Out of Such Darkness (18 page)

The most striking thing about Ngaio Marsh, a woman in her late thirties, was that she had absolutely no bosom. The jacket of her blue woollen suit was buttoned low revealing a plain blouse which she wore with a feminine version of a cravat. The blouse was devoid of any protuberance whatsoever.

I have to confess I found her androgynous appearance and mannish bearing quite stimulating. I’m ashamed to say that, even while we were chatting, I was distracted by the unique – for me – thought of what this woman would look like with no clothes on. When later I read that Miss Marsh had denied being a lesbian despite having a succession of female ‘companions’, I found it hard to credit.

But, I digress. After Everley had introduced us he sat back and rather let us get on with it. Ngaio, as she asked me to call her, went through the tiresome business of praising the Dexter Parnes books. She said that she understood I was taking Parnes to Berlin for the third book and this was creating a difficulty for me. She picked up her empty cigarette holder – an ivory stub with gold banding.

I took my cigarette case out of my pocket.

“Everley here tells me your book is sure to be a best seller. He’s very taken with the veracity regarding police procedure. ‘It’s what marks it out,’ he says.” I offered her a cigarette but she looked at it, wrinkled her nose and turned to Everley, who offered her one of his Senior Service.

Ngaio inserted the cigarette and put the holder to her lips. Everley had his lighter ready. She only let the cigarette end touch the flame for a second before she pulled away, her cheeks hollow as she drew in the smoke. She tossed her head as if to flick away the cloud of blue which accompanied her exhalation. “Sorry. I don’t smoke Turkish.”

I waved the apology away.

“I do my research,” she said.

“That’s what I’d like to talk about.”

Twenty minutes later I left Ngaio and Everley to have their conversation about her Alleyn sequel with a name and address in my pocket. It was of a man who lived near Clapham Common. He was a reformed old-lag who was introduced to Ngaio by a policeman she had nurtured at Scotland Yard. The man – Victor Simons – made a precarious living on his wits and, if anybody knew anything about false passports, it would be him. There was no telephone number so I had no alternative than to hail a cab and ask to be taken to Clapham Common.

The cab-driver gave me a second look before saying, “Bit eager aren’t yer?” and it took the rest of the journey before I understood he was commenting on my appearance and the fact that I was very early if I expected an assignation. I decided to ignore his impertinence and withheld my customary tip as a punishment.

The house was in a run-down street. It had been a smart terrace once, built probably for the people doing the work I had done, it seemed so many years ago, in that insurance office in Cheapside. But something had marked this area out for near-dereliction. The paint was cracking on the window frames and the front doors were peeling. The windows were obscured with filthy net curtains or grey sheets. Children played in the dust that collected in the cobbled gutters. I went along the terrace counting the houses to number 19, pulled back the knocker and let it fall.

The woman who came to the door had rags in her hair and a loose none-too-clean housecoat that she pulled together across her bosom which was exposed inside a cotton slip. Her legs and feet were bare. “Whaddyer want?” She eyed me suspiciously.

“I’m looking for Mr Simons … Victor?”

“He ain’t ‘ere.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Yeah. What’s it worf?”

“A shilling?”

“Let’s see it.”

I took the coin out of my pocket and laid it on the flat of my right palm. I was ready to close my fist if she made a move.

“See that pub on the corner. Saracen’s ‘ead?”

I looked in the direction of her pointing finger and could see a pub sign swinging at the end of the road. “Yes.”

“E’s in there.”

I looked at my watch. “But it’s not open yet.”

“Never shuts. Nah, piss off.” She took the shilling from my hand and closed the door.

The entrance to the pub was on an angle to the street corner. I pushed the door but it was locked. I could see the blurred outlines of figures sitting at tables through the etched glass. There was no noise. Nobody moved towards the door. I turned round and retraced my steps. There was an alley behind the pub and I went down it, stepping carefully over broken glass. There was a strong smell of stale beer. I knocked at the back door.

A shout came from inside. “S’open.”

I turned the handle and found myself in a hallway with stairs leading up on the left. There was a passage alongside it with two doors on my right. The first was ajar and I could see steps down into a cellar. The other open door led through to the bar – in the far corner was the frosted glass of the entrance I had tried earlier. I stepped through and it was as if the clock had gone back to the lunchtime licensing hours – each round table had a group of men with pint glasses in front of them. There was a woman behind the bar. “Can I ‘elp you?” she said.

“I’d like a gin and bitters, please,” I said, anxious to get into the way of things.

“We’re shut. Want me to lose my licence?”

I looked round me.

“They’re friends. We’re ‘aving a private meeting.”

