Gaby Koppel - Reparation
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Gaby Koppel: author's other books
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Gaby Koppel
Gaby Melian
Gaby Doherty
Gaby Dalkin
Gaby Dalkin
Dunn Gaby
Gaby Rodriguez
Murray Cox
Robin Gaby Fisher
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Contents
Chapter 20
In the morning, I check with Red Dragon taxis that Mutti has been picked up from the hospital and dropped off at home as per. Shes still cross with me, but lets slip the fact that shes already been on the phone to Auntie Miriam. Word of my promotion is spreading round South Wales. By the time it gets to Freddie and Frances in Cyncoed, Ill be chief executive and director general rolled into one.
Ive kept that paperback I found at her house, and carry it around in my bag, growing more and more dog-eared. I read it surreptitiously over coffee. At home, I worry away at it, reading and re-reading about the shootings by the river, the hiding, starvation and constant fear.
Just after noon on Saturday, sun is warming the streets of Stamford Hill, and the men are out in their fur hats. Big brimmed ones like hairy frisbees, others towering up like chocolate Swiss rolls balanced on their ends. I hate to think how much sweat is being produced under those things. But they just carry on, like its totally normal to be wearing a massive furry hat on a midsummers day. Hot, me? Dont be silly. Family groups are strolling in both directions on the road, each set of kids dressed in matching outfits, like strange Sound of Music tribute bands. And yet again, the girls are all wearing thick navy tights and cardigans over their summer frocks. They must be so itchy in all that knit.
We pass St Kildas where the Friedmann family live. A police patrol car is still parked discreetly at the end of the road, and the remnants of crime scene tape flutters from the garden gate looking forlorn. A For Sale board has now been planted in the front garden of the familys house. Though its secured against the fence, its listing in the gentle breeze.
A couple of streets along, we find the house and knock on the door. A boy answers the door. Theres nothing to suggest that hes expecting us. I stand there for a moment transfixed by his perfectly curled earlocks and wondering whether they are permed.
He doesnt even say anything to us, just stands there staring.
Mrs Schlesinger? I ask.
He just walks away leaving the door open, and allowing us to find our own way into the kitchen. On the way, we pass two teenage girls carrying dishes of food. Neither of them acknowledges us. Through the orderly hallway, Dave takes my hand and pulls me into the kitchen, where we find a cheerful Leah chopping pickled cucumbers into slices and putting them into small bowls.
Hello, hello! she cries. Welcome. The others arent back from shul yet. Its very hot, isnt it? Do you want a cold drink? Shes wearing one of those long house-coat garments, with a turquoise stretch turban covering her head.
As she opens the fridge, I say, I thought the community didnt go in for estate agents.
Sorry?
Your sisters house its for sale. A frown. She pours some red coloured cordial into a jug, and fills it with water. The whooshing sound of the tap fills the room.
Shes moving to be near our other sisters in Gateshead. Her eyes flicker away from my gaze, and theres a moments uncertainty on her face. But she pushes it aside, just as theres a loud rat-a-tat knock, a man and two boys arrive. They fill the house with noise and energy, slamming doors and shouting Good Shabbes .
Leahs husband Moshe introduces himself, pronouncing it Moishy, and before I know it is greeting Dave like an old friend. Its all hearty handshakes and backslapping, real familiar stuff. And of course, Im wondering what on earth is going on.
Hi, says Moshe. Nice to see you again. I didnt recognise you without the camera.
Do you two know each other?
I came down to take some photos. You know, the portraits. You gave me Reb Sterns number. Of course, thats why he looks familiar. Ive seen him hanging in Daves studio.
The older boys join the little ones, who are playing on the floor with some building blocks. Leah disappears upstairs, and while shes gone a man comes into the room, ignoring us. He has a sallow complexion behind the beard.
My brother Nachmann, explains Moshe. Nachmann nods nervously, avoiding eye contact, as though hes afraid he could catch something nasty from meeting our gaze. He sits down in the corner, opens a pocket-sized prayer book, and reads it with intent concentration, moving his lips as he goes and rocking. Everybody else seems to just ignore him they carry on playing or laying the table.
Leah sweeps into the room. Shes changed into a dress and replaced the turban with a wig. Its brilliant, you really would never know that those gorgeous tresses were anything other than her own hair. Its impossible to stop myself staring.
Its late, lets eat, she says, leading us to the dining room where a long table has been laid out with a starched white table cloth. That is pretty much what I expected, but the surprise is that the table is covered with a large plastic decorators dust sheet. Theres no sign of the best china, all the plates and cutlery are plastic disposables. My idea of the Jewish Sabbath table has been trashed. Moshe picks up the one real piece of tableware, a silver goblet full of wine, and starts intoning a blessing.
Then its all out to the kitchen, where the children line up at the sink. Theres a big mug with two handles. I watch the children fill it with cold water then wash each hand alternately, muttering a prayer under their breath as they do so, then turn to pass the towel along the row. Looks like Im expected to do the same.
Daves in front of me. Theres a look of intense concentration on his face as he mutters something under his breath while washing his hands alternately, just as the boys did. Then he takes the towel from Leah, and as Im about to ask him whats going on, he puts his finger to his lips meaningfully. I stare at him, a questions swirling round in my head. Since when has he been an expert in Jewish prayer?
Now its my turn, Im still not sure what is going on. Its like some strange game and Im the only one who doesnt know the rules. Do you want to say the prayer for washing hands? Asks Leah. Theres no other way round it. I nod. Ill say it, you copy me.
Baruch ata I feel myself going red. Two of the children are peeping round the door, giggling, and I can see why.
It may be the hottest day in the year so far, but the lunch menu makes no concessions to a heatwave. It starts with chicken soup, and goes on and on. Gefilte fish , bowls heaving with salads, heavy stew with beans. I think wistfully of the gym and its juice bar, where Id normally be hanging out on a Saturday.
By the time a platter of cold meats comes round, Ive lost track of whether this is the third or fourth course. As Im helping myself to the smallest piece of chicken I can find, one of the older girls pipes up, Do you work for television?
Yes, I reply. I work on a programme about crime. We made the film about the attack on your cousin. The room goes quiet. The children stare into their laps, their parents look uneasy. Nachmann gets up with a jerk, spilling a beaker of drink onto the table, and leaves the room without even trying to clear it up. In the silence, the pink liquid starts pooling on the plastic decorators sheet thats doing service as a table cloth. The juice runs towards the edge of the table, and is about to drip onto the carpet.
Have you ever met anybody famous? One of the girls is looking at me with big eyes and a cheeky grin.
Yes, have you ever met anybody famous? chimes in one of the younger girls, and a row of faces is turned towards me. At least Ive got the right answer to this one.
Let me see, I roll my eyes dramatically. Ive met Charlton Heston and Tony Blair. A row of blank faces is staring back at me. You know, Tony Blair the Prime Minister of Great Britain? Our prime minister, now the leader of our country. They shake their heads.
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