‘What time do you think they will be back?’ Mrs Finkelstein asked Mrs Cohen while they arranged the flowers between the food platters on Mrs Levy’s fully extended dining-room table. Mrs Cohen thoughtfully patted her new violet-tinged wig and consulted her matching Swatch.
‘About ha’pas tree,’ she replied, ‘unless someting critical happens. I knew a voman vunce, a Mrs Shirley Gittelman, I don’t suppose you knew her?’
Mrs Finkelstein shook her head. Mrs Cohen understood. Mrs Shirley Gittelman wasn’t anyone important.
‘Anyvay, she lost her husband, may he rest in peace, vhile dey vere doing a simple coronary bypass operation. It vos only vun artery, you understand, not a triple or, God forbid, a qvadruple. His heart vos arrested on der table. He vos stone-cold dead vhen dey vheeled him out of teater.’
Mrs Finkelstein shook her head sympathetically and picked at a piece of smoked beef that was overlapping its plate. ‘These things happen,’ she said. ‘It’s only at times like these that one realises one has to live each day to the full.’
‘You’re qvite right,’ agreed Mrs Cohen, helping herself to a little redundant smoked salmon.
In sombre silence the two ladies chewed and contemplated living each day to the full.
‘I vonder vhere Rikva Kindel is?’ remarked Mrs Cohen. ‘She promised she vould help us mit der table.’
‘Is she still seeing Solomon Goldsmith?’ asked Mrs Finkelstein.
‘No, dey broke up.’
Mrs Finkelstein shuddered and said, ‘It’s just as well. I heard he’s got an eye for the prostitutes in Rosebank.’ She noticed an empty space on the table.
‘Lydia! Where are the boiled-egg sandwiches I brought?’
‘In the fridge, madam,’ came Lydia’s reply from the kitchen. ‘I wanted them to stay fresh.’
‘Fresh? I’ll give you fresh!’ yelled Mrs Finkelstein. ‘Don’t you know they’ll get soggy? Take them out!’ She turned indignantly to Mrs Cohen. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how Dolly puts up with her! If she worked for me I’d get rid of her in one minute!’
Puffing deliberately, Mrs Kindel stormed in through the open front door of the Levy home. ‘Na-omi? Ru-u-th? Are you he-e-re?’ she called.
Mrs Finkelstein and Mrs Cohen exchanged vicious glances. Rikva Kindel always arrived when the work was nearly done and she always had a good excuse.
‘I vonder vhat it vill be dis time?’ queried Mrs Cohen.
‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ huffed Mrs Kindel. ‘Ashley was refereeing a school rugby game and he was almost penalised.’
‘Your son the referee was almost penalised?’ asked Mrs Finkelstein, who knew enough about rugby to know that referees very rarely were penalised.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Kindel said, placing a tray of soggy chicken-and-lettuce sandwiches in the empty space on Mrs Levy’s dining-room table, ‘the fullback kicked him. The doctor on site said he couldn’t believe he wasn’t penalised. Thank God he will still be able to have children. That reminds me – have you heard how Dr Koekentapp’s bris is going?’
‘Ve’ve heard nutting,’ replied Mrs Cohen.
‘Just remember that nothing is good news,’ Mrs Finkelstein said.
‘I can’t understand why Rabbi Zindelman is in such a hurry,’ Mrs Kindel remarked, trimming off an untidy edge of chopped herring with a kichel and eating it. ‘Dr Koekentapp met Sylvia only a few weeks ago and he’s having a bris already. That’s not the way things should be done in a decent conversion. I must say I’m getting very suspicious.’
The three ladies exchanged sly glances.
‘I vonder vhen she’s due?’ Mrs Cohen voiced the general opinion.
‘In less than nine months, wouldn’t you say?’ Mrs Finkelstein said airily.
They all laughed and Lydia arrived with the plate of boiled-egg sandwiches. Finding no room on the table for them, Mrs Kindel irritably told Lydia to use her common sense and put the sandwiches in the fridge so that they wouldn’t get soggy.
Dr Koekentapp rolled over in his bed in his ward and groaned softly.
‘He’s coming round,’ Sylvia cried excitedly. ‘I can’t believe it’s all over!’ ‘Not quite,’ Mrs Levy reminded her, pointedly regarding Colonel Koekentapp and Paddy O’Reilly to assess any adverse reaction from their side of the family. ‘He’s still got to go to the mikveh for spiritual purification . . .’
‘Now you are talking, Dolly, me girl,’ interrupted Paddy O’Reilly, licking his lips. ‘I don’t happen to know that particular tavern meself, but would consider it a rare honour to accompany the poor suffering boy there for a little purified spirits.’
Mrs Levy stared at Paddy O’Reilly in disgust. ‘. . . then more lessons, then Hebrew and religious examinations,’ she went on determinedly.
‘Oh Jesus, Candy, I think you bit it off this time,’ Dr Koekentapp mumbled.
