Mr. Rosenblum's List Part 10

They were the first words she had spoken to him in several days and, realising this, he put on his spectacles and stared out the window at the dark shapes moving smoothly into the distance. The air filled with the sound of quacking, striking a melancholy note in the morning stillness. Jack shuddered; he hesitated and then, uncertainly, placed his arm around Sadie. In a minute the ducks were gone and the pond lay empty, its surface rippled only by the fish gliding underneath the surface. They were bereft.

'Come, I'll make tea,' said Jack, feeling that this would mark the sorrow of the occasion.

After breakfast, Jack decided to light the fire in his study, and with meticulous care cleared away the piles of maps and books lying near to the grate it would be a disaster if Robert Hunter or Old Tom Morris went up in flames. There was rustling behind him as Sadie rumpled the papers on his desk. He gave a tiny sigh a man's study was his own. She scrutinised the calendar on the wall above him.

'What day is it?'

Jack peered at the date. Why was she asking him? The woman had eyes of her own. 'Twenty-second of September.'

'Nein, du Mistkerl du Mistkerl. In the Hebrew calendar.'

Jack shrugged. 'How would I know?'

He was now late Curtis and the men would be waiting for him in the field and he did not like them to start without him, but Sadie was not to be dissuaded. She went over to the bookcase, pulled out a tattered Hebrew almanac and flicked through the pages.

'I've forgotten. How could I forget?' Sadie raised her eyes to the heavens and muttered an apologetic prayer.

Jack continued to look at her blankly.

'It's Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, the Day of Judgement, the Day of Remembrance . . .' she snapped.

'Yes? And what does it have to do with me?'

Two pink spots appeared on Sadie's cheeks and her eyes flashed with anger. 'Go. Go to your fields and your new friends, then. I'll say Kaddish Kaddish for the dead. I am sure they'll understand.' for the dead. I am sure they'll understand.'

Jack stood up sharply, took one last look at the curling tongues of flame in the grate, and retreated into the kitchen. Lying on the table were the fruits of Sadie's sleepless night: a platted loaf of challah challah, studded with currants, sprinkled with cinnamon and warm from the oven, with a jar of honey resting beside it. He studied the bread on the cooling wire, and considered his wife. One. She scolded him. Two. She was stubborn and indifferent to happiness. Three. She baked for him during the night, making all the treats and sweets he recalled from those brief months in Berlin they were happy then, ignorant of what was to come. Elizabeth was conceived there, in that tiny flat with its glimpse of the stone elephants outside the park, and Sadie had laughed and been kind to him. Jack picked up the challah challah, tore off a piece, dipped it in the honey and popped it into his mouth. He chewed pensively, took another bite and then another. In ten minutes the entire loaf was gone. Wiping the crumbs from his mouth, he returned to the study.

'I'll sit with you,' he informed her with a puff of resignation.

Sadie's lips flickered into an almost smile. She liked the ritual of Rosh Hashanah and liked to think of all the other Jews, busy with their own recollections; it was a rite of shared sorrow, The Day of Remembrance The Day of Remembrance. Most days, she thought about before before alone, in silence, but this was a whole day dedicated to remembering. She thought back to the final Rosh Hashanah in Berlin, the last with her family. Back then, she had not known that soon she would be saying alone, in silence, but this was a whole day dedicated to remembering. She thought back to the final Rosh Hashanah in Berlin, the last with her family. Back then, she had not known that soon she would be saying Kaddish Kaddish for them. She was young in those days, a mere girl she had been late to synagogue, arriving in a flushed hurry of joy, and apologised to the disapproving women as she squeezed her way through the tightly packed chairs to Mutti, who scolded her for her tardiness on for them. She was young in those days, a mere girl she had been late to synagogue, arriving in a flushed hurry of joy, and apologised to the disapproving women as she squeezed her way through the tightly packed chairs to Mutti, who scolded her for her tardiness on today of all days today of all days. Sadie claimed it was because she couldn't find her coat but this was a lie. She was late really because her new husband had persuaded her back to bed to make love. He kissed the backs of her knees and the inside of her wrists, and had tugged her laughing onto the small wooden bed. She did not know that day, but Elizabeth began to grow in her belly. Perhaps that was why she became so unhappy, because she conceived on the Day of Remembrance. The dead that she was too busy to remember grew alongside the child in her womb and, long after she gave birth to her daughter, wormed their way into her conscious, insisting that she say Kaddish Kaddish for them every day. Once, she had confided this thought to Jack and he became angry. for them every day. Once, she had confided this thought to Jack and he became angry.

