The Songs

by Charles Elton

  As he grew older, he had some opinions of his own. Obviously he did not think that abandoning your girlfriend the moment she had given birth to your child without even marrying her was a nice thing to do, but he wondered what the other side of the story was. His grandparents were certainly not very complimentary about his mother either, so maybe some of the fault was hers.

  He was not proud of his father. How could he be with his grandparents’ inexhaustible catalogue of transgressions? But he did take a little secret pleasure in the fact that he was so well-known, even if it was for the wrong reasons. Except for Alan and Shirley, he did not tell any of his school friends — not that there were very many of them to tell — about his father. He had inherited enough of his grandparents’ genes to feel a little embarrassed about being illegitimate.

  He was thinking about Alan and Shirley now. Did he dream that Shirley was in the room with him sometimes? Did he imagine he heard her voice? It was she who had helped with the letter he wrote to his father. He had first thought about doing it when he was a child, but then it had seemed like an impossibility. Now he was fifteen, he realized that all it would take was a piece of paper and a stamp. But what would he say? Where would he send it?

  Shirley knew. Shirley always knew those things. Isaac Herzl was giving a concert and she said they could send it to him in care of the Festival Hall, South Bank, London. That would get to him: they would think it was fan mail. They had decided that Alan’s suggestion of “Dear Dad” was out of the question, but Shirley thought that “Dear Father” would do the trick.

  “That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”

  “It isn’t a presumption, Joseph; he is your father.”

  Joseph could see the logic in that, but he still couldn’t do it. In the end, he insisted on “Dear Mr. Isaac Herzl,” even though Shirley shook her head in exasperation.

  They spent the entire evening thinking about what to say, but it wasn’t until they were on the school bus the next morning that they finalized it.

  Dear Mr. Isaac Herzl,

  You may remember my mother, Susan Carter, who I believe you knew 16 years ago. This is just to let you know that she died some time ago and I live with my grandparents. As I say, she was my mother and you will know that this means I am your son, too. I am sorry to bother you, but I thought it might be mutually beneficial if we could meet up at some time in the near future. Obviously, you are the only father I have and it is possible that I am the only son you have, unless you have some other children but I do not know if you do. If you do, it would be nice to meet them, because I have always thought that I was an only child and would welcome some siblings, even if they are only half siblings.

  If you would care to agree to this plan, you could get in touch with me at the above address. My discretion is assured. I very much hope to hear from you soon even though I know you are a very busy person. I have heard some of your music on the radio and think it is very good.

  Yours faithfully,

  Joseph Carter (15 years old)

  Shirley and Joseph had a last spat about whether you were meant to say “yours faithfully” or “yours sincerely,” but Joseph prevailed. They were pleased with the letter — it seemed to tread the line between formality and sincerity rather well — and that night, he took a sheet of his grandparents’ blue Basildon Bond paper with the address embossed in a darker blue at the top and carefully wrote the letter in the best handwriting he could manage.

  He thought it would take two days to get to London. Isaac Herzl might take two days to answer it and it would be another two days for his letter to come back. In fact, Joseph’s timescale was way off the mark. Months passed. The letter had been sent while he was revising for O Levels, and a response did not arrive until after the results had come in.

  Joseph did not get many letters, so his grandmother looked intrigued when she handed it to him one morning. Later, although she was not a nosy person, she could not resist asking him who it was from. A school friend, Joseph said, which seemed to satisfy her even though it did not seem very convincing that someone he saw every day at school would be writing him a letter. He was nervous about opening it. He wanted to do it with Alan and Shirley.

  Shirley didn’t come to the canteen, because she was on a diet — she had taken to wearing miniskirts and someone had made a comment about her legs looking fat — so Alan and Joseph had to go and look for her after lunch. Joseph held up the letter.

  “Oh my God,” Shirley gasped. “Well, open it!”

  Joseph did not want to just tear the envelope so he used a pencil to slit the top of it. He gave it to Shirley. “You read it,” he said.

  Alan leaned over her shoulder to look as well. It didn’t take very long to read.

  “Well…” Shirley said. “It isn’t actually from him.”

  “Oh,” Joseph said.

  “But that’s not bad — I think it must be from his wife. She’s called Herzl, too. Unless he has a sister.”

  Joseph shrugged his shoulders — he had no idea. Shirley handed the letter to him.

  Dear Joseph Carter,

  Thank you for your recent letter. Mr. Herzl is currently in the United States singing in a memorial concert for Dr. Martin Luther King, who, as you will know, was murdered last year. However, he will be back in this country next week and would be able to meet you, even though I am afraid it cannot be a long meeting because of existing commitments.

  I presume you are at school and therefore will not be free on a weekday so I suggest Saturday the 21st September. I very much hope that you will be free on that date. The best time for Mr. Herzl would be 3:00 p.m. at the Bar Italia, 22 Frith St., London W1. You will find that easy to find. Please confirm that this arrangement will be convenient to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lally Herzl

  “Well,” Joseph said, looking up at Shirley and Alan. There was a brief silence. “Lally? What sort of name is that?”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Shirley said. “It certainly isn’t Jewish.”

