by Louisa Young
A slow heat started to skulk about under his skin. A full physical weakness crept up him, and the unanswerable questions – what am I doing about this? How can I stop this? How can I find those people and bring them back to their families, how can I stop those women, comfort those babies, bury those dead, rebuild those buildings? How can I do anything?
He knew perfectly well what he could do. He, like the boy Greenszpan who had shot the diplomat, could go over there with the silver bullet and put it through the head of this monster … or he could go out today and try – and no doubt fail – to shoot Mussolini.
I’m no better than Nenna, he thought. There is going to be a war. Hitler’s just pushing it because he thinks no one will stop him. Mussolini’s pushing it because he’s in love with Hitler. But – if Chamberlain didn’t put his foot down for the Czechs in the Sudetenland, why would he for the Jews? For Germany’s own Jews? Well then Chamberlain will have to go, because there is too much anger now.
Is Aldo, across town with his fake coffee, reading this? Will this open his eyes? Will Susanna stand up, finally? Will Vittorio or Stefano? Will Nenna?
Will I?
There was a photograph of Greenszpan in a cheap suit and a pale raincoat, hair slicked down like an adult, looking terrified among French policemen. He had lived in the same arrondissement as Nadine’s family. He was much younger than Tom. His story dripped out over the next days and weeks, in the newspapers and magazines. Tom read all that he could find. Herschel was an immigrant eastern boy, not a native Sephardi like Nadine’s family – the wrong kind of Jew, by Aldo’s standards. He had been born in Hanover in ’21, his father a Polish tailor with three children dead already out of six. Herschel was clever and lazy with a good memory and a hot temper. He was dark, sickly, religious, proud. On the Sunday, he’d had a big fight with his uncle Abraham, known as Albert, of Maison Albert on the rue des Petites Ecuries. Herschel’s papers had expired. Papers were essential but no one would provide them. He wasn’t German, though he had been born in Germany, and he wasn’t allowed to be Polish though his parents were, and though living in Paris he couldn’t be French because France wouldn’t have him. Without papers he had to leave but nowhere – including where he’d come from – would let him in. Also, he needed money: he was forbidden to leave France with it, or to arrive anywhere else without it. But even if anyone had any to send him, it couldn’t be brought in. At every turn, he could not do x without y being in place, but y was banned to ‘his kind’.
Paris seemed much closer to Tom than Germany, or Poland, or Czechoslovakia. The French were neighbours; the Germans were the old enemy. You expected better of the French. And it’s right there, between Rome and London. Between here and home. Right here.
Herschel had been staying in the chambre de bonne of the flat that Abraham had left because it wasn’t safe for the family to stay there unless they threw the boy out – and they couldn’t do that. Why? Tom asked himself, and looked at the picture again, and thought: well, look at him, 100 pounds, if that, imagine him, vulnerable and furious, with his eyelashes and his ulcer and his won’t-work-on-the-Sabbath and his four-days-to-leave-France. It would be a hard-hearted uncle who could bring himself to throw him out. Then a postcard had come from a cousin Bertha at Zbaszyn on the Polish border: Herschel’s family in Hanover had been grabbed from their homes with nothing and dumped there – thousands of people dumped there, foisted on the Poles before the law could be changed – nothing to eat – in the woods. Bertha had apparently crossed out where she had written, could they send money? Well, she’d known they couldn’t send money.
So Herschel had stormed off, and his friend Nathan went after him to calm him down, and they spent the day together till Nathan had to go home. Herschel went to a place called the Tout Va Bien – the All Is Well – for something to eat – Abraham and his brother went there looking for him, later, but the waiter said he’d left an hour before. He had gone to a little hotel in the boulevard Strasbourg. The staff remembered him, so young. They noticed his lamp on, late into the night in the little room. On the Monday he drank black coffee and smoked and went and bought the gun. When he asked at the German Embassy, the clerk told him he was in the wrong place, to go to the Consulate. Herschel – he must have been so used to being in the wrong place, so used to perfectly good places becoming the wrong place by dint of his presence in them – declined the advice and insisted, so the clerk in the end sent him up to see Ernst vom Rath, he could deal with him. Herschel shot vom Rath, five times.
