Out of Such Darkness (9 page)

‘She’s persuaded that I’m Jewish. So she’s happy to accept me into the congregation.’

‘Is that it?’

‘No, you can come as well. And Ben.’

‘Are you going?’

‘I’ll probably give it a try.’

She turns to face him. ‘You can’t do this, Jay.’

‘What?’

‘Keep it all in. Why can’t you tell me what happened?’

Because when he talks about it, his face crumples and he ends up crying. Because it’s so painful, actually.

‘Okay. I can – about the meeting, anyway. Elayna, the rabbi, she talked about some God stuff. She said about God being the same for Jews and Gentiles but how Jews see themselves as “chosen”. She made the point this doesn’t mean “better”. She talked about us – Jews – being connected directly to God. And through being Jewish, through being a good Jew, maybe I could learn to be an outward person.’

This is not everything, you understand.

Rachel makes a noise, expelling air between her lips.

Tell her about God’s plan.

Jay shakes his head. ‘You asked and I’m telling.’

‘Sorry. But what does “outward” mean.’

‘Not so introspective. Not worrying so much about what happened.’

Tell her – God’s plan.

‘That’s certainly good advice.’

‘But it doesn’t work.’

‘What?’

‘It’s no good people telling me to stop thinking about it.’

God’s plan!

‘She says inner peace can only come to me through a relationship with God – if I want to have one.’

‘And do you?’

TELL her about God’s plan.

‘I don’t know. But if I do perhaps I’ll be able to learn about God’s plan …’

‘What!’

‘God’s plan.’ Jay leans forward. He presses his fingertips into his temples, making deliberate, manic circles. ‘The Rabbi, Elayna, she believes in God, so of course she thinks God was behind everything that happened that morning, including me not catching the earlier train. So, if we go to the synagogue we may find out what His plan for me is.’

‘Oh, Jay. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. Why don’t we just up sticks as soon as Ben finishes this term and go back home? It’s where we belong. Everything will look better there.’

You won’t be going home until your work here is finished, Jay. The rabbi calls it God’s plan. If there
’
s a plan wouldn’t I be the one to have it? I’m the MC after all.

This was now July 1932 and, given that it wouldn’t get dark until late, I called on Leo in his room. “Want to come for a beer?” As ever he seemed to be smoking and cleaning his brushes or tidying away his paint tubes into boxes. I don’t think I ever saw him touching a brush to a canvas – painting.

“Dinner?”

I hesitated while I calculated the timings. “Why not?”

We had a few beers in our usual place on Savignyplatz and moved on to one of the many workers’ cafes under the railway arches in the direction of Zoo station. Leo looked at home in his creased and paint-splattered, blue-cotton trousers and the fact that he had dressed up for me by wearing the less-stained of his two engine-driver’s jackets did not make him look out of place.

I, on the other hand, had put on one of my smarter light-weight suits and a straw panama to counter the last of the sun. I hadn’t worn a tie because I had one of those fashionable shirts with the mini-lapels and a wide, soft collar at the top button so it fell away from my Adam’s apple. I looked rather dashing but it was too much for the rough clientele who shot me grim looks from time to time.

“You do know you’re scandalising the natives, Cam?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help it,” I said. I was looking at him from under lowered eyelids as cigarette smoke curled up from my nostrils in what I hoped was a most alluring look. “I’m having an adventure tonight.”

He leaned forward. “Do tell.”

I tapped him on the knee and he flinched and looked around.

“‘Do tell!’ Leo, you’re priceless. I shall corrupt you at this rate. I really shall!”

He assumed his gruffest voice. “Stop acting up, Cam. You’ll get us thrown out.” He spoke more quietly as he flicked a look over my shoulder. “Behind you, by the door, is a group of three SA guys who followed us in. If you make any more of a show they’ll take an interest in us. I don’t give much for our chances if that happens. They’ll give us both a good kicking.”

I straightened in my chair but I had the devil in me that night and because I knew some butch specimens in uniform had their eyes on me it made it even more tempting to put on the theatrics.

Leo must have been able to sense it. “I’m serious, Cam. Don’t give them a chance. The Nazis have the west of Berlin sewn up. They’re above the law here. Don’t give them an excuse.”

I nodded and took a sip of my after-meal Schnapps.

“What were you saying about an adventure?”

