The first door I went to was opened by a small man with a large, unhappy face, and the sight of me did not make him look any happier.
‘I’m from the old age home,’ I began, and he slammed the door with such force that two glass panels fell out.
‘Not very sympathetic to the cause,’ I wrote down in my book.
The next door was opened by an old lady, all smiles and wrinkles.
‘I’m from the old age home,’ I began, ‘and I——’
She raised a finger to stop me and went inside the house, to appear a minute later with a red-faced young woman.
‘What is it?’ said the young woman. ‘Olda lady speak no English.’
‘No English?’
‘Olda lady speak no English.’
‘Does she speak Yiddish?’
‘Olda lady speak no Yiddish neither.’
‘I see. What does she speak?’
‘Olda lady speaka nothing. Olda lady’s done her nut. You cana tell me.’
‘Well, you see I’m from the old age home——’;
‘Olda age home, yes.’
‘From the old age home, and I’ve come to empty your tins.’
‘Boxes, tins, old age home.’
She beckoned me to follow her, and I followed her right through the house into the kitchen, through the kitchen into the garden, to the very bottom, where there stood a pair of overflowing dustbins.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘you empty da tins.’
‘No, no, charity tins, money, old age home, understand?’ She obviously didn’t. ‘Charity, small boxes, char-ee-tee, you know, faith, hope and charity.’ But she looked even more bewildered. ‘Charity,’ I repeated, ‘charity, help a poor man, alms for the love of Allah,’ and I went round the garden with my eyes half shut and my cupped hand stretched out. ‘Alms, alms for the love of Allah.’
‘Ah,’ she said, and flew into the house, and flew out a second later with half a loaf of bread and a banana.
I popped into the Labour Exchange before making my next call, but they had nothing suitable to offer, and I sighed and got on with my job.
It had all sounded so simple.
‘Knock on the door and tell them you’re collecting for the old age home, and they’ll welcome you with open arms. All you have to do is to stand there with your bag open and they’ll pour in the money,’ U-U had assured me, ‘there’s nothing to it, old man, nothing at all.’
The third door was also opened by an old lady. All the supporters of the old age home seemed to be aged. It’s the old wot helps the old.
She took one glance at me and said: ‘Ah, you must be from Eastleigh. Funny how all people who empty charity boxes look alike.’
She ushered me into her living-room, took my hat and coat and made me a cup of tea.
It was a large room, with panelled walls, and heavy upholstered furniture which seemed to be exhaling its innards. On the mantelpiece was a battery of charity boxes from every institution imaginable, and they all seemed to be full.
‘I can’t help having them,’ said the lady when she came in with the tea, ‘I’m on the council of every one of them.’
She poured me out some tea in a cup almost as wide as a saucer.
‘Have you been collecting for the old age home for long?’
‘Really.’ She passed me the sugar. ‘It was sad about old Mr Epstein, wasn’t it?’
‘Old Mr Epstein?’ I said.
‘You know who I mean, the one who used to do the collecting.’
‘I’m afraid I never knew him,’ I said, and took a long sip.
‘It was very sad him having his head knocked in.’
I sprayed the tea out over the room.
‘His head? Knocked in?’
‘Didn’t they tell you? It happened only a few weeks ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was sure they must have told you. Yes, poor man! He was going home one evening—and his wife’s in hospital too. It never rains but it pours, doesn’t it? That poor man’s had more trouble than almost everyone I know put together. Actually he’s a distant relative of mine. His second cousin is married to my——’
‘But what happened?’
‘It was a terrible thing, knocked right in. And he’s such a kindly man, never hurt a fly. Actually, there’s an extraordinary resemblance between him and my late father, may he rest in peace. He had such a kind face, my father, he was a schoolmaster and suffered from ulcers all his life, but you know it somehow never affected his kindliness, and he was always so cheerful. I must show you a photo——’
‘But you were telling me about Mr Epstein.’
‘Which Mr Epstein? Oh, Old Epstein. Wasn’t it terrible, and hardly more than a hundred yards outside this door? You know, I’ve been frightened to step outside since it happened. I don’t know what’s happening to the world. This used to be such a respectable district, but the things that happen now, I’m ashamed to tell you. Only two weeks ago, a young girl was raped in the park down the road, well at least that’s what she said—they all say that, but I know something about young people—I’ve got five grand-daughters—and I can tell you that nowadays there’s no such thing as rape. No girl is raped who doesn’t want to be.’
