Chapter 19
I sleep badly, and wake at five-thirty. With a couple of hours to kill, I tidy the flat, put on a wash, and finish the shot list before jumping into the car and heading east. At this time in the morning, there’s barely any traffic. I get to Stamford Hill in ten minutes. While the rest of London is still asleep, Egerton Road is bustling. Buses rumble out of the garage, Hasidic men are streaming into the shtiebl opposite. There’s something majestic about the sweeping black coats. But it’s sadly undermined by the supermarket bags they wear on their heads to protect their expensive hats from the drizzle.
Pushing open a side door of the synagogue, I can hear the sing-song intonation of prayer – part chant, part mutter. It’s coming from somewhere behind the big hall. I follow the sound along a damp, echoing corridor which smells of public toilet. A door. I take a deep breath and push it open. I’m in a small, shabby room with peeling cream paintwork and threadbare chairs. About a dozen elderly men are standing, facing the opposing wall, wearing oversized cream prayer shawls. They have thick leather straps around one arm, and on their heads the small black boxes held in position by more leather straps. As they pray they rock backwards and forwards on their feet. The group has an intense unity as they hum and bob. Then suddenly it’s over. They open their eyes, take off the leather straps, and fold their prayer shawls into neat squares. Two of them go into the corner of the room where I now notice a kettle and some crockery. They make hot drinks and hand out bagels from a plastic bag.
I recognise Sidney from my last visit. He’s looking sideways at me as he busies himself with the beverages, but it’s Morrie who comes over to speak.
“Very nice to see you my dear.”
“Thank you. How are you?”
“Oh b’ruch ha shem, my dear. All the better for seeing you. It’s not often we get ladies to our early morning gatherings. How did your filming go? I heard they brought the cameras up to the Hill.”
“Very well, thanks, I was just looking at some of the shots – they look great.”
“Well, we pray that it will help to catch the evil person responsible.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
“Will you join us for a coffee?” He gestures over to the corner. “We indulge in a morning ritual of a light breakfast.”
“Thank you very much, but I have to admit I’ve come to get some help. Something else, this time.”
“Aha, well maybe I should have guessed. I didn’t think you’d had a sudden rush of religious fervour.” He smiles. I feel myself go red.
“Don’t worry, it’s OK. We don’t mind. What can we do you for?”
“I don’t suppose I mentioned this at the time, but my mother is a Hungarian refugee. She wants to make a claim for compensation from the Hungarian government. Have you got any idea who might help us with that?”
“Well, that’s a poser.” He turns to the men who are now chewing the bagels. “Sidney, Norman, Ira, who can help the young lady with a claim for compensation from the Hungarian government?”
“Hungarian? Does she know Johnny Lukács?”
“Compensation for what?”
“Those Hungarians are a load of schnorrers. They won’t give you a penny dear.”
“Tell that schmock Lukács I’ll see him in court.”
“A load of pig farmers, they are.”
“Shut up you guys. A bit of respect for the young lady.” The man who has just spoken is smartly dressed, wearing a checked sports jacket, slacks, and a trilby hat. He has a small, grey moustache, which he rubs with quick movements of his index finger.
“Now hold on a minute. There was something in the Jewish News recently. It may have been this week.” He scuttles over to the pile of coats on the table at the side of the room, rummages around, locates a briefcase, and gets out a battered newspaper.
“Forget the newspaper.” It’s a bulky, shaven-headed man. He’s folded his arms over his sleeveless V-necked sweater, and is resting his head on one hand. “It’s the JRO you need,” he growls. “Hendon – the Jewish Refugees’ Organisation. They have a whole department to deal with compensation claims. But don’t get your hopes up. A friend of mine tried it, and he didn’t get a penny. So many boxes to tick and loopholes, they’ve got six million ways to get out of paying you. Lost his entire family, thirteen brothers and sisters he had. Not one survived. Bastards.”
“Yes here it is. He’s right,” says trilby man. There’s a loud snort from the bald guy.
“Of course I’m right. What do you think I am, some kind of shlemiel?” The bald guy stomps off to the corner, and starts making himself another cup of coffee. I’m looking at a newspaper article about something called the Claims Conference. It’s a report about a development involving the European Community. I scribble the details into my notebook, and wonder if it has anything to do with the $150 Zoltán told us about.