Symbolic, pointless, mad, magnificent, Tom thought. And the result! Five shots in Paris; thousands of people in Germany and Austria. The day vom Rath died, two days after the shooting, was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the foundation of the Nazi Party. Many dinners and celebrations were being held. And so, when the news broke, it was simple for the Nazi leaders all telephone each other and unleash this spontaneous patriotic response. Which, by that logic, ‘the Jews’ had brought on themselves.
Tom visited the island that evening, and left the paper there, on the table where any of them could see it. When it disappeared, he had hopes – but Susanna had used it to light the stove. It is all marching on, he thought. Until it happens, whatever it is, there is no proof that it will, and every time something does happen, the goalposts are shifted about … Christ, this has been building up for a long time.
*
Tom dreamed that night about Herschel Greenszpan’s cousin, Bertha. He pictured her in an abandoned horse stall at Zbaszyn, sitting on concrete steps outside, to avoid the old damp straw within, the dirty smell of which seeped through her clothing – the only clothing she had, not nice after two weeks, but they had no opportunity to bring anything else, only some food which they had eaten and the cash which had been taken from them at the border … Waking, he wondered if she even heard what her cousin had set off.
*
Johnny Carmichael said, over a glass of red in a dim bottega, that about 11,000 people had been sent to a place called Buchenwald, and 11,000 more arrived in the three days after Kristallnacht, and were put in a separate part, with barbed wire in between. He said ‘My Country Right or Wrong’ was written up over the gateway.
‘They are systematically removing from daily life all active members and officers of any other party, and any other people they don’t want in their new world order. They are classifying them politicals get a red triangle; criminals a green one. The workshy – i.e. gypsies and people who refuse to be moved about for munitions work – get a black one. People who didn’t want to move house! The International Bible Students get lilac. Sexual perverts get purple.’
‘So what is it,’ Tom said. ‘The removal of undesirables from the ideal society: political persecution as social planning?’
‘They’d call it state planning for the benefit of the community,’ Johnny said. ‘With forced labour, but they’re not clear what it’s for. Could be building and extending the camp. They thought it was for POW camps, or giant hospitals.’
‘At least at the Agro Pontino it wasn’t forced labour …’ Tom said.
‘No, but they were moving people around, and paying them hardly anything, and destroying everything so they could start their social experiment on a blank canvas. What about the people who lived there before? They’ll tell you there weren’t any. What about the locals who weren’t offered any of the land? It all went to impeccable Fascists from the north.’
‘But it was about housing war veterans.’
‘Of a certain type,’ said Johnny. ‘But yes, the Nazis are worse, and not only for being more efficient. This could be about labour policy: future slave-labour camps using populations from invaded territories. It’s not new. The Spartans did it, with the Helots. Thus other races would be destroyed, morally, spiritually, economically and physically, and Germany would repopulate Europe and ultimately the world.’
‘You’re making this up,’ Tom said, a little nervously.
‘No I’m not,’ Johnny said. ‘
Three-stage Nazi war. One, get Germany. Two, get Europe. Three, get the world. During each stage, train men up in grand-scale cruelty to be able to effect the next stage.’
Tom fell silent.
‘Tom, do you really think I’m making it up? Because if you do, if you can just sit there and say that, you need to go elsewhere, Tom. You really do.’
Really?
‘Nobody’s happy about you being here. You’re a risk to us and to be frank you’re a risk to your cousins as well. I did say. Personally, I think you should just go back to London.’
‘I’m not going back to London.’
‘Wrong answer,’ Johnny said. He glanced sideways. ‘The right answer would have been along the lines of, “No, of course, I hate the Nazis and the Fascists.” You’re rather hogging the grey area, Tom.’ Johnny gave a little snort, and gathered himself. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it would be best if you go back to your Fascists. Or somewhere – anywhere. Just don’t be here. End of the week.’
