“Isaac?” he called.
He leaned over and peered into the water. It was clear, but he could not see very far down. “Isaac?” he said again. He went to the other side of the island, but there were no ripples there either. He suddenly realized that something awful was happening. He ran back to where Iz had gone in and began shouting his name over and over again. He went a little way into the water, leaned down and began ruffling the water with his hand as if that would make it clearer.
He launched himself in and began paddling frantically. He took a deep breath and put his head under the water. He opened his eyes but then some water got up his nose and he began coughing and he had to raise his head again. Panic seemed to prevent him moving his legs in any kind of rhythm to keep himself afloat and he kept slipping under. Now he tried to turn his body upside down, putting his backside and legs up in the air and swimming downwards by pulling himself with his arms. He had done it a few times before in the swimming pool at school and he had managed to touch the bottom, but that was only in the shallow end.
He kept his eyes open and he saw something in the murkiness that terrified him. A couple of the huge slabs of stone that made up the island must have slipped into the water. He could see them further down, standing upright against each other like an inverted V. He came back to the surface to get some air. He was shivering now, the cold of the water seeping into him, and he was breathing jerkily. He dived again and tried to pull himself deeper. It was very indistinct, but he thought he could see Iz’s body lying beside the base of the slabs. There was no way Maurice could get down that deep, even if he had been a better swimmer.
How long could you hold your breath for? Iz would be able to hold it for longer than most people, but he would not be holding his breath if he had hit his head. The water would be pouring into his lungs. Maybe he had broken his neck. Five or six minutes had passed since he went into the water. Maybe it was longer: Maurice had lost all sense of time.
He sat on the edge of the island. He had no idea what to do now. He was trembling but he did not know whether that was because of the cold water or because he was frightened. It would have been better if he had his clothes on. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He decided he must go back in one last time.
With all his strength, he turned over and pulled himself down in the water and this time he managed to go deeper than before. Now he could see Iz’s body lying on the bottom, white against the dark mud, but it was still at least fifteen feet below him and he knew he could never get down there. And even if he could, there was no way he would be able to pull his body up to the surface and drag it onto the island. And anyway — what would happen then? He would sit next to Iz and feel his body turning cold. It was easier for Iz to lie at the bottom of the lake. It would be awful to be beside Iz and know that he could not bring him back to life.
He sat on the stones for a while. The sun was getting lower in the sky. Before too long it would be dark. He did not want to leave because that would acknowledge that there was nothing more to be done, that Iz was gone. But sometimes, he thought, painful things had to be acknowledged whatever the cost. There were historic inevitabilities. Sometimes things were meant to happen.
He took a deep breath and launched himself into the cold water. He began to swim away from the island and found himself moving more confidently: he seemed to have found a way of coordinating his arms and legs so he could swim more easily through the water. It would not take him long to reach the shore.
He put his clothes on, and then he picked up Iz’s satchel. He opened it and looked inside. He felt awkward doing it, but he knew Iz would not have minded: they were brothers after all. He put his hand in and began to empty it. Iz had wanted to hang on to the things he had, but there were not many of them.
There was a book in German: Fruchte des Zorns by John Steinbeck. Maurice looked at the title page and saw that it was a translation of The Grapes of Wrath. There was his passport and identity card, an apple, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Maurice put them on and everything went a little blurred. They were not very strong: maybe that was why he had never seen Iz wearing them. There was a tattered map of Palestine with a circle drawn round Haifa. A little piece of paper with “Great Russell Street” written on it was scrunched up at the bottom. Finally, he took out a photograph. It was of a boy in a sailor suit, maybe about seven, playing a violin that was too big for him with an intense expression on his face. Maurice suddenly began to cry, but whether he was weeping for Iz’s brother, Gabriel, who was learning the violin, or Iz, or himself, he was not sure. He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve and dried his eyes. You have to try to cut sentimentality out of your life, he thought. It is the future not the past you must concentrate on.
As he was putting everything back into the satchel, he opened the passport. The photograph must have been taken a few years before. Iz looked younger. He was wearing his glasses and his face was slightly fuller than it was now. His hair was short. Maurice ran his fingers through his own hair: it was longer than Iz’s, but he would be able to cut it. He was suddenly frightened, but he felt curiously elated as well: he knew what he was going to do.
Iz’s clothes, his Lenin cap and his shoes, his dungarees and shirt, were lying crumpled and untidy on the ground. He took his clothes off and put Iz’s ones on. He gathered up his own clothes and took them into the woods and put them by a fallen tree. On top of the little pile he put his socks, the school ones that had nametapes sewn on them saying “Maurice Gifford.”
He wondered what would happen. It might be weeks before anyone came to the quarry, but he supposed that the body would eventually be discovered. He wondered how long it would take to rise to the surface. Nobody would look for Iz. For his friends at the farm, he would be another of the people who simply vanished overnight, gone in search of their destiny. He pulled the satchel over his shoulder and put on Iz’s Lenin cap and began to walk back through the woods.
