The Vengeance of Rome (99 page)

This time I spoke to a younger woman. Her faintly accented English was excellent. This was, of course, Esmé. We arranged to meet that afternoon at Princelet Street. Then, if it seemed a good idea, we would go on to Liberty. According to Esmé, my mother had long dreamed of taking tea with me at the Ritz, but the Ritz was already full up. I said I preferred Liberty. Liberty was cheaper, better and never overbooked.

At my flat I dressed carefully and conservatively. I did not even tell Mrs Cornelius where I was going. I still had a faint suspicion I might be falling into one of Brodmann's traps. I had not survived for so long without anticipating such things, the legacy of all those years.

A taxi for so great a distance was out of the question. Instead, I walked up to Notting Hill Gate and got the Central Line to Liverpool Street where I easily found a taxi to take me to Brick Lane.

We drove down the mean, narrow road, full of bagel bakeries, rag shops and kosher butchers. To be honest, Brick Lane was never an area
which attracted me. The denizens had reproduced their original slums and
shtetls
. The cab turned into Princelet Street. Number 19 was about halfway along an old run-down row of eighteenth-century houses, typical of the time, with an arched doorway and two matching arched windows beside it. Above this were two rows of three windows and above them some sort of attic. Even compared to the nearby buildings the place had a distinctly neglected look. No doubt the home of an impoverished refugee, like so many in Notting Hill these days. The door was poorly painted, the knocker filthy with rust and dirt. I lifted it and let it fall; the interior sent back a hollow echo. Something seemed wrong. Was this indeed a trick? I was poised to turn and flee. Perhaps after all I should have brought one of Mrs Cornelius's sons with me. Too late to change my mind. The door was opened by a smart, stocky woman of about my own age. Her hair and costume were clearly that of a person of substance. She smiled and swung the black door back, admitting me into a narrow hall. On both walls were arranged groups of fly-spotted photographs. The place smelled strongly of onions and cabbage. More of old Kiev came back to me. I hesitated. I removed my hat.

‘Maxim!' Her smile was sweet as always. Awkwardly we hovered, unsure whether or not to embrace. At last I did my best to smile in return. I shook hands with her. Her poise and manner were distinctly French. She wore a deliciously floral perfume. Guerlain, I thought. I know these things from the women who come into the shop. I was not a bit surprised at feeling a strong attraction for Esmé.

Needless to say, she was not the bright little girl or the sober young woman I had known long ago, but she wore excellent make-up. Her well-cut clothes were flattering. She spoke good, educated Russian in a beautifully modulated accent such as I had scarcely heard in years. Again tears came to my eyes.

‘Good afternoon, Maxim Arturovitch.' She was sweetly sardonic. ‘It seems the prodigal son has, if not returned, at least arranged to meet for tea. How are you, my dear?'

‘Well, thank you.' Keeping control of myself, I kissed her on both cheeks in the Parisian manner. ‘Did you have a good journey, Esmé Alexandrova?'

‘We took a plane,' she said. ‘So much quicker! The first time your mother has flown. Unlike you, Maxim!' Her grin was mischievously attractive. She had been the first person ever to witness me harness the power of flight, to soar over the towers and steeples of old Kiev. Oh, how she had loved me then! How often I had missed that love!

The house smelled of antiquity and grief, its rooms unlived in and musty.
Yet in contrast to the prevailing atmosphere the front parlour was almost opulently furnished, with big armchairs, a solid table, a floral carpet, some heavy, blue velvet curtains. The wooden blinds were half shut to admit two bright bars of sunlight, one of which shone on fresh flowers in a large green vase, the centrepiece of the table. Around the walls were arranged an old-fashioned radio set, a bureau and a bookcase with dark, matching volumes. Over to the right in the shadows stood two stocky old women in black, neither of whom I recognised. One of them stepped forward holding out her arms. And we embraced. I began to shake. Esmé suggested we sit down. The other old lady murmured in what sounded like German. I heard a few words. She went to get us some tea. My mother sat down across from me on the sofa.

‘We can go on to Liberty as soon as you feel like it.' Esmé stepped back. ‘I can order a taxi.' I remained intensely aware of her floral scent. I noticed how the shafts of light caught her hair. She had good cheekbones, soft skin. She had aged well. ‘But if you'd rather stay here don't worry. You aren't disturbing anyone. Mrs Stein's only here part of the week. She's the caretaker. The house hasn't been used for several years. Are you familiar with its history?'