'Life, that is the most precious thing! Life. It takes the place of death. Wedding has precedent over a funeral. I choose joy over this pointless sorrow.'

The shofar shofar blowing was Sadie's favourite part of New Year: the eerie note of the hollow ram's horn calling through the centuries. It sang of the symmetry of time and was one constant in an ever-changing world. She listened to the blowing was Sadie's favourite part of New Year: the eerie note of the hollow ram's horn calling through the centuries. It sang of the symmetry of time and was one constant in an ever-changing world. She listened to the shofar shofar with her family and later, in England, she would close her eyes and pretend she was a girl again. She knew the with her family and later, in England, she would close her eyes and pretend she was a girl again. She knew the shofar shofar was the same for her grandparents, her great-grandparents and for King Solomon in the Temple. was the same for her grandparents, her great-grandparents and for King Solomon in the Temple.

'Let us go and cast away our sins into the river.'

Jack perked up; he had abandoned any thoughts of working with the others on the third hole today. While he was dubious about the prospect of ditching his sins into a body of water, it meant going outside and quietly checking on the course. Curtis and Mike would be in charge; they were smoothing the tee and shaping the bunkers but some determined rabbits were continually disrupting progress.

Together, they walked down towards the dew pond at the bottom of the large field. The small duck pool by the house was rejected, as Sadie was insistent that the water must contain fish.

'A fish's need for water symbolises the Jew's need for G.o.d and, as a fish's eyes never close so His watchful eyes never cease.'

'Well, there are b.l.o.o.d.y great fishes in the dew pond and the stream. Curtis saw a pike,' added Jack, not awed by his wife's reverent tones.

It was a damp morning, the clouds hovered low in the sky, and the air smelled moist and earthy. Jackdaws circled, cawing overhead in the trees and leaves lay in mushy piles that squelched as they trod. Jack peered up towards the third hole where he could see several men digging and Ba.s.set leading two great carthorses down the steep slope. They lumbered unsteadily, their huge hooves trying to grip the slippery ground, until they reached the flat area of mud that was to be the green for the third hole. Jack paused and watched with interest as two men hitched the horses to a pair of stone rollers.

He was rea.s.sured that they were managing spectacularly without him, despite wis.h.i.+ng that he could climb up to admire the progress. Ba.s.set had promised he would bring the horses to level the ground before they put down turf. The horses were old, but Ba.s.set kept them in a rare gesture of sentiment, even though he claimed they were merely a back-up in case a tractor broke down. They were bred from a mare belonging to Ba.s.set's grandfather, and Jack supposed the old farmer liked to think of the line carrying on. The horses were enjoying their brief respite from retirement, and steadily pulled the ma.s.sive roller across the muddy ground.

A few more weeks at this pace and Jack would have another hole done. There was a chance, if the winter was not a cold one, that he would have all nine holes completed by spring. He uttered a little prayer to heaven.

'Listen, please don't be offended that I don't really believe in you. But, just in case, I would be most obliged if you could make this winter a mild one. I'd very much like to finish my course. Otherwise, there is a very good chance that I'm finished fertig fertig. And, if you really are there, I am sure you don't want that. There is enough unhappiness.'

He was not sure whether this was the right tone for a prayer it had been quite a while since he last addressed G.o.d. He thought as a concession that perhaps he ought to cast off a few sins. If the slate was clean, G.o.d might be more inclined to favour his request.

The gra.s.s was vivid green under the blackening sky; rain began to drizzle and a fine mist slowly rolled into the valley below, obscuring Jack's view. He helped Sadie climb over the stream to reach the dew pond.

'Are you sure there are fish?'

'Quite certain.'

'Then empty your pockets.'

'That's all?'

'Yes. And feel contrite.'

Obediently, Jack emptied his pockets. There were several crumbs, a piece of string, a receipt for straw and a bag of humbugs. He tried his best to be contrite, but it was hard because he always tried not to dwell on regrets, although he did regret the paper bag of humbugs that was slowly sinking to the bottom of the pond. He watched Sadie, her eyes closed and her lips moving in prayer as she turned her pockets inside out and flapped them over the water.

'Hey, there's nothing in them. They're already empty,' he objected.

She opened her eyes and stared at him.

'Of course I emptied them first. I don't want to actually throw anything away. You cast away your sins metaphorically.' metaphorically.'

'Oh.'

Now Jack really did regret the loss of his humbugs they were still on ration.

'Say Kaddish Kaddish with me, Jack.' with me, Jack.'