Oh.
*
Damn damn damn damn damn.
Not that he blamed Johnny. Johnny was right. He could honestly say he hated Fascism, but he didn’t hate all Fascists, did he? No, he didn’t.
He moved into a tiny hotel room he couldn’t afford, and thought about Chamberlain, with his piece of paper ‘symbolic of the desire of our two countries never to go to war again’. He thought about Riley and Peter. He thought about Nenna and Aldo and Susanna and the boys, and of how Europe was becoming a swamp-like thing, untrustable. But full of real people, as real as him, all living their lives and suffering. Some more than others. It seemed to him that there was far too much, now, just too much happening, everything wrapped round everything else, intertangled like a ball of serpents. This did not look to him like something which could be disentangled. Once, long ago, Peter had explained to the children the concept of the Gordian knot. Tom thought about clean swords, and immense cannons, and the judgement of Solomon. Those things looked good to him.
I wonder what you do, he thought, when what happens makes less sense than what doesn’t happen. When reality takes the path of the surreal.
He had a fair amount of time to brood. But I’m going to need to be strong … He took to exercising in the parks and gardens. Autumn was red-leaved with the lowering sun. His body wanted and needed something. You should just go home. Johnny’s right. But he couldn’t. He had forgotten Riley’s advice: set a time limit on it.
*
Just a few days after Kristallnacht came a new announcement. New laws: for the Defence of the Race. They forbade Jews from having most things a contemporary human being might want or expect, from wirelesses to the right to work, they restricted property ownership, forbade inter-marriage and the placing of newspaper announcements, expelled foreign Jews, revoked citizenship. They covered all aspects of what it was to be normal. They were familiar enough, from Germany.
And again Tom went straight round to the island, sniffing the possibility of a crack through which sanity might creep into their minds. Perhaps this time – surely. Revoking citizenship?
But no. At the dinner table, Aldo, charisma gleaming, still smiled and said: ‘Don’t worry, my chicks. It doesn’t mean us! The Duce will never let us down.’
Tom wondered if Aldo was actually going insane.
The boys and Susanna turned to their plates. Tom could almost see the delicate smoky coils of their unspoken fears rising on the air, curling magnetically towards Aldo, and evaporating in the glow of his confidence. That, he thought, is why strong leaders are so attractive. People like me are sitting and thinking and rationalising and fearing and taking into account and trying to work things out; someone like Aldo, or the Duce, is smiling broadly and saying ‘But everything is fine! There is no problem!’ Of course people like that. They can give up responsibility. But it’s a lie. These leaders are like psychopaths – they don’t see results. They have no long-term relationship with reality. One light source …
‘But you are no longer allowed to be in the telephone book,’ Tom said. ‘The telephone book!’
‘Oh my dear boy,’ Aldo said, joshing, sweetly. ‘The telephone book! Of course we are – as if they would take the trouble to print new ones. It’s all going to be fine.’
‘Then why have the Orvietos left?’ Susanna said suddenly. ‘And the Setas? Why are people taking themselves off the register at the Union?’
‘What union?’ Tom asked. This was new.
‘Of Italian Israelite Communities,’ she said. ‘People don’t want to be Jewish.’
‘Cowards!’ Aldo said. ‘Converting! No faith of any sort.’
Tom hoped Susanna would continue, but she just darted a look, and sort of slid back, and was silent again.
‘Even the definition of what is a Jew has changed,’ Tom said. ‘To be honest, it’s so complicated it must be hard for people to know whether they count or not.’
‘Like the Roman aristocracy!’ Aldo crowed, and laughed, and then threw him a look.
‘You know people are leaving,’ Tom said.
‘Cowards and fools are leaving,’ Aldo intoned, with impatient patience. ‘And of course foreign Jews. There is nothing to fear. These are the over-reactions of those who have …’
Oh for crying out loud!
‘Papà,’ Nenna said. ‘Even if it’s not us, it’s someone.’ And that, perhaps, was the moment.
Aldo squinted at her, confused.
