by Beth Miller
‘What are you talking about?’
My father turned to where Ben was pointing, and there I was in Joel’s trousers and shirt, prayer-cap on my head, my hair pinned up, more or less, with dozens of Mum’s hairclips. My father didn’t say anything, not in front of everyone, but he said plenty later.
‘I don’t like to smack you,’ he shouted, smacking me, ‘but you’re old enough to know right from wrong.’ Maybe he was trying to smack my nature right out of me. I bet he wished later that he’d been able to. I sometimes wish he had, too.
The worst part was that Joel got into trouble too, because he’d let me borrow his clothes. Joel was the brother I was closest to, until Dov came along. This was the last time I remember him doing anything naughty. Not me, though. My parents often despaired. My father assumed my troublesome side was inherent to my personality, but my mother worried that it was something she had done. She once said, ‘Where did I go wrong with you, Aliza? The others are so obedient, but you…’
That was when I was young, way before I rejected every possible suitor she put in front of me. I didn’t act up to upset her, in fact I hated it when she was upset, but my father, well, that was a different story. I was always frightened of him, but couldn’t respect him; and the disrespect always triumphed over my terror, meaning that I carried on disobeying him whenever I could.
Zaida was my safe place. It was about the time of the boys’ clothes incident that I began going to see him every day after school, and every Sunday, and every time my father started yelling. My dad would try and whack me before I got to the annex, but once actually in there, I knew he wouldn’t come after me. I’d creep into Zaida’s living room, or at times run in breathlessly, having only got away by the skin of my teeth, and Zaida would greet with me a hug and a whispered, ‘Hello, choochie-face.’ Then he’d settle me in the armchair, and tell me a story.
All his stories started the same way.
‘Once there was a little girl called Aliza, who was very…’ and then the story would revolve round what the ‘very’ referred to. ‘Once there was a little girl called Aliza, who was very brave’ would mean a story about Aliza taming lions, or fighting in a war, or sailing a ship. ‘A little girl called Aliza, who was very funny,’ would be an adventure about running away to be a circus clown. ‘A little girl called Aliza, who was very kind,’ would be about Aliza setting up a home for lost cats, or poor orphans. I did secretly envy those orphans, with their blissful fatherless state. As Zaida told his tale, my heart gradually stopped hammering and my breathing steadied back to normal.
Neither Zaida or I ever said anything about my dad, but I knew that he knew. My siblings took refuge in the annex too, of course, when things got rough in the house, but I was the only one who went every day. Zaida loved all of us dearly – he was a man with a huge capacity for love – but I always told myself that he loved me best. And along with Dov, he was the person I loved most in the world.
Zaida never asked questions, he was always just there. And I would be there for him now, whatever happened. Beis Israel had in some ways replaced the annex as my safe space. Now my cover had been blown, I was worried I had lost that safety. I shivered all over again as I thought of Dad shouting, his face contorted, spit flying, waving his fist at me, the carers trying to calm him down. But I wasn’t going to let him stop me seeing Zaida. I imagined a scene in which Dad told the staff not to let me in, and could imagining them agreeing for the sake of a quiet life. The thought made me feel sick.
Alex was at work, thankfully, when I let myself into the flat, so I didn’t have to come up with what to tell him this time to explain my tear-stained face. Telling the truth meant telling him I’d seen my father; and even though Dad had been vile, I didn’t want Alex to start worrying about my increasing contact with my family, and what it might mean for us.
I sat at the computer and emailed Deb.
From: elizasymons
To: myfriendmarriedagoy
11 September
Dear Deb
You’ll soon hear that I’ve caused a bit of a scene. Yes, yes, I know: another one. Maybe you’ve already heard. I imagine the Stamford Hill bush telegraph is buzzing like crazy by now. Someone told Dad I’d been visiting Zaida, and he caught me. It must have been Nathan, I suppose, though I’m shocked he’d be so mean. You probably think I deserve it. Luckily it being a public building, Dad couldn’t kill me. He settled for yelling the place down instead. The old folk were all gaping at him, and Zaida kept clutching my arm and saying, ‘What’s the matter with Kap?’