‘But Mr Epstein——’
‘Oh yes, I meant to ask you. How is he? I hoped to visit him, but I’ve been so busy with all my committees that I haven’t had a minute. My husband used to say that if I don’t give up my committees he’ll divorce me. Well he’s dead now, of course. You’ve never met my husband, have you? He was a quiet man, but deep, and he was highly thought of in his trade. We were cousins, as you may have heard. If you come from a good family it’s so difficult to find an equally good family to marry into, so there’s really nothing you can do except marry your cousin. But though we were related we were not in the least alike. Funny that, isn’t it? Have I shown you a photograph of my husband? Actually there’s a portrait of him in oils in the other room. He was a freemason you know. Are you a freemason?’
‘I’m afraid not. Now you were telling me about Mr Epstein——’
‘Oh, of course, I keep forgetting. I meant to ask you what are the visiting hours, because I really must drop in and bring him a little something. He’s been in now for nearly ten days, but I’m glad they didn’t have to operate, aren’t you? At his age I don’t know if he would have survived it. It was funny that he should have been attacked after going out of Mr Elkan’s house. You’ve probably heard of Mr Elkan. His wife keeps the most generous charity box in the whole of London. If you read the Jewish Advertiser you can always see her name right at the top of the list of best boxes. But if she shouldn’t, who should? Her husband owns half of London and bits of Bournemouth and Brighton, to say nothing of a few islands in the Bahamas. What’s twenty pounds to her? Anyway if you’re a robber you only have to read the Jewish Advertiser to know where to strike. Believe me, she may have more money than I do, but she doesn’t give more than me, only I’m nervous about having my name at the top of the list. I always asked Mr Epstein how much she gave, and then always gave a pound or two less—not out of meanness, just out of caution. Poor little man, he had just said goodnight to Mrs Elkan, when he was set upon. But you did say he was very much better, didn’t you? I’m so glad.’
‘Was—was he badly hurt?’ I asked.
‘It’s a miracle he’s alive,’ she said. ‘There were little bits of him all over the street for days afterwards.’
I did not do any more collecting that day, but early the next morning I put my black homburg (which was now turning white) into a polythene bag, and went out and bought myself a crash helmet. It made me look four inches taller and I was sorry I had not thought of buying one before.
I had been a collector for two months, perhaps three, when I came to the house of a Mr Simcha Smeltzer. It was a large house in a large garden, and walking up the gravel path you made a sound like eating matzo. When I pushed the bell there was a noise like Big Ben chiming the hour, and a small woman in black opened. She looked from my sandals to my brief-case, to my crash helmet, and from my crash helmet to my briefcase to my sandals. By the look on her face one could think I was from outer space.
I’m from Eastleigh, the old age home,’ I said. ‘I’m collecting——’
‘Who is that?’ growled a voice from inside.
‘A collector,’ she said.
‘Throw him out,’ growled the voice.
‘He says he’s from the old age home.’
‘From where?’
‘The old age home.’
‘A waste of money. Throw him out.’
So I wished her a good evening and turned about, but as I was going down the drive I heard a shouting behind me:
‘Hey, you there with the bike. Come back.’
A grey-haired man was gesticulating to me from an upstairs window. He looked so wild that I hesitated before turning back, but I felt secure in my crash helmet, and I also had a slender stick of salami in my brief-case which could serve as a cosh in an emergency, and I went back.
‘I’m sorry for throwing you out,’ he said, ‘but you’ve no idea what I’ve been through since word got round that I’m a rich man. I’ve never been poor and I’ve always been generous— well, at least not mean—twenty pounds here, thirty pounds there, fifty pounds, a hundred, sometimes even a thousand, but I paid it out quietly through my bank, and nobody bothered me. Then two weeks ago some nosey bastard in a Sunday paper makes it his business to let the world know that I sold out my company for over half a million pounds, and since then I haven’t had a minute’s peace, young age homes, old age homes, Rabbinical colleges, institutes of this that and the next thing, the poor, the rich that was, the sick, the lame, homes for juvenile delinquents, fallen women, retired horses, the Bialy——stock re-union committee—I’m not even from Bialystock—irrigation in Israel, flooding in India, drainage in Katmandu, synagogues in Shanghai, dog homes in Battersea, ritual baths, kosher school-meals services, retired clergymen’s comforts funds, dowries for poor brides, mortgages for poor husbands, the Beersheba zoo, the Sodom art gallery, the society for the preservation of the green-crested twit and honest-to-goodness schnorers who want five pounds for a cup of tea.’
As he spoke he waved his arms, his face grew redder, his voice grew louder, and his last words were lost in coughing and spluttering.
