To Live in Peace (16 page)

“You could have been killed.”

“I was lucky.”

“I’ve been so worried. We’ve all been worried.”

“All?”

“Herb and Ed and Mort. They’ve called every day.”

“Who’s been taking care of you?”

“Never mind about me.”

“But I do.”

And she did. Maurice looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. He was unshaven and dishevelled.

Kitty put a hand to her head and felt the bandages. “What do I look like?”

“Beautiful.”

“I can imagine. Can I have a drink?”

Maurice picked up the feeding cup with its spout and as he put it to her lips Kitty remembered the ice-cream he had spooned from his plate to hers, so solicitously, in Eilat when they had first had dinner together. He held the cup tenderly, compassionately, as if its contents would heal her wounds.

“I’m so tired,” she remembered saying. “I could sleep for a week.”

“You already did.”

She had managed a smile which hurt her bruised face. “Thank you for the flowers.”

“They’re from your children. I didn’t bring anything.” He didn’t need to. His feelings for her were in his gaze, in the touch of his hand on hers.

When he’d gone the woman in the opposite bed had said: “That sure is some husband!”

“He’s not my husband.”

“Some fella! I been through half a dozen, ain’t any one of them looked at me like that!”

It was Bette who had raised the alarm when Kitty had not turned up at the church hall. She had called Maurice who had alerted the police, the hospitals.

Sometimes the aerobic dancing came into Kitty’s dream. She was struggling, fighting for her life and her handbag in the alley in her green leotard, bending and stretching as she had been taught. Blows rained on her head, on her shins, about her body. She was gasping for breath, sweating. “Sydney,” she screamed. “Sydney!”

She opened her eyes to find Maurice, with a two foot long salami, standing at the end of her bed.

“We’re going on a trip…” Maurice said.

Kitty stared at him, dear and familiar, holding the carrier bag from the 2nd Avenue Deli – “The Best Chopped Liver in Town”.

“…to Florida. As soon as you’re better. I’ve just come from the travel agent. I’ve put our names down for a cruise out from Miami, the sea air will do you good, then we’ll take a drive down to Key West.”

“I haven’t the strength,” Kitty said.

Maurice’s suggestion touched her but did not fill her with enthusiasm. The euphoria on the wave of which she had crossed the Atlantic had – helped by the obscenity of the blow to her skull – finally worn off. Apart from the aching and soreness of her head and the cuts and bruises which had transformed her body into a painful and uncomfortable mass, she wondered with a sinking sensation of alienation how she had come to be in this strange bed, surrounded by these strange women, in this strange place, in this foreign country, so many miles from home.

“You were calling for Sydney,” Maurice said, not moving from the end of the bed.

Kitty said nothing. There was nothing to say. Sydney had understood her. After almost forty years they had been as one. It was the first time she had heard Maurice mention her late husband’s name.

He put the carrier bag down on her feet. His visit to the kosher delicatessen had been a kind gesture but it wasn’t salami that she needed but to be in England, in her flat, with Sydney. To put the clock back.

Maurice drew up a chair, took her hand in his. With the other he smoothed her hair from the side of her face which wasn’t covered with the bandages.

“I keep blaming myself.”

“It was my own fault. I wasn’t thinking what I was doing, I was upset about Sabra and Chatila. I keep going over it in my head.”

“Don’t think about it, Kit. It won’t do you any good. Another week you can come home… I’ve done nothing. I can’t work without you. You’ve breathed life into my life. I miss you.”

It wasn’t until he had gone that Kitty realised that, despite the fact that in her weakness she had yearned for the easy familiarity and the comfort of Sydney, when Maurice wasn’t there by her bedside she missed him too. Although her first reaction to the suggested trip had been unenthusiastic, now that he’d painted a word picture for her of what they would do, places they would visit, she began to look forward to getting well. Sydney had not cared for the sea and she had neither been on a cruise (Bette would have to help her select appropriate clothes) nor to the Caribbean with its white sands and blue skies which Maurice had described. Their ports of call on the “Song of Norway” were to be Georgetown, Montego Bay, and Cozumel. The unfamiliar names – Sydney had liked Herzlia or the Grand Hotel at Rimini – had taken her mind off both the war in Lebanon and her own confrontation with violence and she was unable to avoid, when her roommates returned from their lunch, announcing with pride that when her wounds had healed she was being taken on a convalescent sea voyage.