“Take it,” says trilby man. “I’ve finished with it. Don’t worry about Ira. He’s never been the same since he lost his wife. Now he can’t be grumpy with her any more, he’s grumpy with us.”
“Yeah,” adds Morrie. “Luckily, we love him nearly as much as she did.”
“But unfortunately,” says trilby man, “we aren’t nearly so good in bed.” They all laugh, and then look at me expectantly.
I drive straight into work, calling the hospital while I’m stuck in a traffic jam on the Westway. Mutti’s awake, and wants to speak to me. I can tell her what I’ve found out at the synagogue. But she gets in first.
“I’m going home.”
“Er, has the doctor agreed to that?”
“I don’t care. This place is filthy.”
“Just hold on.”
“I don’t think you understand. It’s disgusting here.”
“What exactly is so bad?”
“It’s,” stage whisper, “the people. Filthy.”
“I understand that you would prefer a private room.”
“Is not possible,” she sniffs, “I have asked.” I swerve, to avoid crashing into a lorry.
“Look, next time you take an overdose, just leave a note telling the ambulance which private hospital you want to be taken to. Then you won’t have to put up with the humiliation of the public sector.”
That’s not what I meant to say at all. It just came out. Before she can reply I add a hasty, “OK, how are you going to get home?”
But it’s too late. I’ve said it. A pause. “I call a cab.” Dialling tone.
At work, there are two people eating breakfast at their desks in an otherwise deserted office. A red light is flashing on my phone. One message, left at seven-thirty this morning.
“Hi, it’s Mike Jenkins. Just thought you might like to know there’s been a breakthrough on Stamford Hill. I wanted you to tell you before you see it on the news. Give us a call.” I put the phone down and switch the nearest TV monitor onto the main breakfast programme. The main story is about the new government’s legislation programme. Then a short report on the arrest of Pavel Wiśniewski, a Polish builder living in Barking. He’s been charged with murder. They show a few ancient shots of Stamford Hill somebody’s dug out of the library, clumps of Hasidic men visible in the distance. That’s all.
Oh shit. That’s all I can think. Oh shit. Of course it’s great news. Justice will be done and all that, but I’m so fucked. The film which was about to save my career is about to hit the dustbin of history. If somebody has been arrested, then there is obviously no need for an appeals film, and apart from anything else, it’s now legally impossible to show it, on the grounds that it would prejudice a future jury. All that hard work – and now the film will never be seen. Bugger justice, what about my future? And what’s worse is I’m going to have to pretend I’m really happy about it. I call Mrs Friedmann.
“Have you heard?”
“Yes.” Her voice is muffled, squeezing out each word. “Detective Jenkins called earlier. And the family liaison officer is here now.” She sniffs, but I can’t work out whether she’s crying. “There are photographers and television people outside the house still. What do they want, these people?”
“They want you to say you are pleased that an arrest has been made, I guess.”
“Let someone else say it.”
“If he is the right man, then you must feel some satisfaction. The police have done their job.”
“I am… relieved. But there are others.”
“Other – murderers?”
“Polish.”
“Sorry – you are worried about other Polish people? But not all Poles are murderers.”
“You think?
“Poles, Czech, Slovak, Russians, Serbs. They are all the same.”
I wonder where this is leading. “People who come over here to work from Eastern Europe aren’t all murderers.”
“What did they do during the war?”
“Most of them are in their twenties, they weren’t even born during the war. Not even their parents were born during the war.”
“So their grandparents. And their parents and their parents and theirs. What did they do to the Jews in Poland? Millions killed in the death camps. Who was punished for it? And before that the pogroms.”
“So, Mrs Friedmann, are you trying to tell me that you think there’s a link between the builder who’s been arrested for Bruchi’s murder and centuries of Polish anti-Semitism?”
“Do you?”
I open my mouth to say no, of course not, don’t be silly. Then I shut it again. I think about my mother, and what happened in Hungary. Rational doesn’t come into it.
“Just because one man has been arrested for one murder,” I say carefully, “it doesn’t make all Polish people guilty. That’s just the same as anti-Semitism – making huge generalisations about a group of people. And what if he turns out to be innocent? Are they all off the hook?”
I regret sounding so self-righteous, I have no other response to offer. But I wonder what about the white minibus? That was supposed to be such a major appeal point. What happened to that? I call Jenkins again, to see if I can prise any more information out of him. He sighs.