“I see. Well, I’m looking for Victor Simons.”

She surveyed the room. “E’s not ‘ere.”

There was a movement to my right. It was a man standing. “S’all right.” He looked me up and down. “Looks like a man could put a bit of business my way.” He was now alongside me. “Am I right, Mr …”

I said the first name that came into my head, “Everley.”

“Why don’t we step into my office, Mr Everley?” With that he led me back the way I had come and we stood alongside each other in the back alley.

I took out my cigarette case and flipped it open. “Smoke?”

His hand snaked out and he held my wrist. “Gold, Mr Everley. You don’t want to be flashing it round here. Yes, I will avail myself of your generosity.” He took two cigarettes. In a well-practised movement, he swung one up behind his ear and the other into his mouth and then stood, chin jutting forward, waiting for the light. I fumbled a cigarette between my lips and then flicked my lighter into life. We both blew out smoke noisily while I returned the case and lighter to my pocket.

“Shall I start … here?” I said.

“Yeah. What seems to be the problem?” He smiled, revealing black, broken teeth. His face wasn’t stubbled but he was clearly a man who needed to shave twice a day. He was hatless and his hair was combed across to hide the baldness on his crown. His dark blue suit had a faint chalk stripe and his shoes were not clean. His neck was scrawny inside a collarless pale blue shirt.

He held up a hand. “Just so’s you know I’m not as stupid as I look, I know your name’s not Everley, is it Mr Everley? Else why would you have the monogram CEM on your smart gold cigarette case? But then maybe it’s best for both of us I don’t know your name. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

I stammered. “Yes. It’s probably best.”

“‘Cept you know mine and that might put me at risk. And we have to put this fact to the account, don’t we, Mr Everley? It’s a question for the account.” He put his hands out as a signal for me to tell him my story.

“I am a friend of Miss Marsh, the writer. I’m afraid I told her an imperfect version of the truth … my reason for wanting to see you. But, as you put it, this was a matter of mitigating risk. You see, I am a writer too. But I’m in a spot where I need to obtain a false passport. I don’t just need to know how it’s done, I need to do it.”

Victor Simons screwed up his eyes, studying my face. “And if I wanted to contact Miss Marsh, she would back up that she referred you to me?”

“Yes. Up to a point. She thinks I want to know the theory of getting a passport.”

“Is it for you?”

“No, a friend … a brother.” I looked down and shifted some of the broken glass with my toe.

“Hmmm. A passport to make somebody seem to be your brother.”

“Yes.”

“British then.”

“Yes.”

“Do you ‘ave a photograph?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Positive or negative?”

“Undeveloped film.”

“Better. Here?”

“Yes.”

“Better still.”

I had lost any semblance of authority. “I’ll want it to have some entry and exit stamps for countries in Europe – just a few to make it look genuine.”

He nodded. “No problem.”

“But it’s important it has an open entry stamp for Germany. One that hasn’t been counter-franked.”

“So he’s in Germany now – your brother.”

“Yes.” My face flushed. I was telling him too much. “How quickly can it be done?”

“Very quickly. Coupla days.”

Before we parted, I had handed over the film spool, five pounds and the details for Wolf’s passport. I realised that the surname of my “brother” on the passport gave mine away but assumed this wouldn’t trouble Simons as long as he received his cut of the deal. We arranged to meet in the Saracen’s Head three days later when Simons would hand over the passport and I would give him another £20.

“How do I know you won’t go off with my five pounds and I’ll never see you again?” I asked.

“You don’t,” Simons said, dropping his butt to the floor and grinding it into the glass with a crunching sound.

I had no trouble getting the cash together next day and I sent a telegram to Frau Guttchen to let her know when I would return. I hoped all was well. I received a reply to say that my brother sent his love.

On the appointed day I was outside the Saracen’s Head shortly before evening opening time. I heard the door bolts being drawn back and stepped inside. Although there were four or five men inside already with drinks in front of them, Simons was not one of them.

I asked for a glass of mild beer and took a seat on the bench below the window. Almost immediately a spotty youth in a cloth cap and muffler sidled up. “You Everley?” he said.

I had forgotten the subterfuge of the first meeting and nearly shook my head. I recovered in time. “Yes.”

“Vic says don’t worry, he’ll be here. Just sit tight. He said to check you’ve got the rest of the money.”

I nodded.

He sat beside me and I was engulfed in a fug that carried the odour of mouldy bread. “Show me,” he said.

I took out my wallet and, hidden by the table, fanned out four five-pound notes.