He sighed, but he supposed, as the English say in for a penny in for a pound. Round his neck he wore his battered sun hat on a string it would have to do for a Yarmulke Yarmulke. He placed it on his head and started to sing, his voice mingling with the cries of the birds and the falling rain. Yet, there was a strange sort of harmony to the sound. The wind shook the branches of the willow tree above their heads making tiny drops of water spatter their faces.

'Yis'ga'dal v'yis'kadash sh'may ra'bbo, b'olmo dee'vro chir'usay v'yamlich malchu'say.'

The dead are held in our memories; we carry them with us through life; one generation to the next, so that our people live on in the minds of our daughters and our sons.

Jack sang the names of those they had lost while Sadie pictured their faces and, for a few brief moments, saw them dancing on the water before her.

Then there was another sound: the rich long note of a horn. It rose up through the mist and echoed against the hillside. Sadie clutched Jack's arm.

'A miracle! Thank G.o.d! It's a miracle!'

Tears ran down her cheeks. G.o.d had sensed her loneliness and here, in the wilderness, he had found them and sent her the sound of the shofar shofar. They were alone no more; the note of the ram's horn united them. It rang out across the centuries and cut through the fog to find them. She rubbed Jack's knuckle with trembling fingers, whispering Papa's old words, 'The sound of the ram's horn is sharp. It is like no other sound. It pierces the armour of the heart.'

For a moment the mist cleared and there was a flash of scarlet and rus.h.i.+ng limbs. Jack moved to the edge of the pond and stared towards the horizon. There was the sound of barking and pounding hooves, and then a pack of hounds raced into the meadow below, closely pursued by red-coated riders on thundering horses. The horn cried out again and the hunt disappeared back into the haze. In the distance the note rang out for a final cry, and then silence.

Sadie was sobbing now. Jack pa.s.sed her a rather grubby handkerchief and noisily she blew her nose. 'It's a miracle, Jack isn't it?'

He reached for her hand, 'Yes, darling, a miracle.'

Autumn slid into winter. The leaves fell to the ground, blew into piles, turned crisp in the frost and rotted away. The branches were jagged against the pale winter sky, and at night Jack and Sadie listened as the windowpanes rattled and the winds rose up and hissed through the empty attics above their bedroom. Jack dug out extra blankets from one of the boxes and they huddled under it at night, hostilities suspended as they clutched one another for warmth. Each evening Sadie filled the earthenware water bottles in an attempt to ward off chilblains. She kept a chamber pot underneath the bed; it was too cold to traipse down the landing to the bathroom, and in the morning the urine in the bowl was ice covered.

Progress on the golf course was halted by the thick frost. The ground froze one night and did not thaw the next day or the day after that. There was nothing to do, except wait. Jack paced his fairways, admiring the five chequered flags, each one frozen mid-flutter. He now realised his course was rather testing (though he was sure it would be much admired by expert players). From each tee the respective hole was invisible, hidden behind the slope of the valley or masked by scrub. The greens were uneven and steep. The rough was a mixture of wild gra.s.s, dogwood and gorse and a ball entering it would be lost for ever (in Jack's view adding to the challenge). Despite these drawbacks, it had a magnificent position. The view across the countryside was vast and open, and Jack felt his smallness against the great expanse of earth and sky.

November eased into December, bringing the thickest frost of the year, and Elizabeth. Jack was filled with joy at the prospect of seeing his daughter. He missed her noise. Young people filled the house with bustle and life; one could feel the world turning and moving onwards.

Elizabeth was the only girl in her cla.s.s to go up to Cambridge and Jack was a little in awe of his daughter's achievement. He'd left school at sixteen eager to join the busy world and was unsure as to the proper English method of educating girls. (The information in Helpful Information Helpful Information was entirely unhelpful on this point, merely stating that Jews should not expect their sons to be doctors, lawyers or dentists since those occupations must be reserved for the offspring of English professionals). Once a year (or so it seemed) Mr Austen presented to Jack a neatly folded copy of was entirely unhelpful on this point, merely stating that Jews should not expect their sons to be doctors, lawyers or dentists since those occupations must be reserved for the offspring of English professionals). Once a year (or so it seemed) Mr Austen presented to Jack a neatly folded copy of The Times The Times announcing the marriage of Miss Marianne Austen or Miss Jessica Austen to a Mr So and So Esq. This appeared to be the pinnacle of an English girl's achievement, until the following year when the same paper was waved under Jack's nose so he could admire the 'safe arrival of Henry Edmund So and So, seven pounds and six ounces'. announcing the marriage of Miss Marianne Austen or Miss Jessica Austen to a Mr So and So Esq. This appeared to be the pinnacle of an English girl's achievement, until the following year when the same paper was waved under Jack's nose so he could admire the 'safe arrival of Henry Edmund So and So, seven pounds and six ounces'.

