by J. S. Margot
“Grandmère died peacefully. During her afternoon nap, while visiting her sister in the Netherlands.”
I didn’t tell them I’d driven to the Jewish cemeteries in Putte a few times. Not to visit grandmother Pappenheim, because I’d only recently learnt of her death. But because I’d heard they were the last resting place of some Flemish and Dutch Jews who had gone down with the Titanic. I’d smelt a story. I never managed to get into the cemeteries though: the gates were locked, and I couldn’t read the instructions next to the code lock, which were written in Hebrew.
Although I’d felt greatly honoured by the invitation, it felt strange and confrontational to be with all the Schneiders again in their home after all those years. Inevitably, like all reunions, this one was a disappointment. And like all reunions, this one fed off everything that was past. We’d all taken our own separate paths in life. We’d all changed: grown fatter or thinner, more open or closed, more energetic or rheumaticky, more religious or atheistic, older in years, but sometimes younger in ways of thinking and acting.
Sara had grown chubby, but hadn’t lost any of her old energy. Simon looked good, and still had that air of seniority. I thought: if he lived in my neighbourhood, I’d make him my doctor straight away. Elzira was enjoying it all. Jakov seemed slightly ill at ease. For once, he was quiet, more an observer than a participant. Father Schneider was in seventh heaven. The way he looked at his wife, surrounding her with small gestures—like a shy young man of almost seventy, convinced he’d found the woman of his dreams. Their behaviour towards each other belied my views on the institution of marriage.
Martinus and I stayed for a good hour. In that short space of time, during which I never relaxed entirely, I noticed that everyone was doing their best not to bring up any memories of Nima. I appreciated their discretion, but at the same time it felt oppressive. I knew they didn’t want to hurt Martinus. But in this house I’d always faced the same dilemma, and it was no different now: where did respect and caution end, and taboo start? Must I be silent about Martinus’s failed marriage and the children tangled up in it, because the Schneiders, devout as they were, couldn’t handle the truth? Or because I knew that one of the conditions imposed on all their children’s potential spouses had been: “May not be the child of divorced parents.” I didn’t want to be silent. I didn’t want to restrain myself. No way. But the Schneiders saw a divorce in their family tree as the beginning of the end. And a child of divorced parents could never grow into a stable, mature, modern Orthodox partner. “Those who lie down with dogs get up with fleas,” was Mr Schneider’s comment on the subject. So I myself was flea-ridden and shared table and bed with a man even more infested with vermin.
My toes curled. I tried to connect with Elzira. For once, she didn’t see how ill at ease I was. She busied herself carrying plates from the kitchen to the living room. Opris dropped by to say hello. Unlike everyone else, she looked miraculously unchanged. But Opris couldn’t distract me from my concerns. I searched for the right words to tell Mr and Mrs Schneider about Martinus. I was proud of my life and my choices, I was proud of our fleas. My muscles tensed, ready to take on any hint of superiority and to meet any judgement, whether spoken or silent.
“How are your children—Elzira tells me you have two?” asked Mrs Schneider, turning to my boyfriend. Followed by at least ten other questions. About whether they were healthy, how they were doing at school, about their aptitudes and characters. “It can’t be entirely easy for you,” she said, addressing me. “How do you handle the situation?”
Yet my visit felt like a finale: the very fact we’d grown so close over the years made the distance between us now all the greater. Back then, force majeure and children had overturned the laws. Now, mitzvoth, appointment diaries and adulthood had regained the upper hand. Our relationship was at its end. It was, I feared, just a question of postponement. That afternoon, Mr Schneider said at least three times that he and his wife regarded me as their eldest daughter—though each time he said it, he fixed his gaze on Martinus. Like a father trying to get the measure of his son-in-law.
Six
“Daddy, can you teach me how to shave?” The boy jumped off the sofa where I’d been sitting with him, leafing through a photo album full of rabbis. I’d once heard Elzira’s little son ask the very same thing.
A year had gone by since Mrs Schneider’s birthday party. Jakov and Thirza had invited Martinus and me to spend a few days with them in Fresh Meadows.
“Why do you want to shave, Benjamin?” asked Jakov.
“Because I don’t want a beard,” the little boy replied.
“You don’t want a beard?!” asked Thirza, who was sitting at the computer. How she and Jakov managed to combine their private, professional and religious lives with such serene good humour was a mystery to me. By now they had four children. Alexander, the oldest, was eight. They lived in cramped, basic accommodation. They worked incredibly hard, partly because the children’s schools—all private—were eye-wateringly expensive: up to twenty thousand dollars per child per year.
“I don’t want a long beard like the men in that book,” Benjamin said.
Thirza’s eyes twinkled.
“I’ll teach you how to shave,” Jakov promised.
“Now?”
“Not now. Later this week.”
Reassured, the little chap rejoined me on the sofa. I told him that when Daddy was a boy, he’d had posters of men with beards next to his bed. Thirza, amused, raised an eyebrow at Jakov.
“Do you know Daddy’s daddy and mummy?” asked Benjamin, clambering onto Martinus’s lap.
