She's Leaving Home (47 page)

Maybe the children would do better. Helen especially. She was so smart and had such chances. Daniel wriggled his shoulders stiffly under the prayer shawl. Barry was not a problem; a lazy personality, he would readily fit into whatever grooves his fate pre-determined for him. But Helen: Helen was more like himself, the way he used to be when he was young. She questioned everything and was not satisfied with terse answers. With touching innocence she read widely and strove to create a philosophy of life for herself – much as he had done, though she, armed with a better education and teachers from both the religious and secular worlds, had already travelled far further intellectually than he had been able to. And she operated in an environment far more conducive to originality and personal quest. The sixties were turning into a decade when nothing was sacred. That’d suit Helen, though instinctively his daughter would be wary of excess. God, how he envied her.

Let her go, then. Let her go, and bless her, whatever path she chose to follow. Let her go, and wish secretly that you could go too.

No, that could not be. Fatherhood demanded a different approach. Annie was right, when she expressed fears about the child’s recklessness. Whatever one believed about the faith, the synagogue and its trappings, the fact remained that they offered a coherent way of life which brought stability and joy – yes, joy – into the lives of its adherents. And it was undeniable that if girls like Helen departed – whether by conviction or, God forbid, intermarriage – what remained could be fatally weakened. Not at once of course, but in a couple of generations. Survival of the fittest, it would be, and Judaism could be amongst the fallen. If everybody of quality left, the Jews could vanish from Europe. Hitler’s work would have been completed. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. Helen had to see that. She had to be made to see.

That ache again. What was it – remorse? Disillusion? No – something stronger. Anger with
himself, for wishing to deny his daughter the opportunities he had lacked, and for trying to rationalise that refusal. Anger with the uncompromising faith, its absolutes and arbitrariness: though piety without rules and rituals was a void that could give no absolution. Impotent fury, that he could accept the strictures and duties of parenthood without putting foremost the one that mattered most: to love your children as yourself, and to want what they wanted.

But just as he had chosen to stay – or had been persuaded to, all those years ago – so he would oblige Helen to do the same. Her responsibilities were identical to his own. She could attend a local university if she insisted but otherwise must remain in the fold. There could be no more argument.

Siegel was wagging a finger. Ten days stretched ahead in which to rewrite their fate before the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur. The metaphor was severely, intensely precise: on high surrounded by angelic advisers the divine Judge held three scrolls of paper on which he was busily writing names – on the first, those who would survive another year, on the second, those who would definitely perish, and on the third those for whom no decision had yet been taken, depending on whether they truly repented their sins against God and man:

The worshippers rose to their feet, tugged prayer shawls closer, avoided the eyes of those nearby who might not make it till next year and crooned the response:

Michael heard the shofar as he entered the mail room. It emerged as a strangulated squeak from the wall loudspeaker which was tuned to the American Forces network. As a mark of respect the transistor radio had been switched off.

He stood quietly until its ululations ceased. Shorty the mailman jerked a thumb at the wall as the horn’s wail was replaced by sonorous chants and the hushed tones of a commentator.

‘Creepy, ain’t it? Not my kinda trumpet call. Gives me goose flesh up my spine. Gimme a tuneful Christian hymn any day.’

‘That’s because of the way we were brought up. I find it scary, I must say – like I’d recognise it when I get to the pearly gates, quaking in my shoes and wishing I’d been a better boy my whole life.’ Michael smiled but spoke awkwardly. It was not in him to mock another religion. ‘Any mail for me?’

Shorty turned his back as he reached for the contents of Michael’s pigeonhole. ‘Me, I think religion should be about praise and brotherly love. You should come outta church on Sunday morning happy and thanking God for being alive on this earth. That’s why that Harlem gospel music is so fine: despite their hardships the Negroes still love the Lord.’

Michael flicked through his post. A letter from Helen, with her distinctive hand – the safest
way for them to communicate when they could not see each other. He grinned at Shorty. ‘You a regular churchgoer, then? I’ve not seen you at service on base.’

The man laughed without rancour. ‘Hell, no. Maybe when I get older like my Paw and a bit closer to meeting St Peter. But for the moment, if it’s Sunday, it’s either on duty or off; and if it’s off, then I stay in bed. Free will, man, can’t beat it.’

Michael strolled away but as soon as he was out of sight he sat down on a box and tore open Helen’s letter.

He could not phone her at home. That had taken some getting used to; in the States it would have been the natural mode of communication. The wealthier girls there had their own phone in their bedrooms and could drive a guy wild with dirty talk in low whispers when their mothers assumed they were writing essays for school. Occasionally she could phone him or leave a message if an arrangement had to be altered, but he knew she had to put on her coat and find a call-box, with the worry she might be spotted and questions asked. Nor could he write to her direct at her address: her mother would promptly interrogate her and demand to read the letter. Instead when necessary he could leave notes for her at the Post Office near the school. It was all so scrappy, and not what he’d been accustomed to.

After a few moments’ reading his eyes widened in delight. She would slip away from the synagogue that afternoon, if he could possibly meet her. At the far end of Calderstones Park, under the trees. It was walking distance from both her home and the synagogue: she dared not risk a bus ride on such a day. It would be peaceful and quiet and they could talk, though not much else.

Michael smiled to himself, stuffed the letter back in its envelope and headed with renewed purpose towards the gatehouse.

Back in the vestry Reverend Siegel and the young ordi-nand disrobed and chatted as they hung up their white silk garments and velvet hats and placed black
yarmulkahs
on their heads.

‘White,’ commented the Minister. ‘I can never make up my mind about it. White for a wedding, maybe. We bring in the New Year like a bride. But I’m more comfortable in my usual purple – that’s a colour for princes and priests.’