“Well, I’m not so sure I should talk about it now.”

“Don’t sulk. We’ll be fine as long as we look as if we’re having a normal conversation – man to man.”

“Okay.” I stubbed out the cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray. “I’m heading for Rosa’s Bridge after this.”

“Why?”

“It’s where we go, apparently. Men like me.”

“Are you sure? I haven’t heard of it.”

I gave him a look. “How likely is it you would have?”

“Hmm. I take your point.”

The restaurant had windows at both ends and I had been monitoring the light. “In fact, I think it’s time for me to be on my way.”

“We’ll go out the back way. You’ll be the right side for the canal.”

I was tempted to turn and look at the Brownshirts. “Scaredy-cat!” I said.

“I just hope you never see them in action,” he said.

Our chairs scraped back across the tiled floor and we paid the bill. I looked over my shoulder as we went out onto the still warm street. The group still sat by the front door hunched over a table-top crowded with beers.

“Well good luck, Cam.” Leo shook my hand. “I hope you find what you’re after.”

“So do I,” I said.

There had been a brief shower while we were in the restaurant and the air had that metallic, wet dust and electricity smell as I walked through the streets. There were people all around me, single men and women scurrying to the station and couples strolling arm-in-arm looking as if they had no particular destination in mind. Unlike me.

I had by now discovered the short cut to the Tiergarten which followed a path along the east side of the viaduct carrying the S-bahn trains north. I was soon in the narrow shadowed strip of path between the zoo on my right and the brick wall of the viaduct which blotted out the setting sun. There were no cafes in the arches here. Instead the caves were timbered up or had low doors made up of corrugated metal sheets. There were mean artisan businesses going on here and all was quiet this late. The only sounds were the mewing and lowing of zoo animals settling down for the night.

I ducked instinctively as a missile passed close by my head before realising that it must have been a bat. More of them flew by like an escort squadron of aircraft and I reasoned that my walking along must have disturbed insects which flew up into the jaws of the swooping predators. My heart was beating faster and I looked round furtively to see if I was being followed.

The path opened up into Kurfurster Allee and I crossed over it, skirted to the right of the Sportplatz and joined the Ufer Garten that tracked the south side of the canal. I followed it until I could see the bridge. I reasoned that if there was a meeting place here it would be on the far side of the canal because of its immediate access to the park and its undergrowth. I crossed the bridge feeling conspicuous to be up on the skyline if there were people below. The far bank was in shadows. There was no street lighting along the Tiergartenufer.

As I turned to take the steps down to the canal-side a match flared a few yards farther along the path and two faces – men’s faces partly hidden by hat brims – were illuminated. The light went leaving two red points of heat close together which then lowered and were hidden.

Looking around, as my eyes adjusted, I could see more pinpoints of red light as cigarettes were sucked into life. They would fade and I could see the shadows shifting. This was where it happened. I had found it. A man coughed behind me and I turned.

“Haben Sie Feuer, bitte?”

I smiled and reached into my pocket for matches.

So now my life was settled in Berlin. Through to the end of the summer I spent some Friday nights in the Nolli. They were for sex. On Wednesdays – I discovered that it was by far the busiest evening of the week for this sort of thing – I would go to Tiergartenufer to meet German men like me. I had hot sexy clinches with some of them in the park and with others I went further and we met away from the canal bank. Some even became students, learning English from me in a most platonic way in Frau Guttchen’s apartment in the Green House.

These men would be a little bit special and customarily we would share a brother’s kiss before I ushered them out onto the landing but there was nobody significant.

Dexter Parnes VC was my main man and his adventure had been rollicking along to completion – the first draft anyway. I hoped to have something ready for Peter Everley by Christmas and, with nothing to keep me in Berlin after that, I wondered where I would go next.

Leo and I still met for coffee and the occasional evening meal – never on a Wednesday or Friday – and he seemed to be happy painting still lives or portraits and sketching street scenes – beggars, strutting Stormtroopers, soup kitchens. I knew by now that Leo was an insomniac who painted mostly while the rest of the house slept.

“I need the silence,” he said. “The day is for preparation. Each piece has to be delivered in the solitude of sleepless night.”

“You’re a poet, Leo. I should be the precious one,” I said. “Instead, I’m the one churning out his art like a Wurst factory.”