“I’ve often visited them at their home.”
“Do you think they’re nice?”
“Your Granny and Grandpa Schneider are very nice.”
“Daddy’s Daddy was a little boy in the war.”
I nodded.
“I want to hear stories about the war,” the boy said. “My grandpa, Mummy’s daddy, lived on a farm. He sat on the back of an ox. He told me. And he told me he made butter from the milk of a real cow. I don’t know anything about Daddy’s daddy. Can you tell me about him?”
I shook my head, but couldn’t suppress a smile: so someone would certainly try and winkle out their stories. “Perhaps you should ask Granny and Grandpa Schneider when you see them.”
“Granny is scared of planes. She almost never comes. And Grandpa doesn’t like to travel by himself.”
“When are you going to Antwerp again? When will you stay with them next?”
“I think in summer.”
“Well, write down all the questions you want to ask them.”
“I can’t write properly yet! Only my name and a few sentences. But I can read. English and Ivrit. Do you know how old I am? Five. I’m already five.”
“You could ask Mummy or Daddy to help you. Or Alexander. Or I could help you. Wait a minute.”
“Is that why you always have those notebooks with you: because you’re scared you might forget all the important things?”
*
It happened that our stay with Jakov’s family coincided with Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles. Of course I was familiar with this most domestic of festivals. But it was only here that I grasped its significance, or had it explained to me: that this eight-day holiday celebrates the Jewish Exodus out of the desert, commemorating the improvised shelters used by the Jewish people during their wanderings in the wilderness.
The fact we’d picked this special week was entirely accidental: Jewish festivals aren’t on my radar, and in Belgium, despite the large Jewish community, there’s little to remind me of them. It just so happened that cheap flights were on offer that autumn.
On this visit, the presence of Jews in New York life struck me even more than on previous occasions. From improvised street stalls in and around Manhattan, Jews were selling
the four religious symbols associated with this festival: branches of palm, myrtle and willow made up into bouquets, along with etrogim: ochre-yellow, wrinkled, citrus fruits with a very characteristic aroma that are kept like diamonds in ornate silver boxes. Customers scrutinized the fruit with magnifying glasses. The largest, finest, most symmetrical and pristine specimens were extraordinarily expensive: over a hundred dollars, if I recall correctly. The stallholders’ calls echoed through the streets.
Notices were stuck up at the tills of shops and supermarkets: “Keep calm and have a happy Sukkot”. All the papers ran articles about the festival. Public and private sukkot, or tabernacles, were displayed all over the city, like you might see nativity scenes in December. Martinus said: “I think this is going a bit far. Religion should be a private affair.” I agreed, while at the same time gazing at it all in fascination.
We helped build and furnish Jakov’s family’s sukkah. With the aid of a wooden frame, the flat roof of their annexe was decorated with leafy boughs of palm and willow, and transformed into an outdoor hut.
Jakov and Martinus put two sun loungers and a long table in the sukkah. Thirza and I sat at the table with the children, making drawings with finger paint. The neighbours’ children came to help, and joined in the art sessions. We made posters saying “Welcome to our sukkah” and stuck them to the walls with drawing pins. We balanced on a stepladder, attaching strings of little lights—it seemed quite Christmassy—to the walls and home-made ceiling. We blew up dozens of balloons, tied strings to them, and hung them everywhere we could. Thirza and her daughters placed the menorah on a pedestal.
The children, all ten of them, had a nap on the sun loungers, which had been covered with sleeping bags. They were given biscuits and tea. They fantasized aloud about the stars they’d be able to see peeping through the leaves at night, while we, the adults, cleared everything away and went inside to drink tea in the kitchen.
A quarter of an hour later, Renate suddenly ran into the room, in floods of tears.
“Laura,” she sobbed. “Something really bad happened to Laura.”
Thirza flew off, closely followed by Jakov. Martinus had gone pale. My heart was in my throat.
It turned out that the children had tied Laura to one of the sun loungers with the nylon string we’d used for the balloons. Alexander and Benjamin had helped. As had all the other children. Even the littlest, Renate—who’d afterwards turned out to be the bravest, by coming to tell us. Together they’d lashed Laura to the bed in true cowboy and Indian style, by her hands and feet. Laura had protested, but in her way, with silent tears.
Jakov and Thirza sent the other children home and took Alexander, Laura, Renate and Benjamin aside. Aside, meaning in their kitchen; Martinus and I felt unsure as to whether we were in the way.
Thirza talked to the children about their bodies. She told them that everyone was the boss of their own body. She explained why it was important, especially for young girls, to know that their bodies belonged to them and to no one else. She spoke about boys’ superior physical strength; flexed her arm muscles to illustrate her words, asked Jakov to flex his too. In her explanation, supplemented by Jakov, Thirza explained to the children that neither boys nor girls should ever tolerate anyone touching them against their will. That if anyone did something to them they didn’t want, they should do something about it. That their bodies and their sexuality were their own.
I was deeply impressed by this lesson. Thirza was a woman after my own heart. An impression that was only strengthened after the end of her assertiveness course, when I caught her secretly pinching Jakov’s bottom.
