The Prosperous Thief

by Andrea Goldsmith

  But despite his efforts it didn’t.While still a boy he tried friends, but they were so unpredictable that sometimes the yearning cut even deeper. And Etti’s terrified opposition notwithstanding, he had tried horseback riding, but soon he learned it was the idea which appealed, the freedom of bare-backed speeding over a deserted beach, not the uncomfortable reality of falls and aching muscles and a face full of flies. He tried sex when he was older, but this was before the sexual revolution reached Melbourne, and the abandon which might have made sex a useful solution was strangled in guilt and elastic girdles. He had tried dope too, so much dope that the five-year period before he met Melissa was a soggy blur.

  Finally he tried Melissa, and at last he seemed to settle. She was Jewish but without a Holocaust background, a good-looking woman who wore her Jewishness as elegantly as her silk shirts and Georg Jensen jewellery. She was fun, she was spirited, and she threw herself into sex with an abandon of the highest order. She blanketed the emptiness and he thought he was cured. But then they married, and Nick and Sophie arrived, and there was money to be made, and with Melissa always so involved with the children the yearning started to gnaw again.

  He drowned his pains in work. He had been drawn to computer technology for much the same reason he would later be drawn to religion: it seemed such a private and benign source of succour. By the time Nick and Sophie were at school, his company was a major computer payroll supplier and he was already exploiting the possibilities of the new digitalisation. At the age of forty he was a millionaire several times over. But despite his successes he was still restless, his chest still gaped achingly, and he was lonely too. Not surprisingly, when the rabbis turned up at his door he welcomed them in.

  And so he came to Judaism, not the Judaism of his parents, a watery, secular, ham-in-the-fridge, Holocaust-defined Judaism, but a Judaism which meant something, and now meant everything to him. It replenished him, it gave him hope and meaning, and it gave him comfort.And he was no longer lonely. He could talk at length with the other men at the synagogue about any subject, including the Holocaust. This was the Judaism Melissa disparaged.

  His parents’ Holocaust had been so painfully personal, you couldn’t question or discuss it; in fact, the only permissible role in the face of such suffering was to listen. Or at least with his mother. It was worse with his father whose silence, suggesting as it did experiences too dreadful for words, made the whole business even more untouchable. But at the shule he met survivors and children of survivors, many of whom, like him, had come to orthodoxy as adults. Daniel talked and prayed with the men at the synagogue and the hollow deep within him started to fill.

  Only Jews care about Jews, he now believed, and the strength of Jews lay in their acting together and speaking in one voice no matter where in the world they lived. He could go to New York, or Rome or London or Belgrade and find Jews just like him, all with the same values, the same beliefs, the same vision. He truly believed that the greatest threat to the future of Judaism was not anti-Semitism, but liberal and secular Jews like his wife.

  Twenty-five years together, half a lifetime, and so little in common, not even the children. Sophie, so like her mother, rarely said a word to him, and Nick, so much his father’s son, hardly acknowledged his mother’s existence. They lived like two couples under the same roof: Melissa and Sophie, Nick and himself. Even their past, his and Melissa’s, was no longer shared. An event of ten or fifteen years ago might be mentioned and Daniel would find himself recalling a vastly different situation and for entirely different reasons than Melissa. In short, what once was important to him about their life together was not to her. As to what she valued, much of the time his memory simply failed him.

  He had asked himself whether he still loved her, and was too afraid to answer. There were times when she showed him a kindness, or would look at him with warmth, and his heart would leap and he would want to take her in his arms. But suspecting that old habits were stronger than new resentments, he kept his hands to himself. He wondered whether he had ever loved her, whether he had ever loved anyone properly. Certainly not his parents. He had respected them and admired them, but also resented them in equal measure. And with your children it is so difficult to know whether you have loved them properly, loved them in the best possible way. As for Laura, ten years is a huge gap between a brother and sister and love didn’t really come into it.

