The following days were among the longest in Dr Koekentapp’s life. He was thoroughly despondent about the breakdown in his relationship with Sylvia and utterly confused by Rabbi Zindelman’s mystifying assertion that everybody had been honoured. Even at work his listlessness persisted. Elizabeth and Anne began exchanging worried looks and their customary ebullience when in his presence dwindled to polite conversation. It was a blue time for all.
On Saturday, the Levys, the Finkelsteins, Mrs Kindel and numerous other ladies alerted by Mrs Finkelstein’s network attended the Sydenham Highlands North synagogue to view Dr Koekentapp and determine whether Rabbi Zindelman had gone meshugge or not. Mrs Levy and Sylvia sat near Mrs Finkelstein on the centre balcony. When Rabbi Zindelman personally escorted Dr Koekentapp to his seat and proceeded to show him the proper way to don a tallith, a buzz vibrated through the hall. Mrs Levy shivered excitedly. With undivided attention she watched Dr Koekentapp hold his tallith in front of his face and utter the traditional prayer word for word as Rabbi Zindelman guided him.
‘This is a disgrace!’ exclaimed Mrs Mintz behind her. ‘That I should live to see the day a goy puts on a tallith in my shul!’
Mrs Levy, who kept a close eye on events in the community, slowly turned around. She had heard on good authority that Mrs Mintz was having an affair with Melnikoff, the kosher butcher.
‘Oh! It’s you, Mrs Mintz,’ she said. ‘You are looking well, touch wood.’
Mrs Levy was blissfully unaware that she had just invoked the wooden Cross of the crucifixion and in a synagogue. ‘I have been thinking of changing my butcher to Melnikoff. I understand that you know him very well. Tell me, Mrs Mintz, can you recommend his polony?’
Without waiting for an answer Mrs Levy returned her gaze to Dr Koekentapp, who had sat down. ‘He probably only stocks a cocktail sausage,’ she muttered to herself.
Sylvia grabbed her mother’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t you think I should at least say “hello” to him, Mom?’ Sylvia asked Mrs Levy after looking at Dr Koekentapp, obviously uneasy in his new surroundings. ‘He looks so alone and he must be interested in Judaism, coming to shul and everything.’
Mrs Levy shrugged. ‘ “Hello” can’t hurt. But no more than that,’ she added warningly.
That Saturday was also the day that Rabbi Zindelman had chosen to deliver his sermon on the importance of attending shul. While Sylvia and her mother riveted their attention on what Dr Koekentapp was doing, Mrs Finkelstein concentrated on assessing Rabbi Zindelman’s sanity. She listened avidly as Rabbi Zindelman berated the packed congregation for not coming to shul. She thought he looked so impressive when he shouted. He reminded her of Moses. Rabbi Zindelman wanted to know how the Jewish community would hold together in the New South Africa if it didn’t come to shul. The country was changing and a new spirit of increased acceptance had to be adopted. Mrs Finkelstein thought it made good business sense for the Jewish community to adapt in the New South Africa by being more accepting. Rabbi Zindelman loudly reminded the congregation that good neighbourliness was a holy commandment! Mrs Finkelstein felt that this was a good commandment unless, God forbid, her neighbour happened to be Gentile. She also could not imagine coveting a Zulu’s wife or his ass. That would be more than a sin; it would be a Disgrace! She felt her sins weren’t really sins anyway. Not sins actually to die for. They were unfortunate misdemeanours, such as the time she had regrettably used a milk fork on a pickled brisket, or the time she had allowed that shikseh at her bridge party to drink from a teacup because it was too embarrassing to offer her tea in a servant’s enamelled mug.
Like Mrs Levy, Mrs Finkelstein was strictly kosher at home and having a kosher home was the very heart of her religious beliefs. The more spiritual aspects of Judaism were factors she had never ever really considered, let alone studied, but food was something she could handle and understand. And she liked listening to the choir at shul. It was all very impressive in a traditional sort of way. She carefully observed what the other ladies were wearing, who was absent because they had died, and who looked ill enough not to make it for another year. As Rabbi Zindelman ended his sermon with a withering demand for increased community benevolence, Mrs Finkelstein decided to go outside for a breath of fresh air and hoped to find someone to talk to.
Outside the synagogue, the New South Africa was in full swing. In Hilson Park just down the road, the perennial muggers and thieves relieved old ladies and men of their consciousness, pensions and possessions. Nearby, pimps and their prostitutes wandered between scarlet clumps of cannas blossoming beside gay rows of daffodils and amber and rose freesias. Sleeping hoboes lay in drugged compliance with the day of rest.