It took three male carers to get Dad out of the lounge, and he was still screaming as they dragged him out. I tried to get Dov to come back to Brixton with me – we both knew it was going to be way worse for him than me – but he said he might as well get it over with, that he’d have to go home sometime. Then Zaida needed the toilet, and because all the male carers were handling Dad, Dov and I took him out into the corridor, just in time for Dad to come hurtling out of wherever he’d been taken. He roared liked a jungle beast when he saw us, and kind of charged at us, raising his fists at me. You have never seen anything like it. Zaida shouted, ‘Don’t you touch my Aliza’, and that did stop Dad in his tracks, but then he started shouting at Zaida, awful things, calling him a stupid useless old man and much worse. Dov stood between them, on the optimistic assumption that Dad wouldn’t actually hit him in front of everyone. As soon as the carers stepped in to intervene, Dov pushed me and shouted, ‘Go, go!’ and I did. I ran past Dad, past the carers and gawping residents, and out on to the street. I didn’t stop running till I reached the tube.
My life is one drama after another.
I know it’s a big ask, but I’d be so grateful if you’d keep me posted about Dov. He may not want to get back in touch with me after Dad’s given him hell.
Aliza xx
I sent the message and checked my phone again: still nothing from Dov. I hoped he’d been able to keep his phone a secret, because Dad would grind it into the earth with his heel if he found out about it. I left Dov a trembly voicemail asking him to call me, then moped around the flat, not able to settle to anything.
Why was Dad so angry all the time? I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t, apart from that day on holiday when we made the sand car with the pretty shells pressed into it. I had no idea. Now I was away from home, I realised I didn’t really know much about him. I didn’t even know what he did all day. He worked some of the time as an accountant for a small chain of shops in Hatton Garden; and some of the time he must be at the kollel, the religious centre for married men. But what else did he do? His parents were both long-dead. I never knew his mother, and only vaguely remembered his father, Levi, a thin man sitting in a chair, his beard white, looking as old as Father Time. Dad’s brothers and sisters were not close to him and we rarely saw them. I remember Alex asking, some time back: what did my dad like doing? Who were his friends? I teased him for thinking he could bond with my dad by learning about him, but now I realised that I hadn’t answered because I didn’t know. It was strange to have this distance from my father, reflect about him as a person, separate from the shouting bullying man who flitted in and out of the house. A disappointed person, perhaps. Someone whose life hadn’t worked out the way they hoped.
I had a secret life. Maybe my father did too.
When Alex came in, he knew, as usual, that something was wrong. I still hadn’t worked out what to tell him, but Alex handed me the solution.
‘Oh god, Eliza, has something happened to your Zaida?’
I could just say yes, that Zaida had taken a turn for the worse, and I would get the comfort I needed, like I did yesterday over Nathan, without having to mention my dad, or Dov. That wouldn’t be the right thing to do, though. I should tell Alex the truth. Tell him I was being pulled back into my family. Tell him that my father’s fury was oddly cleansing; that if I truly was dead to him, he wouldn’t have behaved like that. You don’t go yelling at a dead woman. Tell
him that, despite everything, Dov loved me as much as he ever had. That Zaida would never stop loving me.
I looked into Alex’s trusting eyes, and felt strangely detached. I loved him, of course I did, but it didn’t feel like I was completely here, any more. Part of me was sitting at the big table in Springfield Street, my fingers resting on the sides of my chair, in the grooves I made with my fork years ago. My mum stroking my hair as she passed, Gila plonking herself heavily on to my lap, Dov telling me something he’d heard, Deb popping round for tea and staying for hours. Dad out and not coming back till evening.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Zaida has gone downhill.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Alex wrapped his arms round me. I leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body, and closed my eyes against myself.
In the morning I turned on my phone to find three missed calls from Dov. I gave silent thanks that Alex was already up and getting ready; he was catching the early train to Cardiff for work. In fact he was staying overnight in a B&B there. He was thrilled to have got this freelance job, and was easy to bundle out of the door with many kisses and good luck wishes.
