by Sonia Taitz
For instance, she tried to see Jesus as she thought they must, as the martyred child of God. She tried to grasp the notion that death did not really conquer him (it helped her to think of the Jews; death never really conquered them, either). She thought of Mother Mary. She’d been summoned by God to a strange yet homely service: to augment the universal spirit with the warmth of her female body, to sacrifice her womb to the powers that must be. She had assented. Shy Miriam, Virgin of Israel, eyes bright with pure trust.
If Jesus had sacrificed himself for mankind, why, so had Mary. She had said: if that’s what is needed to help my fellow wanderers on this painful earth, then here I am, Lord, open to your service. Mary, thought Lily, was like Queen Esther, the Jewish Queen of Persia. Esther had begun her life unassumingly, humbly. But then she had been called upon. In order to save the Jewish people from annihilation at the hands of King Ahasuerus (who had been evilly counseled by Haman), she went before the King himself, parading her loveliness, and found special favor in his eyes. He took her into his arms and married her; he was smitten. (Julian had fallen under the same auspicious spell, thought Lily.)
They took to their Jewesses, as God took to Mary, and a vast forgiveness became possible. After all, love allows the widest, most extravagant mercies. When King Ahasuerus was in Esther’s thrall, and she in his embrace, she told him: the people you are being counseled to destroy are my people, my flesh and my blood. Kill them and you will kill what you love. Be merciful and love will be infinite. The King listened and understood. He spared the Jews, and killed his remorseless advisor.
So it was that one fragile Jewess had redeemed her kinsmen. So it had been with Mary-Miriam. Even God conceded that to make his own seductive son he would need a woman’s soft womb. He would not go it alone this time, plucking a rib as an afterthought. No. Now he saw the power of the magic vessel, Woman; in her, he could forge his mortal interpleader. A stern King needs his tender maid. This was not chilly old Adam’s time. Jesus was to begin life as a vibrant quickening egg, warmed to life by his mother’s compassionate flesh.
Christmas was the day of Mary’s labor, the labor of universal love. She had a son so delicious you could eat him, body and soul, and live on it forever. This was called Holy Communion. The family of man would spare each other, and feast instead, together, on the son of woman. Ess, ess, mein kind. The Jewish mother coaxes you to eat. Eat, eat, my child. Eat my child up! But do no more evil to each other. Mary smiles to see you belly-full of her love child, remembering the sweet months when she was full and ripe. Ess mein kind, mothers of all children. And spare them, King, Father, God, for all are your godchildren, soft as the belly into which you entered so weightily!
Actually, the Kendalls did not think much about religion. Neither the specific tale of the birthday at Bethlehem nor the symbolic one of mercy for all was recounted, much less stressed. This was natural: one was saved; why overburden a sure thing? Why be undignified? Why be heavy-handed? Archibald reached into the deep pockets of European civilization and pulled out old gold: English carols, German chorales, Latin chants. The record turntable spun round and round in eternal orbit, marking the centuries of our Lord. Mrs. Kendall had (ages and ages ago) put together a Christmas pudding, preserved with spirits and weighty with luscious, somber plums. A single penny had been planted within, a “lucky” coin which now reemerged in Lily’s mouth when the pudding (really a sodden cake) was divided and served. Everyone applauded, and Lily flushed. This was the only matter gambled with on Christmas Day. All else was peace, and received with dignity.
The Kendalls had faith that things were just as they should be. In church they recited their prayers without taxing the words with fear or doubt or hope. They just knew. They listened to the Queen reciting her Christmas message over the BBC. The voice of the Matriarch was thrilling: kind yet efficient, trusty. “Right,” said Archibald when the speech ended, meaning not only “correct,” but “right as rain.” Peter yawned and said, “Christ! What a bore; what’s next?” Next was real Brazilian coffee, and the best French Armagnac.
The only disturbing thing that had happened that day concerned the girl Lily herself. It was so unusual that Archibald and Helena had stopped in their tracks at church on the way up to the altar. They had been engaged in the process of receiving Communion. She had poked him smartly: “Just look!” Both Julian and the girl were getting into the Communion queue. (Peter was rebelliously staying put in his pew.) Husband and wife gaped at the girl. How dare she make a mockery of their service! How dare she embarrass them in church, before the vicar!