‘Charity is one thing,’ he said, ‘but this is persecution. You think when you come round with your receipt-book and briefcase that you’re the only one——’ He was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. ‘You see, there you are. Another one.’ And he opened the door and shouted into the hallway.
‘Whoever it is, throw him out. Don’t ask questions, throw him out.’
‘It’s a her,’ said the woman.
‘I don’t care who the hell it is, throw her out.’ And he slammed the door. When he turned round to face me there was such wrath on his face that I cautiously fingered the salami in my brief-case.
‘You see? One every minute, and on Sunday mornings it’s one every ten seconds. Well that’s going to stop. I shall put barbed wire round the house, I shall mine the drive and electrify the door handle. If necessary I shall leave the country, or draw all my money out of the bank and make a public bonfire of it. I shall——’ As he was saying this he was striding furiously round the room, and his eyes now fell on me, as if for the first time.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘I’m from the old age home.’
‘A collector?’
‘Yes.’
And without another word he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and seat of my pants and threw me out of the house. While I was sitting up, dusting myself, he came out and helped me to my feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I keep forgetting. I’m a governor of the old age home.’
We went inside and he poured me a glass of whisky.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s funny you should be collecting for the home, because if it wasn’t for that crash-helmet you would remind me of someone I know.’
I took off the helmet.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you remind me of what do you call him. Ah, what’s his name, the man who used to be warden of the old age home.’
‘Brisker.’
‘Ah, that’s him. Now there’s a scoundrel if ever there was one. I suppose you heard that they had to throw him out because he ran away with the gardener’s wife.’
‘Who? Brisker?’
‘Yes, a scoundrel.’
‘But I’m Brisker.’
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m Brisker.’
‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself. A fine thing, at your age. I’ve a good mind to throw you out of the house. In fact get out at once, this minute.’
‘But the gardener ran off with my wife.’
‘Aha, and you think two blacks make one white,’ and scarlet in the face, he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, and repeated his earlier performance, and then threw out my briefcase and my helmet after me. ‘And if you should as much as show your ugly face in this street again,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll get the police to you. Scoundrel, hooligan, Amaekite.’
That Friday evening I was in synagogue. I noticed Smeltzer in the front row as I came in, but he did not notice me and I pretended not to see him.
At the end of the service I was turning to go, when I saw him coming rapidly towards me. It was too late to run, but in any case I didn’t think he would attack me within the precincts of the synagogue—not with the Rabbi around—so I remained where I was.
‘Good Shabbos,’ he said.
‘Good Shabbos,’ I said.
‘A stranger in this part of town?’ he said, and I realized that in my striped trousers and black homburg he didn’t recognize me.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve just changed my lodgings.’
‘And where are you eating?’
‘In my room.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘On Shabbos? You can’t eat by yourself on Shabbos.’
‘It’s a nice room, with a view of Clissold Park, and I’ve got a nice bit of fish—halibut—with pickled cucumbers and some wedding rolls——’
‘Halibut, schmalibut. You can’t eat by yourself on Shabbos,’ and he took me by the arm and almost forcibly pulled me to his home.
The little woman who opened the door—I took her to be the housekeeper—blinked her eyes when she saw me, but said nothing. I felt safe.
When I had taken off my hat, and put on a skull cap, and washed my hands, and he had made kiddush and moitzi, and we were sitting down at a table laden with all the good food I could imagine, he turned to me and said:
‘You know, you remind me of someone.’
I had just taken a nice bit of carp on my plate. I now pushed it away from me and got ready to run.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be damned if I can remember who it is.’
Then an idea struck me.
‘It’s funny you should mention that,’ I said. ‘Only this morning I was travelling in the underground when a man I had never seen in my life shouts over to me: “Brisker,” he shouts, “what are you doing here?” “Pardon?” I said to him. “Brisker,” he says, “aren’t you Brisker?” “No,” I tell him, “I most certainly am not.”’
At this he broke into laughter and laid his hand on my arm.
‘I’ll tell you something even funnier. Brisker was the fellow I was thinking of. You’ve got the same face, the same build, the same walk—you know, as if you’ve got one foot in the grave—even the same way of talking, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I can always tell a scroundrel from an honest man I’d be certain you were him. Do you know the hooligan?’
‘Brisker?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘I’m ashamed to tell you I had him in this house, in this very chair you’re sitting, drinking my whisky from my whisky glass.’
‘What sort of person is he?’