Sadie was the one who vocalised concern and consternation 'Don't you want to find a nice boy? Your father will give you all the carpets you could ever want.' But Jack wanted something more than carpets for his daughter, and if it was Cambridge she wanted, then Cambridge it must be.

Elizabeth knew she was her parents' connection to the alien, English world and was not above exploiting their ignorance. Most girls went home for the weekends and when at college they were strictly supervised, but she was expert at circ.u.mventing rules and avoiding home visits. Even so, she was deeply curious about her parents' strange journey into rural England. They had never really done anything interesting before, her father made lists and sold carpets, while her mother gossiped and wept when she thought no one was listening.

Sadie cleaned the house and made up the little bedroom under the eaves for her daughter, filling it with all her old childish things. There was the school desk, scratched with ten years of homework, and volumes of d.i.c.kens and Shakespeare. In a packing crate she discovered a stash of bedtime stories that she used to read to Elizabeth. Jack didn't want his daughter speaking German it was the first and second rules on his list. But, Sadie wanted Elizabeth to hear a little of her language and so read auf Deutsch, auf Deutsch, the pranks of Till Eugenspiel and the macabre adventures of Stuwelpeter the pranks of Till Eugenspiel and the macabre adventures of Stuwelpeter. She wasn't sure the little girl understood every word, but Sadie wanted her to know that She wasn't sure the little girl understood every word, but Sadie wanted her to know that Deutsch Deutsch was also a language of stories and magic. She wouldn't let those was also a language of stories and magic. She wouldn't let those Schweinepriester Schweinepriester take all her words from her. The child promised her mother that she wouldn't tell Papa about the German storybooks. Sadie cherished their secret. As a girl Elizabeth shared everything with Jack they were forever laughing at some joke or disappearing off to cafes without inviting her but those forbidden bedtime books belonged solely to Sadie and Elizabeth. During those minutes, she could be take all her words from her. The child promised her mother that she wouldn't tell Papa about the German storybooks. Sadie cherished their secret. As a girl Elizabeth shared everything with Jack they were forever laughing at some joke or disappearing off to cafes without inviting her but those forbidden bedtime books belonged solely to Sadie and Elizabeth. During those minutes, she could be Mutti Mutti at last. at last.

Leaving his wife fussing, Jack left early to collect his daughter from the station. There was a deep frost, the leaves coated with white and the gra.s.s hidden beneath an arctic layer. The ponds froze and birds pecked miserably at the solid surfaces. The Jaguar was parked inside the barn, covered in a horse blanket and it took him a good ten minutes to fire it up. He packed hot water bottles, which he wrapped in blankets, along with a flask of tea mixed with brandy for the journey. The roads were icy and he wondered about the wisdom of driving a sports car; he would have to put chains on the tyres if it snowed.

Elizabeth was waiting on the platform, stamping her feet to keep warm, her hands buried in a pair of red woollen mittens. She had two ancient suitcases, filled with a term's worth of books, was.h.i.+ng and memorabilia. For a moment Jack didn't recognise the young woman standing very straight in the smart caramel-coloured coat; every last trace of the schoolgirl had vanished. He was the same: small, balding, bespectacled and smiling. Elizabeth ran to him and planted a kiss on both cheeks. He received her affections awkwardly and bashed her nose with his, not expecting the second kiss. Suddenly embarra.s.sed before this elegant, adult creature he tried to prise her cases from her grasp. A moment later a porter appeared and firmly piled the luggage onto a trolley.

'Let me look at you, Daddy.'

She stood, hands on hips and gazed at her father, who s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot under her scrutiny.

'You're thinner. And browner. Your hat's on funny.'

She reached out and fiddled with Jack's trilby for a moment, took a step back and shrugged.

'It never sits right,' she sighed.

Jack felt himself flush like a schoolboy and walked briskly after the porter to hide his mortification. All his hats were purchased from Lock of St James, the best hatter in London, and yet they never sat right. He wished she wouldn't always draw attention to it; he was trying as hard as he could and hated it when he shamed her. They caught up with the porter, who loaded the bags into the trunk as Jack slipped him sixpence. Elizabeth rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.