Julian, of course, had not asked Lily to take Communion. He didn’t mind if she did or didn’t. It was all her idea. He thought the whole thing a grand annual joke, and chatted about the “yummy bickies” and “sloshy wine.” Lily, who in a different mood might have felt relieved at his lack of allegiances foreign to her, felt betrayed, now, by this irreverence. The Jew in her was porous, a sucker for the spirit of the time and place. To see Englishmen, of all people, on their knees, like baby birds accepting what was put into their open mouths: it touched her. She looked at the kneeling bodies and bowed heads; then she knelt amongst them, and bowed her head.
This was her vow: she promised to partake. Beyond England and its church, beyond this country, this family and even Julian, lay the endless realms of mortal effort and immortal rescue. Messiah . . . Is that not what we are here for? For a communion in trust? She ate bread and drank wine. With eyes closed, feeling the ground warm to her flesh from the warmth of the bodies of strangers, Lily felt herself redeemed from this time and place; it was now every-time, and here was every-place. For a moment, she felt like Esther, bowing to her Lord, raised in his arms to a savior-Queen. She felt like Mary, Miriam, surrendering to the universal spirit of loving reparation. The King’s arms were not stone; they softened, and embraced her. They took her in. Like a mother looking into a cradle, Lily recognized without sadness the fragile innocence of flesh and blood. Light streamed through the thin vessels of her lids from the rays behind the stained glass windows.
Julian was right beside her. He tried to think about Jesus Christ, the crucified, and of the agonies he had suffered. Crowns of thorns and stigmata. For a second he thought of being paddled and ridiculed in school, and of the athletic evil of boys. They were like pack animals. He was glad not to be going on to Oxford, he was. Sick of the pack, and sick of playing the game. Stupid, sodding rules. What help was Jesus, really, in this cruel world? He’d lost out. A weakling like me, thought Julian. Why do they bother asking him for anything? He’s the bloody whipping boy! Why do they pretend he’s not? Julian squeezed his closed eyes, repressing his bitterness, then looked up forlornly at the Reverend Stout.
16
THIS IS WHAT LILY SEES in Julian: a noble creature, young, staring onto his own eyes at the looking-glass. A slow smile spreads across his mouth; he knows that life is turning good, as in a magic metamorphosis. He knows that she is watching him discover this. He is shameless in her gaze.
She makes a million unanswerable demands. There is no end to her questioning. He thinks before he answers, and he answers. There is a modesty to his confusion. A happy naïveté. He does not mind abandoning his world for hers. He entrusts himself to her. As he answers her, she finds new questions . . ..
Nervous energy with no outlet. And when it finds an outlet, when she is the outlet, he is grateful, adoring. He sighs out with relief at the feel of full extension. A lost, errant boy; if set right, could conquer anything. If not, would fritter winningly. A rare, dangerous combination. She will save him. He will save her. When she talks about the Jews, he is her convert, her Paul into Saul. He furrows his brows in adopted pain, in concentration. They invigilate the night. Next time someone tries to bloody a Jewish face for a coat, he will stand up to them. She knows she has touched off a chivalrous fury in him: her status ennobles him. Next time, if there is a next time, he will be there.
He has no practical plans. Nor does she. This is
the kind of love she has always sought. Loose. Like soldiers of fortune. Loose. Reckless.
17
AFTER CHURCH, not a word was spoken between husband and wife about Lily’s having been “out of line,” for each understood how the other felt, but Archibald did find the lesson in this for Timothy.
“Timothy,” he said, “perhaps you are too young to understand what I shall tell you today, but I would like to tell it to you anyway. It is a sort of secret,” said Archibald (this guaranteed the boy’s attention), “so you must keep it in the family. All right?”
“Yes,” said Timothy, climbing into his father’s ample lap.
“Now, Timmy,” said Archibald, settling the boy properly. “We are Christians. Do you remember my telling you about the Church of England?”
