Fervor, page 20
“Meredith said that? About Jew magic.”
“I don’t blame them, to be honest. She’s a creepy kid. What other girl her age spends her whole time tripping balls in graveyards?”
“Gideon, if Elsie’s own friends are using anti-Semitic taunts, then that’s something we need to address. I promise—”
“Mother! For G-d’s sake, forget anti-Semitism for two seconds and listen to me. There are other things in the world that need our attention besides people hating Jews. Elsie gets high, like, all the time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t found any of her little baggies? Why don’t we go to Zeide’s room, right now. I’ll show you her stash.”
“Gideon, you’re scaring me.”
“Good! Your daughter is bonkers, your family is a mess. Right now, being scared is the correct response. Being scared makes sense. Come with me. Let’s go right now.”
Of my three children, Gideon is the most sanguine, and to see him in this mood was unprecedented. At the words “Jew magic,” I was put in mind of Israel Baal Shem Tov’s errant disciple, overtaken by death in the vigour of his youth, his heart burnt up inside his own chest. What was now happening to my daughter? I pictured Elsie with the works of the Kabbalah spread on her desk, vodka sloshing through her blood. Perhaps something harder.
Upstairs, Gideon barged through the door. Elsie, who was bent over on the daybed, leapt to her feet.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out now!”
It was too late. On the bed next to her was a small creature, no bigger than a badger, hairless, with sad, grey flesh. It looked a sickly thing, a runt, something that was born dying. Frightened by our intrusion, it scuttled off and was out the window, but not before I’d seen the teeth. The green eyes, and those little teeth.
“Ariel!” Elsie cried, running to the window. A low howl sounded from the street. She leaned out, cried again, then turned to look at me. “What have you done?”
It was then I noticed the state she was in. Her shirt was unbuttoned, and she wore no bra. Once again, Elsie screamed for everyone to get out. Nobody moved.
Those little teeth were squared off, just like a tiny human being.
PART THREE
Fervor
SIXTEEN
Everyone in college was talking about Hannah’s book. Know-it-alls criticised her literary style, calling it dated, cold, even heartless, while moralists decried the callous use of her own family as subject matter. Certain Jewish kids (the quietly observant, the ones who practised a sort of reverential agnosticism) feared she was bringing the religion into disrepute. No one—gentile or Jew—was indifferent. On every corridor, you heard snippets of conversation.
“They’re totally gonna make a film of it.”
“Chronically underfund mental health services, now here we are.”
“Like The Exorcist, but Jewish.”
“If you read it, you’re only feeding the machine.”
“You’re implicated.”
“Do you know what the advance was? I heard six figures.”
“Half a million, easy.”
“Whatever. I’m going to read it.”
The University Wiccan Society denounced the book as culturally insensitive, making plans to stand outside Blackwell’s and distribute leaflets the day of release. A friend of Jan’s agreed to review the book for Cherwell, which ensured there would be at least one advance copy doing the rounds in college. Selfishly, I anticipated the publication of Hannah’s latest as keenly as anyone. When you drive past an upturned car, you don’t look away. Especially when you know the passengers.
For Tovyah, publication day was a source of genuine dread.
I knocked for him on the first morning of the new term, soon as I’d unpacked. We hadn’t spoken over the break and I was, for obvious reasons, apprehensive. The door eased open, and every version of the conversation I’d drafted in my head now evaporated.
Tovyah stared at me through the crack. “Oh, it’s you.”
His eyes were a little red and his hair shone with grease.
“I see they’ve cleaned up the door,” I said.
It was an imperfect job. The two upper panels were darker than the rest. It seemed as though after sanding down the vandal’s work and applying wood filler, the repairman had gone to work with the wrong shade of paint. By the time he realised the error, he decided to keep going rather than start over. And so, even with the graffiti gone, the door stood out from those either side, as if marked.
Tovyah was not impressed. “They should have ripped it off its hinges and used it for firewood.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” I said.
“As you like.”
Although he offered me a cup of tea, he didn’t seem overjoyed to see me. He poured old dregs down his sink, hastily rinsed two mugs, and flicked on the kettle. The smell of burnt toast filled the room, and I got the impression he hadn’t gone out, other than for essentials, in weeks.
“So they let you stay in the end?”
Tovyah nodded. The college was “very understanding” about his situation (he said it with air quotes), and had allowed him to keep his room for a fraction of termly rent.
I asked if he was talking to his family at all.
“Only Elsie. Any lingering fondness I once had for my parents is now truly dead.”
“And your brother?”
“He’s on the other side of the world.”
I’d often wondered how this third Rosenthal sibling compared to the two I’d met. Tovyah insisted that Gideon was “dull witted,” and a “sanctimonious shit.” Still, the fact that he got on with those most unusual of parents and had migrated across continents made me want to meet him.
I asked how Elsie was.
Tovyah folded his arms. “How do you think? My mother is a butcher. She slits the throat, hoists from the legs, and drains to the last drop.”
The kettle steamed. Tovyah placed two mugs on top of his fridge and poured in boiling water, spilling some under his trembling grip.
“You never answered my texts,” I said.
“What?”