The youth swept out of the pub leaving the sour smell behind and I wondered what part he played in what was happening. Had the passport not been finished until they knew the money was assured? Were they only now pasting Wolf’s picture to the document and placing the all-important stamp across its corner?

In any event I had to wait with increasing nervousness for two hours before Simons sidled in with his elbows tight to his sides and his hands inside his jacket pockets, stretching the seams. He headed directly for the rear door and beckoned me to follow him by cocking his head.

He was sweeping a space clear of broken glass with his shoe when I reached him.

“Have you got it?” I asked.

He looked to left and right and held out his hand. “The money, Mr Everley.”

I stepped back; my heart was racing. Was he double-crossing me? How I wished I had Dexter Parnes VC alongside me at that moment. “Not until I see you have it.”

He fished into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced what looked like a passport. “Hand over the cash.”

I was determined not to be made a fool of. “Show me his photograph and the details.”

Simons opened it and turned the pages towards me. As far as I could tell, the style of the script, the way the picture was stamped, all appeared genuine. “And the entry stamp?”

He sighed and glanced up and down the alley again. He flicked through the pages and turned it to face me. The stamp was there and the date was written exactly as on my own. It all seemed to be as I had asked.

“Satisfied?”

I took out the four notes and we made the exchange hurriedly, anxious that neither lost control of their side of the bargain.

“Good to do business wiv you, Mr Everley.” He put a finger to his eyebrow.

I ignored him and as I stood studying the passport page by page, I heard the scrunching underfoot as he swivelled away and disappeared through the doorway. Hoping that what I had in my hand would do the job for Wolf, I went along the alley, out into the street and headed up to the main road where I hoped to hail a cab.

Prentice Chervansky is wearing a caramel-coloured twin-set on this occasion and Jay wonders whether her choice is based on a rota or depends on her mood. Perhaps she has an infinite supply of these cashmere garments and once worn, each set is discarded.

She sees Jay come in and dips to reach a pile of books. She stands waiting while he unwinds his scarf, undoes his coat and removes his gloves. Her smile widens as he approaches. ‘Hi, Jay. I’ve searched our non-fiction catalogue and these are all about Berlin and the rise of Hitler.’

He raises a hand in greeting. ‘Biographies of Hitler?’ Jay’s not sure he wants to read them.

‘No!’ She glances up as if to check whether he’s teasing her. ‘We wouldn’t carry material like that.’

‘So what
have
you found?’

‘Well, these are based on personal experiences of people in Berlin.’ She hands him three hardbacks.

He reads the titles:
Before the Deluge
,
The Past is Myself
, and
What I Saw
and turns to the blurb wordings: ‘the tawdry, dangerous and undeniably exciting story of the sickness which overcame Germany in the ‘20s’; ‘immortalizing the everyday life of 1920s Berlin’; ‘an unforgettable portrait of an evil time’. ‘I’ll take them. Thanks.’ He hands over
The British are Coming
.

While she scans the barcode, Prentice asks, ‘Did you enjoy this one?’

‘Yes, it mentions Cameron Mortimer – the British author who lived near here.’

‘Oh! Does it say anything about Burford Lakes?’

He decides it would be too cruel to shock her with an account of Mortimer and his pool boy.

It would have been fun to see her mouth curl in distaste.

‘Just that it’s close to the border with Connecticut.’ He wants to offer her more. ‘It mentions another Burford resident, Willy Keel. Do you know him?’

Prentice is bar-coding his new books against his library card and she rotates her lower jaw as if a fruit pip is caught between her teeth. ‘Willy Keel, you say?’ She shrugs. ‘No I can’t say I have.’

There’s another customer waiting so Jay picks up the books. ‘Thanks for these, Prentice.’

‘You’re welcome, Jay. Have an iced A.’

Jay visits the grocery store and picks up a
Snickers
bar to eat on the walk home. Another month has passed – there’s a new
Burford Buzz
in the dispenser.

Melissa Rosenberg interviews Rabbi David Stern
of the synagogue Beth El in Burford Station.

We met over cups of delicious hot chocolate (with marshmallows!) at Deborah’s Coffee Shop in Burford Station. The meeting came about after many readers – not only from Rabbi Stern’s congregation – contacted the Buzz to comment that last month’s interview with the rabbis about the Jefferson High production of Cabaret had been skewed in favour of reform synagogue leader Elena Zwyck.

I started by asking Rabbi David whether he agreed that I had been biased. He declared me innocent of the charge. ‘I thought the article was fair,’ he said. ‘You gave both arguments equal prominence. I have no complaints.’

‘And you still feel the same about Cabaret?’ I asked.

