The Bells of Bournville Green

by Annie Murray

  For a moment he leaned over and gently brushed his hand over the wisps of white hair. Hermann’s scalp gave off a dim, papery warmth.

  ‘Rest now,’ he whispered. ‘Be at peace. Shalom, abba, shalom.’

  He stayed talking for a short time with Annaliese before she shooed him out to catch the bus back to Jerusalem.

  ‘I do not think he will regain consciousness,’ she said solemnly. ‘Go, boy. Live your life. Study hard and be a great doctor. I will let you know when the end comes.’

  And she kissed him fondly and waved him down the steps of the apartment block. She was watching, smiling, as he turned again to look at her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  David expected to receive news of his father’s death almost immediately, but several days passed and there was nothing.

  He worked hard at the medical school, returning exhausted from his long day of classes to the cramped apartment and the pleasures of his little family. In the evening Gila always had food ready, baked aubergines or mutton, and chopped salads of tomatoes and small fat cucumbers. He loved the return home to what felt like safety.

  One afternoon though, a week after he had been to Haifa, there was an extra anatomy class that he did not need to attend and he came home early. He was restless, finding it hard to concentrate on his studies as he waited for a telegram or letter from Annaliese.

  The apartment seemed very quiet as he pushed the door open. If Shimon’s voice could not be heard laughing and chattering he must be napping, David knew. He closed the door very carefully and peeped into the living room. Sure enough, Shimon was sprawled on his back on the old sofa, arms flung out and his closed eyes fringed by immensely long lashes. David stood smiling down at him. The sight of his son always melted him. He longed to pour over him all the safety and love he had never had from his real parents: to heal the wound in himself.

  He realized Gila must be resting too and thought to join her. Sure enough, she was lying on the bed, and thinking her asleep, he sat down gently on the edge to take off his shoes. As he undid his laces he felt her stirring and heard a sob.

  She was lying curled on her side, hands over her face.

  ‘Hey, my sweetheart. . .’ He knelt over her, a little afraid when he heard her weeping. What on earth could have brought on such emotion? He dared to touch her shoulder. ‘What is it my love?’

  She gave way to her tears then, curling up more tightly. Only when he lay beside her and held her against him did she turn to him.

  ‘Oh, Doodi – you’re going to be so angry with me!’

  ‘Am I?’ he was trying to humour her a little, because there was a wildness in her expression which disturbed him. ‘Why’s that? What have you done that’s so terrible?’

  ‘I’m bleeding,’ she said, weeping even harder.

  He stared at her, trying to make sense of this.

  ‘I had to go and see Dr Hirsch this morning. He said I am losing again – a child. It is not very heavy now, but if it gets worse I should go to the hospital. . .’ She looked fearfully at him, her face seeming very young and vulnerable.

  ‘But . . .’ David put a hand to his forehead. ‘I don’t get it. You were taking the pills – I mean, you weren’t pregnant. . .’

  But Gila was shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry Doodi – I’m so sorry – but I was.’ Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘I just wanted – I don’t know . . . It was for Shimon. I need to do my studies, but I wanted to have another baby so badly. I have not been truthful with you, that is the worst of it.’

  David looked at her, feeling his face set into a stony expression. ‘When did you stop taking them?’

  ‘A while ago – three, four months? I don’t remember.’

  Ablaze with fury he removed his arms from round her and rolled off the bed, to go and stand by the window. For a moment he wished that he smoked. It felt as if the harsh scrape of cigarette smoke across his throat would be soothing. He looked out at the row of cedars, the hazy sky over the apartment blocks, sickened by its rudimentary ugliness. Gila was crying softly behind him.

  ‘Doodi,’ she said eventually. ‘Don’t – don’t be so hard. Please come back here.’

  His anger flared. ‘What – for you to tell me more lies?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I am not having a child. So there is something for you to celebrate.’

  The words cut through him. He was furious and very hurt at her deceiving him, but he knew how much she longed for it, as he did. For a moment he felt like weeping himself.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ he asked, more kindly.

  ‘A bit – not too bad.’

  He went and lay beside her again, their faces almost touching, but he did not reach out for her.

  ‘You didn’t have to be so sneaky. Are you afraid of me?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She looked into his eyes, grief and longing in hers. Sometimes she looked so lost and bereft, this woman who he had thought was all strength. ‘Only you’re always working so hard and I know I should be finding a way to work and study as well. But then there’s also something in me – something that takes over. I just felt as if we had to make a baby. Had to!’

  He reached out then and pulled her tenderly to him, stroking her head, then laying his hand on her belly, aware of the tearing process taking place in there.

  ‘Should we have a child now? Are we wrong?’ he said.

  ‘Well, we know my body is tricky and choosy with babies,’ she said bravely. Shimon had originally been a twin, but Gila miscarried the other child. ‘So something is saying to us that the time is not right. Maybe I should put away this crazy idea until later on.’ She was reverting back to being brisk and practical.

  They lay for some time, gently holding each other, discussing what they must do for the future. Things felt warm and right again. David hated quarrelling.