“Over the break. You’ve been ignoring me.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’d have thought that was obvious.”
Having added milk and sugar, Tovyah handed me a mug. I sipped too early and burnt the roof of my mouth. What would happen if I touched him now? If I put a hand on his chest, for instance.
“Did they find the vandal?” I asked. “People seem pretty worked up about the whole thing.”
There were posters in the entrance lodge, asking witnesses to come forward, and there’d been a mass email dumped in our inboxes.
“You think they’re taking it seriously? Wake up. A whole month later, and who’s been punished?”
Over the holidays, there’d been much speculation about the culprit. Few people actually saw the graffiti before it was painted over, which explains why many seemed to think the hooked cross had stood all on its own, the signature of a neo-Nazi. Jan and a few other self-identified members of the anti-Zionist left fell under suspicion, as did Tovyah himself. An attention-seeking stunt, people said. To make everyone feel sorry for him.
“Even you must see it now,” he said. “The one thing my mother is dead right about.”
“What is?”
Rather than answer the question, he told a story.
When Gideon finished his military service, he did what a lot of Israelis do. He went backpacking. Finally, a little freedom! He went right through Asia, then swung North and headed to Europe. Did a lot of couch surfing, a lot of staying in hostels. Gideon’s a moron—he’ll tell you he drank at a hundred bars in a hundred nights—but fair enough, he can take care of himself. He travelled everywhere on his UK passport. And everywhere he introduced himself as British. Not Israeli, not even English, but British.
Why? People hate Brits abroad, it’s true. But people fucking despise Israelis.
Anyway, the trip’s going well. He’s having the time of his life, whatever. And on his way back to Tel Aviv, he stops in Istanbul, where he’s put up by these middle-aged folks. Very sweet couple, they make him breakfast, cook him dinner, give him lifts. In short, the perfect hosts. Slightly odd dynamic between them, though. Because the man’s a constant stream of opinions, but his wife’s a mouse. And the man says to Gideon, very proud, she only speaks when she has something important to say. When that woman opens her mouth, listen.
The last night of Gideon’s stay, some friends of the couple come over. Everyone’s having coffee and chatting. And Gideon’s kind of the guest of honour. People are curious to meet him and ask about his travels.
You went to Kathmandu? someone says. What were the Nepalis like?
And Gideon says the Nepalis were very nice.
And his host says, yes, yes, I know several Nepalis. Very good people.
And someone else asks Gideon, did you ever go to Hungary? My cousin lives there.
Yes, Gideon says, Budapest. Three nights.
And what were the Hungarians like?
Lovely. Really liked the Hungarians.
And Gideon’s host says, let me tell you something about Hungarians. Some of the best people in the world.
And this goes on some time. Countries Gideon’s never visited get discussed. The Poles are terrific, the Japanese are wonderful, the Sudanese are extraordinary. The Belgians too. And the French and the Libyans and the Dutch. And Gideon says something like, it’s only governments that cause wars and famine and poverty. Any country you go to, the ordinary people are wonderful. They’re friendly and nice and just want to live in peace with their neighbours.
Everyone round the table is filled with a love of their fellow man. At this point the host’s wife speaks for the first time all evening. Except the Jews, she says. And everyone agrees. The Jews are dogs.
* * *
Although the story ended with a clear punch line, I had no idea if I was supposed to laugh—Tovyah had spoken with no mischief in his voice, as though just laying down facts. Then he laughed, and his features took on a sudden lightness. For the first time that day, I felt like he didn’t somehow hate me.
At last, I relaxed. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”
“And go where?”
I wanted to suggest dinner, or cocktails on Little Clarendon Street, but the romantic overtones gave me pause. Instead, I mentioned that some friends were meeting in the Royal Oak for lunch in an hour’s time.
Tovyah asked which people, and I rattled off some names.
“Jan Stockwell? You’re not serious.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“Give me a break. These people aren’t worth your time, Kate. Last term I heard Jan call David Hume a white supremacist! The libraries in this city have collections as good as any. The whole history of human thought is sitting on the shelves, waiting for us to take down the books and peer into the minds of bygone generations. And all anyone does is sling around buzzwords. Banish Hume! Tear up The Great Western Canon! You’d think the academics would clamp down on it, but they encourage this drivel, give it good marks. When my grandfather was our age, there were plenty of thugs around telling you very loudly not to read Plato, Aristotle, Voltaire…”
I tried to say something about glib Nazi comparison, but Tovyah wasn’t having it.
“Oh no, no no, not you too. Carving a swastika, that’s glib.”
“I’m on your side!”
There was a fierceness to him then, his whole body was tensed. “I bet you never did learn your ten names,” he said.
“My what?”
“The Eli Schultz thing. Ten victims, learn their names.”
“I thought you said it was pointless.”
“You never listen. I said if you cared, you’d already know them.”
I had not learned my names. In fact, not long after the lecture, I’d forgotten all about it. “You can do ten?” I said.
“Mendl Rosenthal”—he began counting on his fingers—“Helly Rosenthal, Tsirl Rosenthal, Avram Rosen—you want just ten? I can do ten without changing surnames.”
His eyes were burning. I rested my hands on his shoulders. Our eyes met. I tried to kiss him, but he pushed me away.