‘Nothing has changed. When the production starts next month, members of my congregation will go on the Thursday and Saturday evenings to picket it and try to persuade the audience not to go in.’

‘But many of the audience will be relatives of performers.’

‘And I would expect them to walk through the picket. We all have equal rights here. This is what I love about America.’

‘So you don’t think you’ll actually disrupt the performance.’

He smiles and I feel encouraged to know more about him. He explains that disruption is not his intention. He merely wants to make his point forcibly and persuade the people who go in that it’s important to think about their reaction when the swastikas are on stage. ‘I would not like to think that the applause at the end of the first act is for what is happening on stage – but is rather for the players.’

Now, let’s find out more about David, the man. How long has he been rabbi at Beth El?

‘Three years.’

Does he see himself staying in our fair boro?

‘I’m not sure. I have a strong sense of my calling, Melissa. There’s an urge inside me to do more for my faith. God is expressing in me His will for my future.’

So is the rabbi experiencing doubt?

‘No! I’ve always had a strong sense that God has a plan for me.’ He took out his wallet and showed me a photograph. It’s of a youth standing on a hilltop with what looks to be a desert landscape behind him. ‘This is me. I ran away from home not far from here when I was sixteen and went to Israel. I tried to join the army but they wouldn’t have me. When I returned to the US I went to Rabbinical School – my family has no rabbinical tradition. I’m the first. This – being a rabbi here in Burford Station – this isn’t my calling. I will make my name as a leader but it won’t be here.’

I leaned forward, all thoughts of chocolate and marshmallow forgotten. The rabbi has a fire in his dark eyes and it’s unsettling. ‘So Burford Station is a stop on the way (no pun intended!) to bigger things.’

‘More momentous things, greater things. This is God’s plan. It’s not for me to know the detail – yet. But I have a strong sense that God will tell me when He wants me to go to

our spiritual home – Zion. ’This is God’s purpose. I’m marking time here … waiting.’

‘Zion?’

‘Israel. It’s my destiny to be a leader of men in Israel. ‘Waiting for what?’

‘God’s sign that the time is now.’

‘Why not go to Israel and wait for His sign there?’ As I ask the question I begin to feel that I’m being too personal – I’m getting too close.

‘Because God hasn’t opened that door for me yet. The situation there is in flux. Israel is stronger – it’s expanding. Politicians here and in Europe talk glibly of “The Palestine Question” and “the two-state solution”. Jews are God’s chosen people and He chose our land for us – Zion. He does not envisage two states – only Zion. It’s not for man to obstruct His will. We must make all the people in our land accept this.’ He’s warming to his subject and I sense a caged energy in front of me.

‘We must subjugate so-called Palestine. I have been there; I know. There is only one solution: drive the Palestinians out. Deport them. Eliminate them. That’s the solution.’

‘Are you sure you want this to go on the record?’ I ask. ‘Deport them? Eliminate them?’ This is what you want me to write?’

‘Why not? We must do what is necessary to deliver God’s will.’

‘You sound very certain, Rabbi.’ I hear myself say.

‘I prefer to use the word clarity. You too can have clarity, Melissa, but first you have to attach yourself to God. Judaism is the true sun and you must fix your orbit to it. Then you, like me, will know God’s purpose.’

We have finished our drinks and it’s time to pack away my notebook and digital recorder. As always, Deborah’s excellent coffee shop is full and customers are waiting for our table. I thank the rabbi for his time and his candid answers.

‘Now you worry me, Melissa. Perhaps I have been

too forthright.’

‘It’s not for me to say, Rabbi,’ I answered.

No, this, dear reader, is something for you to decide.

A light sleet has started and Jay is thoughtful as he folds the
Buzz
and stuffs it in his raincoat pocket. Jay finds the rabbi’s sentiments disturbing. A man of the cloth shouldn’t use those words – ‘subjugate’, ‘eliminate’.

And
‘solution’ – so misjudged in this context.

Jay turns into Ponds Lane and spots Melissa Rosenberg ferrying hypermarket carrier bags from her car to her house. Skipping the puddles, he runs across to help. As he places the final bag on the kitchen table he asks about the interview. ‘You started out being positive but it all went downhill. Did the rabbi really say those things?’

She purses her lips. ‘Afraid so. He kept going on about his destiny – about going to Israel.’

‘Doing what?’

‘He wants to be part of the settlement movement – expanding territory on the West Bank.’ She’s putting the tins and jars away as she talks.

‘Isn’t it illegal?’

Not as far as America
’s concerned.

‘It depends on where you stand. The United Nations thinks it is.’