A group of young car thieves, attracted to the shiny rows of BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes parked outside the synagogue, gathered around a withered potted palm poisoned by innumerable cigarette butts plunged into its soil. Mrs Finkelstein gazed at the thieves with unconcealed mistrust and clutched her handbag close to her bosom. Interpreting this as a sign that the bag held something of value, the thieves adopted their best mournful expression and held up their palms for money, not understanding why Mrs Finkelstein said she didn’t have any on the Sabbath because it was a sin.
Mrs Finkelstein watched curiously as Mr Sadowsky, her close neighbour and the revered chairman of the local Jewish benevolent society, pulled up in his car and parked near the synagogue. Her curiosity turned to distaste as a gaudily dressed Malawian prostitute in a miniskirt made for his front passenger door and, uninvited, got inside the car. Watching and waiting for the arrival of her husband outside the synagogue, an astounded Mrs Sadowsky hurriedly made for her spouse’s vehicle. She was dressed as befitted a religious wife. A large sepia cap covered her wig. Her dress, of dark green, covered her arms and body to the ankles and her feet were enclosed in sensible tan shoes. As she yanked open the passenger door, the over-eager prostitute removed her hand from the frozen Mr Sadowsky’s crotch and yelled at her, ‘Go away, I saw him first!’
Mrs Finkelstein just shook her head as Mr Sadowsky leapt out of his car and disappeared down the road, leaving the women to sort out the priorities of his physical favours.
‘So what do you think of Dr Koekentapp now?’ Mrs Kindel asked Mrs Finkelstein as they made their way back to the ladies’ balcony.
‘I nearly died when I heard,’ replied Mrs Finkelstein. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Have you heard about Melnikoff shtupping Mrs Mintz? I don’t know what he sees in that fat old bag. Don’t you think Mrs Pelkowitz looks terrible? I hear she had a face lift. Her husband died a few months ago, you know. What a tragedy. Shame. But I believe he left her a fortune.’
On returning to her seat, Mrs Finkelstein looked down at the men congregated below in prayer. She nudged Mrs Jacobson, who sat in the seat next to her every Saturday. Mrs Jacobson’s eyes were closed and she was singing along with the choir. Mrs Finkelstein nudged her again, harder this time.
‘Yes?’ asked Mrs Jacobson irritably.
‘I heard your doctor emigrated to Toronto,’ said Mrs Finkelstein, ignoring the shushes from the ladies nearby.
‘Mmm,’ hummed Mrs Jacobson. Her grandson was in the choir and she wanted to listen. She thought he sang like Mario Lanza. At the age of sixteen his voice hadn’t broken yet. He had been asked to sing at the very last moment to replace a young choir boy whose golden voice unfortunately had broken the day after he had first masturbated.
‘Do you know Dr Koekentapp?’ whispered Mrs Finkelstein. ‘He’s a goy but he’s being converted by Rabbi Zindelman and he does house calls.’
The choir stopped singing.
‘Really?’ replied Mrs Jacobson softly. A house call would be nice. She thought she needed something for her nerves. ‘Where is he?’ She looked at Mrs Finkelstein, who noticed with satisfaction that Mrs Jacobson had aged badly in the last year.
‘Down there, behind Hymie, my husband, in the third row behind the pole.’
The shushes increased. Mrs Jacobson leant forward. All she could see of Hymie was his ponderous belly protruding past an even more cumbrous supporting column of the synagogue.
‘Hymie looks well,’ she said.
‘Yes, thank God. I try and look after him. I watch his diet. God forbid I should be a widow.’
Mrs Finkelstein smiled sympathetically at Mrs Jacobson. ‘There’s my doctor. Over there,’ she said, pointing in the general direction of her husband. Her extended forefinger knocked aside the blue-tinted wig of Mrs Cohen, who always sat in the front row of the balcony on the Sabbath and high days.
‘Excuse me, Ruth,’ Mrs Finkelstein apologised.
Mrs Cohen turned, her large breasts knocking her prayer book over the balcony and down into the men’s section. It hit the recently divorced Mr Kindel, fervidly praying for forgiveness for sleeping with his partner’s wife, on the head. He retrieved the book from the floor, stared at it and looked up. Seeing only the blank wall of the balcony above him, he concluded that he had received a sign and redoubled the fervour of his prayers. The choir began a tumultuous song of praise.