She told Bette on her next visit and watched her eyes cloud, just for a moment, at Kitty’s good fortune. There was no substitute, Bette was fond of saying, for the love of a good man, and Kitty knew that for all Bette’s frenetic life-style she was only filling the days – as Kitty not so long ago had done – and companionship such as Kitty shared with Maurice was what she missed.

“Put me in your pocket,” was what her new friend had actually said facetiously, but by the expression on her face Kitty knew that although she herself had been assaulted and robbed, Bette was jealous of the ensuing trip Maurice had proposed, the Caribbean dream.

Kitty wrote to Rachel, her first letter, excitement at the voyage ahead of her propelling her shaking pen.

Sarah’s anticipation of her first visit to the mikveh had turned out to be worse than the event.

“Be thankful you’re not a man,” Josh had said, referring to the traumatic circumcision statutory for all male converts. Accompanied by Mrs Halberstadt, like a criminal after nightfall, Sarah had made the journey to the running waters of the ritual bath where she would immerse herself naked as an infant, to re-emerge, having confronted her own death and resurrection, as a Jew.

The “running waters” of the original purification had been ponds, lakes, rivers and seas. Now it was a purpose-built bath in a north London suburb, presided over by a motherly mittel European wearing a sheitel (in accordance with the precept that married women must cover their heads, except in the presence of their husbands). Before the ritual bath had come the preparation. Availing herself of the up-to-date facilities, Sarah had in the prescribed manner removed her jewellery and bathed meticulously, paying particular attention to the nails of her fingers and toes, washed her hair (combing it free of tangles) and proceeded to the next room where the attendant waited to supervise her immersion.

Her fears had been groundless. As instructed by Mrs Halberstadt, who had been over and over the procedure, Sarah had descended into the pool and had stood for a
private moment – strangely moved by the experience which had spiritually cleansed so many Jewish women before her – with her feet slightly apart, her arms outstretched before her, fingers spread, lips and eyes loosely closed. Slowly, deliberately, aware that this was the culmination of her two years of study, the final affirmation of her intentions, she had bent her knees until her entire body including her hair (confirmed by the attendant) was covered by the water. Surfacing, she had recited the blessing: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who had made us holy with Your commandments and commanded us concerning immersion.”

Her words had been recorded by a representative of the Rabbinical Court, present for the specific purpose in an adjoining room who would vouch for the fact that Sarah was now eligible for the official document of conversion. A second immersion reiterated the rebirth of a gentile as Jew. The end of days is the beginning of days. It had not been so bad after all.

Josh, more nervous than she, had been waiting when she got home. In his silent embrace was his gratitude for the thing she had done for him although he had neither asked nor expected her to do it.

He held her at arm’s length, looking at her with pride.

“I wish your mother was here,” Sarah said.

“Why?”

“I like talking to her. My friends think I’m mad, Rachel won’t speak to me because of your political views, Carol has her hands full with the children…”

“And you miss your ‘Jewish mother’!”

“Jewish mothering is a holdover from the ghetto where it was she who kept the family together.”

“We no longer live in the ghetto, Sarah.”

“The Jewish mother, I grant you, is inclined to encourage her children to be emotionally dependent…”

“You can say that again!”

“…but at least she’s proud of them, and interested in fostering their talents. I miss Kitty. Do you think she’ll come back?”

“She seemed to be having a good time until she got mugged.”

“I’d like her to be here when our child is born.”

“Your mother’s coming down, isn’t she?”

“She’s probably expecting me to give birth to a foal.”

