by J. S. Margot
“Did he also ring the police?”
“The boys had long since gone. After shouting that they’d avenge their Palestinian brothers.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible…” I suddenly understood why he wasn’t so happy with Arafat in my rucksack.
“You know that Simon is doing military service in Israel.”
I nodded.
Simon was the last person you’d expect to sign up for the Israeli army after finishing school in Belgium. One of those young men that seem to be apologizing for their existence. Gangly, thin as a rake. I hadn’t been able to picture him in combat. But now I’d seen photos of him in uniform, with a machine gun clamped to his chest, looking straight into the lens with a pride that straightened his hunched shoulders.
“We’re afraid,” Mr Schneider went on. “Afraid for Simon, for the other three, for ourselves, for all of us. Simon is in the Golan Heights, near Syria. For a year now, my spouse and I have hardly slept a wink. Sara says she wants to join the army too, later. I know Sara. She will go.”
“Why are they going? Why aren’t they staying here?”
“Nine years ago a bomb exploded in the diamond district. Three people were killed and a great many injured. I saw the victims with my own eyes, one from very close by.”
I nodded silently, only vaguely remembering those attacks. I knew that security measures in the diamond district had since been drastically tightened up. There were now barriers in the main streets. Jewish schools and synagogues had extra protection. Elzira and Sara knew the police officers who stood outside their school and synagogues; they brought pretzels for them.
“A war is different, of course,” he went on, “don’t misunderstand me. It’s just that we now feel that madness breathing down our necks. And I trust our intuition. We Jews are like the canaries in the coal mine. We have heightened senses. We smell social change years before the community at large. We know when danger is coming. That intuition is in our genes. How could it be otherwise, after a history full of persecution?”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“Did you know that more and more Flemish Jews are considering voting Vlaams Blok in the local elections?”
I gazed at him in disbelief. Vlaams Blok—“Flemish Bloc”—was a fascist party. They wanted Flanders to break away from Belgium and become an independent state. Its adherents opposed all that was foreign. Several of its leaders didn’t hide their admiration for National Socialism. Some of its representatives—and some of its voters—came from a background of wartime collaborators.
“I can’t believe that,” I said. Instead of putting Solidair in my rucksack, I took it right out.
“Once again, we smell hatred of Jews,” Mr Schneider said, stroking his yarmulke. The patches of sweat under his armpits seemed bigger than usual. “You’re too young to remember this, but that slip-up by Mayor Craeybeckx put an end to the tradition that Antwerp Jews largely voted Socialist.”
What did he mean? I didn’t even know Craeybeckx had been mayor. I only knew the tunnel that was named after him.
“One day, Mayor Craeybeckx—he was a Socialist, you know—was sitting outside a cafe on the main square, Den Engel or Den Bengel, I can’t remember which. Some Orthodox Jews were crossing the square. He called out that it was a shame the Germans hadn’t put more of their kind in the gas ovens…”
I was silent. Then asked, “Mightn’t it have just been a tasteless joke?” What else could I say?
He plucked thoughtfully at his beard. “Only Jews are entitled to make jokes about Jews. Just as only blacks can make jokes about blacks. You have to know the suffering of a community from the inside before you’re allowed to make fun of it.”
“Are you frightened that anti-Semitism is on the rise?”
“Hatred of Jews—I use that term deliberately—hatred of Jews is a mutating virus. It pops up again and again, each time in a new guise. It’s happening again now.”
“This time because of Muslims?”
“Your friend knows why he fled his country.”
“Nima would never vote Vlaams Blok,” I said.
“You’re a lefty. Well, when does your beloved political faction express views about us, the Jews? Right. Purely when it’s about Israel and the Palestinians. And everything that’s said is just one cliché after another. People don’t know the country’s history—or its antecedents. Do you really think that all Jews are happy about what’s happening in Israel today: the hardening of attitudes, the shift to the right? Do you really think we all support the illegal settlements? Do you, like your left-wing friends, regard Zionism as a term of abuse? What do you know about Zionism? About the evolution of that concept? What do you know about the PLO? I’m prepared to bet that over three-quarters of all those who have an opinion about our country couldn’t even find Israel on a map and haven’t the faintest idea how it came into being. People don’t know where the occupied areas are, but that doesn’t make them any less eager to pontificate about them. Nobody talks to us. Talks, as in listens.”
“America does.”
“I’m talking about Belgium.”
“You could sound the alarm and speak out as a community.”
“What, to your left-wing friends? They already have their opinions. But they’ve no idea how dangerous their one-sided information will be in the long term. Their biased reporting is creating a climate—I’ve seen it happen over the past thirty years. I’m not saying that everyone has to be pro-Israel. But what I would like is for people not to present the Arab world as saintly. Not that the Arabs have a monopoly when it comes to hatred of Jews, mind you. It exists among the police. It exists among local officials, among people working in healthcare, people working for all kinds of institutions. It’s timeless and universal: wherever there’s a decline in prosperity, minorities are targeted. That doesn’t just apply to Jews. Your Persian friend will experience the same thing here.”
