A Novel
Ian Phillips
Published by Alliance Publishing Press Ltd I saw the great man weep but once. Never in all the time he’d poured out the billowing, black
smoke of his momentous life had he truly cried. The odd moist eye and halting
catch in the voice, maybe, but never streaming, silent tears. In the stillness
of his private places Reuben could, I know, be overwhelmed, but in all the
retelling the performer in him held his grief in check. At least, until the full force of what was in the package
hit him. It had already been delivered to the Ambassador Hotel when
the quartet arrived in Vienna to give a Schubert recital in the spring of 1968.
The box was wrapped in nondescript brown paper and tied neurotically with far
too much string. A note was taped to the top, his name inscribed on its
envelope in a faux-Gothic script. Intrigued and impatient, he ripped it open
and read the letter, scanning its formal German before translating aloud for my
benefit. Dear Maestro Mendel, I cannot tell you my full name as the
shame is a cancer eating me from within. Like my mother before me, I am a keen
amateur musician and have followed your career with much admiration. My father died six months ago. While
clearing his house, I came upon the enclosed hidden beneath some blankets in
the attic. When I opened it and saw your name, I could scarcely believe what I
saw. ‘Vati’ never spoke of the war, save
to say he fought with the Wehrmacht in various places too traumatic to recall.
But I see now that this must have been a lie, for there is only one way in
which he could have taken possession of your property. I do not beg forgiveness on behalf of
the German people, Honoured Sir, but do pray that my children may not be
tainted by any guilt. Telling them what their grandfather did was the hardest
thing I have ever done. But secrets are corrosive, particularly when it is
wrong to keep them. We must face this poisonous inheritance as a family or be
destroyed. Not for one second does this parcel
make reparation, but some part of me draws comfort that at last you will be
reunited with what was taken from you. I hope I have done the right thing. Yours with the utmost respect and
with apologies for writing in German rather than your mother tongue, Gretchen S, Frau, Munich Reuben’s mood darkened. I sensed that in some deep, dank
corner of his being lurked an inkling of what might possibly lie, still boxed,
before him. He seemed reluctant, torn between the need to liberate whatever it
was and fear of the memories it might ignite. “Would you like me to do it?” “No. Thank you, but this I should do myself. In the suite, I
think, not the lobby.” As we walked to the lift he seemed distracted, and I knew
better than to talk when he was in reflective mood. Soon enough we reached his room, and immediately after the
porter had been tipped and left, he set about the string. He rushed to remove
the old newspaper and straw that filled half the box, not caring about the mess
he was making. Parting the last of the packing materials, he saw at last what
they swaddled. And froze. “No, no, NO! Not now, not after all this time, it cannot
be!” Slowly he reached into the box and withdrew its prize, tentatively
as though it were a Ming vase of the utmost fragility. “My violin! My violin! My violin!” he repeated over and
over, cradling the case in his arms like a baby. Beneath his closed lids, the
eyeballs were flicking to and fro as the recollection of the last time he’d
held it came roaring back. “I never thought to see this again. Nearly twenty-five years
ago! All that happened, all that time.” His voice was firm, but bitter salt was
now streaming down his cheeks. He gently stroked the case before placing it on the floor
and gingerly opening the clasps. There the violin lay, burnished golden-brown
hue exactly as it had been the final time he’d played it, just before they had
embarked on the train. He didn’t take it out, nor even draw his fingers across the
slack strings. “This was the fiddle I told you about. The one I stowed
beneath my coat when we reached the camp.” The violin that kept him alive. Now, when I think back over it all with a degree of
distance, the abiding image is of his hands. Veined and liver-spotted, joints enlarged and pads
violin-hardened, those long fingers that would interlace in prayer-like
contemplation resting invariably on the space between his nose and mouth as he
bowed his head in thought. But above all that, the inextinguishable remembrance of all
they had done. Fired rifles. Comforted babies. Shovelled shit. Defied
death. And made music. I could not count the number of times I had seen them in
action. The left hand would twist around the neck of his Guadagnini as its fingers
danced along the ebony neck. The right stroked the horse-hair bow across the
violin below the bridge, its rosin coating throwing soft sprays of sap into the
air. It never seemed to matter whether Reuben Mendel practised,
rehearsed or performed. His entire being was focused on the action of his hands
and the sound they coaxed from that golden, glowing wood. Sometimes it was as
though the arm never moved, such was the silent ballet of the wrist and
fingers. But often the music made such demands that joints and tendons strained
as they sought the most taxing perfection. And, at his end, when nothing but instinct remained, it
would be that left hand which signalled his final parting with one last,
defiant chord. I was a shining child. By which I mean that from an early
age I was seen as gifted, excelling (relatively, as it turned out) at the
piano. When faced with the critical fork in the road, parents and teachers
chose the one they thought was marked ‘Genius’. Up until this point, my life
mirrored Reuben Mendel’s. But while his road was paved with triumph and
tragedy, humility and resignation, mine was covered merely in false dawns and
misplaced hopes, mediocrity and bitterness. Until our paths crossed. Only then did I realise that some bloom best in the shade.