“I didn’t tell you this, right, but Wiśniewski is picked up every day from the corner of St Kilda’s to go to work. By a white minibus.”
“Could be a coincidence. Stamford Hill is overrun by white minibuses.”
“And a lot of Polish builders too. But the evidence points…” He trails off.
“OK.”
It all feels a bit unreal, unsatisfactory. Like a balloon that’s burst – something that looked so substantial reduced to a few shrivelled bits of rubber. And not just because our film is wasted, binned, thrown on the cutting room floor. It’s shitty, of course, but this is different. Yet again, Bruchi’s mother. I don’t know how I expected her to react, but not like that.
I go for a commiserative coffee with Bill, and resist the urge to get the hell out of the office. The film Andrew’s working on for the next programme can be fast tracked in time to replace it. I’m sure he won’t waste the opportunity to rub my face in the reversal of our fortunes.
All that’s left to do is go back to the cuttings file to see if I can find another story. I wasn’t aware of actually putting my boots up on the desk until I hear the sharp click of stiletto heels, and Sarah materialises by my desk. Oh God, I think, she must have noticed my extensive absences. Or Andrew’s been telling tales. I should have called in, kept in touch with the office. I’m in trouble again.
“In my office,” she says. She’s not smiling. Come to think of it, she doesn’t smile much. That idiotic thing about women needing people to like them doesn’t seem to apply in her case. But I still think she’s just loading her guns.
Here it comes. Heads turn as we pass. They’re probably having a good laugh about the bollocking I’m going to get. Ahead of me is a black pencil skirt and the tailored jacket. Sexy power suit. You probably need a licence to wear one. She sits at her desk with a very straight back. I try not to flinch.
“Bad news about Stamford Hill,” she says.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” I’m preparing to grovel.
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because, because of the arrest. We can’t use – ”
“Not your fault, darling. That’s my problem. Time to move on.”
“Really?”
“Well, there is one thing.” Of course, there would be one. Put on the flak jackets. “You were bloody lucky to get away with it after playing so fast and loose. You bloody nearly lost the story.”
“Point taken.”
“But if it’s fucked now, that’s hardly your fault. So, why are you wasting your talent?”
“Sorry?”
“You should have been a producer years ago, and for some reason I really just don’t get you are pissing it all away.” It’s the T word. Talent. Nobody has ever thrown that at me before. They’re usually too busy telling me what an idiot I’ve been. A fucking idiot, usually.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a real self-starter. You’ve got flair and imagination. But you sometimes give the impression that life and everything else is getting on top of you. You turn up late for work, or don’t turn up at all. You look knackered and disengaged.” It’s impossible to deny the truth of this. I look at my hands. Broken nails and chipped varnish.
“Let’s not even mention your infantile war of attrition with Andrew – just block him, OK? I see you making the same stupid mistakes time and time again, yet somehow in the midst of that, you still manage to deliver. I just wonder what you could come up with if you were giving a hundred per cent.”
“I’ve never actually been, sort of flavour of the month.”
“I’m not here to be your best friend, Elizabeth. You need to grow up a bit and drop the pointless paranoia. What’s your current project?”
“Well I haven’t – exactly – well, I’m…”
“Yes?”
“Well I was thinking we should follow up that off-licence robbery in Leicester. The cashier got shot in the arm. There are other similar robberies, probably the same perpetrators.” She nods to herself. Then picks up a piles of paperwork from her desk, and starts flicking through them as if she’s looking for something.
“You sent me some notes, I think.”
“Yes, three sides—”
“With your customary thoroughness.”
“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
“Give me a bit of credit, will you?”
“Gosh, sorry, no I didn’t mean…”
“Yuh, here they are.” She pulls three stapled sheets out of the pile and puts them in front of her, leaning forward and drumming her oval red nails on the desk as she reads. Then she looks up.
“Well, here’s the deal. I’m going to let you direct the film.”
“What?”
“It’s time for you to step up to the mark, sweetheart, or you are going to be running round for other people all your life.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“For God’s sake, Elizabeth. What are you doing here? You should be beating a path to my office every day, begging me to give you a chance. Like some others I could mention.”
“Well…”
“Unless I’ve somehow got it wrong and you are nurturing an ambition to be a researcher for the rest of your life?”