'Oh Daddy, when will you learn not to tip so much?' she said when the porter was out of earshot.

Jack winced; she'd told him that before people sneer at you, if you tip too much.

'But it's nice to be generous. It's Christmas.'

She waggled a finger at him playfully. 'Only Americans tip that much. The English are mean.'

'Thank you for coming, love, it means so much to your mother.'

She smiled at him, the quick, bright smile that made dimples form in either cheek and she looked happy. Jack relaxed. 'It's all right,' he thought. 'It's all right. I'm a klutz klutz but love has brought her back to me.' but love has brought her back to me.'

Her face was rosy pink from the cold; the heating had broken down at Salisbury and the last miles inside the train were freezing so that even the car seemed warm in comparison. Eagerly she wiped away the condensation from the window and watched the English landscape unfold the trailing rivers iced over and the frost hanging in the rushes on the riverbanks. She had never left London as a child, except for a school trip to Minehead, and now barely heard her father chattering as she stared in amazement at this new world. Smoke puffed from every chimney and the cottage doors were festooned with wreaths of holly. It was not yet four o'clock but daylight was already fading and candles began to flicker in the windows. The fields glimmered in the dusk and Elizabeth wanted to stroke them; the gathering frost looked as soft as goose down.

Sadie was waiting anxiously at home; she'd been checking the window for signs of them at least an hour too soon. Then, in a crackling of gravel, they were there. Elizabeth flung open the heavy front door and embraced her mother, burying her face in the familiar soft cheek and neck. Sadie always smelled softly of Chanel No. 5, and there it was, but mixed in with it was the heady scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.

'Mein lieber Schatz! Mein Kind,' exclaimed Sadie, her face buried in her daughter's hair. She covered her face with exuberant kisses, and ushered her into the kitchen. Sadie felt a tug of joy at the prospect of feeding her little one, and sat at the table to watch her eat, hiding her smile behind her hand as Elizabeth demolished half a dozen vanilla crescents. And yet, they had been apart for so long that there was a distance between them; they were two strangers who needed to become acquainted. She felt that Elizabeth was different a young woman now, beginning her own life and exuding confidence. In contrast Sadie felt middle-aged and tired. Her clothes were faded, her hair grey and in the mirror she could see creases round her eyes and thin lines on her top lip. She remembered when she was young like Elizabeth with thick hair and smooth skin. Elizabeth looked English: she had dark Jewish hair but bright green eyes and the creamy pink complexion of the cla.s.sic English rose, and now she spoke with the quiet self-a.s.surance of a graduate of one of The Universities. No one would guess that she was conceived in a tiny apartment in a Jewish suburb of Berlin. She listened to Elizabeth chatter about new friends, the tutors she liked and the ones she didn't, new words peppering her conversation. Sadie didn't understand but did not like to expose her ignorance to this smart new daughter who drank tea with milk.

Jack marched into the kitchen, a scarf wrapped around his face, his eyebrows covered in frost. Elizabeth smiled he looked like a peasant from a storybook shetetl shetetl in his layers and woollen cap, rather than the dapper London businessman. in his layers and woollen cap, rather than the dapper London businessman.

'Come see my course.'

Swaddled in her coat and woollen scarves, Elizabeth followed Jack outside. The winter's moon hung low in the sky. The frost was so thick that it shone white, bathing the countryside in a ghostly light. It was a good night for stories, so Jack told his daughter all about the legend of the woolly-pig. She listened in silence as their feet crunched through ice on the iron ground. They paused at the ridge by Backhollow, the moon illuminating the weird gra.s.s ledges; at the bottom of the slope a h.o.a.r frost hung in the ash trees. It coated the spindly trunks and dangled from the branches like silver streamers, each twig coated in tiny crystals. In this strange other world of glittering white Jack could almost believe in the tale of the woolly-pig.

'Perhaps there really is such a creature. It might be a wild boar. After all they still have them in France,' conceded Elizabeth.

Jack was delighted; he loved it when she believed his stories. He reached deep into his jacket for a flask and pa.s.sed it to her.

'Here, drink this it'll keep you warm. Don't tell your mother.'

His coat was purchased from Curtis. It was lined with rabbit fur and had a handy inside pocket for keeping all manner of hidden things, from a poached pheasant to a hip flask or sc.r.a.p of fabric for polis.h.i.+ng a flagpole.

Elizabeth took the flask and unscrewed the cap with difficulty through her mittens, tilted it and had a sip. Apples burnt the back of her throat. She coughed and handed it back to her father.