My life, so easy and self-indulgent compared with many others, was an
uncomfortable existence, peppered by a nagging spiritual and intellectual
hunger born of the dread of failing to fulfil my own-perceived potential. But
meeting him for the first time in 1965 brought something approaching a personal
epiphany, an instinctive knowing that this was someone who could blaze like the
sun and provide the nourishment until then so clearly lacking. My role was not to be that of a Boswell, chronicler of
minutiae and selective commentator. It was more that, at the time of our
initial meeting, this man who had seen and suffered so much was looking for
someone to whom he could unburden himself of the broad sweep of his biography.
By then a world figure, he knew that he would need to commit his life to
writing but lacked the time and will to undertake it himself. Already thirty-five, I was a failed pianist and dissolute
freelance music critic, drifting between ad hoc assignments, be it recital
(often in some depressing municipal building or private function), interview,
review or article. Because of the huge amount of interest in Mendel and his
colleagues, I had seized the opportunity to report on his string quartet’s
first complete performance of the entire Beethoven cycle in Israel, syndicating
it around the world. He was kind enough to write to me with some gratifying
comments. We met and almost immediately he shared his concerns about telling
his story, waiting, I felt, for me to offer my help. Reader, I did. Over the following years we talked at length. Or, to be
accurate, more often than not he talked and I recorded. Anyone who has watched
a recital by a soloist sans score knows the prodigious memory that great
performers must cultivate. Reuben’s recall of the details of his life was
extraordinary. Once it was liberated, the flood could not be restrained,
flushing out from the recesses of his mind conversations and incidents
long-since hidden behind the opaque and protective curtain of time. He shared his story in a sporadic fashion, as his busy diary
necessarily dictated. When he was on the road we communicated by telephone or
letter, and a couple of times, when we’d reached a particular juncture, I
accompanied him on tour. But mostly we would sit on his veranda, overlooking
the citrus groves of the kibbutz to which he would return when he sought either
rest after performances or respite when the demons proved too much. He would close his eyes and lean that noble head back so
that the sun shone on his face, spotlighting the scar which ran from the bridge
of his nose across the top of his left cheek and beyond his eye. The trademark
mane of snow-white hair rested on his shoulders and I would see the feverish
movement of his eyeballs beneath the lids as he reassembled the words and
pictures of a specific incident, forming the narrative before he spoke. His
silence was at first a little unnerving, but I soon came to realise that he
would only ever speak when he knew what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to
express it. When he finally began, in English, he would do so softly and
slowly, in that strange accent of his – London, but with traces of the German
and French which life had required him to master. The occasional inflexion or
mannerism would punctuate the flow, particularly when he appropriated the
vernacular of the language in which the original scene was transacted. I would transcribe my notes and recordings, and decide what
fitted into the narrative scheme we had agreed. I then wrote from this source
material, researching in and around the events he depicted to flesh out the
story, creating what I hope is a vivid account of his life and the historical
stage upon which he acted. Where his own words struck an especial chord, I have
included them verbatim. He never intended to publish in his lifetime, believing that
to do so would suggest an end of attainment and ambition. So, from the moment
we started, I would capture new phases in his life as well as his past history,
ensuring that, when it finally saw the light of day, his tale would stand as a
record of all that he had done. I should say at the outset that I shared the vast majority
of this book with its subject and he corrected some errors of fact and kindly
refrained from commenting on the style, save to say that he felt that once or
twice he thought he could hear me talking perhaps a trifle too loudly. I toyed
with re-writing the sections to which he alluded (particularly the first three
intermezzi), but in the end decided to leave it just as it was when he last
looked at it. My only concession to change is the obvious one: to recount the
events leading up to, and beyond, his final moments. This then is the closest there will be to an official life
of Reuben Mendel: musician, sage, survivor. It is, for me, a personal memoir of
a man whose greatness was exemplified in the humility of his life and the
gentleness with which he treated me, his inferior in every conceivable way. I
hope it leads to an understanding not merely of the passage of his life but
also to the way he sought a humanist path out of the destruction towards a new
Jerusalem. Perhaps I may conclude this prelude with the (treasured)