  “I don’t think the letter’s too bad,” Alan said in a conciliatory voice.

  “Oh, Alan — I think it’s rotten! The man can’t even be bothered to answer himself! This is his son we’re talking about!”

  Joseph could not have felt less like anyone’s son at that moment.

  “Not that I’m surprised, as he’s made no effort to contact Joseph for fifteen years. It’s absolutely…”

  “Shirley, calm down,” Alan said.

  “My parents think Iz Herzl is some kind of hero. They listen to his records! I’m going to tell them what he’s really like.”

  “Please don’t, Shirley.”

  “Are you going to go?” Alan said.

  “I don’t know.”

  But he did know. Of course he was going to go.

  The first problem was what to wear. He was not sure what would be suitable for this kind of meeting. What he normally wore on a weekend was corduroy trousers, an open-necked shirt and maybe a V-neck sweater if it was cold, but that seemed too casual. The only other alternative was his school uniform, with its blue blazer and crest on the breast pocket. He tried it both with and without a tie and decided the tie might be better. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it looked smart and implied that he was a good student. That might please a parent. He just hoped that nobody he knew would see him walking to the station wearing a school uniform on a Saturday. He told his grandparents that he was going to the British Museum.

  Joseph did not know London well, but he had looked Frith Street up on a map. He was early. He looked through the window of the bar but he did not see Isaac Herzl — there were sometimes photographs of him in the newspaper so he roughly knew what he looked like. He didn’t really want to sit on his own, but there was nothing for it but to go in. He found a table at the back and sat down. There was a radio playing music very loudly. By 3:30, nobody had come. He wasn’t sure what to do next. How long was he meant to wait? But then someone arrived
: a woman of indeterminate age with slightly graying hair done up in braids and a dress that looked as if it was made from a sack. She spotted Joseph immediately — not difficult, as he was the only schoolboy in the place.

  “Hello, I’m Lally,” she said.

  He got to his feet and shook her hand. “I’m Joseph.”

  “Well,” she said. “Good. Right.”

  He felt his stomach tighten with nerves.

  “I expect Iz will be here soon. Who knows? Always rushing around.”

  “Is he doing a concert?” Joseph asked cautiously.

  “Oh yes — there’s always something in the pipeline.” Then her voice changed tone. “I must apologize,” she said. “My letter to you must have seemed rather cautious. The thing is, the whole world seems to want something from Iz and we have to be careful.” She gave a little laugh. “I’m thinking of having postcards printed saying, ‘Isaac Herzl thanks you for your recent communication but regrets that he is unable to provide whatever it is you are seeking from him.’ ”

  She suddenly groaned. “I wish they’d turn this music down,” she said, gesturing towards the radio on the bar, which was playing “Where Do You Go To, My Lovely.” “I can hardly hear myself think. I really don’t like” — she made little quotes with her fingers — “modern music, pop music like this. What a silly song! Who could possibly sing like Dietrich and dance like Zizi Jeanmaire at the same time? Ridiculous.”

  “It’s number one in the charts,” Joseph said, then added hurriedly, “I mean, that doesn’t make it good.”

  “No,” she said. “I shouldn’t think it does.”

  Joseph felt a little movement next to him and he looked round. Isaac Herzl was standing beside him. He jumped to his feet so fast that his chair fell over behind him. He knew he was going bright red.

  “Here he is,” Lally said.

  Isaac Herzl nodded and put his hand out. Then he sat down. He was a tall man. He had an unkempt beard and wore a strange thing on his head like a chauffeur’s cap that had been run over by a bus. There was an old satchel over his shoulder and he took it off and put it over the back of his chair.

  Lally turned to Iz: “We’ve been having a nice talk,” she said.

  Isaac Herzl nodded his head and gave a cautious smile. “Good. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, have we?”

  “Well, yes…since I was born, I suppose,” Joseph said. That did not quite sound the way he meant it to so he rushed ahead with: “I mean, I know you’re very busy.” That did not sound right either.

  There was a silence. “Well, I’m sorry it’s been so long. I’m sorry that was the way it was,” Isaac Herzl said.

  “I don’t think my grandparents have helped much.”

  “No.”

  “They’re really good people,” he said. Joseph did not want Isaac Herzl to think that he had had an Oliver Twist sort of upbringing.

  “Yes, I met them once. I’m not very popular with those sort of people, I’m afraid, and you’ve been caught in the middle.”

  That was not quite how Joseph saw it. To be caught in the middle there had to be some kind of tug-of-war, and as far as he knew there had not been much tugging from Isaac Herzl’s side.

  “Well, we’re here now, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Joseph said.

  “And we must make up for lost time.”

  That sounded good. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “I don’t really remember her.”

  “We haven’t been good parents. Not in the accepted sense of the word, anyhow.”

  Well, Joseph thought, not really in any sense of the word.

  “And you’re at school, I suppose? I hope they teach you well. If you haven’t learned things properly in the first place, you won’t know what you need to throw away later.”

  Joseph had absolutely no idea what that meant. “I’m at Morton College,” he said. “It’s quite well-known, I think.”