With the contempt due to anyone who could not afford the price of a seat in the front row, Mrs Cohen faced Mrs Finkelstein. Mrs Cohen’s wig straddled her sparse hair like an à la mode beret. She pulled the wig straight.
‘It vood be nice if you vere a little more careful, Naomi. I don’t like people to poke me,’ she warned.
Mrs Finkelstein wondered why anyone would want to poke Mrs Cohen.
‘I was pointing out Dr Koekentapp to Mrs Jacobson,’ she told her. Mrs Finkelstein irritably turned around as the hissing increased, ‘Don’t shush me,’ she said generally. ‘There he is. The man in the blue suit and red tie.’
The shushers stopped and joined Mrs Jacobson and Mrs Cohen in contemplating Dr Koekentapp, who was loosening his jacket and wriggling frantically under his tallith to get at his pager, which was broadcasting a message. The tassels of his tallith had somehow managed to entangle themselves with his fly zipper.
‘Vot’s der matter mit him?’ Mrs Cohen queried. ‘Vhy is he getting undressed in shul? Is he, God forbid, asthmatic?’
‘Perhaps he’s got a skin eruption,’ suggested Mrs Jacobson, whose grandson suffered from an itchy skin condition.
While a rapidly increasing number of ladies curiously watched Dr Koekentapp, the choir sang a heartfelt and harmonised note that rang through the synagogue and suddenly stopped as the service ended. There was a moment of total silence.
Dr Koekentapp extricated his pager and received his message. It came through loud and clear.
‘Please contact Mrs Jones urgently. She thinks she’s having a miscarriage!’
The entire congregation turned to look interestedly at Dr Koekentapp. Those nearest to him noticed his fly was undone and came to an erroneous conclusion.
‘Is he trained as a gynaecologist?’ asked Mrs Jacobson.
‘No, but he knows about everything. He’s a general practitioner,’ replied Mrs Levy.
‘Koekentapp?’ Mrs Cohen mused to herself. She hadn’t been included on Mrs Finkelstein’s list of telephone calls. ‘Is dat a Jewish name? He doesn’t look Jewish.’ She looked across the synagogue at her husband Yankel, who did look Jewish and had fallen asleep in his chair. She decided that Yankel needed a check-up and that she also had a few personal feminine problems to discuss with this new doctor who obviously knew enough about gynaecology to have it publicly broadcast.
Presently, leaving Mrs Finkelstein whispering with Mrs Jacobson about the prudency of consulting a young general practitioner on mature women’s intimate problems, Mrs Cohen went downstairs. In the foyer of the synagogue Dr Koekentapp stood facing a wall. His hips thrust backwards and forwards and his elbows jerked up and down as he struggled to close his fly. To Mrs Cohen he resembled a man praying in a film she had seen on the history channel about the sacred Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. She tentatively approached him.
‘Excuse me, dokter,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your message. I am sorry to interrupt your prayers.’
Dr Koekentapp tried to ignore her by pretending he hadn’t heard. He stopped moving and quietly faced the wall.
‘Guten Shabbes,’ Mrs Cohen said, looking at Peruvnick’s yarmulke on the back of Dr Koekentapp’s head. Still receiving no reply, Mrs Cohen concluded that Dr Koekentapp was very deep in prayer.
She respectfully clasped her hands in front of her and decided to wait quietly. Dr Koekentapp bent right over and convulsively hauled at his zipper under his tallith. His shoulders hunched up towards his ears and his tallith moved up over the back of his head. He grunted loudly as his fly zipper broke.
Interpreting the sound as an indication that his prayers were terminated, Mrs Cohen closed her eyes and tremulously sang, ‘Amen’.
At that moment, Sylvia reached the foyer. She froze at the sight of Dr Koekentapp facing a wall and Mrs Cohen singing behind him.
Dr Koekentapp turned to face Mrs Cohen. His tallith was draped over his head.
‘Are you also a Cohen?’ asked Mrs Cohen.
‘No,’ said Dr Koekentapp. ‘Why?’
‘Nutting. It’s der vay you vear your tallith. I just vondered,’ Mrs Cohen replied. She thought it strange that a man who didn’t belong to the Cohen tribe should wear his tallith over his head. Perhaps there was a special rule for doctors?
‘I also was vondering,’ she went on, ‘vhether I could make an appointment to see you. I just spoke to Mrs Finkelstein who pointed you out.’