  But he did love God. And he did love his Judaism. And he loved those Jews who greeted him at morning and evening prayers as if he really mattered. He felt at home in their little synagogue in a way he did not in his own home or his parents’ home before that.And he loved the certainty of his faith, and all the arguments, the ideas, the conundrums which filled the books of learning. The people of the book were his people and he loved being part of it.

  He looked towards the house. The lights were on, there were shadows behind the blinds, a normal family home except the husband and father was loitering outside in the dark. He should go inside, part of him really wanted to, but so many things had been said, so many angry, cruel words, the most recent just two nights ago, a violent slanging match over Israel, and he and Melissa had hardly spoken since. It had been largely his fault, he had been blunt, far too blunt about his plans to spend some time in Israel before – and he could recall his exact words – ‘Those idiot Labour supporters hand over the whole country to the Arabs.’

  He wished he had shown more restraint, after all, he would make his trip no matter what she thought, but sometimes his frustration burst out, surprising him more than anyone else. He was hardly aware these days of how much he bottled inside. So he exploded and she was shouting at him that Labour was the best hope for Israel, in fact, the only hope.And if only meshuggeners like him – ‘My own husband,’ she said in a voice oozing venom – stayed out of it, peace was a real possibility.

  The argument had continued for hours. At one stage she said the best solution to the conflict was to take the meshuggeneh Arabs and the meshuggeneh Jews, stick them all in a compound, arm the lot of them, lock the gates and let them kill each other; then the moderates on both sides could get on with the negotiations. He could hardly believe what he was hearing, and from his own wife too. He yelled at her, she yelled back. He yanked her arm, she kicked his shin. She threw his Shabbat goblet across the room and dented it, he threw her Lalique sculpture to the floor and shattered it. They shouted cruel and horrible words to each other and neither made any attempt to retract.

  Soon the Middle East conflict was left far behind and he was attacking her secularism and accusing her of shallowness, and she was attacking his orthodoxy and blaming his Holocaust background for it.

  ‘I’m a Jew,’ he had shouted at her. ‘Not just someone once removed from genocide.’

  And when she shouted back she was as much a Jew as he was, he plunged in the knife.

  ‘Show me,’ he said. ‘Just show me what sort of Jew you are.’

  But she couldn’t, for she had nothing whatsoever to show for her Jewishness. As for the Jewish sensibility she waved at him, it was laughable.

  ‘A little bit of guilt, a little bit of neurosis, a fondness for disinfectant and a belief in the restorative powers of chicken soup? That makes you a cliché, Melissa, it doesn’t make you Jewish.’

  She accused him of Holocaust superiority: ‘All you descendants of survivors think you’re so much more authentic than the rest of us.’

  It showed how little she knew: he had chosen religious observance not the Holocaust to inscribe his Jewish identity. Melissa knew nothing about his choices, like she had known nothing of the yearnings which had precipitated them. She was wrong in everything she had said the other night, had been wrong about everything she had said for years. His bags were half packed, he already had one foot outside the door, and he knew that driving him away was not that he and Melissa shared so little but that she disparaged what he valued most.

  He looked up as the back door clicked open. Silhouetted against t
he light were his wife and his sister. He guessed they would either call out to him from where they stood, or Melissa would send Laura to find him. He watched as they exchanged a few words, then Laura turned and went inside. His wife lingered a moment on the doorstep and then she advanced slowly down the path. She would know exactly where to find him. He knew he should meet her halfway, but he couldn’t.He watched her draw closer, he could hear her shoes on the gravel, he thought he could smell her perfume. He sucked in hard, sucked in his life and sadness, and tasted memory. He sighed, deep to his heart he sighed, and at the last moment stepped out of the alcove to meet her. Without a word the two of them walked back to the house together.

  From the kitchen Laura watched them come up the path. There was something deeply moving about the scene. She turned to Nell, ‘Melissa will never leave him,’ she said quietly.