Seven
One day, as I was cycling past the Schneiders’, I saw a removal van. A crane was busy lifting furniture and boxes to the first and second floors. I stopped. Was someone moving, was the dumb question I asked one of the men unloading the van. He asked me if he should call the new occupants, because they happened to be inside.
No, there was no need for that.
Once home, I emailed Elzira. I attached a photo I’d taken with my phone: their beautiful white facade with the crane leaning against it. The answer came quickly. Their parents had sold the house and now lived alternately in a flat in Antwerp and one in New York. They wanted to spend half the year in the city where most of their grandchildren lived: Elzira and Jakov had nine between them.
Mrs Schneider had gone on a course to cure her fear of flying. “And if the turbulence gets really bad there’s always Xanax.”
Elzira added a few attachments to her email: photos of Mr and Mrs Schneider, dressed in pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, waving off Elzira’s children as they got onto the school bus in the morning. There were also a few snaps of the children themselves. Surrounded by their friends, they were looking a little askance at their grandparents: no teenager thinks it’s cool to be waved off at the doorstep by people in dressing gowns.
The photos of the children made me laugh; the ones of Mr and Mrs Schneider didn’t. That was because Mr Schneider reminded me too much of Dustin Hoffman in his role as Arthur Miller’s travelling salesman. Though that might just have been me; never before had I seen Mr Schneider dressed in anything other than a dark suit and white shirt. Suddenly there he was in pink fluff.
Eight
I emailed Mr and Mrs Schneider to pass on our best wishes for their new, split life. To my great surprise, Mr Schneider rang me as soon as the email arrived.
“We’re in New York. We live near Elzira.”
“Congratulations. You must love being so close to the children and grandchildren. How is Mrs Schneider?”
“I don’t like to hear American around me. Americans talk as if they’ve always got chewing gum in their mouths. I’m glad my grandchildren are growing up in the United States, but I think it’s a shame they won’t absorb all the languages they would in a European setting.”
“I’m just as sorry about that as you are. Though there is one comfort at least: everyone speaks English. With that language they can explore the world.”
“Thank you for your email. My spouse and I were very happy to receive it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m worried about our Jewish youth, you know. Asia is investing heavily in education. If we Jews want to continue to play a leading role economically, intellectually, artistically and academically, our grandchildren will have to make a greater effort. I’d feel happier, more reassured, if they spoke more than one language.”
“They can speak modern Hebrew too, surely?”
“They can speak Ivrit, but they can’t all read it well. They know the basics, that’s all. That’s America for you. Not much depth. Loss of tradition.”
“You sound so pessimistic. That’s not like you.”
“I’m thinking about the future.”
“You’re worried.”
“China’s a rising power. What if it soon calls the shots? America’s economy would suffer, and that would have a social impact. Maybe our children would no longer be welcome there. Since time immemorial, Jews have settled in places where the economy and commerce flourish. But would China be open to them, to us?”
“Can you see your grandchildren going to China?”
“I’d like them to study Chinese, certainly. But I wonder whether Jews can put down roots in Asian soil. And the Chinese are a closed people. What’s your opinion?”
“The Jews are also a closed people.”
“Do you think so?”
“Don’t you think so?”
“Have we been closed towards you?”
“Had it not been for your children, we’d never have had any contact. Children lower thresholds. Adults build walls.”
“Do you think that applies to me and my spouse?”
“I think it applies in general.”
“I’m not sure.”
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“I think it certainly applies to the Orthodox Jewish community. Why are you too frightened to open the doors a little wider, so everyone can peep inside?”
“Are you talking about Antwerp? Or the US?”
“Antwerp.”
“But you are a writer. You are a journalist. You always want to know what’s going on behind the scenes!”
“I’m saying this as a family friend. Not as a writer or journalist.”
“You think in terms of stories. You always have.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. As long as you don’t write about us.”
“What if I do?”
“Are you planning to?”
“You’re giving me ideas.”
“Well if so, I hope you never use our names. That you won’t reveal who we are.”
“Who is this ‘our’ and ‘we’?”
“All the Schneiders and Pappenheims.”
“Jakov and Elzira wouldn’t mind my writing about them. I think Jakov might even brag about it.”
“You are very dear to us, my spouse and me. Our children, especially Elzira and Jakov, are very loyal towards you. Please don’t abuse their and our loyalty.”
I didn’t want to oppose him. I didn’t want to say that their children were grown-ups now. I knew he was right. Jakov and Elzira would make their own decisions, very likely different to those of their father and mother. I didn’t want to drive a wedge between them. They were dear to me too. All of them.
“We, the Jewish community of Antwerp, cannot be open. Not as you would like,” he went on. “You know a little bit about our history. So you should understand that. That it’s better for us to lead our own lives in silence.”
I was sorry about the direction this conversation had taken.
He didn’t stop. “I cheer for Kim Clijsters,” he said, “and I walk through Central Park wearing my Anderlecht baseball cap. That’s how proud I am of my country. Yet you reproach us for a lack of openness. For failing as Belgian citizens.”