Dr Koekentapp noticed Sylvia, grinned at her and then glanced down at his trousers. His underpants, a present from Candy and decorated with a flagrant print of a banana called Dick Head, protruded through his wide-open fly. He grabbed his crotch with both hands and smiled thinly at Mrs Cohen.
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘Please phone my rooms and Elizabeth my receptionist will be happy to help you.’
‘Tank you, dokter,’ said Mrs Cohen. She reached down to shake his right hand and wish him a guten Shabbes.
Dr Koekentapp pulled back hurriedly. Mrs Cohen understood. She thoroughly approved of doctors who insisted on maintaining total professional dignity with minimal patient contact at public events.
Sylvia hesitantly approached them.
‘Vhy, hello, Sylvia,’ said Mrs Cohen, ‘I vos just discussing an appointment mit Dr Koekentapp. He vos recommended by your mudder. Have der two of you met?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sylvia. ‘I just came to say hello.’
‘Hello,’ Dr Koekentapp answered. Although he desperately wanted to renew his relationship with Sylvia, distractedly holding his crotch when meeting her again was not what he had planned.
‘He’s got very nice manners,’ said Mrs Cohen.
Dr Koekentapp wished she would disappear. Sylvia stood silently, wondering why he was standing so peculiarly and secretly hoping that he would offer her an opportunity to apologise for doubting his meeting with Rabbi Zindelman. When none was immediately forthcoming, she sighed, ‘Bye Jerry. Look after yourself,’ and left to find her mother.
Cursing his underwear and after nodding goodbye to Mrs Cohen, who was wondering whether her new doctor might have a weak bladder, Dr Koekentapp artfully draped his tallith around him so that it afforded him decent cover and went to talk to Rabbi Zindelman in his office.
‘Did you enjoy the service?’ asked Rabbi Zindelman.
Dr Koekentapp nodded. He had found it interesting and had enjoyed listening to the choir but had not experienced the vaulted exaltation he had felt at the Levy home. Rabbi Zindelman smiled when Dr Koekentapp told him so.
‘What you experienced there can come only from within you. It is my hope that you will continue to attend this synagogue. I would be very happy to assist and teach you. Who knows, perhaps that voice of yours will sing in the choir one day. I believe it will.’
Dr Koekentapp carefully scrutinised Rabbi Zindelman. ‘Rabbi Zindelman, are you trying to convert me to Judaism?’
Accepting the surveillance with equanimity, Rabbi Zindelman returned, ‘Dear boy, conversion is of the spirit. It must come from you, not from me. I can only show you a road. You must decide whether you wish to travel it or not. I have great faith that you will.’
‘Does that faith include me seeing Sylvia again?’ asked Dr Koekentapp.
‘Of course,’ Rabbi Zindelman replied.
‘Now? Today?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘What if she refuses to see me because I’m not Jewish?’
‘I’ll put in a good word for you.’
‘And her family? What about her family?’
Rabbi Zindelman shrugged. ‘Return their hospitality. Invite them out for a meal at Greenstein’s. After all, they are kosher, you know.’
A little later, having changed his trousers at his home and still totally bemused by Rabbi Zindelman’s liberal approach to things interdenominational, Dr Koekentapp went to check on his rooms. Elizabeth was off for the weekend but Anne was there to greet him.
‘Hello, doctor,’ she beamed, ‘had a nice day?’
‘I’ve had a few problems,’ he said. He looked at the empty waiting room. ‘Isn’t Mrs Jones here yet?’
‘No, she phoned to cancel. It was only a cramp and her pain is much better. She apologises for paging you.’
Anne watched curiously as Dr Koekentapp paled, grabbed his head and sat spraddle-legged in a chair.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked.
‘Perfectly,’ he muttered thickly.
‘Doctor, do you know that your trousers don’t match your jacket?’ asked Anne.
‘Tell me about it. I broke the zip on the other pair,’ he said.
‘How did you do that?’
‘I caught my tassel in it,’ Dr Koekentapp muttered irately.
Anne surreptitiously glanced in the direction of Dr Koekentapp’s crotch.
‘Ouch,’ she replied, ‘are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, but I had to snap it to free it.’
‘Jesus wept,’ said Anne.
‘I’m going to my consulting room,’ Dr Koekentapp continued sourly. ‘I’ve got reports to do.’