“But is your scribbling art, Cam?” he said as he poked me with the chewed end of a brush.

The dream happens on the cusp of Jay’s waking. The MC perches on the end of the bed and the only sound in the room is Rachel’s regular breathing. The MC’s face is bare of make-up and lined. His cheeks are hollowed out. He addresses Jay directly and every word is received clearly and imprints itself:

I make as if I’m the happy joker of the Cabaret. It wasn’t always the same. I’m not here because like you I was a survivor. This is far from the truth. When the Nazis closed down the Berlin clubs it was only a matter of time for me. I was everybody’s friend on the stage but in the alleyways, in the always more seedy rooming houses, I was the Jew.

It was only two days after I was arrested that they sent me on a train to Poland. And so I didn’t have time to lose my fitness. They put me to work. My job was to heave dead weights from the blockhouse to the hand-pulled wagons. It was an endless toil. I was not a big man. My back could tolerate the burdens for only so long. The time came and I was too weak to work. ‘Time for you to take the shower,’ they said.

All I had was weary; weary of the body, weary of the mind. I stumbled of my own free will to join one of the lines for the blockhouse. I didn’t tell what is going to happen as we shuffled forward. There was such darkness for me in that place. Out of such darkness no light emerges.

I’m not here for me or for you, Jay. I’m a servant of destiny.

Rachel unpacks the hypermarket shopping after a visit to Danbury. Jay has spent the morning reading a book about Judaism loaned to him by Elayna Zwyck. He has been combining his learning about how the status of Jesus differentiates the two religions with the lighter prose of Christopher Isherwood describing an encounter with Mr Norris. Both texts are uninspiring.

‘Aren’t you going to help?’ Rachel says. She heaves the third and fourth of her burdens on to the work-surface in the kitchen. ‘There are only two more.’

‘Sorry.’ He puts down the rabbi’s book and steps through the open door. The sun is low in the sky and thin, filtered through high cloud.

It’s as cold here as my remembered Berlin.

The air is dry. It’s not the wet cold that Jay associates with freezing bones in the UK.

‘What’s this?’ Jay says, holding up a
Stars and Stripes
he finds in the top of one of the bags. The flag is about the size of a paperback book and its stick is six inches long. He waves it half-heartedly.

‘What’s it look like?’

‘A flag. But it’s not our flag.’

Rachel sighs. ‘You said the other day about everybody having them. Their flag is everywhere. If we don’t have one somebody might think we’re terrorists. Let’s be safe rather than sorry.’

Do you think the terrorists haven’t thought of this? I would bet you that their houses have more flamboyant patriotic bunting than the apology of a flag you have there.

‘We’ll be regular Tony Blairs – “shoulder to shoulder”,’ Jay says.

‘He carries on the way he’s going, he could be President.’

‘He wasn’t born here.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Jay goes out to the mailbox and pushes the stick of the flag into a gap in the metalwork so it sticks up from the rear. Up and down the street, above porches and garages, a rash of similar flags – of all sizes – has appeared, their poles fixed into special brackets.

Back in the house, he says, ‘I reckon they must put out flags for the Fourth of July every year.’

Rachel kneels in supplication before the freezer. She shifts packages around a drawer and pummels them into place. ‘Buggering cheapskate landlord and this tiny frigging freezer. All this stuff is not going to be so bloody cheap if we can’t fit it in,’ she mutters through her gritted teeth.

‘We’ll get an English flag and put it up on St George’s Day’, Jay says.

‘We’ll be home before then.’

At dinner later the same day, the family is in wonder at the size of the prawns.

‘They’re incredibly cheap as well. I would have saved them for a special occasion but I had to cook some because I can’t get any more in the freezer.’

‘This is delicious, Mum,’ Ben says.

‘It’s a recipe card from the shop. Tell you what, they do
some
things well here. There are free samples and recipe cards everywhere in the big stores. You should have seen it, Jay.’

‘Next time,’ he says.

They return their attentions to the food.

Ask Ben about the musical.

Jay turns to Ben. ‘I haven’t checked in with you about
Cabaret
for a while. How’s it going?’

‘Great!’ But Ben shakes his head.

Jay and Rachel share a glance across the table.

‘Really? It’s all going well?’ Jay asks.

‘Yeah. I said.’