note he sent me after reading the first draft. It contained simply the single
verse appropriated by Primo Levi from ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ for the
start of his own poem, ‘The Survivor’: Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. I have no delusions that recording his tale extinguished the
fire, but I draw some consolation from the thought that, just for a short
interval, it did perhaps subdue the flames. For most of us it is enough to be born just once. But for Reuben Mendel, life seemed a veritable fugue of
births. Some painful, some joyous, yet all pulsed with the same themes: the
throbbing rhythm of music, the staccatissimo of loss, the fortitude that
comes from mastering fate; above all, the pregnant silence in the moment after
the last note dies. And like the very etymology of ‘fugue’, each was not just a
beginning but part of a continuing flight to what, seen in hindsight, seemed
his inevitable conclusion, proof positive of Kierkegaard’s truth that life must
be lived forwards but can only be understood backwards. He was a favoured son, not just of Gaia, although his
prodigious talent would mark him out as different, but of more worldly gods. The tortuous track that led Mendel’s people to reside in the
leafy suburbs of Victorian London was no different from that of his ancestors.
A fear-fuelled flight from a hate-filled mob, forced expulsion, the hunger to
do better than eke out a miserable living in some primitive village where only
religion and superstition held sway – these were the main forces that impelled
their millennial wanderings. Whatever the motive, the one common thread is that
all of them, somewhere up the ancestral line, had been without means and
shelter and friends. And all had built a life embedded in the soil of the lands
they had washed up on, yet established with roots of such portability that, if
need be, they could be withdrawn and replanted at short notice, a not
infrequent occurrence. Moses, Reuben’s father, had fled penniless to London at the
age of sixteen to escape an edict conscripting thousands of his fellow Jews. He
had lived the life of a devout student in the village of Skidel, one of the
numerous shtetls that lay in the hinterland of Bialystok, cultural
centre of a region beset by frequent changes of ownership and, at the time he
fled, under the thrall of the Tsar. Skidel was like its cousin villages,
tight-knit and primitive. Although his father Elias, the village rabbi, had
sought to augment it with introductions to secular and political elements,
Moses’ education stood him in good stead only for life within the closed,
devout community which was the intellectual heartland of his home. In the never-changing landscape that encircled their
never-changing lives, the climate shaped their year. Green during the short
summers; dust whipped up from the street by wind and horses’ hooves and wagons’
wheels stung the eyes and choked the voice. White throughout long winters;
Siberian winds hurled snow and ice at the exposed village and the residents’
labours were ever harsher in the unyielding cold. The convulsions of
industrialisation had passed the villagers by and the circle of life was still
rooted in the land. Theirs was a hand-to-mouth existence that brooked no
material advancement and rested on the maintenance of religious practices to
secure a centre around which all could gather, hopes for eternal rest
compensating for the misery of life. There Moses and his father were, locked into a catastrophe
that demanded the exile of the cream of male youth, for whom the Russian army
meant almost certain death. When a red-eyed Elias led him to the little bridge
over the river Niemen, Moses received instructions, a bag containing some
clothes, religious accoutrements, a small knife, a few coins and an open
letter. On the threshold of an unknowable future, the inadequacy of his
upbringing stood stark against Skidel’s dawn shadow. His grieving father took
him in his arms and simply said the words that Moses remembered his whole life:
“My beloved son, only now, when it is far too late, do I see how poorly I have
equipped you for life. So locked was I in the immutable past of our
forefathers, I never thought that things might change. Forgive me if I have
failed you, and may the Lord bless you and keep you; may the Lord make his face
to shine upon you and be gracious unto you; may the Lord turn his face towards
you and give you peace.” The journey that took Reuben’s father to London and his
meeting with Leah Rodrigue became the stuff of family legend, a tale
embellished with every retelling until it assumed Homeric dimensions. When
Reuben recounted it, he did so within heavy quotation marks to emphasise that
Moses was not exactly the most impartial or reliable source. Moses embarked upon his escape as the sun began to rise over
the Niemen valley, illuminating his way south-west towards Bialystok. Fording
the river at Lunna, he travelled over the plain beyond and through the crop
fields and animal pastures that chequered the countryside. But when he finally
arrived, the Jewish community that was supposed to provide an initial sanctuary
was in turmoil. The metropolis inevitably proved a magnet for the many villages
in its long shadow, each racked by the trauma of the conscription order. Where