Why should I be? I thought. I told her that I hardly ever came to this neighbourhood. ‘In London East and West are two separate worlds.' I did my best to laugh. ‘You go through an invisible gate at Holborn.'

‘Mrs Stein tells us the place was once well known. They are trying to get a grant, she says, to preserve it. The house was the last of its kind in London, according to Mrs Stein, originally built to accommodate Huguenot weavers, but around 1870 they added on behind. It remained an ordinary house in the front. Perhaps a rabbi lived here. The addition was a tiny synagogue! You can still see all its decorations, prayer books and so on. The last members of the congregation either died or moved away. Mrs Stein has been telling us about it.'

This news confused me. Had Esmé converted to Judaism while in Palestine? This ordinary working-class front room was a synagogue? I saw no sign of such a building. Was this after all an elaborate hoax? Yet Esmé spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Did she seem over-controlled?

‘A synagogue?'

She was awkwardly respectful. She gave a small, uncertain shrug. ‘Such places were common, apparently, in this part of London. Poor immigrants could not afford very large ones. The whole thing fills the little backyard! Incredible, eh? Do you want to look at it later? The rest of the house, of course, is just a normal dwelling. You can still see where the Protestants had their looms.'

The woman who I supposed was my mother shook her head, speaking in Russian. She smiled uncertainly. ‘No doubt they had to keep it secret. For fear, I would guess, of pogroms.'

‘Pogroms?' I was completely at sea. ‘In London? The Jews were never threatened. You're thinking of Mosley in the 1930s. But that came to nothing. The Jews were always tolerated in London.'

As I spoke Mrs Stein re-entered the room. She shrugged. ‘Pray to God it's true. I heard things were all right in Leeds, but here—? Even today you are never surprised.' She shared a complicit glance with the other two women.

I felt extremely uncomfortable. ‘So it is now a museum?' I asked.

‘Not even that,' said Esmé. ‘This room Mrs Stein keeps up. But the rest of the place has fallen into disuse. The Rodinsky family lived here until recently. Then they died or moved away. One, I gather, was mentally disturbed. This is Mrs Rodinsky's furniture. A shame.'

I was allergic to the dust. I coughed, wiping my eyes. Though the house had recently been cleaned, I felt a strong need to get back into the street. Such rooms always made me claustrophic. ‘Perhaps we should go straight on to Liberty?'

The old lady—my mother—brightened. ‘You find this place a bit depressing. So do I. We'll go have our tea at the restaurant you mentioned. Mrs Stein won't mind.' Then she frowned. ‘But it would not be good manners …' She began to weep again. ‘It is so wonderful to see you, my darling.' She opened her arms, and I was again in her embrace, delighting in the maternal softness of her body, the warmth, her smell. My caution was leaving me. I hugged her as tightly as she hugged me. I had not known such affection since I was last in Kiev, promising to return as soon as possible. I could not control my sobs. ‘Oh, Mother!' Only now did I understand what I had been suppressing for so long.

After a while she fell back into her chair, opening her patent-leather handbag and searching through the contents. ‘I brought a few things I have kept. I finally got a copy of your birth certificate through the agency in Tel Aviv. I thought it might be useful to you. There was, of course, nothing else saved. The Huns destroyed most of our district, and then the KGB and the partisans finished it off. They dynamited half the city, Maxim. How could Ukrainians do that? I couldn't bear to go back. There's nothing left of the Kurenvskaya. Podol is gone, as I said. And they blew up the Kreshchatik. That beautiful avenue!'

I knew of Kiev's destruction. She was right. The Red Army had done as much damage as the Nazis. Between them they left only ruins. Like
Nuremberg and Dresden, local people had reconstructed everything from old plans and photographs. Full-size replicas of themselves. I had often wondered if they then sent out for reproduction bakers, grocers and shoemakers to staff the rebuilt shops.

‘You wouldn't recognise anything.' The old lady dabbed at her face with a handkerchief she found in her bag. She handed me a folded piece of paper. ‘Here it is.'

‘Thank you,' I said absently. ‘This will be useful.' I had something I could send the genealogy people at last. I opened it. I was puzzled. What was wrong?

Frowning, I studied the certificate. I laughed then. ‘But what is this, Mother?' I had no idea to whom the thing referred. ‘This is for someone called Moishe Aaronovitch Peskonechnya.' The only resemblance to my own name were the initials. The similarity of sound had no doubt confused the authorities. She had not looked at the document properly. Her eyesight was failing. Slowly I folded it back up. I looked from the beaming Esmé to the weeping, smiling old woman. She nodded. ‘That was your father. Peskonechnya. A kosher butcher by trade. His father was a rabbi in Kersen.'