‘Wh-a-at did he say?’ asked Sylvia.
‘I think he wants a halaal sweet to suck,’ replied Bhamjee, whose haemorrhoidectomy had been postponed until after lunch.
‘I love you, Sylvia,’ Dr Koekentapp murmured, fortunately. He opened his eyes and gazed blearily at the people gathered around his bed. ‘What happened?’ he slurred. ‘What’s going on?’
Sylvia kissed him and held his hand. ‘Just try and relax, Jerry. We’re all here with you. Your bris is all over bar the shouting.’
Dr Koekentapp closed his eyes then opened them wide as he realised that a burning pain in his penis was a very good reason for shouting.
‘Oy vey!’ he cried.
Mrs Levy looked happily at Levy and Rabbi Zindelman. ‘It’s amazing how quickly a bris works,’ she remarked.
‘Shit,’ moaned Dr Koekentapp, suffering a temporary setback.
Bhamjee stared at him and quickly rang for a bed pan. Colonel Koekentapp watched closely as Sylvia lovingly caressed his son’s cheek. Her eyes were wide and full of concern.
‘I’d have done it too in his place,’ Colonel Koekentapp said gently.
‘What?’ asked Levy.
‘Had a bris. Your daughter’s not only beautiful, she’s compassionate and kind. She’s a lot like Jerry’s grandmother on his mother’s side.’
Mrs Levy beamed with dawning affection for Colonel Koekentapp.
‘You must come for supper one night, Corporal,’ she said.
Colonel Koekentapp suavely ignored his devastating demotion in rank. ‘Call me Christopher,’ he replied.
‘Do you perhaps have a second name?’ asked Mrs Levy, feeling a little uncomfortable with Christopher.
‘Crichton.’
‘Cry Tin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cry Tin’s a very interesting name, Christopher,’ said Mrs Levy, ‘but I’m dying to hear more about Jeremiah’s grandmother on his mother’s side. What was her name?’
‘You should ask what her name is. She’s very much alive and living in London,’ interjected Rabbi Zindelman.
Everyone looked at him in amazement, then waited impatiently as a nurse brought Bhamjee his bed pan.
‘Don’t tell me you know old Maria Gilchrist?’ asked Colonel Koekentapp, wondering what his mother-in-law could possibly have in common with a South African rabbi.
‘Born Maria Consuela Fatima dos Santos – the daughter of Roderigo Jesus and Helena dos Santos,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman, ignoring Mrs Levy’s involuntary oy gevalt. ‘She was married to Timothy Gilchrist, who died fighting in Germany in 1943. No, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her.’
‘But how do you know so much about her?’ queried Sylvia.
‘Oh, I just happened to discuss Jeremiah with a friend and he happened to know her. You know what a small world it is.’
Rabbi Zindelman smiled at Levy, who was looking at him very strangely.
‘That’s two,’ said Levy.
‘Two what?’ asked Mrs Levy, still struggling to accept the fact that Dr Koekentapp’s grandfather had been named Jesus.
‘Too wonderful,’ replied Levy, suddenly very excited as Rabbi Zindelman nodded slightly.
‘It’s the heat,’ Mrs Levy said faintly, fanning her face with a copy of ‘Rules and Regulations and Methods of Payment at Gauteng Clinics’ as she experienced a hot flush. ‘You should sit down, Aaron.’
Levy extended his arms and approached Dr Koekentapp. Mrs Levy was astounded to see that her husband was weeping. She was even more astounded when Levy softly kissed Dr Koekentapp on the forehead.
‘It’s not that sore,’ said Dr Koekentapp, now fully awake.
‘When?’ asked Levy, looking at Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Later,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman. He looked at Paddy O’Reilly and smiled.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ warned Paddy O’Reilly. He hefted his shillelagh. ‘I’ll smite the first man who tries to kiss me, so help me God, I will!’
‘So how’s our patient?’ asked Dr Keppelshnaier, entering the ward. He warily eyed Paddy O’Reilly’s brandished cudgel.
‘He has strongly indicated the urge but unfortunately he hasn’t had a bowel action yet,’ replied Bhamjee, pointing at the empty bed pan at his bedside.
‘I’m fine,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
At Dr Keppelshnaier’s request, everyone except Bhamjee waited outside in the corridor.
‘Good, no bleeding,’ commented Dr Keppelshnaier, completing a postoperative check on Dr Koekentapp. ‘Have you passed urine yet?’
‘No,’ said Bhamjee, passing the bed pan to Dr Keppelshnaier who offered it to Dr Koekentapp.
The liquid thrumming on stainless steel was easily audible in the corridor. After experiencing some déjà vu, Mrs Levy looked suspiciously at the Drum Major, who was squatting disconsolately on the corridor floor.
‘How is he managing to do that after being so fiercely hacked?’ asked the Drum Major, getting to his feet.
‘Fuck knows,’ said the Pipe Major, standing at attention.