As soon as the door shut behind him, I rang Dov back. I’d never heard him more excitable.
‘Dov! Are you OK? Was Dad horrible? Slow down, I can’t understand what you’re—’
‘Wait till you hear! You’re not going to believe it.’
‘What?’
‘Are you sitting down?’
‘Yes.’ I sat down hurriedly.
‘Mum. Told. Dad. Off.’
‘You are kidding me.’
‘I’m not. Everything’s topsy-turvy here. It’s like the world’s gone mad, owls hooting in the middle of the day—’
‘What happened?’ I interrupted. ‘Tell me!’
‘So you know when you ran out of Beis Israel? You run pretty fast, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’
‘For a girl.’
‘Get on with it, Dov!’
‘So Dad was still roaring and frothing away, then the care home manager marched out of her office and told Dad to stop yelling immediately.’
‘What, Bridie? Seriously? Wow, that’s so brave.’
‘I know, she’s only tiny. She’s Irish, did you know?’
‘Yes, Dov.’ When was he going to get to the point? ‘Go on.’
‘Dad just stopped, his mouth hanging open in mid-shout, and she ordered him into her office and had a massive go at him. We could hear her going on and on. He didn’t get a word in. She didn’t even raise her voice – unluckily for us, because we couldn’t hear what she was saying.’
‘I’d love to have known what she said!’
‘Wouldn’t we all. While Dad was in there, Paulina told me Bridie was absolutely furious that Dad had upset Zaida, and the other residents. When Dad came out he looked like a small boy who’s been told off by the teacher.’
‘This is absolutely incredible. But listen, Dov, what about Mum?’
‘I’m getting to it. It’s all part of it. So me and Dad got in the car, he yelled at me all the way home, but you know, I’m used to it, it didn’t bother me.’
I knew what he meant. We’d all become adept at tuning out Dad’s rants. You had to, or you would lose your mind.
‘Then at home, Dad told Mum what had happened, expecting her to be on his side as usual, and she went mad too!’
‘What do you mean?’ Mum had never ‘gone mad’ in her life.
‘It was like she had taken on Bridie’s personality! She shouted at Dad.’
‘Say that again.’
‘Honestly! I taped her on my phone, I’ll play it to you some time. She shouted, how dare he yell at Moshe, her father, an old man who’d done nothing wrong, who was already so upset about being sent away from us and in a home.’
‘I honestly can’t picture it.’ I was holding the phone so tight against my ear that my wrist ached.
‘Nor can I, and I was there! She went on for ages, saying how good Moshe had been to all of us, and how he was her only remaining parent, and remember the Fifth Commandment, and Dad didn’t say anything, and then she stood up and she said, wait for it, she said, “You were wrong, Kap.”’
‘This can’t have happened. You must have misheard.’
‘We all heard it. Uri was there, and even he told Dad he was in the wrong! And Joel said Dad shouldn’t even be angry with you because it showed that you were still part of the family if you were visiting Zaida.’
Ah, my brave Joel.
‘And then everyone stood up to Dad and was telling him off,’ Dov went on, ‘and he looked like he was going to crumble into a hundred pieces. He looked as old as Zaida. I don’t even feel scared of him any more, it’s like a switch has gone off. I don’t know how long it will last, but it’s been off all last night and this morning, and I feel the same.’
‘Honestly, I can’t believe it.’
‘One more thing. When Dad finally managed to get a word in, and told Mum you’d given me a phone and we’d been in touch, he thought she’d be furious with me and you. He wanted her to be cross with us. Instead, she asked me, in front of Dad, to call you on my phone and see if you will come over.’
‘She wants to see me?’
‘Dad said, “Is that what you want, Miriam?” all quiet and hurt. And she said, “I want my Aliza.”’
I want my Aliza.
This couldn’t be happening. Tears spilled out on to my cheeks.
‘Aliza? Are you still there?’
I swapped the phone to the other side. ‘She really said that? She doesn’t think I’m dead to her?’