That evening he packed a small bag with a few clothes. Iz had not brought much when he left Germany and it would be the same for Maurice. All the things he had found in Iz’s satchel were still in it. He did not want to lose them. He sat down in front of the mirror with a pair of kitchen scissors and began to cut his hair. He made it shorter, but it looked a bit messy. That didn’t matter: Who on this kind of mission would have time to go to a proper barber? All over Europe there would be displaced people with bad haircuts.
He took Iz’s passport out of the satchel and looked at the picture. He put the wire-rimmed glasses on and then the cap. It was obvious the photograph had been taken a while ago, so they would make allowances. It was rather faded and blurry: they would be able to believe it was the same person. Anyway, with thousands of people crossing borders moving from one country to another, one more anonymous person should be able to slip through.
His uncle would not discover that he was gone until he returned to the farmhouse a few hours later. By then, Maurice would have vanished. In the kitchen, he bent down and pulled the saucepan out from the back of the cupboard under the sink. He took the money out and began to count it. He was amazed how much was there. How typical of the bourgeoisie to hoard money. He took four hundred fifty pounds and left about a hundred pounds in there for his uncle. He did not want to be ungenerous. His parents would be horrified that, on top of everything else, he was a thief but they could not think worse of him than they already did.
It was nearly five. The main road was only about a mile away and he walked there as quickly as he could. Because of petrol rationing there were not many cars and it was half an hour before a lorry slowed down and stopped.
The driver rolled down his window. “Where are you heading?”
“London. Great Russell Street.”
The man laughed. “I’m not a taxi driver,” he said. “I can take you as far as Elephant and Castle. You’ll have to take the underground from there.”
“Thank you,” Maurice said. He went round to the other side of the lorry and pulle
d himself up into the cab. “This is very kind of you.”
“You from around here?”
“I’m German,” he said.
“German? If I’d known that I probably wouldn’t have picked you up.”
Maurice laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not a spy. I’m a Jewish refugee. I’ve lived here a long time. I’m a citizen. I have a British passport.”
He closed his eyes. The hum of the lorry was making him sleepy. When he got to London he would find somewhere cheap to stay for the night. Of course, with all the money he had, he could stay in a swanky hotel but those kinds of luxuries were not appropriate now. He did not know what time he was meant to arrive at the Jewish Agency tomorrow, but he would get there as early as he could in the morning. They might give him extra marks for punctuality.
Rose
I DO NOT REMEMBER many people coming to the house in Muswell Hill in those days. Iz did not want to see anyone: he did not even have much desire to talk to the people who already lived there. But of course there were random people who rang the doorbell: people selling dishcloths or charity collectors or kids who wanted to be sponsored. Once in a while Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door, but Iz had advised — a long time ago when he was still in the business of dispensing advice to us — that we should tell them firmly that the family were Swedenborgians and close the door. If you said you were Catholic or Jewish, it would give them the chance to engage you in a theological debate. Saying you were a Swedenborgian would confuse them. I had looked it up: Emanuel Swedenborg was an eighteenth-century mystic and theologian who still had a small but faithful following.
The person who rang the doorbell that day did not seem to be a Jehovah’s Witness so I did not have to say that we were Swedenborgians. There was a gray-haired woman on the doorstep who was wearing a pin-striped trouser suit and a lot of big gold bracelets on her wrists. Carla or Lally would never have worn that kind of outfit. Carla did not wear jewelry and Lally only wore her wedding ring.
The woman seemed surprised to see me. She cleared her throat. “Is this the home of Mr. Herzl?”
“Well…” I said, playing for time. It was possible that she was someone who had come to make outrageous and unreasonable demands of Iz. I had never actually met any such people, but Lally believed that they were lurking behind every lamppost waiting to pounce.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the woman said. “Is this a convenient time? I could come back — I only live fifteen minutes away.”
“A convenient time for what?” I asked as politely as I could.
“To see Mr. Herzl.”
“And you want to…?”
“I want to see Mr. Herzl,” the woman said again, as if I had not understood her the first time. Then she put her hand out. “I’m sorry, how rude of me, my name is Shirley Isaacs.” I was not really used to shaking hands, but I did my best.
“How good to meet you,” the woman said. “And you would be?”
“Rose Herzl.”
“That’s nice. I love the name Rose. Is it a family name?”
What business was it of hers? “No. I’m named after a character in The Grapes of Wrath,” I said, hoping that would silence her.
It didn’t. “That’s a wonderful book! Actually, I have some connection with it.”
Despite myself, I was interested. “Really?”
“Yes, some years ago my ex-husband and his writing partner nearly did a musical based on it, but they couldn’t get the rights. They write musicals.”
That was rather a feeble connection, I thought.
“I’m sorry, this isn’t really a very good time. Iz — Mr. Herzl — is not very well.”
“Are you his granddaughter?”