An hour later, Dr Koekentapp was still sitting behind his desk when Mrs Finkelstein barged through the front door of the rooms.
‘Anne, I’m sorry to arrive without an appointment but when I got home from shul Lucas was sick. He is waiting outside.’
Lucas was Mrs Finkelstein’s gardener. He wasn’t a gardener in the full sense of the word but, when it came to weeding and mowing and especially spreading manure on the lawn, he was incomparable. And that is precisely what Mrs Finkelstein wanted – a trim garden with a natural fragrance. It reminded her of her childhood, those idyllic days spent with her parents on their cattle farm near Pofadder.
‘It’s not just a pretty garden, it has the aroma of the country,’ she would explain to the bewildered Lucas, who knew that the neighbours were gasping and retching on the other side of the fence.
Lucas had an itchy skin. In the vague hope that a ‘good cleanout’ somehow would purify his system and get rid of unidentified toxins and the itch, Mrs Finkelstein had given him a hefty dose of laxatives. But when the itch became a rash and diarrhoea complicated the picture, Mrs Finkelstein brought in Lucas-who-has-been-with-us-so-long-he’s-part-of-the-family for more definitive management and, ‘don’t forget he gets medical aid rates’. She sat in the waiting room while he was being examined.
Meanwhile, Sylvia was in a serious discussion with her mother at the Levy home. They were sitting in the kitchen and Mrs Levy was grating potatoes to make potato pancakes for the evening meal.
‘I walked out on the man, I called him a liar and a fraud to his face and now Rabbi Zindelman is treating him like a son! What do you think I should do?’ Sylvia pleaded.
Mrs Levy put down her grater and drew on her many years of experience in handling awkward situations. ‘It depends,’ she concluded, wiping her hands on a dish cloth.
‘On what?’ asked Sylvia.
‘On whether we want to marry him.’
Sylvia blushed. ‘We?’
‘Certainly. Don’t you sit there with a face like a beetroot and play games with me, Sylvia,’ Mrs Levy replied. ‘We are not talking about latkes here, you know,’ indicating her pancakes. ‘Why are we even speaking if we aren’t planning for the future? Even a butcher like Melnikoff could see that you are falling in love with the doctor. You think I’m not involved? Can you imagine what those yentas are going to say when they find out that Sylvia Levy is seeing Dr Koekentapp the goy? Do you think I could show my face at Greenstein’s delicatessen if we didn’t have a plan?’
Mrs Levy pulled up her sleeves and earnestly looked at her daughter.
‘In a case like this careful planning is critical!’ she declared. ‘Now let’s look at the good facts and the bad facts. First, the good facts. Number one, he is a doctor. Number two, I like him. Number three, you like him. Number four, he likes you. Number five, Rabbi Zindelman likes him. Number six, Rabbi Zindelman is teaching him about Judaism. Number seven . . .’ Mrs Levy couldn’t think of a number seven. ‘Now the bad facts,’ she continued. ‘Number one, he’s not Jewish. Number two, he may not want to convert to Judaism.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Sylvia.
‘Simple,’ Mrs Levy replied. ‘Rabbi Zindelman told Dr Koekentapp to think about you and trust him. By saying that, Rabbi Zindelman involved himself. So we must speak to Rabbi Zindelman, and then you must phone Dr Koekentapp and invite him here. I’ll handle the catering arrangements. When we know that Dr Koekentapp definitely intends to convert to Judaism, we will handle the third bad fact.’
‘What’s that?’ Sylvia asked curiously.
Mrs Levy looked sideways at her daughter. ‘You mean you haven’t thought about it?’
‘Thought about what? What are you talking about?’
Mrs Levy stood up, placed her hands on Sylvia’s cheeks and kissed her on her forehead. ‘My darling, Dr Koekentapp will have to be circumcised!’
‘Mrs Finkelstein, Lucas has contact eczema,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
Mrs Finkelstein looked at him in horror. ‘Can you cure it? Is it infectious, God forbid? Contact eczema!’ She turned and stared at Lucas.
‘You must instruct him in prevention,’ replied Dr Koekentapp. ‘You should encourage him to avoid contact with—’
‘What are you talking about?’ intruded Mrs Finkelstein wrathfully. ‘I am a decent woman not a shikseh! I am the last person in the world you could call a racist, but how can you ask me to discuss prevention with my gardener? Do you expect me to show him how to put on a condom?’ Overcome with indignation she spun round to face Lucas. She took a deep breath to regain control.