‘She never did, silly.’
‘Oh, Dov.’
‘Dad said, if that’s how you feel, I won’t stand in your way. He went out, didn’t even slam the door, and we all just looked at each other. Oh, hang on! Gila wants to talk to you!’
I had barely a moment’s silence to think about what it meant. I could go back. I could see my family. I hadn’t thrown everything away after all. Then Gila’s wonderful high-pitched voice was squealing at me. ‘Everyone’s gone crazy! Me and Becca have been using your bed as a sofa but you can have it back.’
‘Gila, darling.’
‘Aliza, you are coming home, aren’t you?’
The question I never thought I’d hear. I wanted to answer, but my voice caught in my throat.
Dov said Dad would surely be out all morning, maybe all day, so I decided to go right away. I ran upstairs and pulled off my skirt and T-shirt. I stood in my underclothes for a moment, the Eliza between two worlds, then I dug out my old long skirt and shirt, and transformed myself back into the Aliza my family knew. I carefully washed modern Eliza off my face: the mascara I had only recently learned to use, the blusher, the lip-balm. I tied a scarf round my hair, and tried to see myself through my mother’s eyes. Did I look like the person she remembered? Without make-up, without the softening effect of my hair round my face, I looked younger, plainer. I looked like someone else.
I wasn’t going to overthink it.
Before I left, I hurriedly checked the computer to see if Deb had emailed me back. There was one line from her, sent last night:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
11 September
Wow, you’ve really done it this time, Crazy Girl! My mum can hear your parents yelling from her house!
I walked quickly to the station and got the tube to Seven Sisters. I wanted to bring Mum cornflowers, but the stall at the station didn’t have any, so I bought roses instead. Though it had only been nine months, it felt like years. I saw everything through an outsider’s eye. The people looked pale, and overdressed in the sunshine. The shops which had seemed so enticing looked scruffy, not at all special. The streets I’d walked up and down thousands of times, thinking they were the only streets, were just ordinary. This was not the whole of the world, any more.
As I walked towards my house, I saw some of my family standing
outside on the pavement, waiting for me. I blinked at the memory of the last time I’d seen them all standing there, and started running towards them. Gila saw me first and came full-pelt at me, into my arms, hitting me like a train. The others ran to me too, as though we were enacting the Prodigal Son, a story I now knew from the New Testament. Uri and Joel weren’t there, of course; they’d be at kollel. Dov should have been at yeshiva with Jonny but he’d clearly taken the morning off, and stood there grinning at me, as though he’d made the whole thing happen, which really, I guess he had. Becca flung her arms round me, and she and Gila pulled me into the house, into my mother’s kitchen. Mum was waiting, standing by the table nervously as though expecting an important guest. She didn’t have her apron on. There were homemade biscuits on a plate.
‘My girl,’ she said, smiling and crying at the same time. She held both my hands and looked me up and down. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she added, inevitably. Then she pulled me closer and held me tightly, as if she was never going to let me go.
Things Alex Didn’t Know About My Life Before I Met Him
My father used to hit us children when he was angry.
Sometimes, he hit Mum.
Becca and I gave Mum a leaflet about domestic violence but she burned it.
The first time I remember my father smacking me, I was seven.
The last time he hit me, I was fourteen. I yelled at him not to hit Dov, who was only eight, and he hit me instead. Pretty soon after, I grew taller than him, which might be why he stopped.
My Zaida was always my safe place. That’s why I need to be there for him.
Twenty-One
March 2016
Given the shipwreck of our family at Shipwreck Sushi, it’s not the ideal time for the longest bank holiday weekend of the year. It’s also not the ideal time to be having a family lunch. But Alex’s family have an unbreakable tradition of Easter Sunday lunches, and this year it’s our turn to host. Alex has an unbreakable tradition of singing songs from Fiddler on the Roof at these lunches, which he started back when we first got together to make me feel more included, but which didn’t work for two reasons: 1) he’s a lousy singer, and 2) I’d never seen Fiddler on the Roof. I have of course seen it now, and can join in, if pushed.
