but without success. Above them Morrie’s new girlfriend in a ridiculous bit of millinery dabbed her throat with a lace handkerchief.

‘My dear friends. Our New Year has begun. For two days we do as our forefathers commanded, as it is written:
And in the seventh month, on the first day of the month, ye shall have a holy convocation; ye shall do no servile work; it shall he a day of blowing the horn unto you. And again, Blow ye the trumpet on the new moon, in the time appointed, on our solemn feast-day. For it is a statute for Israel, an ordinance of the God of Jacob
.’

Daniel half smiled as he saw Siegel raise his head from his notes to reclaim the attention of his flock.
No servile work
: so all Jewish-owned shops and businesses were closed, as was his own, their proprietors united in worship. About him a muted hum of conversation had risen and fallen then rose again, never sufficient to be intrusive. They had heard every syllable so many times before. The text was lifted straight from Leviticus, Numbers and Judges. Identical hallowed phrases had been uttered in every Jewish gathering including the Temple in Jerusalem since time immemorial. ‘
When the trumpet is blown, hear ye!
’ Isaiah had thundered. They heard, though avoiding their Minister’s direct gaze, but on the whole they heeded not.

‘Happy is the people that knoweth the sound of the trumpet.’
Daniel smiled to himself. Siegel with his rounded voice, those guttural vowels, was finding his stride.
‘In the light of thy countenance, o Lord, shall they walk. In thy Name shall they rejoice and in their righteousness shall they be exalted. For thou art the glory of their strength, and in their favour shall our horn be exalted.’

Daniel did not feel exalted. Not yet, anyway. And he dreaded Yom Kippur itself in ten days’ time. From dusk to dusk nothing whatever could then pass his lips, not even a drink. Throughout waking hours he would feel absolutely and devastatingly
hungry
. The entire day would be spent in the synagogue, in this seat, supposedly in prayer.
In the seventh month on the tenth day of the month, ye shall afflict yourselves
. By late afternoon he would be faint and tired. Only the sick could be excused, their reasons discussed in ghoulish whispers as they shuffled out.

By the end of the drawn-out festival, despite his refusal to believe a single word of the whole mumbo-jumbo, both body and spirit (if that was what it was) would be wearied and knocked about as if pummelled in a boxing match. And yet: he had to admit that some years, if the fast were easy, he came to its end curiously calm and refreshed. The pious believed that during the Ten Days of Atonement God was near, as if He hovered invisible in the synagogue’s dusty air. For Daniel that was altogether too close to the transubstantiation of the Catholics. If he felt lightheaded, that was hardly surprising. If virtuous, perhaps it was merely the self-discipline, the knowledge that he could still do it, wasn’t too decrepit just yet. In this year of grace, decreed by the rabbis as 5,724 since the creation of the world, Daniel Majinsky asked for no great uplift. He would be thankful for a cigarette and his dinner on the table when it was over.

And perhaps the prayers did some good. If God existed, then He might be taking notes. If not, no harm was done. So Daniel, like most of his acquaintance, attended without fail and insisted on the
whole family’s appearance together in their finery. The observance had serious purpose: partly to show off to friends and customers, but mainly to demonstrate solidarity. Even had he hated every second he would not have put the community at a disadvantage by not turning up. The more swollen the numbers the better. Should the synagogues ever empty the community would die.

But he did not hate it. Daniel stretched out his painful leg and tried to ease the cramped muscle. Best to concentrate on something outside his own body: then its aches were endurable. The service was too extended, of course, but that was because of repetitions of the good bits as well as a heap of tedious material and poor poetry that could have been discarded. No one in centuries had had the authority to delete anything, so it kept getting longer.

Much of it was superb: beautiful psalms and phrases, reminders of the sages who had toiled over them in aeons gone by.
O remember us on this Day of Memorial to vouchsafe unto us a life of happiness and of peace.
The choir was lovely to listen to, and of a far higher standard since women had been admitted. His daughter Helen had been one of the first; more recently she had pleaded pressure of school work and he had not made a fuss. The mixed choir meant that the most Orthodox rabbis refused to attend this synagogue. That suited Daniel, as he guessed it did most of his fellow members. The pliant Reverend Siegel, with his cheery manner, affection for humankind and lack of diplomas was far more endurable as a ser-moniser than some narrow-minded bigot with a chewed-up beard and an impenetrable accent.