Kitty sat in the fading light of Maurice’s living-room, her thoughts dancing in time to the Diabelli Variations, watching Maurice paint. He rarely worked either in the evenings or when he was not alone. While she had been in the hospital there had been a perceptible change. She had noticed it soon after coming home. Maurice had come to fetch her – he refused Bette’s offer of company – and had fussed around her not allowing her to carry even her cardigan. Her roommates had been sorry to see her go, they had enjoyed hearing the stories about Rachel and Carol and Josh and life in England which seemed so quaintly remote from their own. She gave the Teuscher’s Handmade Candies, given to her by her “beaux”, to the grandmother from Alabama, a postcard of Princess Diana and Prince Charles – sent by Hettie Klopman – to the schoolteacher from the Lower East Side, and an Estée Lauder atomiser to the lady from the Bronx.

“We’re gonna miss you, honey,” her fellow grandmother said.

“Good luck with the babies.” The schoolteacher was tickled pink by the prospect of Kitty’s forthcoming grandchildren.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to come back,” the fourth room occupant said lugubriously, dousing herself with “Youth Dew”.

Kitty had said goodbye to Miss Bronstein, who while no Florence Nightingale had done her job, and leaving the room with its picture windows overlooking Central Park, leaning heavily on Maurice, had gone down in the silent elevator through the Klingenstein Pavilion with
its naked bronze statue of “Mother and Child”, its spotlit decorative tiles, “Horse Racing” and “Children going to School”, and its piped music – none of which she had seen when she had arrived, unconscious – to the unfamiliar street where a garbage man picked up the trash from around the wheels of Maurice’s waiting car.

She had not been prepared for the reception committee. Maurice opened the door of the apartment revealing a banner which stretched across the hallway, reading: “Welcome Home Kitty”, underneath which stood a beaming Herb and Ed and Mort. She wished Rachel could have seen them, or Carol. As it was, tears of weakness and appreciation came into her eyes and, although she assured them she was feeling fine, they would not let her lift a finger. She sat like royalty on the sofa while Maurice went into her own apartment which he had filled with flowers and unpacked for her, and Herb, in his element in the kitchen, put the finishing touches to the lunch which Mort let on had taken him three days to prepare and had entailed multifarious changes of menu. Exhausted from her journey Kitty wanted nothing more than to sleep, but when Herb declared himself ready and opened the kitchen door on to a table set with lace mats, not wanting to offend him she sat down to artichokes gribiches, egg-plant rollatini with three cheeses and rugola salad, followed by ginger poached pears. She was unaccustomed either to being cooked for and waited on or to the pleasurable feelings these attentions gave her, the sensation that she was being cared for instead of caring for others. After the meal and the coffee, made with extra attention by Maurice, Ed got to his feet.

“This isn’t a speech” – he looked at Herb and Mort for support – “I just want you to know how much we’ve all missed you and how pleased we are to have you back. We’d like to drink a toast to your very good health.” They 
raised their wine glasses – California Rioja – to Kitty and she’d thought it was the end of the proceedings but Herb and Ed and Mort had a further expression of their regard for her which they manifested in a spirited rendering of “God Save The Queen” at which Kitty tried hard not to smile.

“What can I say?” she asked when they’d sat down again, somewhat discomforted by their own exhibition. “Except thank you.” She got up from her chair and kissed them each in turn before Maurice took her off to her own apartment to the bed which he had personally prepared. He closed the curtains and stood by the door.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said. “Sleep well.”

It was the following morning that Kitty noticed the changes. She had slept the clock round and risen feeling refreshed and well except for the slight throbbing in her temple which seemed now to be a permanent feature of her life. Maurice had told her to call him when she woke, not to dream of getting up, and that he would come across and make her breakfast. She dressed, conscious of her happiness at not being in the confines of the hospital ward with three other women who, although pleasant enough, she could have done without at times, and taking her key entered Maurice’s flat.

He did not hear her come in. He was painting, which was not unusual, and he was whistling, which was. Kitty stopped in her tracks. Generally he worked in silence. She recognised the staccato tremolandoes of Mendelssohn’s Octet for Strings, which Maurice had so often played for her, and marvelled at the sound. But that was not all. As she approached the canvas she saw, over Maurice’s shoulder, that on the easel there was no sombre verisimilitude of “Smoke”, “Agony”, “Bodies in a Pit”, but a landscape in blues and yellow of fields
that rolled into some European distance illuminated by the sun.