“So why do you say hatred of Jews, if it’s essentially hatred of other people?”
“Hatred of Jews is the most acceptable form of hatred of other people.”
There was a long silence. Elzira took the towel off her head and shook her hair free.
Mr Schneider was the first person to speak again: “My entire generation, the first after the Holocaust, served in the Belgian army. Of course we wanted to join the army. We felt Belgian, we were—we are—thankful to this country for all the opportunities it has given us. We also felt ourselves to be true Flemings! There was a kinship between Flemish Jews and non-Jews. I was proud to be a Fleming. Our children feel that bond much less…”
“But you speak French at home,” I couldn’t help saying.
“You are as ignorant as they,” he sighed.
I looked at Elzira, hoped she would save me.
“Do you know why so many Antwerp Jews speak French?” Mr Schneider asked, and in one tired breath he continued. “Not just because some of them are members of the bourgeoisie, in case you thought that. And not just because many Jewish children were taken in by Walloon and French foster families during the war, so learnt French while they were in hiding. When the survivors of the Holocaust tried to get on with their lives in Antwerp, they no longer wanted to speak a minority language. They wanted always to be ready to move to another, distant country, if such horrors ever came to pass again. That’s why they chose French. Though they’d have done better to have chosen English, of course. And that’s why they always kept their passports up to date and had them ready in their homes. Just as we always have our passports ready. You will never find an Orthodox Jew in this country—perhaps not even a liberal Jew—whose passport has expired. We’re always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
I nodded. I had goose pimples on my arms.
“Would you ever vote Vlaams Blok?” I asked.
“What does a person do when they’re afraid and can no longer trust mainstream political parties?”
“Hides. Leaves. Bands together with others who feel the same fear. Revolts against that which makes them fearful.”
“You know it all too well.”
“But a Jew can’t possibly vote for a far-right party!”
“History has taught us that nothing is impossible,” he said.
Thirty-Two
The things a dog can tell you, part one.
It was a summer’s day in July. I was jogging through the city park. That’s to say, I ran once around the pond, lingered on the iron suspension bridge until the swans swam beneath me, then went and sat on a bench for half an hour, reading the paper, daydreaming, people-watching. Sometimes, if there was a lot to see, that halfhour turned into an hour.
That day, there was a lot to see.
On one of the lawns, under the wide canopy of ancient trees, a group of at least sixty Jewish girls were playing games. Drop the handkerchief. Sack races. And a version of tag whose rules I couldn’t quite make out.
The girls were members of a youth group, or something of that kind. They were aged about six or seven, eight at most. All wearing long dark skirts and tights, and long-sleeved, dark or pastel-coloured blouses or shirts. Yet it wasn’t just because of the stereotypical clothing that I knew they were Jewish. There was something else, I don’t know what. Something to do with the group, I think. Together, they all looked alike. Had I seen the girls separately, I might not have thought them Jewish at all.
Apparently I couldn’t suppress my tendency to seek to define a people. What about my own people? Why didn’t I list their characteristics? Dutch people I could spot a mile off—and there were plenty of them in Antwerp. I could tell whether someone was Dutch just from their happy expression, height, hairstyle, the position of their collar, the colour of their scarf and lipstick. In fact I made a sport of it, betting with my friends for a coffee or an ice cream: ninety per cent of the time I was right.
Not all the Jewish girls belonged to the same social class. Some wore clothes that were clearly expensive. Others had skirts, dresses or shoes that looked to have come from a charity shop.
The girls were completely absorbed in their play. They giggled, huddled together in groups, had fun. Two of them tried to turn cartwheels. They were pretty good at it, actually. As they kicked their legs in the air I thought of Sara’s gymnastic exercises and Mr Schneider’s little homily about their undesirability, and was relieved that cartwheels apparently didn’t fall under this prohibition. Not for girls of this age, at any rate.
Suddenly I spotted Elzira in the group. She was one of the leaders, in charge of the group doing sack races.
Just in time I managed to suppress the urge to leap up and wave at her. I didn’t want to interrupt the game, least of all to embarrass her. She didn’t notice me; she was entirely focused on the children. Peeking from behind my newspaper, I caught myself regarding her like a craftsman regards his work: with affectionate interest and an eye for improvement. Proudly. Mothers would call it maternal instinct.
Joggers panted past. On another lawn, a group of Indians were playing cricket. A man was meditating, sitting cross-legged. Locals were walking their dogs. Walkers and commuters hurried through the park, passing from the statue of King Albert to the playground on the edge of the diamond district. Three of them, Indians, did so barefoot. Park maintenance staff gathered under a tree, leaning on their spades.
A woman with a little dog crossed the lawn on which the girls were playing. She held the Maltese—a white ball of fluff on four diminutive legs—on a lead.
One of the leaders approached the woman, hands on hips.
“Go away, lady,” she burst out, “we don’t want you here!”
The woman looked at her indignantly.
The leader jerked her head in the direction of the little dog which, because its mistress had stopped, had sat down obediently next to her. The animal eyed the girls with innocent curiosity.
“What did you say?” the woman asked.