  “That sounds like a private school.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Isaac Herzl looked at his watch. “Oh, I’m really sorry — will you excuse me for a moment? I have to make a phone call.”

  He got up and went over to the counter, where there was a telephone.

  “Iz uses this place like an office,” Lally said with a little laugh. “No hiding place.” Then she moved her head towards Joseph’s and whispered, as if she did not want anyone to overhear, “I’m afraid Iz is rather sensitive about private schools.”

  “Why?”

  “He thinks they’re totalitarian institutions. Everybody saying, ‘Play up, play up and play the game.’ ”

  Joseph looked confused. “But nobody says that at my school.”

  “All those elitist sports. Cricket and rowing, that sort of thing.”

  “But doesn’t everyone play sport at school?” Joseph said desperately.

  “Oh, I’m the last person to ask about that kind of thing, dear. Anyway, I hope you come out of it unscathed.”

  Isaac Herzl had returned to the table. “I’m so sorry.”

  “We’ve been having a nice talk about schools,” Lally said.

  “Good. And what subjects do you like?”

  “I do history. I got an A in my O Level.”

  Isaac Herzl nodded. “Of course, it’s the future not the past you should concentrate on, but history does have its uses. What’s your area?”

  “I wrote my main essay on the accession of the Hanovers.”

  “But surely you don’t just study kings and queens of England?”

  “No. We’re doing the American War of Independence at the moment.”

  “That’s all well and good, but I hope your school will teach you about some of the more relevant wars sometime.”

  “What’s a relevant war?”

  “Well, a war that’s fought to change people’s beliefs. Not just one country trying to steal a bit of land from another. What else do you like at school?”

  “German. I thought I should do it because of…” — he didn’t want to say “you,” so he said, “the family being German.” He thought that his learning German might please Isaac Herzl. He went on: “I know you left Germany when you were young, but you must speak it pretty well. I’m quite good, actually. Ich möchte in den Schwarzwald zu gehen. Ich bin fünfzehn. Mein name ist Joseph.”

  If Joseph thought they might have a little conversation in German, he was wrong: Isaac Herzl changed the subject.

  “I’m interested,” he said, “you call yourself Joseph.”

  “Well, yes. It’s my name.”

  “Not Joe?”

  “Well, everybody calls me Joseph. I mean, no one shortens it to Joe.”

  “But Joseph isn’t the name you were born with, you know. On your birth certificate you’re Joe Hill Herzl.”

  “I didn’t know,” Joseph said in a panicky voice. “Nobody told me.” His grandparents had never mentioned it.

  “I thought Joe Hill Herzl was rather a fine name for a boy,” Isaac Herzl said thoughtfully, “but of course Joseph Carter is perfectly good, too. Just not so distinctive.”

  “But you know who Joe Hill was, don’t you?” Lally said.

  “Well…no.”

  “Executed in 1915. What a tragedy!”

  Joseph was not sure why they would want to name him after someone who had been executed. No wonder his grandparents had stuck to “Joseph Carter.”

  “You should look him up. He’s an important figure,” Isaac Herzl said pleasantly. “Are you musical?”

  Joseph nodded. “I sang in the end-of-term concert. The St. Matthew Passion. Just in the chorus.”

  “Why is it always religious music at schools?” Isaac Herzl laughed. “It’s like brainwashing, isn’t it? Do you play an instrument?”

  “I’d like to learn the violin,” Joseph said, even though it was not really true. “Did you start music very young?”

  “Yes, I always liked music.”

&nbs
p; “Was everyone in your family musical?” he asked cautiously. They might be on safer ground talking about family, although Joseph could not have felt less like a member of it at the moment.

  After a moment, Isaac Herzl said, “My brother played the violin.”

  That was interesting, Joseph thought: he had an uncle as well. “What’s his name?” he said.

  “Gabriel,” he said quietly, as if he did not want anyone to hear.

  “Where does he live? Is he in England?”

  “No. He’s dead, I’m afraid. Just a pile of ashes in some camp.”

  Just then, there was a shout from the other side of the bar: “Mr. Herzl!” They all turned round. A waiter was holding up a telephone receiver. “It’s for you!” He got up.

  Lally moved her head towards Joseph and said quietly, “Iz had a very painful time when he was young in Germany. His whole family murdered! Can you imagine? He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “But they’re my family, too,” Joseph said.

  Lally looked taken aback, as if he had said something extraordinary. Then they sat in silence. Isaac Herzl seemed to be having a heated discussion. When he had finished, he came back to the table. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” He put his hand up in a goodbye gesture. “Well…that was interesting,” he said. “Perhaps another time.” Then he turned and walked to the door with long strides and vanished into the street.

  “Well,” she said.

  “Yes,” Joseph said. He stood up. “I’ve got to go, too,” he said. He put his hand out. “Goodbye, then.”

  Lally looked startled by his abruptness. “But…”

  By the time she said “Goodbye,” he was almost at the door. He could not get out of the place fast enough. Once onto Frith Street, he pulled his tie off roughly and stuffed it in his pocket. What Lally had said was true: whatever it was that anyone was seeking from Isaac Herzl, he was unable to provide.