‘It’s a bloody miracle,’ exclaimed the Tenor Drummer, looking with huge respect at Rabbi Zindelman, who was in whispered conversation with an intensely excited Levy.
A crisp drum roll preceded the enthusiastic rendering of ‘Scotland the Brave’ on the pipes.
‘You can take Dr Koekentapp home now,’ Dr Keppelshnaier told Levy when the music stopped. ‘I’ll need to see him in a week to remove the stitches.’
Levy performed a passable attempt at a pirouette followed by a mediocre grand jeté.
‘The drinks are on me!’ he roared, limping slightly on a twisted ankle. ‘Everybody! The party’s on me! It’s time to take the black eagle home! We’ll meet at my car! Follow me, we are going to celebrate!’
The two majors watched curiously as Levy paused for a moment to catch his breath. ‘Seems a passably generous sort of chap, don’t you think?’ the Drum Major asked the Pipe Major.
‘Fuck knows. I’ll tell you later,’ replied the Pipe Major, licking his lips thirstily.
Levy hustled Sylvia to Dr Koekentapp’s ward. ‘Sylvia, you get Jeremiah ready. We’ll meet you outside. It’s party time and the drinks are free! Drummer drum and piper blow! Everybody follow me!’ Levy bellowed joyfully.
‘Aaron! What’s gotten into you?’ wailed Mrs Levy, hugely concerned at her husband’s sudden and inexplicable lack of concern for the decorum of her table-seating arrangements.
‘It’s a surprise!’ Levy yelled. ‘Let’s go!’
The Drum Major hefted his mace and, following a crisp rat-a-tat-tat, ‘Mull of Kintyre’ resonated throughout the Park Lane Clinic as Levy happily led the little band past astounded staff and patients to the parking lot outside.
Mrs Levy spoke anxiously to Rabbi Zindelman as they hurried to keep up. ‘Oy, Aaron must be having a rush of blood to the brain. Why is he dancing around like that with those terrible men in their checked skirts? How can he take them to our place? They are going to eat me out of house and home. I am not a charitable organisation you know. They will have to sit on kitchen chairs, that’s all. I hope Aaron’s not going to have a stroke, God forbid!’
‘He’s just very happy,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman. ‘Perhaps he may even persuade you to dance later today?’
‘Humph,’ Mrs Levy answered disdainfully, ‘that’ll be the day, the day I let drunken Scottishers see me dance.’
‘Perhaps an Irishman then?’ asked Rabbi Zindelman, smiling.
‘That meshuggener with a stick? Never!’
‘Let’s wait and see what happens,’ said Rabbi Zindelman.
Limited by unblessed pulmonary disease, the meshuggener with a stick followed more slowly with Colonel Koekentapp accompanying him.
‘I do believe the man’s a gem,’ gasped Paddy O’Reilly, who had been seriously wondering whether he would taste Scotch whisky that day. ‘We’ll have our piss-up yet, Chris, just you mark my words.’
‘Well, it’s just the two of us left,’ said Sylvia while Dr Koekentapp got dressed.
‘Three,’ said Bhamjee.
Sylvia closed the curtains around Bhamjee’s bed. She held her breath and winced in sympathy as Dr Koekentapp cautiously pulled up his trousers.
‘What was your father carrying on about?’ Dr Koekentapp asked. ‘And why did he kiss me?’
‘I’ve no idea. He suddenly started jumping around in the corridor and screaming that it was time to take the black eagle home.’ Sylvia scratched her head. ‘Why would he call you a black eagle, in any event?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dr Koekentapp thoughtfully. He was trying to remember where he had heard the expression before. ‘Elizabeth said that Rabbi Zindelman called me that,’ he said suddenly.
‘Rabbi Zindelman? Why would Rabbi Zindelman call you a black eagle?’
‘Because of my nose?’ Dr Koekentapp suggested.
‘You’ve got a beautiful nose,’ said Sylvia and gave it a kiss.
‘What’s so special about a black eagle anyway?’ Dr Koekentapp asked.
Sylvia thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘We’ll look it up when we get home. Come on, I’ll help you.’ She held him around the waist and pulled his arm over her shoulders.
‘Goodbye,’ cried Bhamjee from behind the curtains, ‘the worst is behind you.’
‘And behind you too,’ replied Dr Koekentapp. ‘Good luck with your haemorrhoidectomy.’
At the lift, his hand slipped off Sylvia’s shoulder and squeezed her breast.
‘I don’t believe it! You’ve just had a bris!’ squealed Sylvia.
‘The black eagle hunts the pink-breasted booby,’ said Dr Koekentapp darkly.
Three occupants caused pedestrians to gape at the car leading the procession to Levy’s home. The first was a middle-aged woman loudly wailing, ‘Oy vey iz mir’, the second a piper playing ‘Keep Right On to the End of the Road’ and the third a drummer fiddling with something on his drum. The fact that the piper switched to ‘Will Ye No Come Back Again?’ as they stopped outside Rabbi Zindelman’s home to call for the rabbi’s wife made no impression whatsoever on the puttering of the drummer or the lyrics of Mrs Levy’s lament.