Moses had been prominent in his own milieu but a day or two earlier, now he was
but one of scores of boys and young men thrust from singular safety into a
foreign world of anonymity, plural choices and numerous threats. This new, alien environment was emphasised by the rush of
adrenaline that Moses experienced when he came upon the main square on market
day. It was overflowing with goods of every description: livestock, fruit,
vegetables, herbs, spices; a seething cauldron of noise and fragrance that
nearly overwhelmed him. As he pushed through the crowd he had no idea where he
was going, only that Slavonic curses of the kind he was well used to from the
locals in his home village rained about him, accompanied by kicks, slaps and
punches. He did not know what the oaths meant, only that the vitriol which
impelled the one common spit-drenched word, yid, was unmistakeable. He
began to run, stooping and throwing his arms across the back of his head to
protect himself, as the cacophony grew. Seizing the first avenue out of the
square, he plunged blindly on, not looking behind. Then, suddenly, he was free of the town and there he was,
sixteen-year-old Moses Mendel, flying through a wheat field, the hurricane of
fear at his back propelling him forward, away, anywhere but there. The hard
ears whipped at his cheeks, chainlike stalks grappled at his ankles. Oblivious
to the blood, he drove blindly on, bypassing every village, crossing unending
fields and fording countless streams. How long he ran Moses had no idea, but eventually he could
run no further and he stopped suddenly, colliding with an unseen wall so high
and wide it could only ever have been traversed by a giant. At this point in his narration, Reuben paused and leaned
forward, elbows on knees, chin cradled in his cupped hands. Then he spoke
softly out into the far distance, as though to his long-dead father. “I’ve thought a lot about this story over the years, you
know. As you can probably tell, I never tired of hearing it. Papa loved
recounting it to new people, invariably with novel twists and embellishment –
but for a child it was just a thrilling adventure. As I got older, I began to
wonder, what is it about an odyssey that seizes the imagination of Man? Do you
think, perhaps, that it is a kind of wish-fulfilment, like dreaming of carrying
out some death-defying act of bravery? When we immerse ourselves in such tales,
we cast ourselves as the hero and imagine what we’d have done when faced with
such odds. But very few are truly tested. By and large, life’s not the stuff of
Ulysses battling the gods to find his way home, or Buck heaving his laden sled
and waging war against Arctic elements. “But even so, deep within us all must lie the dormant
seed of our primitive ancestors who overcame the frozen hazards of the Ice Age
and harnessed the elements. “We close our eyes and try to envisage what it must be
like – alone, stripped bare of all the trappings of normality, liberated from
society’s expectations. And so we turn vicariously to the lives of the
celebrated, the solitary, the challenged, the heroes of fiction, so that we all
might imagine what it is to be elevated to greatness, immortality even. Perhaps
this in no small part informs the disproportionate clamour for this little book
of ours. “Father now saw himself in this heroic vein. He was, so
to speak, cast adrift with the benefit of neither a useful education nor any
practical experience. He had to rely only on those qualities which he’d been
born with, and what little he had picked up in his sheltered sixteen years. How
could he ever have known, ever even imagined, that what lay far ahead would put
even his epic voyage into the shade?” The flight from Bialystok was interrupted by the tearful
removal of the long black curls of hair that dangled in front of his ears and
marked him out to all the world as a Jew. This act freed him from his past, a
violent but necessary severance without which he could never have survived. He
emphasised the symbolism, with a sharp pang of conscience, by jettisoning the
artefacts of religion his father had included in his luggage, both lightening
the load and reducing the risk of discovery by the many anti-Semites who
peppered his route whichever direction he took. Moses soon realised the mordent truth of his father’s
parting words. Life in Skidel had not equipped him for a solitary battle
against brutal elements, suspicious peasants, hunger and complete
disorientation. Sixteen years of hearing Yiddish, a little Polish and very
basic Russian, pouring over Hebrew script, learning by rote the Mosaic code and
the Talmud, being weaned on the mystical tracts of the Kabbalah and the folk
fables of Sholem Aleichem: this was an education that had only one purpose: to
expunge any trace of the independence of spirit or physical and emotional
self-reliance upon which mankind’s progress had hitherto been based, and on
which Moses was now forced exclusively to depend. It was with all this baggage that the only son of Rabbi
Elias Mendel of Skidel cut a swathe across Poland, stealing food from farms,
washing in streams, trudging on foot or wagon hopping – whether horse-drawn in
the countryside or pulled by steam-powered train in the industrial north.