'G.o.d, Daddy, what is that?'

Jack shrugged, 'Just cider from our orchard. It's not very good. You must taste the stuff that my friend Curtis makes.'

He took another swig and gave a loud hiccup. He hadn't yet made a batch that didn't give him hiccups it was most upsetting.

'Come, you must see the first hole. I dug it all myself.'

Sadie sat alone in the kitchen. They had been gone for two hours and she was starting to worry. There was a chicken roasting slowly in the oven as a special treat and soon it would go dry. It was pitch dark outside, the lamps kept going out and there was the uncanny howl of a fox in the distance. She felt like crying. It was always the same they would go off and forget all about her. Every Sunday in London, Jack had taken Elizabeth to the Lyons Corner House in the high street. Not once had they thought to ask her.

Nearly an hour later, Jack and Elizabeth flung open the kitchen door and erupted into the room in a flurry of noise, treading wet boot prints across Sadie's clean floor. She frowned but said nothing; she didn't want to be a scold on her daughter's first day home.

'Well, sit down. It's all ready.'

Sadie lit the candles on the kitchen table and the room basked in the flickering glow. She had wanted everything to be perfect tonight but she was simmering with resentment like the chicken bones in the pressure cooker. Elizabeth reached for the mashed potatoes and took a huge spoonful as Sadie watched, running a hand absent-mindedly over her own spreading middle. There was a thickening roll that never used to be there, which felt like it wasn't really part of her. She remembered when she used to be able to eat like Elizabeth. She flung the vegetable dish on the table. For a moment rage bubbled inside her. It wasn't fair Elizabeth had everything: youth, the possibility of happiness, and Jack. Sadie watched as Jack gazed at his daughter, his eyes wet with love. Once, long ago, he'd looked at her like that. She slammed down the gravy jug.

'The chicken's dry. Everything's spoilt.'

Later that night Jack waited until his women had gone to bed, enjoying the few moments of stillness and watching the embers dying in the grate. He would like a fireplace like Sir William's, decorated with mythical beasts, ho-ho birds and woolly-pigs. A little magic was a good thing.

He hadn't seen Curtis in several days. It was as though when the cold came he disappeared into hibernation, like the badgers and ferrets. Jack yawned it was getting late. He stretched luxuriously and ambled into the kitchen to fetch a gla.s.s of milk before bed. He sloshed it into a mug, and as he wondered whether or not to warm it, he noticed Elizabeth's exam results lying on the table and picked them up, smiling in antic.i.p.ation he presumed she had done well or she would not have left them out for him to peruse. Then he noticed the name on the envelope. This was not his his Elizabeth this was another girl. Elizabeth Margaret Rose. Elizabeth this was another girl. Elizabeth Margaret Rose.

Jack placed the letter back on the table. This was what he wanted: an English daughter with an English name. Now she had the names of a queen, a princess and the most English of all flowers.

She was not even the first to change her name he reasoned. At nine days old she was named Ilse for her great-grandmother by the rabbi at the synagogue in Berlin. In spite of his wife's railings Jack insisted that Ilse had her name altered to the English version, Elizabeth, when they reached the sh.o.r.e at Harwich. Sadie had been furious, names were important; the history of the Jews is carried forth through names: Jack son of Saul and Sadie daughter of Ruth. Jack son of Saul and Sadie daughter of Ruth. Jack had broken the chain. He objected; he had merely translated her name into English, in essence it remained the same. He did not want his small daughter, so tiny and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with promise, to be crippled by a German-sounding name. Jack had broken the chain. He objected; he had merely translated her name into English, in essence it remained the same. He did not want his small daughter, so tiny and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with promise, to be crippled by a German-sounding name.

Sitting in his warm kitchen fifteen years later, Jack reasoned, he had no right to be unhappy that Elizabeth had changed her own name once again. He was sad nonetheless: she no longer had his his name. She was his daughter still, but not in name. Most fathers had to wait until their daughters were married to receive this blow, but for Jack it had come early and he felt it bitterly. name. She was his daughter still, but not in name. Most fathers had to wait until their daughters were married to receive this blow, but for Jack it had come early and he felt it bitterly.

He tiptoed upstairs to Elizabeth's bedroom and pushed open the door. She was not sleeping, but curled up in her mother's rocking chair, chewing her plaits and reading a magazine. Christmas carols played softly on the wireless. She did not hear him, and he watched the small figure, struck by the childishness of her pose. She was a girl-woman, and he felt his heart within him ache.

'Well done. A good result, Elizabeth Rose.'