“Rock-a-bye-baby,” sang Timothy, sucking his thumb.
“Listen, my boy,” urged the father. “Listen. I will tell you everything, but you must listen very carefully, and behave sensibly.”
The boy was still and motionless; Archibald proceeded. “We are Christians. Our church is the Church of England. That is, we: Mummy and Daddy and you—”
“You my Daddy!” pealed Timothy.
“Yes, my darling boy. We are part of that church. And so are you. And so are Peter and Julian.”
“My brovers!” cried the child joyously.
“Say brothers, Timothy. Brothers. They are your half-brothers, my darling, for I am not their true daddy, only yours, my love, as you know,” he flirted tenderly. “Now there is someone I have not yet mentioned. Who would that be?”
Timothy sucked his thumb and thought. “Whiskers, fiskers?”
“Stop it, now, Timothy! Not the silly cat. Now think sensibly,” said the father, and his son grew sober in an instant. Archibald’s voice modulated ominously between familiarity and a tutelary discipline.
“I am talking about that American girl, Lily. The girl that Peter brought to this house.”
“Don’t like her,” said Timothy. “Make her go away!”
“Why, Timothy,” Archibald smiled, “be kind. Of course you must ‘like’ her. That isn’t my point. She seems a nice enough girl, I’m sure. But she is not a Christian, dear.” Both were silent together for a moment. “And today at church she did something that was very naughty.”
“What, Daddy?” Timothy’s eyes were opened wide.
“She took some bread and wine from the church, our Church of England, of which she is not a true member and believer. Quite without a second thought, she stole it, gobbled it down just as surely as if she’d broken into the larder. Are you listening carefully, darling?” Timothy nodded his head sharply. “She was a greedy, greedy girl. She did not ask permission, for she surely knew she did not merit it. She simply went ahead and did just what she pleased. Now mind, my boy—”
“Will she get sick? Will she have to take nasty medicine?”
“No. She will stay just where she is, I am sure. The world is blind and dumb; things go by without comment. Or punishment, I’m afraid. But Timothy, mind. The Lord himself was watching, and He knows what she did.”
“Will he tell our Queen?” asked Timothy.
Archibald went on unheedingly, speaking to himself now: “Thought she was very clever, I’m sure, one of us, of course, the upstart! Easy as that! Just like that, how very simple!”
“Bad! Bad!” scowled Timothy, smacking a fat hand at the air. “Med-cine!!”
“But our Lord saw, Timothy.”
“And Father Christmas, too?”
“Yes! And Daddy was watching. All the time, your Daddy was watching. And now,” he dubbed his son’s shoulders with a heavy hand, “you know.”
“Now I know!” said Timothy, looking adoringly into his father’s face.
“Right,” said Archibald, smiling easily now. “You must take a little nap.” The hand on the boy’s shoulder grew light, and began stroking it reassuringly. “Shall I carry you up and read you a story?”
“No more scary,” begged Timothy. “I scared now. No more scary.”
“Don’t talk like a baby, darling.” He continued stroking. “What is scaring you?”
“Bad lady eat me.”
“Don’t worry, Timmy, now don’t,” he murmured. “We’re in Daddy’s house now, and I shall always look after you.”
“Read me Peter Rabbit,” ordered Timothy.
Up the stairs, to Timothy’s room they went, an old, safe trail. The child was tucked snugly in. The father burbled to his adored flannel bundle, promising him the very world. Timothy’s lids slackened under moist, lingering kisses. Then, deeply stirred, Archibald read his son the familiar story of the mischievous cottontail on Farmer McGregor’s carrot patch. A peckish, poaching bunny. The mean farmer nearly made stew of him, but didn’t. Peter got away. The story didn’t scare Timothy one bit. He knew it by heart, almost, and fell asleep well before the safe, predestined outcome.
18
New York, 1960
LOWER EAST SIDE, NEW YORK. German-Jewish delis, people, food. What a combination! The Jews flung out but still craving that old country flavor. Deli. Aufschnit: the word for cold cuts. They were cut off cold, all right. But they always found a way to remember what they lost.