During this voyage a physical transformation took place to complement the
emotional. A thickening of sinew, the coming of colours to skin never before
exposed to prolonged bouts of light, cold and wet, a broadening of the frame as
though the very chemistry of the open air reacted with the latency of growth to
speed the process of encroaching manhood. Apprehension, the smell of freedom and the infinite variety
of Nature combined to ignite in Moses the spark of humanity. His eyes glistened
as the Arctic wind whipped his face, not just with tears from the smarting, but
with the knowledge that here he was, alone, striding out as many had done
before him to breach the barrier between the known and the unknown. When
slumber was broken by nocturnal chorus or the beat of an owl’s wings so close
to his head he could smell the blood on its claws, he knew that here was
where the ancients must have been. Huddled against a rock or lying upon the
stony ground beneath the canopy of a tree, soaked to the numbed bones by the
ice-cracked stream, they too had vainly sought recuperating sleep in the
penetrating light of the winter moon. While they were frightened by what had been lost and what the
unknown future held, all this to Moses was the essence of life. Truth did not
reside only in the arid words of generations of elders; he now realised that
their, his, hermetic existence was but a cruel sham. Only through teeth
sharpened on the crude stone of experience could the fundamental truths which
the rabbis – yes, even his beloved father – had for centuries spoken be
uttered. And what did they know of the bat’s unerring flight path in the pitch
black? Or of the orchid’s quest for light? Or the salmon’s epic voyage home to
where it began? What, in short, did they know of Life? Moses knew. With all the
hubris of youth, he grew tall in the sunlight of certainty, fed by the
confidence of survival and the exuberant joy of liberty. Following some obscure star that had guided untold explorers
and wanderers before him, he finally arrived in Danzig, the main Polish outlet
to the sea. With wonder he stared about him. Reuben described his
father’s expression when recalling what he saw: eyes rolled up towards heaven,
hand slapped on forehead, a breathily-phrased, ‘Oy!’ Beside Skidel, Bialystok
had seemed another country. But this was a different universe. A skyline split
by dockyard cranes, factories belching stinking smoke into the air, a teeming
mass of people; all combined in Moses’ mind to form a tableau of Gehenna, the
often-mentioned but never described repository of lost souls. In years to come old Moses would indulge in hindsight-honed
analysis of what-might-have-been had he taken a different path. But he didn’t.
In the chilly autumn of 1889, on a date he never knew, he boarded a ship at
Danzig as a cabin boy (no questions asked, no wages paid). He had no idea where
it was bound, embarking in the knowledge only that wherever the ship went would
be further from where he could no longer remain. And it was in this haphazard
way that he arrived in the steaming cauldron of the lost, the lonely and the
seekers-after-hope that was London’s East End. He never was able to say what drove him to slink from the
silent coal carrier as she lurked at her mooring in the fog-laden early dawn. A
sense of destiny perhaps, certainly a feeling of relief after the puke-wracked
journey through the Baltic, round Heligoland and across the wild North Sea.