‘Is der security gate closed?’ asked Mrs Cohen worriedly when she heard the sound of car doors slamming and a drum beating. Mrs Finkelstein peered through the lounge window. Standing on the pavement, an old man with a wooden club was licking his lips and smiling evilly. Sylvia was helping a very pale Dr Koekentapp out of a car while a soldier with a sword carefully watched them. Levy was frantically waving his arms and shouting. Mrs Levy was looking in horror at a tall man who was wearing a skirt and waving a long stick.
‘Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,’ yelled the tall man at a drummer with a blood-stained drum.
‘Banks! They are bank robbers! Terrorists!’ Mrs Finkelstein shrieked. ‘The Levys have been kidnapped!’ She screamed in horror and rushed to the kitchen. ‘They are going to murder and rape us, Lydia! Keep calm! Where is the panic button?’
‘My madam has it in her bag,’ replied Lydia, neatly decorating a smoked chicken with thin slices of pickled cucumber.
‘Omigod! Is there another one?’
Lydia skilfully sprinkled chopped parsley onto a potato salad. ‘The master has it on his key ring.’
‘The telephone!’ Mrs Finkelstein dashed to the dining room and stopped in her tracks at the sight of the Pipe Major helping himself to pickled herring. Mrs Cohen and Mrs Kindel were cowering in a corner.
Mrs Finkelstein recalled Mrs Kindel’s breathless entrance and quailed. ‘Who let you in?’ she screamed. Mrs Kindel guiltily looked at the floor.
The Pipe Major burped. ‘No one,’ he said, ‘the front door was open. The rest of the band will be here soon, but without me they’re not worth a fuck. I’ve got the dudelsack.’
Mrs Cohen envisaged imminent multiple rape by a band of hijacking terrorists and began to hyperventilate.
‘We’ve got no money here for you,’ Mrs Finkelstein trilled as the Pipe Major belched again, ‘and I must warn you there’s a pit bull in the kitchen and our maid’s got Aids.’
The Pipe Major looked strangely at Mrs Finkelstein.
‘So have I,’ continued Mrs Finkelstein in desperation. She waved her arm to include Mrs Cohen and Mrs Kindel, who both nodded vigorously. ‘So have they. We’re all diseased. We’re infected. We’re sick. I used to work as a hostess but stopped when I got syphilis and gonorrhoea and other very infectious diseases. You had better go now while you still can.’
Mrs Kindel and Mrs Cohen nodded even more vigorously to indicate equal dire contamination.
Levy pranced in, looked at the table and hugged Mrs Finkelstein. ‘The table’s beautiful, Naomi.’ He beamed at Mrs Kindel and Mrs Cohen. ‘Thank you, ladies. You’ve done a wonderful job. Dolly will be delighted.’ His enthusiasm waned as the ladies stared at him in silent terror. Levy turned in confusion to the Pipe Major.
‘What’s wrong with them?’ Levy demanded.
‘Fuck knows,’ said the Pipe Major heatedly, ‘but it’s absolutely disgusting. These old sluts have all got the dose.’ He changed the subject. ‘Where’s the whisky?’
In bewilderment, Levy opened his bar cabinet. ‘How do you like it?’ he asked abstractedly. ‘With water, soda, ice?’
‘Just the bottle,’ murmured the Pipe Major. He helped himself to a bottle of J&B and cracked the seal.
‘Now there’s the sound that’s pure music to me ears,’ whispered Paddy O’Reilly at the door.
‘Oy gevalt!’ screamed Mrs Cohen, staring at the shillelagh.
‘How do you do, me beauty?’ replied Paddy O’Reilly, who liked his women buxom. ‘I am Paddy O’Reilly, the sandek.’ He bowed low and doffed his beret. ‘And who may you be?’
‘Voetsek!’ Mrs Cohen squealed.
‘Watch out, O’Reilly, she’s a sick tart,’ warned the Pipe Major, ‘and be very careful of that one,’ he indicated Mrs Finkelstein, ‘that old whore’s bloody riddled with the pox.’
Paddy O’Reilly stared with revulsion at Mrs Finkelstein.
‘Bottle, Paddy?’ asked Levy. He proffered an unopened J&B.
Paddy O’Reilly transferred his gaze from Mrs Finkelstein to the bottle and accepted eagerly. He stood aside and Mrs Levy entered, followed by Colonel Koekentapp, the Drum Major and the Tenor Drummer.
‘Dolly! Are you all right?’ howled Mrs Finkelstein.
‘Oy vey iz mir,’ Mrs Levy quavered.
‘Dolly, vot’s happening here? Who are dese animals?’ Mrs Cohen demanded as Levy handed out another three J&Bs.