  Nell assumed her irritated expression.‘You’re such a romantic, Laura. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Melissa stays with Daniel because she gets something out of it. Quite a lot actually, particularly for a strong-minded woman like her. She leads a life entirely separate from her husband. She could go out all day and half the night while he’s at his prayers and never have to account for herself. She has all the trappings of marriage and, as long as she’s discreet, none of the constraints.’ Then still totally oblivious to Laura’s mood, her face softened into a grin.‘There’s a lot to recommend it.’

  Was Nell tiring of their relationship? Laura found herself wondering, and quickly brushed the thought aside: of course they were all right, just going through a rocky patch.

  Later when they were all congregated around the Shabbat table with Nick leading the service, Laura looked at Melissa and Daniel. There was every reason for them to separate, but whenever that had seemed a real possibility, something always prevailed. Perhaps Nell was right, perhaps it was pragmatism not love, but alternatively there were the mysterious ties of long-term couples. Whatever the reason, the two of them would draw back from the precipice, at least for a short time.

  And so it happened that evening. Melissa decided to ignore her son’s desertion, while Nick himself confined his conversation to secular topics. Sophie shed her anger at her brother sufficiently to allow a dark and sprightly humour to surface. Even Daniel was more his old self; he complimented his wife on the meal, and passed a few jokes with Nell. There was only one fragile moment when Sophie raised the topic of the asylum seekers.‘You must have your work cut out for you at the moment,’ she said to Laura, who simply nodded and went to change the topic.

  Daniel, however, was too quick.‘This sort of racism is why Jews have to start behaving like Jews,’ he said.‘Be seen as Jews, make an impression as Jews, present a strong united front as Jews.’ Laura was tempted to say that black coats and shaggy beards and umpteen children and out-moded dietary laws and time switches on Shabbat and living in modern shtetls and burying your head in the Talmud would do little to stop any sort of violence and bigotry, but could anticipate her brother’s retort: Jews who don’t deserve to be called Jews have no right to an opinion on Jewish issues. And besides, for the sake of her relationship with Nell she’d made a private pact to leave her politics at work.

  It was little more than a thumb print on the mood of the evening and soon the jollity returned. Daniel even did a shortened bentshing after the meal because they wanted to continue an hilarious discussion about the film each of them would make if they had Steven Spielberg’s money and connections. By the time they said goodnight even Nell was her old self, and when in the car Laura picked up the dangling threads of their earlier conversation – Nell’s boredom, her obvious discontent – Nell brushed them aside. ‘It’s probably hormonal,’ she said.

  Whatever it was, it refused to go away. The next day, after an awkward breakfast together, Laura attempted to talk about the tensions between them. But Nell refused, accusing Laura of nagging.

  ‘You’re making trouble where there is none,’ she said.‘Just leave it alone.’

  Laura might have persisted, out of fear more than desire, but at that moment the doorbell rang.

  Standing in the doorway was the part-time tutor from Nell’s department, a woman young enough to be called Cyndee. Nell was suddenly her old charming self. How nice it is, Laura was thinking as she watched the two of them, that Nell has a young friend in the department. And how fortunate, given that Nell has alienated quite a few of her other colleagues. Nell invited the girl in, made the introductions, and as the three of them chatted together, Laura felt the recent tensions fall away. This was better, she was thinking, much better; perhaps all they needed were some new friends. But soon the conversation turned to departmental matters, which was, as far as Laura was concerned, the fast track to boredom. Several times a week for several years now she had heard about this or that idiot in the department, or this or that incompetent, or this or that sleaze. In fact, if Nell were bored with their friends, perhaps she should take note that many of their friends were, like Nell, academics, and wanting, like Nell, to talk university issues ad infinitum. It was like a mutual dabbing at weeping sores and Laura not up to it today, so when Cyndee suggested they continue their talking on a walk, Laura made an excuse and let them go alone.