Rachel makes warning eyes towards Jay and he concentrates on twirling the strings of pasta onto his fork. He adds a prawn and a wedge of softened courgette and steers everything towards his mouth.

‘You’re not having any trouble with the song?’ Rachel says.

‘No.’

‘The acting?’

‘No!’

Now it’s Jay’s turn to make eyes at her as he swirls the ball of flavours around his mouth.

Rachel ignores him. ‘I know you, Ben. Something’s wrong. What is it? The schoolwork?’

‘It’s nothing.’ He shifts in his seat.

Jay can tell that Ben is
so
close to storming out. But he also knows that Rachel won’t let go. She’s betting her cooking can keep her son at the table.

‘So there
is
something,’ she says.

‘It’s nothing.’ Ben is shovelling a final mouthful of food together.

‘So there
is
an “it”’

Ben puts down his fork and spreads the remaining pasta back onto his plate. He sighs, still prodding at his food. ‘It’s some parents. They’re unhappy that we’re doing
Cabaret
. They don’t like the Nazism in it. Mr Costidy says he may have to cancel.’

Jay’s first thought is to rail against ‘PC gone mad’ but instead he asks, ‘How would you feel?’

Ben looks up at him. His brown eyes shine. ‘I’d be gutted.’

Rachel nods.

‘Then we’d better make sure it doesn’t happen. What have these parents got against it?’

‘I dunno, really. I think they think it glorifies the Nazis. It’s some of the Jewish families.’

‘But it’s ludicrous. It was written by Jews – Kander and Ebb. I’ve looked it up.’ He leans forward. ‘Are you saying there’s a group of them?’

‘Sort of, I think.’ He pauses as if preparing himself for a bad answer. ‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are we Jewish?’

Jay smiles. He looks at Rachel. She’s wide-eyed and shrugs so dramatically it nearly lifts her out of the chair.

‘Why do you ask?’ Jay says.

‘Because I think it’s
my
song that’s the problem. They think Mr Costidy shouldn’t have cast a Jewish boy to sing
Tomorrow Belongs to Me
.’

Jay breathes deeply to quell a surge of anger. ‘We’ll see about that!’

Rachel’s looking at her husband. ‘It’s a good question though, Jay. Are we Jewish?’

The alarm sounds in the room above and Jay stirs. Even though he no longer has a job to go to, he and Rachel still like to get up with Ben, to make sure he has a good breakfast and see him on to the school bus.

The MC’s face coalesces in front of him as Jay opens a tentative eye.
Nancy! What do you reckon? Was it Nancy who jumped? Was she the one who had her shoes in her hand as she plummeted 110 floors? Where is she now?

Jay groans and buries his face in the pillow.

It’s only to let you know I haven’t left you.

After Ben has left for school, Rachel is helping Jay load the dishwasher. ‘What are your plans for the day?’ she asks.

‘I’m seeing Fothergill –’ he sees her brow furrow ‘– the lawyer guy who set up the SDC partnership. The appointment’s at eleven and we’ll probably have lunch. You know what they’re like.’

‘And this afternoon?’

‘I need to pop into the library with the
Cabaret
video. Have you got anything planned?’

‘No. As if.’ She flicks a dishcloth into the sink.

‘Why don’t you come with me? You could go to that department store – Lord & Taylor – while I’m in the meeting. I could cry off lunch so we can eat together.’

‘No. I’ll potter round here.’

His irritation rises like indigestion. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ he says. ‘Why don’t I ask at the library whether they’ve got voluntary work you could do? It would give you
something
.’

‘If you like. But we’ll be going home at Christmas, won’t we? It’s only three months away if we leave as soon as Ben’s term ends. Perhaps I should start planning it. It’ll give me something to do.’

‘Let’s just see how the meeting with Fothergill goes before you do anything definite.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’d better get ready.’

The cross-country road from Burford Lakes to Stamford is spectacular at this time of year. The leaves are turning and it looks as if the foliage is suffused with golden candlelight. Jay tunnels under arches of flaming boughs and the tree-trunks form a guard of honour.