‘Lucas, the doctor said you shouldn’t have sex anymore. Then you will get better,’ she said.
Having spoken to Martha about the bewildering medical techniques practised by Mrs Finkelstein’s new doctor, Lucas grinned and idly scratched at a particularly itchy spot near his groin. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he returned.
Dr Koekentapp hastily tried to correct Mrs Finkelstein. ‘It’s manure, Mrs Finkelstein,’ he said.
Mrs Finkelstein threw up her hands. ‘You are a lunatic!’ she screeched. ‘I walk in here because my gardener has got a disease and you sit there and ask me to tell him he shouldn’t shtup and, when I do, you tell me I’m talking manure!’ Mrs Finkelstein threw back her head. ‘Will someone please tell me what is going on?’ She looked at Anne, who had come to see what was going on.
‘Can you please tell me what is happening?’ she begged Anne.
‘Yes. Lucas is allergic to manure. He shouldn’t touch it without gloves,’ Anne said.
Sylvia didn’t dare disturb Rabbi Zindelman on the Sabbath. At ten the next day, Mrs Levy approached her daughter, who was reading the Sunday Times in the lounge.
‘Now is a good time. Phone him.’
Sylvia suddenly thought of a dozen reasons why she shouldn’t telephone Rabbi Zindelman. She looked at Mrs Levy imploringly.
‘Mom, are you sure this is a good idea? What if he tells me to mind my own business?’
‘He won’t,’ said Mrs Levy confidently. ‘I explained to you he is involved. Do you want me to go over the good facts and the bad facts again? Would you prefer it if I phoned him?’
‘No!’ Sylvia replied emphatically and began dialling while Mrs Levy quietly picked up the extension telephone in the passageway to listen.
‘Hello, Rabbi Zindelman,’ Sylvia said when he answered, ‘it’s Sylvia Levy speaking. How are you?’
‘Sylvia!’ replied Rabbi Zindelman. ‘I’m very well, thank you. I saw you at shul yesterday. You were beautiful. You also looked lovely, Dolly.’
There was a click as Mrs Levy put down her receiver. She hurried to stand next to Sylvia.
‘I am sure you are not phoning to find out what an old man is doing on a Sunday,’ Rabbi Zindelman went on. ‘Perhaps it has to do with Jeremiah? Would you be interested in knowing how he is doing?’
‘Yes,’ Sylvia whispered.
‘He is doing wonderfully! I have great hopes for that young man. As do you, I think. I know he has a high opinion of you.’
‘He does?’
‘Oh, certainly. But he is a little worried about contacting you. I told him I would put in a good word for him. He would like to see you again.’
Sylvia’s heart began thumping rapidly. ‘He would?’ She stared at Mrs Levy, who was waving her arms frantically. ‘Excuse me a moment, Rabbi Zindelman, I won’t be long.’ Sylvia placed her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Mom?’ she asked.
‘What kind of conversation is this?’ hissed Mrs Levy furiously. ‘Ask him if Dr Koekentapp is going to convert to Judaism! And this time I will listen!’
Mrs Levy returned to her extension and Sylvia reluctantly returned to her call. Jerry wanted to see her again. At that moment she didn’t care about what religion he followed. But she knew her mother would violently oppose any relationship if it meant ignoring denominational barriers.
‘Is Jerry going to convert to Judaism?’ Sylvia asked hesitantly.
There was a pause while Rabbi Zindelman considered the question.
‘Tell me, Sylvia, how long have you known Jeremiah?’
‘We met eleven days ago,’ Sylvia responded promptly.
‘And how many times have you met?’
‘Three, including the day we were introduced.’
‘I see,’ said Rabbi Zindelman. ‘I understand you walked out on your last meeting.’
‘Yes,’ Sylvia murmured miserably.
‘Don’t you think it’s a little premature to expect a man to adopt a new religion after eleven days, three meetings and one argument?’
‘I suppose so,’ sighed Sylvia, while Mrs Levy shook her head in a negative frenzy. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to be hurt in the meantime.’
‘Ah! So that’s it! You think you may be falling in love with Dr Jeremiah Koekentapp? That’s wonderful news! He already is in love with you.’
Sylvia couldn’t speak. She thought her heart would burst.