I was in a terrible position. Somehow Esmé had been deceived. This poor Jewish matron had honestly convinced herself that I was her son. Whatever the circumstances, I could not in conscience maintain the charade. It would be too cruel.

‘For a Moishe.' I handed it back to her. ‘Not a Maxim!'

‘But that is what we called you.' She was insistent, almost aggressive. ‘That's your name, Moishe.'

‘I am afraid—' Unwittingly, I was taking part in some ghastly charade. I was more than embarrassed. This old woman, no doubt out of desperate need, had imposed her son's identity on me. Esmé had probably persuaded her that they had been acquainted in Kiev. Perhaps Esmé, too, widowed and lonely, followed a similar psychological imperative?

I could not speak. How could I disappoint the poor, old creature? How could I tell her that I was not Jewish, that the very atmosphere of that wretched little synagogue was rather distasteful to me? How could I show Esmé she had been deceived, was deceiving herself? Before worse happened and the emotional disaster was compounded something had to be done and done rapidly, to bring this sad affair to an end. I summoned my courage.

With gentleness and courtesy I was at length able to address the poor old Jewess. ‘Madam, with all respect, I regret that I am not related to you. I only wish I did have a mother like yourself. I long for my family. Much as I
would like to be the one you seek, I cannot pretend I am he. I am not, you see, Jewish. I was born Russian Orthodox and remain in that faith to this day.'

Esmé's eyes widened. How I hated to shock her. But the truth had to be faced. I reached towards her. ‘Esmé, you have through no fault of your own brought two strangers together. You have been betrayed by your need to make your desires real. I understand that yearning all too well. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise. After these miserable decades …'

‘Maxim,' she began steadily, ‘this really is your mother. You must remember her. And no matter how you and your circumstances have changed, you cannot deny your heritage!'

‘Heritage,' I said. ‘I have never once denied my heritage. I am a Russian Cossack, descended from Russian Cossacks. I am not a fool. I know my own Slavic blood. My real mother told me everything. My father was related to the Romanoffs and served them as a captain of cavalry. I myself have served in that same cavalry! Believe me, if I could tell you differently, I would. Madam, I wish you nothing but good. I hope you will indeed one day be reunited with your son.'

At that moment Mrs Stein came uncertainly back into the room, the tea things shaking on the tray. ‘Is there something wrong?'

The old woman Esmé had mistaken for my mother was sitting down again. She was gasping, as if drowning. ‘Moishe,' she said. ‘We always called you Maxim, I know. It was better. But you
are
Moishe, believe me.'

All my life I have been threatened in this way. And now here it was happening again with this old woman claiming to be my own mother, trying to achieve what Cossacks and Nazis had so often tried to do and failed.

I owed it to everyone to tell her the truth. ‘I am a member in good standing of the Bayswater Greek Orthodox congregation,' I told her as calmly as I could. ‘That has been the case for years. I sympathise with your need to find your son, madam, just as I can understand how you persuaded my friend Esmé that you were a woman from her past in Kiev. Believe me, I cannot blame you. We have lived through dreadful times, and we would change them for the better if we could. All of us yearn to restore the past. But I have my own problems. I find this very hard to say. Like you I have borne a great deal. I, too, have been through the camps. Emotionally, I can take very little more.'

‘Maxim,' Esmé was trying to be calm and rational, ‘you can't deny your own mother. No man would do such a thing. Certainly when there is no longer a need. You don't have to be afraid now. All that is over.'

‘Need?' I replied. ‘When was there ever a need? I speak of truth. And I speak of falsehood. What is over? For years I have longed to see my mother,
just as I longed to see you. You cannot know how many years I spent praying that we could be reunited. My mother did so much for me as a boy. She sacrificed herself. She had such wonderful ambitions for me. She saw to it that I was educated. She encouraged me in all my dreams. Do you think I would not recognise my own flesh and blood? But this lady is neither my flesh nor my blood. She is a poor, deluded old creature whom you met in Jaffa by chance in a dry-cleaner's. You both knew Kiev, I'm sure. She no doubt lost a son years ago, this Moishe. But whatever else she told you, one thing is certain. She did not tell you the truth. If she thinks she sees a resemblance in me to her son, she is deluded.'