  It was only when Shimon woke from his nap that he got up, leaving Gila to rest, and made a drink of juice for his little son, full of thanks for his existence.

  Despite his frailness, Hermann Mayer did not hurry into death. It was not until ten days later that David received the letter from Annaliese, telling him that his father had slipped away in his sleep. He had been kept heavily sedated and had never come to full consciousness again. She told him that Hermann would be buried in one of the Jewish cemeteries in Haifa and she would take David to pay his respects when he next came to see her, but he was not to disturb his routine by travelling there again now.

  On hearing the news David abandoned his studies for the afternoon and caught a bus into Jerusalem. Entering the Old City through the Jaffa Gate, he wandered through the narrow streets and bazaars of the western side of the city, which was Israeli: the eastern side was in Jordan. The streets were lined with stalls selling round soft breads, tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines and bunches of mint. When the sun was sinking low in the sky, he found a place to climb up on to the walls and stood looking over the pale stones of the city, its domes and towers and minarets and the golden glow reflecting from the Dome of the Rock. A church bell tolled somewhere, and as evening came the call to prayer would go up from the mosques – yet still he knew he was standing in the beating heart of Jewish Israel, its very purpose, Yerushalaim, founded back in the very earliest history by the Canaanites. His people, he told himself, the home of the Jews, where he belonged. But as he looked across the hot, bustling city with its alleys and markets, its spice sellers and donkeys, its peoples gathered from Vilnius and Odessa, from Paris and Berlin, the Yemen and Warsaw, he asked himself how close he really felt to the Canaanites or to the history of this torn piece of land. It was not even the land of his parents: it would have been quite foreign to them. Was he not just as close in his heart to Edie, who had brought him up, to the place he had once called home? For a moment he longed to hear the soft, familiar tinkling of bells across the leafy spaces of Bournville.

  He felt a shock of emptiness, almost of panic. With his father’s passing he had lost one of
his very few links with his real blood family and their history, tragic as it had been. Now there was only Annaliese. Without her, he was cast adrift in this country of refugees. At this moment, being a part of the land did not seem enough.

  With powerful longing he thought of Gila and Shimon, and a passion filled him. They were his all, truly his home! He was making a place to belong, with his loved ones, his family. He cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he been so angry when he found out Gila had been pregnant? She had deceived him of course, that was the real reason for his hurt. But why should they not have more children and build a family? Wasn’t that what he really longed for? And the state of Israel wanted lots of healthy Jewish babies. He pushed all the difficulties aside in his mind. They would manage, somehow. They would have children – lots of them! – and they would flourish and belong, all children of the state of Israel and he the father of the household. They would be both his roots and his branches.

  He hurried down the steps from the walls and through the shady alleyways of the city, longing now to be home, to tell Gila his thoughts, to lie with her, holding her close in his arms, and share this vision of what home could mean.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Doodi – I have been thinking.’

  He had come home bursting to talk, but decided to wait until Shimon was in bed, since conversation with the child around soon became like a pile of shredded paper.

  Gila had cooked his favourite dinner of chicken with tomato salad and he knew she was pampering him because of his father’s death. She fussed round him and insisted he rest while she helped Shimon wash and prepare for sleep. Tonight she seemed brighter and energetic.

  The living rooms of the apartments gave out on to tiny balconies with just enough room for two chairs close together, or for a rack of washing. These spaces, cut into the mass of the building and enclosed by railings, ran up the side of the block like a row of missing teeth. David sat in the balmy darkness holding a glass of mint tea, listening to the sounds of older children playing and to other voices: the high nagging of the Lithuanian lady in the apartment below, and occasional grunts of reply from her husband, the raucous Yemeni family sitting outside by the main entrance, a baby crying somewhere further along the block. In the room behind him, Gila was humming softly to Shimon.

  He had a speech prepared in his head but she spoke first, coming to sit on the other chair when he had scarcely realized she was there, rubbing her eyes sleepily after being in the darkened room with Shimon. Her hair hung loose on her shoulders.

  ‘Today, of all days, I want to speak clearly with you.’ In seconds she became the tough, resolute Gila, the kibbutz Gila. Reflected in her eyes he saw dots of light from the lamp across at the edge of the concrete strip.

  She’s so beautiful he thought, and with his whole being he wanted to take her and hold her, but she was not in the same soft mood as he.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Doodi darling, for what I did. For stopping taking the pills. I don’t really understand myself, except that I am in conflict. Sometimes my heart wants something that my head tells me is wrong and I don’t know how to manage it. But now I feel strong and I have come to a decision. It will be better for our future – for all of us – if I begin my studies as soon as possible. I am going to apply to the School of Dentistry and study to get my qualifications quickly. Then I will be useful and we will not be so poor. It all makes perfect sense.’

  David watched her earnest face. All the things he had been dying to say on the way home from the Old City seemed pushed aside by the clear, hard-headed thoughts of his wife. But he tried to regain them.

  ‘Or, we could just carry on and have a family,’ he said. ‘Children – lots of children . . .’