‘Trust an old man,’ Rabbi Zindelman went on, ‘I know there are rumours that I have become senile in this matter. Your Jeremiah needs guidance, nothing more. Anything else is a technicality, believe me. Listen to me. See him, get to know him and learn to love him. I will handle everything else. And Dolly, you should have more respect for your rabbi. Next time you listen by my door please be a little quieter. I could hardly hear myself think!’
‘A technicality? Over my dead body!’ yelled Mrs Levy after Sylvia said goodbye. ‘Never mind Hymie’s fancy ideas about Rabbi Zindelman interesting Dr Koekentapp in Judaism! Interest is not enough! I must have a guarantee!’
‘No, Mom,’ Sylvia said quietly, ‘Rabbi Zindelman asked me to believe and trust in him and I do. I am going to see Jerry tomorrow.’
When Dr Koekentapp entered his waiting room the next day, he was feeling crabby. Once again his night had been disturbed, this time by having to sedate a hysterical mother whose son had gone missing, only to turn up drunk later. The day’s list was ready on his desk. He looked at it and felt worse. Mrs Chaimowitz was coming in for a check-up. Dr Koekentapp buzzed the front desk. ‘Let’s begin.’
Anne ushered in a new patient. ‘Doctor, this is Mrs Ruth Cohen,’ she said brightly.
Mrs Cohen beamed at Dr Koekentapp. ‘Vell, hello, dokter. I’m sure you remember me. Ve met at shul on Saturday.’
Dr Koekentapp could hardly forget anyone who had almost grabbed his penis. Mrs Cohen sat down and with chubby fingers patted her wig. Dr Koekentapp smiled briefly at her, an upward flash of the corners of his mouth that quickly resumed their neutral position.
‘What’s been troubling you?’ he asked warily.
She looked down. ‘Vell . . .’ she said.
He waited expectantly.
‘Vell . . .’ she said again. She looked up. ‘It’s mein American veins.’
Puzzled, Dr Koekentapp stared at her. She pointed to her legs. He leant over the desk and saw the distended veins under her stockings. ‘Oh, your varicose veins.’
‘Yes, dat’s vot I said, mein very close veins.’
‘Are they troubling you?’
‘A little. I’ve had dem for many years, since der berth of mein daughter Feigela.’
Anne showed the patient to the examination room and Dr Koekentapp waited while Mrs Cohen undressed. When he entered she was wearing a gown and had a pair of black panties over her head. Her blue wig protruded like Teletubby ears through the lace-trimmed leg holes.
‘Good God!’ Dr Koekentapp said.
‘It’s mein make-up,’ Mrs Cohen’s voice explained through the panties. ‘I didn’t vant it should get smudged vhile undressing.’
She carefully peeled her underwear from her head, removed her wig and placed the two items on the couch.
‘Vot ve vomen only suffer to look beautiful for you men,’ she said.
Dr Koekentapp shivered and examined Mrs Cohen’s varicose veins. Although undoubtedly present they were only a moderate inconvenience and could be easily controlled with elastic stockings. He looked at her quizzically. ‘Anything else?’
Mrs Cohen hesitated before replying. It was obvious that the real reason for her visit was forthcoming. ‘Dokter, I vant dat mein breasts should be seduced!’
Anne’s not so sotto voce came from the sluice room. ‘So what woman doesn’t?’
Dr Koekentapp cracked his first smile of the day. ‘I think you had better explain.’
Mrs Cohen placed her hands under her breasts, lifted them up through the open front of the gown and aimed enormous nipples at his face.
‘Vell, dokter, as you can see I am just a little bit heavyish in der bosom department and mein dear friend Hannah Liebowitz, God bless her, recommended me to Dr Clive Graham, der artificial surgeon.’
Stepping to the one side, Dr Koekentapp replied, ‘I know him well; he’s an excellent plastic surgeon. He specialises in breast reductions.’
‘Yes. Anyvay, his receptionist said I had to be referred by a proper dokter.’
Dr Koekentapp was feeling better and better. Mrs Cohen leant forward and released her breasts, which slumped like a pair of overripe papaws past her navel.
‘Tell me, dokter, Dr Graham isn’t Jewish. Do you tink I could trust a Genital to operate? I mean if mein breasts are made elegant vouldn’t he have to trim mein pit bulls too?’
Dr Koekentapp stared frantically at her. Mrs Cohen indicated her nipples.
‘You’ve got a nice friendly face so I’ll tell you der honest position. Mein husband Yankel, God bless him, is quite vell off. I mean, ve are not exactly vallowing in poverty, so I can be affordering der best.’