More, it was the need to flee the slave-driver master who had sweated him like
the bondsman he was: cleaning, fetching, carrying, slopping out, pouring
copious quantities of liquor, so that Moses had been forced to learn the
sailor’s knack of sleeping on his feet. But later he would recall one
motivation above others: the sound of Yiddish rising like a guttural siren call
from the dockside Babel, plucking the strings of nostalgia and loneliness that
had so violently been tautened. He found himself in a land he did not know, whose alphabet,
let alone language, was indecipherable; penniless, and with no family, friends,
familiar faces – his only asset the battered envelope still safely ensconced in
the inside pocket of his filthy overcoat. He wandered a while around the docks, trying to find the
source of those few words whose unmistakeable inflection, rather than specific
meaning, had summoned him to terra firma. But in the density of the clogged
morning, he found nothing. Growing dizzy in his disorientation, Moses drifted
away from the dock’s warehouse areas, with their looming black spaces awaiting
stock, back towards the mooring stations. He realised he had to wait for the
fog to lift, so the morning light could give him an idea of where he was and
where he might go. He was by now an automaton, fatigued to the point where his
bones ached and muscles throbbed, only propelled by the primordial urge for
survival. He found himself drawn towards an open hut, its welcoming stove
overpowering an instinct for danger. He slipped in and, magnetically drawn to
the unmade bed under the window of the unkempt cabin, was asleep in seconds. Moses would recall in graphic detail the moment of his
greatest shock, a hand shaking him awake from the profoundest sleep he had ever
known. He was completely disoriented, for the words that roused him were in his
beloved Yiddish and fleetingly he thought himself back in Skidel. When his eyes came into focus, he looked up to see two
people gazing down at him: an elderly woman and a sombre man in a uniform. She
had kindly eyes which more than made up for her appalling accent and grammar.
She repeated the words again. “How by this letter come did you?” Moses instinctively felt for the inside pocket of his coat,
only to find it empty. “My … my father, he wrote it for me.” The uniform spoke, and the woman translated: “And who your
father is?” “Rebbe Elias Mendel of Skidel.” “Is that what the letter says, madam?” “Yes, Constable. It states that the bearer is Moses, only
son of that honourable gentleman, and asks whoever finds him to treat him as
befits a boy of such birth and to look well upon him. “Now, Moses,” she continued, reverting to her approximation
of Yiddish, “you are the Anglo-Jewry Committee for the Resettlement of Russian
Jews in the care of. Mrs Lily Jacobs my name is and for you taken I have
responsibility. Do understand you?” Moses nodded dumbly. Years later, he would tell his son of the kind Lily Jacobs.
“She was a second mother to me. My first, Miriam, may her dear soul rest in
peace, died when I was but five years old. So for eleven or twelve years, I had
no maternal affection at all, and although my father and sundry aunts tried to
substitute, there is nothing to compare to a mother’s love. I greatly regret
that I can recall so little of her. Now, from nowhere, came this angel, to
rescue me at my moment of greatest need. I have no idea of whether I was truly
special to her, only that she made me feel so from that very first moment when
she took my hand and told me that everything was going to be alright. And
somehow I knew that it would be.” This was how Reuben’s father was introduced to the foreign
world of the anglicised Jew, integrated, safe – and far, far removed from the
realities of life within the Pale of Settlement. Here he was free to roam as he
wished, not afraid of assault, or worse. Here there was food aplenty, a more
equable climate and freedom from the strictures of theocracy. Lily was true to her word, and took him into her house. Why
him, rather than the scores of others she had met through her work in the
Docklands and among the burgeoning community of fellow exiles that filled the
tenement buildings of London’s East End? Moses assumed that his position as the
son of a rabbi from ‘the mainland’ was what clinched it, based on little more
than the fact that for his first few months he was paraded among her milieu
rather like a trophy. This was fully in keeping with the reactions of the
established Jews in England during this period of influx from the Russian
communities. They felt their historic safety in some way jeopardised by these
primitive arrivals, so different in language, dress, bearing and observance.
They confronted these worries by embarking on a gentle process to acclimatise
their brethren to the highways and byways of life in the British Empire. No
greater success story could there be than to show that the son of a rabbi,
reared exclusively within the closed community of study in the shtetl,
could become a rounded Anglo-Jewish citizen who knew and appreciated his proper
place under Victoria’s benign gaze. The re-education of Moses Mendel began with the language and
it was not too long before he felt able, incorrectly as it happened, to hold
his own at Lily Jacobs’ cultural soirées of readings and light classical music,
one of the monthly highlights of that peculiar class of aristocratic Jews,
assimilated, yet apart. In truth, he was something of her pet project as his
progress from darkness into light, as she romantically called it, was monitored
on a regular basis by her peer group. It was at one such gathering that Moses met his match, in
every meaning of the word. Reuben recalled his mother’s reply when he asked how
she and his father had met. “It was my first time at a Jacobs evening. My mother had
discouraged me as she felt them a little frivolous, but my best friend Rachel
had been to one and I nagged and nagged until Mother gave way. Well, I was
seventeen, so it was high time! Naturally, Rachel and I had gossiped about what
she’d seen, and my curiosity was aroused by her description of this Russian boy
who had spoken a few words of English to her in an impenetrable accent not
exactly enhanced by his mumbling shyness. But I’ll have you know I wasn’t
looking for romance; it just happened, I’m happy to say. “I’d thought long and hard about my dress and, though I say
so myself, I looked rather fetching in a dark green satin gown with ostrich
feathers and lime lace...” “Rather fetching?” Moses had interjected. “Rather fetching?