‘It’s Aaron,’ cried Mrs Levy. ‘He invited them. It’s all been too much for him. He’s cracked up under the strain.’ She winced as Levy opened a bottle of Dimple for himself.
‘I’m out of J&B,’ he apologised for upgrading himself.
The door bell rang and Lydia hurried to escort Rabbi and Mrs Zindelman into the house. ‘Rabbi Zindelman!’ wailed Mrs Finkelstein, as he entered the dining room. ‘Perhaps you can talk some sense into Aaron. He’s handing out whisky like a hijacker with a stolen credit card!’
Levy lifted his bottle of Dimple and showed it to Rabbi Zindelman. ‘I’ll be happy to have a drink with you, Aaron,’ said Rabbi Zindelman graciously.
‘You see! They are all meshugge,’ Mrs Levy groaned.
Levy poured a tot of Dimple into a crystal glass for Rabbi Zindelman, then one for himself. ‘L’chayim!’ he roared, holding his glass aloft.
‘Cheers!’ yelled the J&Bers, holding their bottles on high.
‘L’chayim!’ said Rabbi Zindelman.
They all drank, shuddered and sighed happily. Levy poured a second round of Dimple for himself and Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Where is Jeremiah?’ Levy asked, missing the point of the party.
‘Miss Sylvia’s taken him upstairs to bed,’ said Lydia, bringing more pickled herring to the table.
‘Hallelujah!’ cried the Tenor Drummer. ‘A miracle!’
‘Fuck me,’ muttered the Pipe Major in awe.
‘I’ll second that,’ said Paddy O’Reilly, leering at Mrs Cohen, who snarled at him and quickly moved to the far side of the table.
‘The lad’s made of steel,’ whispered the Drum Major.
‘Shut up!’ screamed Mrs Levy.
Everybody shut up.
‘Damn it, Aaron, I can’t stand this anymore!’ Mrs Levy howled frantically. ‘Something is going on and I want to know what it is. Now!’
Levy grinned and turned to Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Let’s first go to Jeremiah’s room,’ Rabbi Zindelman suggested.
‘To Jeremiah’s room?’ Mrs Levy screeched. She hesitated, gave Rabbi Zindelman a this-had-better-be-good glance and, stomping up the stairs, led the exodus to Dr Koekentapp’s room.
‘Don’t tell me we are going to watch?’ whispered the Tenor Drummer to the Pipe Major as they followed.
‘Fuck knows. Anything could happen here. They are a sick lot,’ replied the Pipe Major, taking a swig from the remaining two-thirds of his whisky.
Dr Koekentapp was in his pyjamas and lying comfortably in his bed. Sylvia was sitting next to him and reading from her dictionary. ‘A black eagle is a large powerful eagle of mountainous parts of southern and eastern Africa that is chiefly black,’ she read.
‘I don’t understand the tie-up,’ replied Dr Koekentapp.
‘It also says that a black eagle is a young golden eagle,’ Sylvia went on, closing her Webster’s dictionary.
‘A young golden eagle?’ Dr Koekentapp mused, mystified.
‘I see the two of you have made the connection,’ Rabbi Zindelman said heartily as he entered.
‘Oh Jesus, they are doing it!’ moaned the Tenor Drummer, overhearing and halting on the stairway. ‘How can a rabbi just stand there and watch them? I can’t take this. It isn’t decent! The lad must still have a bandage on!’
‘On what?’ queried the Drum Major. ‘He’s had the lot off.’
‘So how is he doing it?’ asked the Tenor Drummer with a superstitious shudder.
‘Fuck knows. Let’s have a drink,’ suggested the Pipe Major. ‘Maybe we’ll feel better.’
‘Ruth, ve are back mit der diet cold-drinks from der supermarket!’ called Yankel Cohen from the empty dining room. He stared at the virtually untouched table. ‘Vhere is everyvun?’ He looked in puzzlement at Finkelstein. ‘Dey must be upstairs.’
Finkelstein made for the entrance hall. ‘Naomi!’ he called. ‘Where are you?’ He stared up at the three pairs of hairy legs and one pair of bowlegged slacks visible through the top balustrade. ‘Who the hell’s upstairs?’ he yelled. Three heads wearing busbies appeared, then one wearing a beret with a shamrock.
‘There is some Dimple left,’ said the Drum Major, looking with revulsion at the four litres of low-calorie refreshment in Finkelstein’s hands.
‘Vot are you doing up dere?’ yelled Cohen. ‘Vhere is mein vife?’
‘Is she the good-looking whore?’ wheezed Paddy O’Reilly.
‘I’m up here, Yankel,’ called Mrs Cohen.
‘Ruth! Are you alright?’
‘Don’t be daft. She’s got Aids,’ the Pipe Major said.
Finkelstein and Cohen cautiously climbed the stairs. Carefully walking around the band, who showed no intention of following them, they entered Dr Koekentapp’s bedroom.
‘Bloody perverts,’ muttered the Tenor Drummer.