“And they put a swastika on my door!”
* * *
Later that week, I was in the faculty library, hunting down the one reference copy of some textbook on literary theory I needed to consult for my latest essay. I’d arrived early; on two previous occasions the copy had been removed from the stacks by another student before I could get to it. This time, there it was among the rows of other serious-minded books, perfectly ordered. Thankful not to be met by a gap-tooth in the shelf, I took it down.
As I held it in my hands, I became aware of a boy standing close behind me. He asked, with barely concealed frustration, how long I’d be needing the book I was holding.
“You’re the one!” I said, turning around.
“Do I know you?”
His long fringe hung down over one side of his face. As he brushed it aside with slender fingers, he took me in properly, and, seeming to realise how rude he’d just been, smiled in apology.
“We’ve been squabbling over this book all week,” I said.
He was still grinning. “So we meet at last.”
We agreed to find two seats next to each other and swap notes. At the end of a three-hour session, he pressed a Post-it onto the desk in front of me. Do you have a phone number or what?
It is told: in Eden, Adam received from the angel Raziel a Secret Doctrine containing hidden truths about the origins of the universe, the nature of the Godhead, the scheme of providence, and the existence of the soul beyond death. Possession of such mystical knowledge placed him above the lesser divinities, above the seraphim and cherubim, and above the morning star. The Doctrine was lost in the Fall but restored to Adam after another great angel took pity on him weeping. Adam handed on this Secret Doctrine to Seth, his thirdborn, who in turn chose a successor to be the guardian of Kabbalah. Thus the Doctrine was handed on by each successive generation, always concealed from the majority. On Mount Sinai, along with the Decalogue, Moses received the Secret Doctrine, and shared it with chosen disciples. This ancient wisdom eventually passed from oral culture into writing. First in the Book of Enoch, then in Sepher Yetzirah, the Book of Formation, and finally in the Zohar, the Book of Splendour, the greatest wonder of Kabbalism.
Our own copy was presented to my husband on his fortieth birthday, the recommended age to begin Kabbalistic study. An amusing gift, it had stood more or less unopened on our top shelf ever since. Or so we thought. At some point, when our backs were turned, little hands reached up for the ancient text; Elsie alone had turned those thin pages in the depths of night, had peered into the dark centre of the Kabbalistic labyrinth. This is what she was reading when her English teacher first called us in for an emergency meeting. “Your daughter has done a terrible thing,” she said. Taking her inspiration from the legend of Jephthah, Elsie had written a story in which her ambitious parents make of their daughter a human sacrifice.
Surely, I was not the only student at college who developed a sudden interest in Kabbalah amidst the furore over Hannah Rosenthal’s forthcoming book. There was something kooky about looking into it, however, and I didn’t want to be seen calling up dusty volumes from the stacks of the Bodleian Library, like someone out of an M. R. James story.
So, my research began online. I learned that at one and a quarter million words, the writings of the Zohar cycle stretch to as many pages as Marcel Proust’s many-volumed novel. But unlike In Search of Lost Time, it has never been translated into English in its entirety. Understandable, then, that the book has spawned countless legends, often based on little familiarity with the actual text. While no more, as far as I could tell, than an expansive gloss on the writings of the Old Testament, the Zohar has throughout the ages been mistaken for something more sinister: a book of spells. In medieval Europe, practitioners of witchcraft saw the Jewish mystics as powerful magi. Such rumours led A. E. Waite to begin his work on Kabbalah with an exasperated injunction: “I should wish to exclude from the auditorium those who understand Scientifica Kabbalistica as an art of making, consecrating and using talismans and amulets, as a magical mystery concerning the power of Divine Names, or as a source and authentication of Grimoires and Ceremonial Rituals of Evocation.”
Hannah Rosenthal would no doubt have been kicked out of Waite’s auditorium. “I’m not claiming the book we had on our shelves was written by angels and only copied by men. But when I run my eyes over even a few lines, a certain shiver runs down my spine.”
* * *
Daughters of Endor was published in third week.
The book’s thesis can be summarised as follows. After the trauma of losing her grandfather, with whom she had always been close, Elsie attempted to discover ancient techniques for communing with the dead. Inspired by biblical narratives, old legends, and fanatical religious zeal, her enquiries led her, via a premature sexual awakening, to the deepest mysteries of the Kabbalah, where she was soon lost among shadows. At some point the girl’s soul was overpowered by a demonic spirit, posing as the restless ghost of her grandfather in order to lead her astray. This spirit was an enemy the family has been battling ever since.
Tovyah couldn’t get through it, literally hurled the book across his room in disgust—I heard it thump against my wall.
Others had less difficulty finishing. The following evaluation comes from the review that appeared in the Oxford Student: “Oscar Wilde famously pronounced that there is no such thing as a moral or immoral book, only books that are well written and those that are badly written. Hannah Rosenthal’s latest offering gives the lie to Wilde’s epigram; despite the black magic of the author’s prose, Daughters of Endor is a profoundly immoral work…” Flowery though it is, the evaluation is not wide of the mark. The terrible thing about Hannah’s book was just how readable it was.