“Of course not.”
“Thank Christ for that. Now, do me a favour and get yourself focused. Your work is good when you concentrate, just locate your aspiration. And get used to the idea that I’m prepared to take a risk on you.”
“But it’s an armed robbery. That means guns and cars. I’ve never even had to book an armourer before, and now you’re saying I’m actually going to be in charge of the whole shebang?” The slash of red lipstick opens to reveal even, very white teeth.
“An armourer isn’t that big a deal, he just looks after the guns so you don’t have to. I’ll make sure Bill’s there to hold your hand.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“‘Thank you’ would be acceptable. And, given the circumstances ‘I’ll do my best not to let you down,’ uttered with sincerity, would be appropriate.”
“Of course, thank you. Thank you so much.” I get up to leave, feeling dizzy as I get out of the chair.
I’m halfway to the door when she says, “Do me a favour. Don’t fuck it up.”
Andrew raises his eyes as I come out of Sarah’s office. I must look shell-shocked.
“Had a tongue lashing from her highness, have you?”
“Yeah. I’m going to sit here and cry about it. Hope you’ve got a big box of hankies for me.”
It’s impossible to concentrate, because I’m shaking. Someone’s blown a dandelion clock in my stomach, and all the little fluffy bits are going round and round. I wish my Dad was still alive so that he could be the first to know about my big break. Instead I call Mutti. She can’t have got round to phoning that cab yet because she’s still there on the ward. The nurse keeps me on hold for ages while she’s making her way to the phone. She seems to listen intently enough as I explain what it means, responding now and then with a “Ja”, or a “Wirklich? Marvellous!” But it sounds flat. She’s still preoccupied with the need to escape the hospital, and to be fair she’s recently had a narrow brush with death so my latest career moves must seem bordering on trivial. On the other hand, she is my mother, but I’d forgotten that relationship plays two ways.
“I hope I haven’t caught something nasty,” she sniffs. “I don’t suppose you can come to take me home?” Her voice has taken on a wheedling tone.
“What happened to the cab?”
“Nice if you could come. I would appreciate it.” The depth of understanding I have acquired of my mother’s tortured history is beginning to wear a bit thin on lack of sleep.
“I’m at work,” I snap. “Trying to catch up on stuff I’ve missed.”
“Later?” There’s a genuine note of desperation.
“Can you wait till tonight?” She sounds so beaten down. It’s only a few hours on the motorway. In the light midweek traffic, maybe I can get there by eight.
I call Dave to ask what he thinks, explaining about the ghastly doctor, the filming, the book, the workie, and the amazing opportunity that seems to have fallen in my lap, but it all gets tangled up in a knot. I try to explain how all the things are somehow connected, even if they aren’t. I’m not making any sense, and now he’s getting annoyed with me.
“But I’ve got to get Mutti from hospital.”
“You are not driving up there to get her. I forbid it. Don’t be ridiculous. You sound shattered.”
Dave’s right, of course. It’s true that I am my mother’s main source of emotional support right now but even she can’t expect me to drop everything and steam down to Cardiff to give her a lift home. And anyway, she’d be happy if she knew what I was doing instead. It’s all for her.
I’m planning to slip out this afternoon. Just for an hour or so, nobody in the office will notice. Really. My new assignment isn’t on the urgent pile, and I have a burning need to find the next piece in the compensation jigsaw. The offices of the Jewish Refugees’ Association are tucked behind Hendon Central tube station.
Inside it’s all orderly furnishing in muted colours. People speak in whispers. I’m led into a small interview room. After a few moments, a young woman enters. She shakes my hand, with a flat smile. She looks like a sixth-former dressed up in her mother’s clothes. Probably reminds her clients of their grandchildren, but it turns out that she is the hottest thing in town when it comes to this very particular bit of international law.
“Restitution of property is possible in theory,” she explains, “but to be perfectly honest we haven’t had that much success with it so far.”
“So are you saying that in truth it’s all window dressing?”
“Let’s just start with the facts. Since Hungary started its application to the European Community, it has introduced a limited law on compensation.”
“You mean the hundred and fifty dollars my mother can get for the death of her father?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Yes, I know it’s a bit of an insult. But you should make a claim, if only to make the point.”
“I think my parents have done that,” I say nodding. “But what about reclaiming actual property?”