‘I would like to welcome everybody to Jeremiah’s party,’ said Levy, smiling hugely at the unhappy guests clustered around Dr Koekentapp’s bed, ‘especially his family and the wonderful band they brought to entertain us. Please make yourselves comfortable. Rabbi Zindelman has a very important announcement to make.’
Slightly reassured by the warmth of Levy’s introduction, the band peered carefully into the room.
‘At least no one’s naked,’ commented the Tenor Drummer.
‘Seems decent enough, don’t you think?’ asked the Drum Major.
The Pipe Major gazed cynically around the room. Sylvia was sitting next to Dr Koekentapp on the bed. The whores with Aids were sitting on a sofa near the window. Everyone else was standing.
‘Don’t say it, you animal,’ snarled Mrs Cohen.
‘Knows,’ said the Pipe Major.
‘Nose? What’s he talking about?’ demanded Finkelstein.
‘You don’t vant to know,’ said Mrs Cohen.
‘Rabbi Zindelman, the floor is yours!’ exclaimed Levy, clapping his hands.
Everyone applauded politely, then stared at Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Thank you, Aaron,’ Rabbi Zindelman began. ‘I have been a rabbi for nearly fifty years and have been involved in a great many conversions to Judaism, but I can honestly say that this dear boy’s cause has been my greatest pleasure, privilege and honour.’
‘Honour, schmonor,’ muttered Mrs Finkelstein, ‘a bris doesn’t make him a Jew. He hasn’t even begun his Siddur prayer book lessons.’
‘Thank you for reminding me of the requirements, Naomi,’ said Rabbi Zindelman pleasantly. He turned to face Dr Koekentapp. ‘My dear Jeremiah, when we first met in this very house, I felt, like Naomi here, that you were a fraud. What I could not explain was the presence that filled this house and our hearts when you sang your brocha. It was a spiritual force that could not be faked.’
Dr Koekentapp closed his eyes and lay back on his bed as Rabbi Zindelman paused.
‘But with no disrespect meant, Jeremiah, you are not a deeply religious man in any sense of the word nor in any denomination. I was intrigued by the discrepancy and decided to dig deeper into a most fascinating enigma.’
Rabbi Zindelman looked benignly at his audience, who stared at him in confusion. ‘I discovered an answer, one which surprised me at first but on later reflection did not,’ continued Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Go on, go on,’ Mrs Levy prompted impatiently, ‘what did you discover?’
‘I discovered that I only needed to know whether Jeremiah was serious about investigating Judaism or not. If he wasn’t, there was no point in pursuing the matter.’
‘Investigating? What do you mean investigating?’ rapped Mrs Finkelstein. ‘Becoming a Jew needs more than investigating.’
‘No, in this case it was simpler than that and, when Sylvia became a factor in his decision to convert, it made things very simple.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Mrs Levy.
‘I’m talking about the time I was senile and meshugge because I gave Jeremiah a tallith and invited him to shul. I’m talking about the time I had Alzheimer’s disease. I’m talking about the early need for Jeremiah’s operation.’
The Pipe Major was appalled. Understanding only that the rabbi was an elderly self-confessed dement who had instigated the total genital amputation of a man who associated with venereally afflicted females old enough to be his mother, he whispered to the Drum Major that they had better get out of there before the old goat had a relapse.
‘The only ones who believed and trusted me were Jeremiah and Sylvia,’ said Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Fat lot of good it did them,’ muttered the Pipe Major. ‘The lad’s lost his and she’s probably booked for a hysterectomy. The old goat’s probably forgotten what a prick’s for. Next thing he’ll be saying it’s a technicality.’
‘Time and time again I said it was a technicality, but no one believed me,’ Rabbi Zindelman admonished.
I’m off, thought the Pipe Major, slowly backing towards the door.
‘Why did you call Jerry a black eagle?’ asked Sylvia.
His curiosity piqued, the Pipe Major paused.
‘It’s a young golden eagle,’ said Rabbi Zindelman. ‘You already know that.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Cohen, imagining a large medically trained canary with black pinion feathers.
‘Why is he a young golden eagle?’ asked the Tenor Drummer, who was an avid bird watcher.
‘I’m getting there,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman. ‘At our first meeting, Jeremiah informed us that his father had been born in London.’
Colonel Koekentapp, who had been watching the proceedings with silent interest, looked in surprise at Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Don’t tell me I’m involved in all this?’ Colonel Koekentapp asked.
‘Indeed you are. So are you, Mr O’Reilly.’
‘Watch yourself, Paddy,’ warned the Pipe Major. ‘Next thing you know you’ll be flat on your back in an operating theatre with your pecker off.’
Everyone stared as Rabbi Zindelman smiled broadly.
Paddy O’Reilly hefted his shillelagh and pointed it at Rabbi Zindelman. ‘It’s the back of your head you’ll be smiling through, me boy.’