‘The reason we sound the shofar,’ Reverend Siegel was explaining, ‘apart from the injunctions from our forefathers, was best set out by the Rambam, Maimonides.
Awake, ye slumberers from your sleep, and rouse you from your lethargy. Make search into your deed and turn in repentance. Remember your Creator, ye who forget truth in the trifles of the hour, who go astray all your years after vain illusions which can neither profit nor deliver. Look to your souls and mend your ways and your actions: let every one of you leave his evil path and his unworthy purpose
.’

Somewhere at the back where the sun had left an overheated corner a slumped figure emitted a slow, complacent snore. Simon Rotblatt twisted around to chide but the soft rumble continued. Daniel suppressed a chuckle. A man with a clear conscience, no doubt: an object more of envy than disapproval.

But what of himself – had he ‘gone astray after vain illusions’ or anything else? Daniel pondered. In the Rambam’s terms the answer must be yes. He did not attend services regularly – indeed hardly ever other than for High Holydays and official rituals such as Barry’s barmitzvah. To do so more frequently would have bored him, since his lack of belief offered no hope of salvation.

Bizarre, this. An atheist slouched in a synagogue pew on a sunny weekday morning under the interminable flow of a learned sermon, contemplating with a twinge of unease his own lack of grace. Daniel had no guilt about his atheism nor had he tried to reconvince himself, not since his youth. It stood to reason. The existence of the world was a random event, controlled by no great intelligence but by sheer chance. Darwin’s description of a universe in which the winners wrote history was unanswerable, bleak but accurate. That fly and its somnolent buzz were an accident. There was no eternal or spiritual life, only this one.

Hedging one’s bets a little, Daniel reflected. If he were mistaken and God really existed, he’d find out soon enough; any God worth believing in would forgive an honest disbeliever. He found it impossible to accept the more lurid warnings of hellfire or punishment after death. What would be the point? How could such punishment be an effective deterrent unless one knew for certain it was on the agenda? In the absence of such knowledge, the God that punished a man who had behaved honourably but agnostically was vindictive, and not worthy of worship.

A vengeful Old Testament God who wreaked havoc for any misdemeanour or slight was to be derided. An indifferent God was to be despised and best ignored. The Catholics’ convolutions over original sin and the temptations of Satan seemed to him laughable nonsense, based on panic about
women and sex. They had allowed their theology to be captured in its earliest days by a bunch of mystics and misogynists. The Church of England, so pragmatic, so earnest, was the more admirable, yet it lacked fervour as if it doubted its own compromises. Not that Daniel would have been remotely interested in conversion. Religious rituals served mainly to identify the tribe. He knew which tribe he belonged to.

Let the ignorant round the globe placate their jealous deities. Let them create their Gods in their own image, their frailties and inconsistencies writ large. Let them pray for their desires and needs, and sing
hallelujah
! when some small trifle came their way: if nothing happened they’d go on praying. That kept priests in hot dinners, an outcome to which he had only the mildest objection.

Daniel shifted. The pain would not go. His atheism drew strength from more than science. No merciful God would have permitted the
Shoa
, but no other kind of God was credible. No mighty super-spirit was needed to create the Hitler regime, nor the Cossacks and their pogroms, nor the myriad persecutions and cruelties of one man against another. Human beings were quite capable of dreaming up such atrocities all by themselves.

Yet his conscience did chafe, try as he might to ignore it. He
had
gone astray – or at least, he had a nagging awareness that he had lost his way. Let himself down, somehow. Long ago. Not so long that, if he tried, he might remember, and in so doing either take steps to put things right, or failing that at least to comprehend, and to calm that inward ache.

What was it? Once he had been a fiery young man. He had campaigned to change the world; his dreams had been of politics, of a public career, of offering leadership albeit in a small way to comrades and workmates. All that had faded, but he could not remember how or why. Somewhere along the line he had given up. That had been his overweening sin. These days the question for himself was whether he could be bothered even to think the matter through again; or whether, like the slumberer in the corner, it mightn’t be easier and safer to drift oblivious through the rest of his life to its close.