“That’s trickier. What you need to do is establish that your grandparents owned certain assets, and of course that may be hard to do. Maybe it’s not there anymore. Maybe it’s been knocked down for re-development, or destroyed during the war.” I tell her about my grandfather’s factory and about the family’s apartment. She nods, and I detect a note of weariness alongside the efficient manner. She must have heard the same story so many times.
“You have to search the official records, to establish ownership in 1939, and find out what happened after that. The records are held in Budapest, but are open to the public. You may need to engage a Hungarian lawyer to make a claim.”
“But what happens to the person who owns the property now, or thinks they own it. Presumably I can’t just get them thrown out onto the street because I prove that the place now belongs to me? Or can I?”
“It’s all a bit new, I’m afraid. Nobody really knows what happens.”
“How many successful claims have there been so far? She shuffles the file in front of her, thoughtfully, then looks up at me.
“Look, we are in uncharted waters. Since the Iron Curtain came down, there have been a lot of changes, but the bureaucracy is still struggling to catch up. We’re talking about something which exists more in theory than practice.”
“So the answer is none. Zero.” She looks at me straight in the eyes, and then nods. “So we are talking about a huge battle, uncharted territory, a lot of legal unknowns?”
“Absolutely.”
“And apart from that my mother is – can be – emotionally – she finds it difficult to handle these things.”
“Of course – that is true with many of the people who come to us. It’s hardly surprising. They’ve been through such a lot, and now they are getting on in life.”
“So what should we do?”
“That’s up to you. I can only advise on how to go about it. And I’m really not an expert on the emotional side of things. That really is something the family have to think about because it is not going to be an easy road to go down.”
She gives me some forms and written information to take home. The response is low key, but I think what she’s trying to say is that we may have a case. If we can face the battle – and that’s a hell of a big if.
It’s mid-afternoon by the time I get back to the office. I’ve just been gone for a few hours and nobody seems to have noticed my absence, so I get stuck into setting up the off-licence robbery film, making up for lost time. It’s early evening before I realise with a shock that I forgot to tell Mutti I’m not coming to pick her up from hospital. I phone the ward. I can imagine her sitting there with her coat and suitcase, fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, doing the crossword and watching the clock.
“…look, I’m really sorry. I’ve got a lot on.”
“Ja, so I see.”
“Don’t be like that. I’ve got something important to—”
“I expect you tomorrow, then.”
“I can’t do tomorrow either. But I wanted to tell you something. You’ll be really pleased about it.”
“Since when are you working on the weekend?”
“It’s not work.”
“I see.” Those two words say a lot. They say you don’t care about me in the way you should. If you can’t give me grandchildren or earn decent money to look after me in my old age, then you could at least give me a lift home from the bloody hospital.
“Look, I’ll book you a cab and pay for it from here.”
“Hmph.” There’s not much else I can say. To make things worse, no cab firm in Cardiff will take my booking because I haven’t got an account. So I do the only thing I can. I get the transport book from Millie’s desk, and use the programme number for my next film to book a cab to pick up Mutti from the hospital. I’ll sort it out with Millie on Monday and pay her the cash.
I don’t think Mutti’s speaking to me anymore, so I call the hospital back and tell the nurse what I’ve done. She says she’ll get Mrs Mueller to pack her bag for ten in the morning.
I work late that night, writing up my notes and trying to make up for the time I lost in the afternoon. But when I stop to re-read what I’ve written, I find my eyes slithering over the words. I go back to the beginning and start again, but I can’t seem to find a purchase on the text. I find myself gazing out of the plate glass windows, at the dark city skyline picked out in lights. As I stare at them, they go out of focus and re-form themselves into an image of Mutti lying there on the bed, looking yellow and witchy.
There’s a lump in my throat which doesn’t clear when I cough, and a burning pain in my stomach. It takes me a moment to realise that I’m angry. Angry with my mother, of course. But most of all, I’m angry with my Dad for dumping me like this. He should be there in the hospital with her right now. And of course then I feel guilty for missing him in the wrong way. I drive back to Dave’s needing the comfort of another body next to me. Past midnight I clamber into bed where he’s fast asleep in crumpled sheets, and the heat off his body is like balm. I roll the edge of the duvet around me and fall asleep with my head on his shoulder.