‘Christopher and Mary Catherine Koekentapp had a son on the first of April nineteen-eighty. He was named Jeremiah Koekentapp,’ declared Rabbi Zindelman.
Sylvia ogled Dr Koekentapp. ‘You were born on April Fool’s Day?’
‘Typical,’ said Mrs Finkelstein, who happened to have been born on Halloween.
Dr Koekentapp shook his shoulders. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I did say I had been digging – at birth registration offices, actually,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Offices plural?’ asked Colonel Koekentapp.
‘Yes, locally, and in London. I have a few friends there and, what with modern communications, it’s amazing how much information is rapidly available.’
‘What kind of information?’ asked Colonel Koekentapp, a little irritated by Rabbi Zindelman’s unauthorised delving.
‘Oh, the fact that your sadly departed wife had been born Mary Catherine Gilchrist and her mother before her Maria Consuela Fatima dos Santos.’
‘That’s Jeremiah’s grandmother, the daughter of Helena and Roderigo Jesus dos Santos,’ Colonel Koekentapp explained to the women on the sofa.
‘Oy a klog,’ said Mrs Cohen.
‘Oy gevalt,’ said Mrs Finkelstein.
‘Oy vey,’ said Mrs Kindel.
‘The old bat is me first cousin,’ piped up Paddy O’Reilly.
‘Maria? Really?’ asked Levy very interestedly.
‘Oh, yes, Aaron, me boy, me old mum Maggie and Maria’s mum Helena were sisters.’
Levy started laughing hysterically.
Mrs Levy regarded him sadly. ‘He’s gone completely meshugge,’ she said. ‘I told you so.’
‘Paddy O’Reilly’s mother was born Magdalena Petacchi and married Mickey O’Reilly,’ Rabbi Zindelman explained, as everybody looked sympathetically at the cackling Levy. ‘Jeremiah’s great-grandmother was Helena Petacchi, Magdalena’s sister.’
‘I’m lost,’ said the Tenor Drummer, ‘and where is all this leading to anyway?’
‘To Jeremiah’s great-great-grandmother and Paddy O’Reilly’s grandmother,’ answered Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Who was she?’ asked Mrs Levy.
Rabbi Zindelman smiled. ‘Golda Adler, or, more precisely, Golda Hannah Adler.’
‘The golden eagle,’ whispered Sylvia.
‘Exactly. Also the daughter of Rabbi Samuel Nathan Adler and Rachel Cohen, Jeremiah’s great-great-great-grandparents. One can only imagine the scandal in those days when the rabbi’s sixth daughter married Captain Giuseppe Petacchi.’
‘A female line!’ shrieked Mrs Levy, totally ignoring Golda Adler’s scandalous behaviour with an Italian sailor. ‘Are you telling me there is an unbroken female line over five generations to a rabbi’s wife?’
‘Yes,’ Rabbi Zindelman said.
‘Aaron!’ shrieked Mrs Levy, flinging her arms wide. Singing ‘Mazeltov Mazeltov,’ she began prancing in the middle of the floor in full view of the men with skirts and the meshuggener with a stick.
‘Dolly!’ screamed Levy, rushing to embrace her.
‘You guessed in hospital! You knew!’ cried Mrs Levy, whirling in a circle with Levy.
‘After only two generations,’ Levy yelled proudly.
‘That’s why you were crying when you kissed Jeremiah! That’s why you started dancing and shouting!’
‘Will someone please tell me what’s going on!’ howled Dr Koekentapp.
Mrs Levy stopped dancing and looked at him. Bursting into tears, she kissed him on the mouth.
‘Welcome Jeremiah,’ she bawled.
‘Welcome to what?’ Dr Koekentapp wailed.
‘To their family, to Judaism, to your new life,’ said Rabbi Zindelman.
‘What are you talking about?’ squalled Dr Koekentapp.
‘You are Jewish Jeremiah,’ said Levy.
‘Fuck me,’ declared the Pipe Major.
‘And me,’ uttered the Drum Major and the Tenor Drummer together.
‘And me,’ said Mrs Finkelstein.
‘Naomi!’ shrieked Mrs Levy, horrified.
Paddy O’Reilly shook his head uncomprehendingly. ‘I am an old man,’ he said slowly, ‘and all this unchristian fornication is beyond me.’
Levy approached Paddy O’Reilly and led him to the foot of Dr Koekentapp’s bed. ‘Sit down, Paddy, and I’ll explain.’ Levy glanced at his wife, who was in a frenzied huddle with the women on the sofa, ticking off generations on her fingers and uttering names such as Jesus, Maria, Magdalena and Golda Hannah. ‘You see, Paddy, in Judaism, the child is born into the faith of the mother. It is the woman who carries the child in her womb and brings the newborn into the world, so the mother’s religion becomes the natural religion of the child. It is a birthright that cannot be cancelled by any law of man, nor any decree nor any act of suppression. A daughter born of a Jewess is Jewish and her children will be Jewish. The line can only be broken if a son is born. He will be Jewish but, if he marries outside the faith, his children will not be considered Jews.’