“I’m his daughter.”
“Really? Well, I could talk to you, I suppose. You see, I have some news. It’s important. Maybe you’d be able to pass it on to Mr. Herzl, although I’d much prefer to talk to him personally, of course.”
I did not know what to do. I did not like being second best, but there was a part of me that wanted to hear what the woman might have to say.
“Please can I come in? I won’t stay long.”
It was only eleven. Lally would not be down till lunchtime. God knows where Carla and Joan were.
“Well…”
“Thank you. I’m very grateful.”
Reluctantly, I stood back to let the woman come in. I led her into the sitting room and closed the door.
“What a lovely room. So bright!” She walked over to the French windows. “And what a super garden. It’s so nice to be able to go straight out into the fresh air, isn’t it?”
This kind of conversation did not play to my strengths. I did not see the point of small talk, particularly when it was as small as this.
“You said you had some news?”
“Yes, I do.” The woman paused: she seemed to be gathering strength. “You have a brother called Joseph, don’t you? I realize that you probably don’t know him very well.”
“I don’t know him at all,” I said. “He’s my half brother, not my brother.”
A sad look passed over the woman’s face. “Family is so important. Just because he’s only your half brother doesn’t mean you couldn’t have a relationship with him.”
“Yes, I realize that,” I said sharply. “I’m just pointing out that it isn’t accurate to call him my brother, that’s all.”
“Well…your half brother, Joseph…”
“I know,” I said. “I know that something happened to him. I saw it in the papers.”
The woman called Shirley looked rather crestfallen. She obviously wanted to be the bearer of the bad news herself.
“I hope you don’t believe all those newspaper articles,” she said. “They’re not accurate at all.”
“About what happened to him?”
“Well, no, the things about his private life. Getting attacked, that’s all true.”
“Why are you involved in it?”
The woman looked offended. “Actually, I was the one who discovered him. I was the one who called 999. I probably saved his life.”
“Oh, I see. Well, thank you. Is he going to be all right?”
The woman turned away. “I don’t know. The doctors don’t know. He’s been part of my life for a very long time. We were at school together. He was my best friend. He is my best friend.”
I had never heard grown-ups talking about having best friends. Girls at school did it all the time although the best friends kept changing.
“Could I trouble you for some Kleenex,” the woman said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Yes, of course.” I went to Huddie’s room and got some — there were always a lot of tissues there to wipe his face.
“I’m sorry, I must look awful.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Thank you.”
“But why did you come? Did you think we wouldn’t know about it?”
The woman hesitated. “You must know that there has been some estrangement between your father and Joseph?”
I nodded cautiously.
“For many, many years. To the best of my knowledge — and Joseph told me everything — they only ever met once, when Joseph was very young.”
Lally had told me that. “I know that they met. Didn’t Joseph do something awful? That’s what I heard.”
“What?” the woman said, outraged. “That’s a lie!”
I did not say anything.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “But really, I don’t think that’s the case. I’ll tell you why I came, Rose: Mr. Herzl is old — you say he’s not well.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“I want it to be right, to make it all right.” She took a deep breath. “What I’m asking for is your father to visit him in hospital.”
“Oh,” I said.
“You’re obviously a highly intelligent girl. You’ll understand why I’m asking.”
I nodded.
“If
I can’t see your father now, do you think it would help if I wrote a letter?”
“Maybe it’s better to leave it alone,” I said cautiously. “Wouldn’t they have seen each other if they wanted to?”
“Well, it was a very difficult situation.”
“But has Joseph ever tried to see my father?”
The woman looked down. “Well, no,” she said. “But people don’t always know what they want.”
“My father does.” I didn’t want to actually say that nobody had even told Iz about Joseph.
There was a silence, then the woman said, “Could I have a glass of water, please?”
When I came back from the kitchen, the woman was looking at the bookcases.
“What a lot of books!” she said pleasantly.
“They’re my schoolbooks.”
“Anatomy books, medical encyclopedias. How interesting. My father was a doctor, actually.”
“I’m going to study medicine at university. I want to be a neurosurgeon.”
“My goodness! That’s quite a lofty ambition. When did you decide that?”
“When I was seven.”
The woman looked impressed. “Someone who knows her mind, that’s wonderful. Perhaps you got that from your father.”
I could not tell if that was meant to be sarcastic.
“My daughter wanted to be a doctor, too, actually,” she said.
I knew that it was polite to ask people about their lives so I asked, “So is she a doctor now?”
“Well, no, not really.”
I was confused by that. Either you were a doctor or you weren’t.
I half wanted the woman to leave, but this was a rare experience: nobody ever asked me questions about myself, except for Huddie. Everybody in the house either talked about themselves or talked about Iz. The conversation with this woman seemed like the kind of conversation normal people had.
“Is your mother a singer like your father?”
“She’s dead, but she did sing. And write songs.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. And do you have brothers and sisters.”
The Songs Page 19