‘White for the sepulchre, for the shroud,’ the young man intoned. ‘To remind the faithful that the Day of Atonement approaches, that some will be condemned if they do not repent.’

What a comfort you are, Siegel reflected, but he kept it to himself.

The visitor combed his hair and beard with his fingers. On holy days it was unlawful to carry a comb. ‘You were the most senior man present today?’ he asked. ‘No rabbi?’ Siegel nodded and explained about the mixed choir. He wondered what was coming.

‘I heard it was more than that,’ the young man muttered. ‘The
Jewish Chronicle
says there’s been quite a row in this part of Liverpool. The Rabbi and the ecclesiastical court have banned kosher caterers from the new Liberal synagogue hall just up the road from here, isn’t that so?’ Siegel nodded again, miserably.

‘And some members of this congregation have opposed him?’

‘That is correct. They take exception to the Beth Din dictating to them where they can and can’t operate. Some of them are my subscribers, yes.’

‘Dictating? Is that how you see it? But don’t you agree that we must fight the Reform and Liberal movements? They represent the greatest danger Judaism faces. They undermine family life, and that’s a fact. We must do whatever we can to eliminate them and to ensure that the Orthodox have nothing to do with them.’

‘It seems so hard, that’s all,’ Siegel mumbled. ‘My members hate it. And so do I. My fear is the ban is motivated at best by malice and at worst by a spirit of – well, I can only call it intolerance. Jew against Jew. It’s terrible. And to be frank I find it impossible to set about preaching to my flock
this line that the Liberal
schul
is a destroyer of Jewish family life. Not when the caterers are booked for
simchas
like weddings.’

The young man bridled. His scrawny chin jutted forward. The beard bobbed up and down in time with his strictures.

‘Family life is Judaism’s most sacred institution. The Liberal sect contributes daily to the destruction of the faith by permitting the admission of non-Jews after the most trifling of instruction.
Goyim
who want to marry our girls. And they allow it, instead of setting their face against intermarriage as we do in Orthodoxy.’ He stuck his face into Siegel’s. ‘They encourage it. Intermarriage! Miscegenation, that’s what it is. Disgusting. Bah!’ And he went to spit on the floor, caught the Minister’s look of alarm and desisted.

‘But it’s counter-productive. The Rabbi announces he doesn’t want the Liberal synagogue hall to become a place where Jewish youth might meet. Then he blames the press if comments of that sort drive the younger generation away.’

‘Your Liverpool Rabbi is absolutely right.’ The visitor’s voice rose. ‘If we let our young girls and men slide away, there won’t
be
a younger generation. Then where will Orthodoxy be?’

‘But they’re Jews,’ Siegel persisted half-heartedly. ‘I mean, have you met any? We’re talking about them like they’re minor functionaries of the Nazi party.’

‘Of course I’ve met them,’ the young priest retorted bluntly. His eyes had taken on a hard light. ‘I have many friends among Liberals. But I would not like to say that some of my best friends are Liberals. Indeed not. Now what about lunch?’

‘So: cast your sins away yet?’

Maurice Feinstein jumped. He should have turned smoothly, smiled and made some quip about not having committed any sins, or at least not yet. He should have gazed regally down from his greater height at Vera, then taken her hand in a gentlemanly fashion and walked her to a more secluded spot. They were officially engaged, or at least Sylvia told everyone so, though he could not recall having popped the question – not exactly.

They were in Calderstones Park on the afternoon of the first day of the New Year for the performance of
Tashlich
. Heaven knew where these myriad rituals came from but this one was less onerous than most.
‘Thou wilt cast their sins into the depths of the sea
’ instructed the prophet Micah, but the stricter rabbis warned that the ritual smelled of Kabbalah and magic. Didn’t the ancient Greeks hold that rivers and pools were inhabited by pagan deities? Never mind; the shop was shut for the holy days so a stroll in the park with a little embarrassed shaking of the garments at the side of the lake accompanied by a frantic chorus from displaced ducks and a few psalms would pass an hour quite pleasantly. If only Vera hadn’t decided to come too.

Every eye was on them. Feinstein groaned inwardly. Not that Vera disgraced him; on the contrary, she was smartly dressed in a cool fawn dress and jacket and had discarded the cartwheel hat which had so distracted him that morning in the synagogue. Moreover she had taken the hint and toned down the make-up: she was clearly doing her utmost to satisfy him. There was a womanly, ripe air about her which he found distinctly attractive, yet still terrifying.

He ought to be impressed and flattered but instead could not shake off a sense of oppression. As a couple they were supposed to be warm and romantic together, but he felt neither emotion and hadn’t the foggiest idea how to fake. Yet a bubble of excitement rose in his throat when he saw her like this, and a twinge of pride that she was at his side. Might this be the start of love? The sight of her certainly made his body twitch inwardly. He found his hands moved independently as if wanting to touch her. It was an effort to keep them at his sides.

The couple strolled down the path to put distance between them and the Minister who had commenced a short service. A light breeze rippled the lake surface; the first fallen leaves skittered
across their path. With delicacy she avoided the splodges of green slime deposited by the Canada geese. Unlike most females she seemed to have no fear of the big birds, or indeed of anything much. That both impressed and oppressed him further.

She squeezed his arm. ‘You in
schul
tonight?’

‘I ought to go, yes, though I’ve done my share of praying today.’

‘You don’t have to go.’

‘What else would I do?’

‘Oh, come on. Do I have to spell it out for you?’

He stopped dead. She snuggled up to him, in full view of the nearby throng. His mouth opened but no sound came out. He could feel his pulse beat suddenly faster.

‘Maurice,’ she wheedled, ‘I know you’re a bit uncertain. A woman like me can tell. You’ve been on your own ages, and you’ve got used to solitude. You’ve got used to something which isn’t good for you. By that I mean, sleeping alone.’