Paddy O’Reilly took a swig of J&B and gazed blearily at Levy as he went on.
‘In Jeremiah’s case, a female line held true for at least five generations, starting with Rachel Cohen and ending with Jeremiah’s mother, Mary Catherine Koekentapp. Jeremiah was born Jewish and now he has had his bris.
When Levy finished speaking, the room was utterly quiet. Paddy O’Reilly stared at Colonel Koekentapp, who was looking very oddly at him, and then noticed that Mrs Cohen and Mrs Finkelstein were ogling him too. So were Mrs Levy and Mrs Kindel. With the single exception of the Pipe Major, who was gazing despondently at his empty bottle, everyone was gawking at Paddy O’Reilly.
‘Now why should you all be eyeing me as if I was a pet baboon?’ asked Paddy O’Reilly.
No one answered and Paddy lost his temper. ‘I am the oldest here,’ he bellowed, ‘and it is only fitting that I be shown a little respect. And if that is not reason enough you would be well advised to remember that I am the boy’s godfather and his sandek to boot!’
Mrs Finkelstein began giggling.
‘You diseased harlot!’ Paddy O’Reilly screeched.
Levy carefully approached him. They mean no harm, Paddy,’ he said, ‘it’s just . . .’
‘It’s just what?’
Levy looked pleadingly at his grinning audience. ‘It’s just that, well, you are a big surprise, that’s all.’
‘What can be so surprising about an old Irish Catholic?’
‘I fucking well warned you, Paddy,’ said the Pipe Major suddenly. ‘I fucking well told you to watch yourself. He’s got you boxed now. It’s the table and the chop for you.’
‘What are you blathering about, you foul-mouthed Highlander?’
‘You were born Jewish too, Paddy,’ said Levy.
‘Holy mother of Mary!’ whispered Paddy O’Reilly, clutching at his chest.
‘I’ll bring you a nice cup of lemon tea with a kichel,’ said Mrs Levy.
Having been forced to get out of bed to assist his sandek for breathlessness and palpitations, Dr Koekentapp changed places with Paddy O’Reilly and got dressed.
Downstairs in the dining room, Mrs Levy was excitedly asking everyone if she hadn’t told them.
‘Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you he was Jewish?’
‘Well, not really,’ said the Tenor Drummer, putting down his chopped herring, which was too sweet for his taste.
‘Try the pickled,’ said Mrs Levy, noticing. ‘I was the only one,’ she declared, ‘the only one! I just knew in my heart he was Jewish. It’s a gift. I inherited it from my mother. She was psychotic too.’
‘I think you mean psychic,’ said the Tenor Drummer, forcing himself to swallow the pickled herring because Mrs Levy was looking.
‘Psychic, psychotic, what’s the difference? What I am saying is that from the moment I first set eyes on him I knew!’
‘Could I perhaps have a boiled-egg sandwich?’ asked the Tenor Drummer.
‘Certainly,’ said Mrs Kindel. ‘Lydia! Bring the sandwiches from the fridge!’
‘Look,’ interrupted Mrs Cohen, staring into the entrance hall, ‘der dokter is coming downstairs.’
‘Attention!’ roared the Drum Major. The Pipe Major hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of gravid lax and snatched up his pipes. Grabbing a soggy boiled-egg sandwich from Lydia, the Tenor Drummer hefted his drum. A drunken broken crescendo-decrescendo roll officially announced Dr Koekentapp’s arrival as he walked carefully into the room.
‘How’s Paddy?’ Mrs Levy asked, expressing much more concern now that the meshuggener with a stick was Jewish.
‘He’s fine,’ said Dr Koekentapp, ‘but he’s lying down for a while. He was a little unnerved to find out that O’Reilly was a Jewish name.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Mrs Cohen, who couldn’t.
‘How about a drink?’ offered the Drum Major.
Dr Koekentapp shuddered.
‘Are you crazy?’ demanded Mrs Levy. ‘He’s just had an anaesthetic. But I’ve got just the thing for him.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Dr Koekentapp.
‘Sponge cake.’
‘Let’s party!’ roared Levy.
He was dancing with Mrs Levy to a drunken, maudlin rendition of ‘Roamin’ in the Gloamin’’ when Paddy O’Reilly came downstairs. He sat next to Dr Koekentapp and Sylvia and watched as the Cohens and the Finkelsteins took to the floor. When the music stopped, Paddy O’Reilly beckoned to the Pipe Major.
‘The next one is for you, Paddy,’ slurred the Pipe Major. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Do you know “My Yiddishe Mama”?’
The Pipe Major frowned, swaying while he thought. For a while Paddy O’Reilly was the focus of intense general interest again.
‘Now vhere on ert did you hear dat?’ Mrs Cohen asked in astonishment.
‘Oh, it’s just something me old gran used to sing to me,’ said Paddy O’Reilly absently.