‘Don’t ask—but I’ll tell you all the same. No, I don’t think I should. It’s Shabbos after all. I haven’t brought you here to gossip. People like Brisker shouldn’t be talked about on Shabbos. I mean, if I told you what he did you wouldn’t believe me—and to look at him you’d think he wouldn’t know how to pass water, a little, wizened dwarf of a man, with one shoulder higher than the other, one leg shorter than the other—at least he walks as if it was—and bent. I mean, you hear these things happening in Hollywood, in the West End maybe, but in an old age home, and in a Jewish old age home at that, it’s unbelievable—and yet, believe me, it’s true. But anyway, it’s Shabbos, and this isn’t the time and place to talk about such things.’
So we began our next course, but before I was finished he put his hand on my arm again.
‘I mean, people have been running away with other people’s wives since wives were invented, but it isn’t the thing for a middle-aged man, especially a middle-aged Jewish man, and more especially a middle-aged Jewish man who’s got a wife in the first place. If nothing else, he should know better. A single man, well maybe he thinks he’s missing something, but for a married man to do such a thing—it’s sheer viciousness, nothing else.’ He leant closer to me. ‘You’ve been married, haven’t you? I can see you’ve got the married look, like a fish with its scales rubbed off. You’re a widower? I’m a widower.’
‘I’m a widower.’
‘So we’re all widowers. You know, us widowers have much to be thankful for. Of course, there’s not many of us, is there? We’re outnumbered by widows ten to one. The men kill themselves to make money, then leave their wives to kill time. I’m about the last man of my generation, all the rest are women. You’re a bit young to be a widower.’
‘Yes. My wife was taken from me very suddenly.’
‘A long time ago?’
‘About two years ago.’
‘You still look upset about it. I’ll tell you something. There are far more people who are happily widowed than are happily married. Not that there is anything wrong with marriage. My parents, may they rest in peace, were both married, and they were perfectly happy. Some of the happiest people I know are husbands or wives, but then one of the happiest men I have ever met is a dustman—yet nobody wants to be dustman and nearly everybody wants to get married, and the reason is simple. Shall I tell you what it is?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Are you sure, because you look as if you’re falling asleep.’
‘No, I’m interested. Tell me.’
‘Prohibition.’
‘Prohibition?’
‘Prohibition, that’s the reason. If there was a commandment saying “thou must not empty dustbins”, or “thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s dustbin”, and if emptying dustbins was something you could do only in private, and if boys could be expelled from school for emptying dustbins, and if psychiatrists were to write books about a cure for dustbin emptiers, and if you could be sent to prison for emptying a dustbin which has been around for less than fifteen years, or for publishing pictures of dustbin emptiers at work, then you’d have the whole world lining up to be dustmen. Don’t you think so?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I think it’s a pity to let the soup get cold.’
He resumed the subject with the next course.
‘Of course, there are happily married people, but people who find happiness in marriage can find it anywhere. You’d be surprised where people find happiness. Take my brother, that’s a good example. Take my brother. You don’t know my brother, do you?’
‘I haven’t had the pleasure.’
‘Well, take my brother. I’ve got a brother in Leeds, and he can find happiness in only one place—the toilet—doing only one thing—reading the Yorkshire Post. It’s got to be the toilet, and it’s got to be the Yorkshire Post. I mean, you can put him in the soft armchair and try giving him The Times, the Manchester Guardian, the Daily Express, even the Jewish Chronicle. It’s got to be the Yorkshire Post and it’s got to be the toilet. He’s got one wife and three children, but he’s got five lavatories. I don’t know what he would have done if he had been born before water-closets were invented. I think everybody has private ways of finding happiness, haven’t you?’ He poked me with his knife in the ribs. ‘Well, haven’t you?’
I swallowed the potato I was eating and waited till the housekeeper was out of the room. ‘Well?’ he repeated.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘there is one thing which can always make me happy.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Rice-pudding and a blob of jam.’ His face fell.
‘Rice-pudding?’
‘And a blob of jam.’
‘But you can’t call that a private pleasure. You could eat rice-pudding with a bishop in the room.’
‘That’s what I thought you meant.’
‘No, I meant private pleasures, something you wouldn’t like to be caught doing. Like——’ He looked around to make sure the housekeeper was out, and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but it’s a real pleasure—standing in a draughty room on a hot day with your shirt on and your trousers off. Have you tried it?’
‘No.’
‘No? You should. It’s a mechaye. Do you know what a mechaye is? Do you understand Yiddish?’
‘No.’