She did not move but Maurice sensed her presence. He put down his palette and brushes and came to her. Neither of them commented on the canvas because there was no need; neither of them spoke. Maurice put his arm around her, holding her to him, then led her into the kitchen where he squeezed oranges for juice and put the muffins – which Herb had made and left in the freezer – in the oven to warm up, and made coffee and looked at Kitty, watching her every move as if she might disappear at any moment from before his eyes.

She had been home for almost a week now of which they had spent almost every waking moment together. Maurice had painted, and whistled or hummed arias from Mozart and Rossini while Kitty worked at the bargello stitch tapestry Bette had given her for her convalescence – which she would make into a cushion for Carol – or wrote thank you letters to all the people who had written to her after her misfortune telling them she was now well. They did not talk a great deal. Sometimes in the evenings Maurice read to her, Heine’s poems, one of them “To Kitty”, from a thumbed and tattered volume; “Den Tag, den hab ich so himmlisch verbracht… The day I spent was a heavenly day, The evening with godliness flowering; The wine was good and Kitty was fair, And the heart was all devouring…”

Kitty had grown used to Maurice’s habit of expressing his sentiments, which she knew did not trip lightly from his tongue, through the words of others. In Auschwitz, he had told her, they had organised evenings of song and poetry in order to retain some vestige of humanity. Once, before her accident, she had been in the kitchen making pastry when Maurice, from his customary position by the window from where he seemed never to grow tired of
watching her as she went about her chores, had recited: “I don’t believe in the heaven, Of which the preachers drone: I believe in your eyes only – There is my heaven alone”, and she had almost wept into the lemon curd tarts.

Watching him now, totally absorbed in the application of colour upon canvas, Kitty recognised in their
non-verbal
communication – her aloneness with Maurice was different from her aloneness with Sydney – an understanding, a mutual caring and respect.

The music came to an end and Maurice removed the Beethoven from the turntable, returning the record meticulously to its sleeve. He put on another but did not go back to his easel. He came to sit on the sofa beside Kitty. The music, a song, was unfamiliar. Kitty, looking up from the wool she was selecting, raised questioning eyebrows.

“‘An die Geliebte’,” Maurice said. “Beethoven wrote it for his sweetheart.”

She put down her needlework.

“I know I said six months,” Maurice said, “but I’d like for us to be married before we go on the cruise. I’ve never loved anyone else, Kitty. There doesn’t seem to be anything to wait for.”

A feeling of panic overtook her. Although she had not been unaware of the meaning of the growing intimacy between them in the past few days, and the strength of Maurice’s feelings for her, she had been unprepared, before the agreed time, for his proposal. How could she
take such a step without consulting her family? What was she doing contemplating sharing her life with another man only two years after Sydney had died? She knew that had they been there, Josh, always practical, would have asked her if she knew what she was doing, putting doubts into her mind. Carol would have unnerved her, and Rachel, treasuring the memory of her late father, would have been angry. She had to make the decision, away from everyone she held dear, on her own.

Whilst Maurice waited for her reply and Beethoven serenaded his “Immortal Beloved”, Kitty tried to impose some semblance of order upon her thoughts. The most pressing question she must address was, Did she love Maurice? She did not “not love him”. Because of his history he had more than his share of idiosyncrasies, more dark and inward thoughts which she must not try to probe. What man, what person, did not carry with him his private hell which he had both to overcome and live with? That Maurice was kind there was no doubt; that his generosity was directed exclusively to herself was flattering. That he worshipped her was manifest; Herb and Ed and Mort referred to him jokingly as a lovesick adolescent.

Kitty considered her own feelings vis-à-vis Maurice. She was happy when she was with him. Extremely happy. Of course she was homesick in New York, separated from her nearest and dearest, but that was hardly Maurice’s fault. It was no fun being alone. She had had quite enough of widowhood since Sydney had died. Did she want to share the rest of her life, more intimately than she had in the past few months, with the man, a good many years older than she, who was waiting, as if he had all the time in the world, for her answer?