‘You don’t have to worry, Mrs Cohen. Clive Graham is outstanding.’
‘On der udder hand,’ she said prudently, ‘I don’t vant to spend money for nutting. Hannah Liebowitz tells me I can claim from der medical aid if mein breasts are a pain in der neck.’ She placed a hand under each of her giant breasts and speculatively examined them. ‘I tink dese definitely are a pain in der neck.’
‘That’s not quite what your friend meant, Mrs Cohen. If the weight of your breasts drags excessively on your shoulders and neck causing you chronic neck pain, then you may be able to claim for an operation.’
‘Oh!’ Her expression became cunning. ‘And if I haven’t got any pain?’
‘Then the operation is cosmetic and you cannot claim from your medical aid.’
Mrs Cohen grimaced and rubbed her neck. ‘It’s funny you should mention der neck pain, dokter. I tort it vos mein arteritis.’
She paused while Dr Koekentapp held his head and mumbled about arthritis and rip-offs. ‘Dokter, vhile I’m here, dere’s vun more ting. I’ve got an itch.’
‘I see,’ Dr Koekentapp said slowly. ‘Where is the itch?’
Mrs Cohen took a deep breath. ‘In der gentleman’s passage,’ she replied.
At lunch time, Dr Koekentapp was eating a sandwich when Elizabeth told him that he had a visitor. He looked at his roster. ‘Who? There are no drug reps booked today.’
‘It’s a lady. A very pretty lady with long auburn hair and the most incredible azure eyes. She says it’s personal.’
Dr Koekentapp swallowed hurriedly. ‘Give me thirty seconds.’ He rapidly combed his hair, adjusted his tie and sat down while his heart did a tumbling bump-miss-and-throb. Sylvia entered and coolly regarded him as he stood up.
‘Good afternoon, Jerry,’ Sylvia said. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘Well enough. Yourself?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
An awkward silence followed.
‘Still angry with me?’ Dr Koekentapp asked softly.
He reached out, took a hesitant step forward and suddenly they were in each other’s arms and Sylvia was planting frantic little kisses on his face.
‘I thought you didn’t want to see me again,’ she sobbed. ‘I spoke to Rabbi Zindelman and I waited and waited for you to call and you never did.’ With her face buried in Dr Koekentapp’s shoulder Sylvia’s voice was muffled as she asked, ‘Why didn’t you?’
Dr Koekentapp gently lifted her chin and kissed the tears from her cheeks. For a while he held her close, their eyes locked in a marvellous dawning awareness that nothing would ever be the same again.
Sylvia was laden with parcels when she arrived home. ‘I have invited Jerry for dinner and I’m cooking supper tonight,’ she happily told Mrs Levy.
Mrs Levy looked in horror at her daughter. ‘You did what?’ she screeched.
‘I invited him for supper. We have made up.’
‘Made up?’
‘Yes. It was so romantic. I couldn’t stop crying.’
‘Crying?’ bellowed Mrs Levy. ‘I’ll give you crying. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be mourning! What happened to the bad facts? Have you forgotten them?’
‘We’ll sort them out, Mom,’ Sylvia replied. ‘Now that we have made up, anything is possible.’
With her hands on her hips, Mrs Levy began sauntering around the lounge. ‘We’ll sort them out,’ she mocked. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked the Royal Dalton balloon lady on the mantelpiece. ‘Now that the madam has made up, anything is possible.’ Mrs Levy spun around, her eyes flashing with fury. ‘I’ll tell you what is possible! It is possible that you are going to disgrace your family! It is possible that you are going to make a laughing stock of your mother and father!’ She slapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oy, just wait until your poor father hears about this. I only hope to God his heart can take it. It will be on your head if he drops down dead!’
‘Mom,’ Sylvia said quietly, ‘I have invited Jerry, he is coming and that is that.’
‘Fine,’ replied Mrs Levy, ‘I’ll just go out and buy a nice leg of pork for you to boil.’
‘Dolly!’ Sylvia hissed warningly.
Mrs Levy looked in amazement at Sylvia. A baleful light was glowing in Sylvia’s eyes and her nostrils were flared. She looked like a lioness about to defend her mate. In her entire life Sylvia had never addressed her mother by her first name. For the first time and with quick dismay Mrs Levy fully realised that her daughter was a woman. She suddenly felt very old. ‘Let’s cook together,’ she said softly. She held out her hand. Sylvia took it and, inexplicably, they both began to cry.