He’s trying to recall his only meeting with Nathan Fothergill. He remembers him as an unusually small man, barrel-chested and with a twist in his upper back that some might unkindly call a hump. While his torso had seemed to be of normal length, his legs were so short that, if he sat down, it wasn’t that his feet didn’t reach the floor but that, when he sat back, his legs stuck out horizontally. Neither Francois nor Glen had warned Jay about Fothergill’s appearance and he had spent the first half of the meeting trying to ensure that he concealed the ‘sizist’ puns that kept bubbling to the front of his brain. He realises now that this is another reason he can remember so little about the papers. What if he’d signed his rights away? Maybe Rachel is right and they have nothing – not even a salary to take them through to the end of Ben’s term.

Would you feel any better about your dead colleagues then?

Even if the other partners had cheated him, he wouldn’t have wanted them dead.

But this is the point. They are dead. Them and fifteen others. One of them Nancy. Remember her? How you were mesmerised by her cleavage?

Seventeen! What must the families think? He considers the ordeal they’re facing.

You have your life. What more should you have?

He decides he doesn’t deserve anything. Why should he expect? It should be enough that he’s alive.

He sees the outer suburbs of Stamford through a mist of tears and negotiates the ringway to the eastbound exit. The road here is a strip-mall and passes a Wendy’s burger outlet, an aluminium-clad diner, the red and white of Staples office supplies, followed by the similar colouring of the CVS pharmacy. Jay turns in by a sign for the Borders bookstore (with Starbucks) and on the right is the tawdry office block belonging to
Safa-Data Recovery
. Grey and disorderly vertical blinds sag behind streaked windows.

Jay works the automated entry system and stands inside a vestibule carpeted with loose tiles that look as if they’ve seen service underneath a leaky drink-dispensing machine. It isn’t Nathan who approaches but a woman. She’s strikingly tall and dark-skinned, possibly mixed race. Her hair is black and cropped boyishly so it fits close to her head. The fringe has been left long and is pressed flat across her forehead. This, together with her height and her conservative dress, gives her the look of a catwalk model presenting a for-the-office range. Jay’s pulse quickens. Her handshake is dry, firm – satisfying.

‘It’s good to meet you, Mr Halprin. My name is Teri Herbold. I work for Baxter, Fothergill and Fauset as an assistant attorney. Would you like to come through?’

‘Yes. Please lead the way, Ms Herbold.’

She turns to blitz a smile on him. ‘Teri, please. Nathan is through here.’

This girl – Teri – she is so beautiful. I wonder what instrument she can play – for my orchestra, you understand.

They step through more sticky carpet tiles, enter double doors and Jay finds himself in an office space that extends across the building. The snaggle-toothed windows are to his left and right. Teri navigates a narrow passage between rows of unoccupied desks and empty chairs. Each desk carries a computer with a flat-screen monitor and the cables coil around like snakes in a viper pit.

‘What is this place?’ Jay asks.

Teri stops, turns and straightens the waisted jacket that shows off her slim build. ‘Yes, this is probably new to you. The
Safa-Data
servers are in the basement. That’s where the
Safa-Data
people do the day-to-day work. This is a disaster recovery floor. If one of their client’s buildings was to be destroyed – in a fire, say – this accommodation would fit enough people to get the company re-started. They’d use it for a week or so until new temporary accommodation is found. It doesn’t have to be pretty – as you can see – just functional.’ She turns and continues walking. ‘They’ve given us a small office at the end here.’

She leads Jay towards a cubicle that has been excised out of the main space, presumably to be taken by a supervisor for the recovery team in a disaster scenario. It’s glazed from the waist up and the top of Nathan’s head is progressing towards the doorway. He’s waiting there when they arrive.

‘Jay!’ Good to see you.’ He clasps his left hand over the handshake, a thick identity bracelet rattles on his wrist. ‘Coffee?’ he shakes his head. ‘It’s machine but it’s recognisably coffee.’ He goes back to the desk and points to his own empty cup. ‘Teri, please?’

Jay turns to her and licks his lips.

Did you really do that?

‘I’m feeling thirsty. Cold water would be good.’

She nods and turns out of the office and through the adjacent swing doors.

Jay is still looking at the space Teri occupied when Nathan speaks. ‘She won’t be long. Sit, Jay. Look, I have to start this by saying I’m so sorry. You were so lucky.’

You think so? He doesn’t have the dreams, does he, Jay?

‘Yes.’

‘You’re probably wondering what this is all about.’ Nathan hops himself up into his chair and shuffles his posterior back. The toes of his panther-sheened shoes point to the ceiling. The soles are leather and not unduly worn.