She was fond of Maurice. Love? Love was something else. She had loved Sydney from their first meeting. It
had never waned. She did not know Maurice. To marry him would be like diving from a high board into waters of whose depth she was unsure.

And yet the thought of plighting her troth to him certainly did not alarm her. That there was a possibility of it she had, after all, acknowledged when she had agreed to come to New York. Inside she felt, she realised with amazement, as if she were eighteen and receiving her first proposal. The psyche, as well as having no colour, was ageless. She looked round Maurice’s apartment at the books extending from floor to ceiling with which Maurice had replaced his murdered family and with which he inured himself from the world. It was not London, her ordered sitting-room with its formal bird’s-eye maple furniture most of it from when she had first married Sydney, but it was certainly no punishment. Could she live in New York where, other than Bette Birnstingl, she had no friends? Could she, most importantly, live so far away from her children and grandchildren, her memories of Sydney and everything she held dear?

“I’m not much of a catch,” Maurice said, misinterpreting her silence. “I don’t have any family. There’s only me. Maybe you’d be lonely.”

Kitty was silent.

“I’m expecting too much,” Maurice said.

Still Kitty said nothing.

“There’s only one thing I have to offer you and it’s of no great value.”

She looked at him.

“My love. But it’s a big love. An overwhelming love. A painful love. It’s been in cold storage since they took my parents away, and my brothers and sisters. Since I lost my aunts and my uncles and my grandparents. Since I discovered, when I was no more than a child, what human
beings were capable of. It’s the love of an adolescent, the love of a young man, the love of my middle-age, mature love. It’s the love of the family I never had, the love of the life I have never lived. It’s yours, Kit. All of it.”

The music came to an end, the arm lifted from the record and the player switched off, leaving the room soundless. Maurice was waiting for her answer.

Tempted to call upon Sydney for guidance as she was in the habit of doing when she was in a quandary, Kitty checked herself. This time she was on her own. She looked round the room at Maurice’s possessions, redolent of the man, inhaled the smell of paint and turpentine to which she had become accustomed, felt the presence of Maurice next to her and knew she must not walk away, that she did not want to. She thought of Rachel and Carol and Josh and that they had their own lives, were busy establishing their own dynasties, and that she must not make them the excuse for jeopardising her future.

“I don’t expect you to love me,” Maurice said. “Perhaps in time…”

“But I do,” Kitty said, surprised that she had spoken. And looking at him, the face with its furrows of suffering, the eyes that had witnessed what no man should be obliged to witness, the ardour in his regard that would kindle a fire in any woman, the current that passed through his skin to hers, she realised that she did. Afterwards she could not recall the exact sequence of events. There had been a lot of laughing and crying – “Where is it written that you can’t laugh and cry in the same day?” Maurice had said – and he had opened a bottle of champagne.

“‘She loves me! She loves me, the beautiful maiden’.” And Kitty’s sun, which she had thought had gone down with the death of Sydney, had risen over the horizon and started to fill her world with a warm and golden light.
They had talked into the small hours. Having made her decision Kitty found herself opening out to Maurice, releasing her hopes, fears, expectations and dreams, bombarding him with emotions she had for so long been unable to share.

“You have made my life joyous,” Maurice said. “For many years I have only pretended to myself I was a happy human being.”

Perhaps it was the dim light of the lamp in which they sat, perhaps some trick, some delusion that deceives lovers, Kitty wasn’t sure, but when she looked at Maurice in his open-necked shirt, at his wayward shock of white hair, he appeared suddenly youthful as if he had shed the snakeskin of his past life and, rejuvenated, come to claim her. Later, alone in her apartment in front of the mirror, she had had to smile, wondering how anyone in his right mind could have proposed marriage to a woman with the scars of stitches on her forehead, whose face was black and blue, whose untended hair with its grey roots made a bizarre frame for her face, and thought that Maurice – a “beautiful maiden” was what he had called her – must indeed love her.