Melissa is stowing two jars of peanut butter with grape jelly into the cupboard. Jay shudders. He tried it once – never again. ‘What about the people who lived there before?’

‘The Palestinians? They try to resist but what can they do? Look I’m being very rude, Jay. Can I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Soda?’

Jay shakes his head.

The Palestinians do fight back. The settlers surround themselves with walls and barbed wire. Make the settlements like …

‘Ghettos.’

The MC laughs.
You said it – literally!

Jay swears to himself. Perhaps Melissa hadn’t heard.

‘Pardon?’

‘I was thinking that the settlers, having to barricade themselves in, must be like living in a ghetto,’ Jay says.

‘I suppose it is. But if it keeps them safe
…
’

It
’s not always the oppressor who builds the wall.

Jay nods.

‘But if Rabbi Stern has his way the Israelis will keep encroaching further into the West Bank. I’m not sure …’ Melissa frowns and shrugs.

And if Israel leaves only a small space for the Palestinians, on which side then is the ghetto? On which side then is the oppressed?

They stand, one each side of the table, shaking their heads. Jay’s wondering whether the men flying the Jumbo jets were Palestinian. The one they say masterminded it – Usama Bin Laden – is he?

Don
’t try to work it out, Jay. It will only make your head hurt. Remember to ask Melissa about the old man – Willy Keel.

Jay asks if Melissa has kept the details of the old man she wrote about in the
Buzz
who married in the White Plains senior home. She consults a
Filofax,
flipping through the address section and jots down the name of the care home and a telephone number on the back of one of her
Buzz
business cards.

Later, when Jay phones the McDougall Lawns Senior Resort, he’s surprised that the switchboard operator offers to put him straight through to Willy’s room. A croaky voice answers and, even before Jay can finish explaining that he’s researching Cameron Mortimer and would like to meet, Willy Keel suggests the next Sunday for his visit.

During Friday dinner, Ben talks excitedly about the show. Mr Costidy has seen off the pressure from Rabbi Stern and everything’s looking set for three evening performances from the 13th December – a little over a month away.

Jay has noticed that ornaments and other household items are missing and asks Rachel what’s happening.

‘Packing has to start some time. Anything we don’t need for the next six weeks is going in a box. They’re all labelled-up in the spare room.’

‘And the flights?’

‘We need to make a final decision.’

‘Better wait until we have the money?’

‘If you say so. But the sooner the better.’

At the end of the meal Jay retreats to the den and skim-reads the books on pre-war Berlin. He worries that he’s developing an obsession about the Nazis and what they did with power. Is he accreting more guilt because of his previous naivety about the Holocaust? As a Jew should he have cared more?

He expects an interruption from the insistent voice in his head and there it is.
Jews who suffered and survived, and the children, and the children’s children, they carry the burden of guilt. Look at you. The guilt for seventeen is too much and now you want to take it on for the whole of our tribe?

The Sunday of Jay’s visit to the McDougall Lawns Senior Resort is exactly two months after 9/11. Willy wants him to be there at 9am and, as he makes early-morning tea, Jay watches a magazine programme that features the terrible images of that day followed by shots from live cameras at Ground Zero showing the extent of the clean-up. The twin towers are no more than twisted remnants resembling filigrees of spun sugar 20 storeys high. The presenters choke as they recount the numbers of dead and missing. The latest estimates are nearly 3000 fatalities, 17 of them employees of Straub, DuCheyne.

Merely so much ash – spread to the four winds. Like from the smokestacks of the death camps. Just as Willy and I remember. Like we can never forget.

A few minutes before his appointment, Jay strides along a flagged path that leads to the canopied entrance of Willy’s retirement home. It’s a converted mansion in one of the better off suburbs of White Plains originally constructed to house grand apartments. As Jay anticipates meeting the old man, the MC’s comments about death camps repeat like a catchy tune and his stomach is churning as he anticipates what Willy will have to say. He shakes this from his mind. He’s here to talk about Cameron Mortimer.

Once Jay’s signed in, a receptionist leads him to a meeting room and a black care-assistant in a blue uniform brings in a tray bearing a pot of coffee with cups, milk and sugar. She places it on the coffee table positioned in the centre of a square of patterned carpet. Jay stays standing despite having a choice of three faux-leather easy chairs set round the table. Each chair has a high seat.

He walks across to the unscreened window. It looks out on the gardens behind the building. The flower beds are bare earth ­– the grass is faded. Grey clouds are pressing down. He finds himself thinking that many of the inhabitants here will never see the grass regain its colour; the bulbs will push up shoots but not for their eyes. After about five minutes the same assistant who brought the coffee wheels Willy in.