At this, Tom leaned gently against Nenna, sideways, and murmured, quietly: ‘You can leave. Come to London.’
She turned in shock to stare at him, and her glance quickly quartered the table like a bird of prey: her brothers, her sister, her father, her mother. ‘No!’ she said. ‘Of course not!’
‘Of course not what?’ said Aldo.
‘I am inviting you all to come to London,’ Tom said. Quietly. Clearly. Even Aldo could not read this as an invitation to go on holiday.
But Aldo only gave a little smile of polite bewilderment. ‘Why?’ he asked.
Tom looked up at him. Be bold and courteous. Be truthful. ‘Many people,’ he said, ‘think it would be wise. Under the circumstances.’
Aldo leaned forward, glared under his eyebrows – he even banged his fist on the table. ‘And by that, they prove that they are not Italian!’ he pronounced. ‘Or worthy to be Italian. Of course we are not going to leave our country. This will all be—’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake Aldo!’ Tom cried.
Susanna smiled nervously.
Tom stared at her. How can they still pretend to be reassured? Are they all completely mad?
‘Your rights are being curtailed,’ he said carefully. ‘Even in Germany Jews are still allowed to go to school. Nothing here has improved in the past year. Perhaps travel will be next.’
‘Why would we want to travel?’ Aldo said benignly, holding his hands out, palms to the heavens. ‘Masino, please. Don’t insult us!’
Tom took hold of Nenna’s wrist under the table and held it very tight in his fingers, pressing almost till it must have hurt her, till she turned her head.
I can’t bear this, he thought. He smiled quietly, and pressed a button inside himself to start the thing.
‘Aldo,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, but you are wrong.’ An aerated feeling ran down his arms.
‘My boy,’ Aldo said, smiling.
‘Stop that,’ Tom said. ‘You’re deluded. They all trust you because you are a wonderful man in many ways, but you are very wrong and it is very important that you open your eyes.’
‘Don’t speak to me like this, Masino, at my table.’
Tom stared at Aldo, seeking for any sign of doubt in his eyes. There was none.
‘You have deceived yourself, Aldo, and you are not admitting it even to yourself. Don’t you speak to your family like this, lying to them.’
‘Tommaso!’ Aldo cried, and stood.
‘Is every other Jew leaving Italy a fool?’ he said, nervous, loud. ‘And only you the c
lever one?’ Oh, no, I am shouting. Ah well – so let the shouting begin. ‘You know what is happening in Germany, Aldo. And tell me – tell your wife, and your children – has the Duce written back to you? Has he? In all these months? To say, Oh don’t worry Aldo, everything’s all right? No he hasn’t. Nenna, has he? No. And if he did, why would you – any of you – believe him? He says anything he thinks will work for him! He’s happy to sacrifice you and every Italian Jew to suck up to Hitler …’
He was becoming incoherent, but it didn’t matter because Aldo was shouting back, and Susanna was crying, and the boys had stood up, a chair had been knocked over and it was all turning hopeless.
‘I love you,’ Tom was shouting. ‘I love you all and I want you to be safe!’
Nenna was staring at him, her face paralysed with shock, suspended in time.
‘You’re bloody idiots the lot of you, stupid fools stuck in the headlights and Aldo, you—’
‘You rat,’ Aldo said. ‘Our guest, our friend, our family. Like our son. You’re a filthy slimy little rat.’
*
Ten days later, two policemen came to the little hotel; tall fellows in smart coats. News had reached their ear that an unregistered foreign Jew was living there.
‘That’ll be me,’ said Tom, affably: six foot two, blond, cornflower-eyes, lilac smudges under them and a sleepless look. He smiled, and made his Italian accent more English. ‘Do come in,’ he said. ‘Tea?’
Had Tom been living with the Jewish family Elia Fiore?
Yes he had, though not for a while.
Was he a relative? Nephew, they gathered?
Tom started laughing.
The taller man held Tom’s papers between thumb and forefinger.
‘Not by blood,’ Tom said.
They thought about that.