“You heard what I said. Go away!” the leader said. She must have been about the same age as Elzira. Her voice was shrill and angry—an anger reflected in her gestures and the rest of her body language. Once again, standing belligerently in front of the woman, she jerked her head at the dog. The little scene took place right in front of my nose.
Meanwhile some of the girls, including the ones that were doing sack races under Elzira’s supervision, had stopped playing. They ran to the angry leader and stood behind her, forming a front against the lady with the little dog.
Hesitantly, Elzira joined the little group. I was sure she’d be able to defuse the situation, would discreetly correct her colleague. That would be typical of her. She loved dogs. We had ourselves walked across this lawn many times with Monsieur.
“I’ve got just as much right to be here as you,” said the lady with the dog, looking flustered. “I’m not disturbing you. You’re not disturbing me. I’m walking past. You’re playing. And that’s all allowed.”
Some of the girls giggled. Others went up to the dog and then, pretending to be afraid, ran away, shrieking with laughter. Two girls were curious. They crouched down, looked from the lady to the dog and asked if they were allowed to stroke it, what it was called, whether it was a boy or a girl. If anyone here should feel scared, it seemed to me, it was this Maltese. Four of him could have fitted into one of their rucksacks, which lay piled up in the middle of the lawn.
The leader felt emboldened by the backup she was getting from the group. “Go away, lady, and take that animal with you! Dogs aren’t allowed here. Your dog’s dirty. We’re playing here!”
The lady with the dog was dumbstruck.
The children’s mood began to change. The girls were no longer laughing. Some of them looked cross—hostile, even. They no longer ran towards the dog. No longer wanted to pet him. They looked at their leader and some of them echoed her: “Go away!”
Elzira didn’t do anything. She didn’t crouch down, as I’d seen her do a thousand times with Monsieur, to talk to the dog. She didn’t abuse the woman, like the other leader. She was silent.
Thirty-Three
The things a dog can tell you: part two.
It was winter, and Elzira and I were going for a little walk with Monsieur. When she was with me she was even allowed to cross the leien, the main boulevards, on condition that we gave advance notice of this outing and came home punctually at the agreed time.
Just for the record: I wasn’t paid for these excursions. I enjoyed them. And Elzira and Monsieur enjoyed them too.
I’ve no idea what day of the week it was. Not Sunday, at any rate. Nor can it have been Saturday. It was probably just a weekday afternoon when the Jewish school was shut in preparation for a religious festival.
We walked, both of us bundled up from head to toe, from the Schneiders’ to Belgiëlei and then along Lange Leemstraat, which is indeed as long as its name suggests, heading for the park. We were chatting. Elzira was holding Monsieur’s lead; one minute he’d be scampering ahead of us, the next trotting obediently at her side.
Suddenly a woman came running up behind us. She tugged at Elzira’s coat and grabbed me by my shoulder. I felt my heart miss a beat. The look in Elzira’s eyes was one I’d never seen before.
“Hey, you, wait!” the woman snarled.
I turned round and pushed the woman away from us. She was wearing an apron with the name of a sandwich shop embroidered in yellow. It was a shop we’d just passed.
“Wait, I said!” she raged. “I’ll bring you a bucket of water and bleach, so you can clear up your own mess. It’s no good looking all innocent. I’m no mug. I know you people all too well. You think I should clear up after you. Well you can think again! For once, you can just do that your
selves. We’re not your slaves!”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
Elzira, even paler than usual, gave me a poke: “S’il te plaît, please, let’s run away, on devrait déguerpir, she scares me, elle me fait peur, tout cela me fait peur.”
“No,” I said shortly, “we’re staying.” There was no way I was going to leave before I knew what was going on. “Mevrouw, please take your hands off us or I will call the police,” I said, and I could tell from the sound of my own voice that I meant it.
All was soon revealed.
Monsieur had peed against the pavement sign advertising the sandwich shop. Without us noticing, he’d lifted his leg against the special offer: ham and cheese sandwich 20 francs, crab salad sandwich 25 francs.
Monsieur peed against every tree and post. It was actually more marking his territory than peeing. Often he produced only a single drop; dachshunds aren’t exactly known for their giant bladders. Elzira took care that he didn’t foul any buildings, or at least as few as possible. If he made as if to pee on the pavement, she would drag him to the nearest tree or lamp post. That’s how she was brought up: cause as little disturbance as possible, be as unobtrusive as possible.
“On y va,” Elzira begged.
“No,” I said, “not yet.”
“Don’t answer this woman. Il vaut mieux se taire.”
But I wasn’t going to shut up. I addressed the woman calmly: “If our dog peed against your sign, we would like to apologize. We hadn’t noticed. In future we’ll take care he doesn’t do it again.”
Elzira squeezed my arm. Monsieur was about to jump up against the sandwich seller’s calves. Elzira retracted the lead. I could feel how tense she was.
The woman didn’t pay any attention to our apology: “Your kind thinks this is all perfectly normal. You’d really like us to bow down to you, to clear up your mess. But perish the thought you’d ever buy anything from us—that’s never going to happen, you’re far too snooty for that!”