I swear the whole room stopped when she came in, just to look at her! I was at
the other end listening to the poet who was talking about his imminent recital,
I think. When the silence hit, I looked up and could not believe my eyes. Love
at first sight, it was, I swear!” “Moses, dear, don’t be so silly. Look at me, I’m blushing,
even after all these years! Anyway, I moved around the room, trying to avoid
appearing gauche. I’m sure I failed to achieve that aim as I made small talk
with various people Rachel introduced me to. “Then, all of a sudden, I was there in front of your father,
who was holding out his hand to me and saying something that sounded very much
like, ‘Ee am fair-r-ry plizzed to muyke yur akvayntince, Mizz Rodrigwey.’ I can
tell you precisely what it was that interested me – his eyes. They were so bright
and alive! “We started talking, and I suppose you could say we never
stopped. It was rather like a cultural exchange at first. I was shocked by how
little your father knew of the world, so I sought to give him an awareness that
life was built on a vaster scale than his upbringing. I talked of Michelangelo
and Mozart, Shakespeare and Goethe. And I helped improve his English by reading
to him Browning and Keats, Austen and the Brontës. And all the while, I filled
his head with the great symbols of Englishness – the monarchy and its history,
the paintings of Constable, comedies by Sheridan and Congreve, the ‘frozen
music’ of Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul’s Cathedral. “But it was not by any means all me. In turn, your father
taught me the glories of Jewish intellectualism which Elias had clandestinely
grafted on to his formal religious studies – Moses and Maimonides, even Spinoza
and Marx. In my ignorance I struggled to reconcile this with the role of a
rabbi, but Moses explained that it was the duty of all Jews to use their
intellects to the uttermost, even at the cost of undermining religious
teachings. “He reciprocated my guided tour of literature with his own
retelling of folk stories in their original Yiddish, tales and a language I
never knew. He spoke too of Masada and Babylon, bondage in Egypt and pogroms in
Russia. I knew much of this history, but he made it come alive for the first
time. And in the twilight, when we sat in the gazebo at the bottom of the
garden, my head on his shoulder, Moses would softly sing the songs of the shtetl,
music that was somehow within me but which I had never heard. “I can’t pretend my parents were thrilled when it was clear
that we were in love, but they welcomed him as the son they never had.” “That’s true, they put me into the family business, taught
me the ropes and that set us up. Then you came along, and we were the complete
family.” His parents made an unlikely couple, by all accounts. And
judging by the sole photograph that Reuben had from their wedding, Leah’s dark
complexion surrounding deep brown eyes and framed by waves of thick jet hair
was certainly in sharp contrast to the pale, gaunt features of Moses who,
despite his exposure to the rude autumnal elements of northern Poland and the
even sharper winds and rain of the voyage, still retained the ghostly pallor of
the perpetual student, deprived of sunlight and fresh air. But more important than Reuben Mendel’s physical inheritance
was his genetic and cultural legacy: a paternal line that fetched its source in
the great migratory sweep hewn out of hardship and prejudice which reached from
the warm Mediterranean north to frozen Poland and Russia, and a maternal
lineage that the name Rodrigue disclosed had somewhere in the dim and distant
past originated in Spain. The two rivers of the great dispersal and the values
that had preserved the flame converged in him, bringing a rich bequest: a
commitment to justice, an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and an
all-consuming desire for freedom. But for that potential to be gloriously realised required a
continual series of transmutation. This fugue of metamorphoses began with
Reuben’s ‘second birth’, its genesis an explosion of music that fired through
the protective skin of his early years and detonated in his young soul.
This extract published 2012
Copyright © 2012 Ian Phillips
Prelude
Chapter 1