You could have a slice of salami with peas in it if you were a good girl. But if you had it, you could not eat anything with milk in it, not with it, and not right afterward. The Bible said, “Thou shalt not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” Milk and meat go separate. Nursing mothers to the right. The little ones to the left. Meat is dead flesh (we lost so many, so many, so many), but milk is innocence and life (I fed you so you would live to remember what they tried to do to me). Beware! You who tug on ripped nipples, beware! There’s the butcher outside, everywhere!!
The German deli-lady dangled the slice in her nice, clean Aufschnit shop. The green peas dangled against the rosy salami. Green as grass; grass-fed salami. Gentle, gentle eyes. Nice German lady. Ess mein kind, she’d say, just like mother. Was she Jewish? German and Jewish were too much alike. Ess, mein shepsele. Milk and meat should be separate.
Ice cream sang from the musical truck outside. If you had salami, you could not have ice cream for hours. Only goyim ate whatever and whenever they pleased. They smelled of beer and parts of animals, the types of animals that would make you really sick. Suckling pigs, crayfish. They had no stomach, just a big bag. That was why they could murder Jews and not feel sick afterwards.
Thou shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.
Which kid? Me? Which mother? You, Mama?
19
Europe, 1976
I’M NOT GOING TO KEEP BLOODY QUIET about this, Julian, if that’s what you’re thinking.” The two brothers lay on their narrow beds, at opposite ends of their large room. “It’s really unfair. I mean, I invited her here, after all.”
The light was on. Julian was reading.
“So?”
“Apologize. And stop it.”
“Stop what?” Julian turned toward his brother slowly. “Why should I?”
He arched a brow. “You’re not in love with her, are you?”
“I told you what I found objectionable. I invited her. It seemed the kind thing to do. She’s my guest, not yours. She’s mine. I discovered her. Don’t you see how it how it mocks me to have the two of you bouncing about each night, doing heaven knows what?”
“Yeah, heaven knows. Heaven must have invented it.” Julian leaned back luxuriously against his pillows. Mmmm . . .” he murmured. “Soft. Soft as a bosom.”
Peter could see that sexy black hair of his, streaming across the starched white cotton. It really wasn’t fair that one of them had all the charms.
“Mum’s rather cross about this, too, I can tell you,” he said. “She’s heard you traipsing about. Thumping on the floorboards. She’s complained to Archibald. We all know. You’re making fools of yourselves. Idiots.”
“Are we? How embarrassing!”
“Yes. You are. Go ahead an
d laugh.”
Julian got out of bed, walked over to Peter’s, and sat down by his bony knees.
“Let me tell you something, darling.”
“What?” said Peter coolly, though he felt slightly threatened by his brother’s looming heft.
“I am besotted by this girl. I don’t know why. And luckily, she seems to feel something too.”
Peter’s eyes turned very cold.
“You must teach me some of your Byronic techniques, brother,” he said. “Wait until the heat dies down and she sees what a cretin you are.”
Julian spat out, “You never want me to have anything, do you, Peter? Well here’s something I have, and it’s beyond all your clever words. Why don’t you ask some Oxford chappies what’s in here,” he shouted, jabbing at his chest. “You’ll never know it. Go choke on that!”
“Oh, no, Julian, I won’t choke on that. You will!”
He leapt up and seized his brother’s neck. Julian slapped away at his hand. He was larger; Julian, stronger, taller. He smacked Peter in the face, slowly and almost lazily. Peter loosened his grip to protect his sensitive nose. Then Peter grabbed a huge hunk of Julian’s hair and gave it a violent wrench, screaming “SOD!!” Julian leapt at his brother in a mad fury; they fell, crashing, to the floor. The handsome boy scrambled over his brother, pinned him down, and straddled him firmly.
“Now, look,” he said. “Stop squirming. You’re truly so stupid.”
“God, you’ve made me bleed!” screeched Peter. “Look at this! What is this? It’s BLOOD!”
“It’s just a little drip from your idiotic nostrils. Don’t be such a baby. It’s hardly bleeding at all. Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts, you prat! You berk! Stop tapping at my nose with your clumsy fingers!”
“I think you’ll live.”