‘I’m surprised. Generally when I pick up some helpless character in shul and bring him home for a meal, he can at least speak Yiddish, but you don’t speak a word? Well I’ll tell you what a mechaye is. A mechaye is——Do you mind stopping eating while I’m trying to teach you a bit of Yiddish?’
I put my knife and fork down and gave him my full attention.
‘A mechaye is a feeling you get when—well, it’s as if somebody’s blowing another soul into you. Do you remember when God picked Adam up from the ground and blew into his nostrils, the first words Adam said were “A mechaye”. A mechaye is a pleasure. Most pleasures you enjoy when you’re having them, but you’re sorry the moment they’re over.’
‘You mean because they’re over?’
‘No. You’re sorry you’ve had them in the first place. Do I need to explain to a man of your age what I’m talking about? Well, a mechaye is something you enjoy when you’re having and you enjoy when you’ve had it.’
‘Like standing in a draughty room with your shirt on and your trousers off.’
‘Exactly. But it’s got to be hot. England is never hot enough, that’s why I go to Israel every year. I’ve been there eleven times, and the first thing I do when I get to my hotel is to lock the door, fling open the window and let down my trousers. Unfortunately I’ve got a bad memory and sometimes forget to lock the door. I’ve had some embarrassing moments.’
‘But why in draughty rooms? Why not in the open air?’
‘A very good question, only have you ever been chased by a bull with your trousers half on and half off? But even then it was worth it. I tell you if you haven’t tried it you haven’t lived. Try it sometimes, I tell you, try it.’
‘I haven’t the time.’
‘What do you mean you haven’t the time? Are you so busy that you haven’t a minute to let your trousers down?’
‘If I have a minute I like to do other things.’
‘So haven’t you a minute for letting your trousers down and a minute for other things? You find time. How do you think I manage? Do you think I’m not busy?’ His voice was now rising and I was getting alarmed, but he quietened down. ‘Tell me, if I may ask, what do you do for a living?’
‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘I’m in banking.’
He was silent for a moment while he looked at me more closely, then he said:
‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you don’t look like a banker.’
‘I’m in small savings.’
‘And does it take up all your time?’
‘No, but I like to read in my spare time.’
‘Read?’
‘Books.’
‘You mean library books and so on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very nice. I used to do a lot of reading myself when I was younger, but my eyes have been giving me trouble. My parents liked reading, and they encouraged us to read. Well, with the books they publish nowadays you might as well encourage your children to go to a brothel. Don’t you think so?’
‘I don’t know. I hardly ever read novels. I prefer history books.’
‘And you think the history books aren’t filthy? Some of the filthiest bits I’ve ever read come from history books, and not only history books. Have you ever had a good look at the Bible?’
‘Yes, many times.’
‘Disgusting, isn’t it? You hear people complaining about television. I think it’s the safest thing for children to see. Mind you, it depends what you read, doesn’t it?’
‘It does.’
‘And what do you read, I mean what sort of history books?’
‘I’ve been wading through the Decline and Fall.’
‘The decline and fall?’
’The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, it’s in six volumes. It’s been taking me weeks.’
‘And why are you so interested in the Roman Empire? Do you know that the Romans destroyed the second temple and threw us out of Palestine?’
‘But I’m interested in empires.’
‘So what’s wrong with the British Empire, or French Empire, or any empire? The history books are chock-full of empires. Are the Romans the only people in the world with a history? Everybody’s got a history, and the Jewish people have got more history than everybody else put together. Can’t you read Jewish history?’
‘I’ve read Jewish history, but I’m also interested in other people.’
‘It’s all right being interested in other people if they’re interested in you. All right, you’re reading Roman history. But tell me, how many Romans have ever read Jewish history?’
‘I’ve not only read Roman history, I’ve read all sorts of histories.’
‘Such as?’
‘The history of Spain, now that’s a fascinating story.’
‘Did you say Spain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know that the Spaniards were the biggest anti-Semites until Hitler? And you say you’ve read Jewish history. Have you heard of Torkey—Torkey——’
‘Torquemada.’
‘Torquemada? Have you ever heard of the Spanish inquest? Have you heard of the expulsion of the Jews from Spain?’
‘All that happened nearly five hundred years ago.’
‘Five hundred, five thousand. Once an anti-Semite, always an anti-Semite. I suppose you’ll be telling me next you’ve been reading the history of Germany.’
‘As a matter of fact I have.’
At this he jumped from his chair, grabbed me by the scruff of the collar and seat of the trousers, pushed me out of the dining-room, into the hall, and out into the street, almost before he opened the front door. As I was picking myself up he opened the front door and kicked out my hat after me.