  Gila’s face softened and she leaned forward and stroked his cheek. ‘My darling, sometimes you are so romantic, and so stupid. Where exactly are we going to put these children? On the roof perhaps? And what are they going to eat, or wear – especially when you are off being an army doctor? We have no money – we should starve!’

  ‘We’d manage,’ he said stubbornly, knowing all the same that she was right.

  In the shadows he could see the tender laughter in her eyes. ‘Of course we would, you silly boy,’ she said lightly. ‘No, please, Doodi – I have been thinking about it all day. It will be hard – very hard – but we can manage. In the term times I could take Shimon to my mother.’ She held up her hand against his protest. Gila’s mother was frail, nervy. ‘It would be good for him to be at Hamesh – he will have company on the kibbutz, and learn about the life. If my mother cannot cope, he can stay with Auntie Miriam in Tel Aviv – she adores him. And in the vacation we can be with him all the time.’

  He could hear that she was struggling with her emotions, being brave, when the thought of being separated from her son for such long periods would almost break her heart.

  ‘Love, you don’t have to do this – not yet,’ he argued. ‘Wait at least until Shim is in school. . .’

  But she was shaking her head, tears welling in her eyes. ‘No, Doodi – it’s for the best. We cannot just carry on like this, or have more children now. It is just too difficult. My training will give me a sense of purpose and afterwards I can work and have more children. We are still young.’

  He knew she was right, and relief flooded through him, yet at the same time his vision was evaporating: of himself at the head of a great family which would nail him down into this place, this rough, spiky country. He would have to work it all out in a different way.

  He stood up and took Gila’s hand, drawing her to her feet, and held her warm, curving shape in his arms.

  ‘You are so brave,’ he said. ‘You will find it hard, leaving our little one. I will find it hard too.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, tears running down her cheeks. ‘But I am thinking for the future: it is best to do the hard thing first.’

  He kissed her wet cheeks, stroking away her tears with his thumbs.

  ‘I love you so much.’ He was so moved by her. ‘Come inside, will you – to bed?’

  She nodded at him, trying to smile.

  He hesitated for a second.

  ‘You’ve taken your pill?’

  Her smile broadened, teasing a little now. ‘Yes, my lovely tyrant. I have taken my pill.’

  Part Three

  Birmingham, 1965–7

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Spring 1965

  ‘Gret! You there?’

  Greta rolled her eyes in irritation, hearing Trevor come crashing in from work. Sometimes she thought he’d break the door off their little house in Glover Road. And there was always the shout as he came in.

  ‘What?’ she called, not moving from the cooker. Trevor seemed to expect her to drop everything and come running like an eager puppy whenever he called, even though she was cooking their tea.

  ‘Hey, bab—’ Trevor burst into the kitchen, dressed as ever in his black gabardine, even though it was a warm spring day. He threw his arms round her from behind, cupping his hands over her breasts. ‘Let’s go out tonight, eh? I got a good couple of tips today. There was some bloke, from Manchester he was, said he was just passing and he gave me five bob! Said he’s never had a better hair cut! I thought we’d go down the boozer . . .’

  Greta squirmed, half annoyed, half amused.

  ‘Trev, get off! That tickles – look, you’ve brought me all up in goose pimples!’ She freed herself from his grip. ‘You know I can’t go out – it’s my club night.’

  ‘Oh, Gret!’ Trevor threw his coat angrily over a chair. ‘You’re always cowing well out these days – we never go out no more – not just the two of us!’

  ‘Yes we do . . .’ She tried to think, as she said it, of the last time they’d been out together, but realized with a shock that it was a long time. ‘But you know these are my nights out – French Monday, club tonight. That’s all. We can go out any other night if you want.’

  ‘Make us a cuppa tea then,’ he said, sitting
down sulkily on top of his coat. ‘At least you can do that for us.’

  Greta put the kettle on, biting her lip. Trev was envious, she knew that. Her going to the class on Monday seemed to annoy him the most. ‘What d’you want to learn French for?’ he’d say. ‘You’re not going to France, are you?’ The Seven O’Clock Club at Cadbury’s, a social club, just seemed to wind him up because she had somewhere to go and he didn’t. She liked dancing too, but Trevor said he couldn’t dance. And he thought she was getting full of high-flown ideas, reading books and all that.

  ‘Why don’t you go down the Old Oak with your mates?’ she’d ask. ‘You know – while I’m out. You might as well go and enjoy yourself.’

  The plain truth was Trevor didn’t really have any mates. He hadn’t been very pally with anyone at school and now he just worked with Edie’s Dad, Mr Marshall, and he was old enough to be his grandfather. Trev just wanted to go out with her and no one else. Or better still, stay in and watch Dick Emery on the telly. He was a proper Derby and Joan sort, whereas she still went out with Pat now and again, as well as to her clubs at Cadbury’s.

  ‘Look, we’ll go tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll be too late then,’ Trevor said morosely.

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘I want to go tonight.’

  Greta could feel herself beginning to lose her temper. All Trev could ever think of to do was going down the pub! Even if she suggested anything else he’d just shrug and say, ‘Oh, I dunno. No – let’s just go down the boozer . . .’