  A few minutes later Laura, too, prepared to leave the house. She had a huge amount of work to do, but she needed to unwind. She was about to shut the door and head off to Dight Falls, the rapids in the centre of Melbourne and a place always conducive to thought, when she heard the phone ring. She hesitated a moment, then reentered the house and bounded up the stairs to interrupt the message mid-flow.

  It was the American, Raphe Carter. Laura had not heard from him since that day several months ago when he turned up at her office.

  ‘Four days not enough to unearth the family history?’ she now said.

  He was laughing. Not nearly enough, and besides, it left no time to see anything of the city. So he was back in town, and with no special plans.

  Laura found herself agreeing to meet him for coffee; not simply the dull moan of the recent tensions with Nell, but something about the American, his newness, his humour and ease, suddenly seemed exactly what she needed.

  But first she had to know about Alice Carter. ‘She’s an American like you,’ she said. ‘Also from San Francisco. She knew my father.’

  His response was quick and uncomplicated. He’d never heard of an Alice Carter, and then added that Carter was not an uncommon name in his part of the world.

  Laura was more relieved than surprised. When there had been no word from Raphe after their first meeting, she decided he had no sinister motives, that he was probably nothing more than an American accustomed to easy solutions and immediate gratification. In fact, she’d hardly given him a thought these past three months. Now, however, she found herself looking forward to seeing him again. She directed him to her regular café, changed her clothes, and set off immediately to meet him.

  Intimate Betrayals

  He liked her, he liked her very much, and would prefer not to. He liked her humour, her ideas and her politics. He liked her tall womanly figure, her mass of blonde curls and her fine pale skin. As they sat opposite each other drinking their double espressos, the ideologically suspect Australian ‘long black’, Raphe reached across and touched her hair. ‘Something caught in your curls,’ he said, surprised at how wiry it felt.

  He liked her so much it would be easy to forget why he was here. He had to keep reminding himself that certain wrongs would always be wrong, that murder in the past was no less murder now, that no one had paid for his grandfather’s death and someone damn well ought to. But while his thoughts were set firm, the rest of him was wavering. It was far easier, he decided, to be an effective hater in the confines of your own mind. For in the presence of the very real Laura Lewin, reason had deserted him. What on earth had made him return to Australia? What on earth did he think he could achieve?

  He wanted to go home and return to the drawing board. At the
same time he wanted to stay right where he was, drinking coffee with Laura Lewin who was so different from the Laura Lewin of his imaginings. Calm down, he told himself. No one is forcing you to do anything, no one even knows the real purpose of this trip, and managed to settle himself sufficiently to ask about her work, a topic designed to keep her talking while he regained his composure.

  As soon as she began to talk, so he began to feel better, although not in the way he had hoped. His anxiety and conflicts disappeared because Laura Lewin occupied his entire attention. Such an expressive speaker, he couldn’t take his eyes off her; the tiniest movement of her face, the lift of an eyebrow, the flicker of a grimace, emphasised and elaborated her words. She was equipped with that special skill of exposing brutality and injustice through reference to individual stories. She guided him through some terrible narratives, sparing him nothing but at the same time ready to lend a hand should he falter. He saw the dust and disease of refugee camps, he felt the stink and cramp of rotting trawlers, he knew the loss of whole families, whole villages, he saw death and mutilation in all their cruel diversity. As she told the stories it was as if the victims themselves were speaking and his own urgency fell away.

  Hearing about her work at the commission, Raphe couldn’t help but wonder if he had judged the law too quickly all those years ago, for Laura, it seemed, managed to operate within a framework of justice.

  ‘Although it takes regular beatings,’ she said.‘Revenge – a form of rough justice by any other name – is so much easier than justice, and certainly less encumbered by rules and regulations.’

  Rough justice. And suddenly Raphe found his feet. Rough justice, and Laura Lewin’s attractions fell away. Rough justice, and Raphe knew exactly what he was doing here.