The limits of love, p.1
The Limits of Love, page 1
THE LIMITS OF LOVE
Frederic Raphael
Copyright © Frederic Raphael 1960
Frederic Raphael has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved.
First published in 1960 by Cassell & Co. Ltd.
This edition published in 2020 by Lume Books.
For my wife
and for our son, Paul
absit omen
Table of Contents
book one
Freedom and Necessity
one
Introduction to a Family
two
Background to a Marriage
three
Conflicts of Friendship
four
Conflicts of Love
five
‘And Afterwards …’
six
A House and a Garden
seven
Not Even Your Own Father
eight
Family Parties
nine
Friends and Relations
ten
Two English Dances
eleven
Capital Matters
book two
The One and the Many
one
The Middle Way
two
The Fifth Form at Benedict’s
three
The Team Spirit
four
My Son, My Son
five
The Only Girl in the World
six
The Escapers
seven
The Strangers
eight
The Return
nine
The Final Analysis
book three
Process and Reality
one
Some Investigations
two
Time Future and Time Past
three
The Thaw
four
My People, Israel
five
MacDonald Smith and Associates
six
Men on the Run
seven
Two Deaths
eight
Satellites
nine
A Sunday in November
book one
Freedom and Necessity
one
Introduction to a Family
1
How to make a beginning with them, that was the problem. Otto Kahane stood on the pavement of Cricklewood High Street and shivered. How to present oneself to one’s own people. Perhaps he should never have claimed them. Hannah’s voice on the phone had conveyed the message: ‘You, Otto, good God, for years we’ve thought – for years we’ve thought about you. All through the war, Issy was saying “I wonder what happened to Otto” and now here you are. Well, well. Sure come over; as a matter of fact, we’re in the middle of moving house, but sure come over. Do you remember the address? I’ll give you the address.’ He stood on the grey pavement while the cold-faced crowds went by. Otto wore a long black coat and a black hat. He held a small black attaché case. His shoes were black too, and even his face had a blackness in it; the eyes were black and the flesh had a thinness through which it seemed black bone was pushing. Otto Kahane had spent two years in Dachau Concentration Camp.
How to make a beginning with them. The cold pricked through the cracks in his shoes, but Otto did not move. The cold was part of him.
He had never thought he would have a family again; sooner or later he would die in the camp. Then they had made him come out. He stood on the pavement in Cricklewood High Street. They had made him come out. ‘Have you any family?’ they asked. He looked at the slag of corpses in the camp yard. ‘Those are my family.’
The American major said: ‘Do you have any family living?’
‘Family? Have I got any family?’ The major rolled his eyes at a colleague and smiled at Otto. ‘That’s right: family.’ Otto shook his head: ‘No family.’
‘All dead?’
‘All dead,’ Otto agreed.
‘Have you no relations anywhere?’
‘They’ll think I’m dead too.’
‘Never mind what they’ll think, sir. Have you any relations anywhere in the world?’
‘Not in America,’ Otto said.
‘Well, where?’
‘England.’
‘You have relations in England?’
‘I think. Maybe they’re dead. I don’t know.’
He steered back towards the hut. An MP arrested his return.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go now, sir. We’re putting this area out of bounds.’
The shops in Cricklewood High Street were full of good things. The faces of the people were in bloom with the cold. The shops were bright and full of good things. Otto nodded to himself. Once he had belonged to a world like this. In Poznan before the Germans came, there were shops as good as this. Better, Otto smiled to himself and nodded again, much better. Otto Kahane: Watch Repairer and Jeweller. That was nice.
2
Hannah Adler had said ‘Certainly come over’ and was truly glad that Otto – that any relation – was alive and safe. It just happened they were in the middle of moving and Isidore was in a bad mood. The pantechnicon parking outside the shop had set him off. ‘So what are the customers supposed to do? Help carry the furniture?’
‘The men won’t take long,’ Hannah said.
‘I was against this from the beginning. I don’t want to move. I don’t see why we have to move. I was against moving from the beginning.’
‘You know you like the house,’ Hannah Adler told her husband. ‘You picked it.’
‘I picked it! I paid for it.’ Isidore Adler leaned forward reproachfully. ‘I paid for it.’
‘You know you always wanted to live in Golders Green.’
‘I never wanted to. What’s wrong with where we always lived? Here.’
‘You want to live in Cricklewood High Street all your life?’
‘I gotta get back to the shop,’ Isidore said. ‘You want we should go bankrupt?’ He stopped half-way down the stairs and said: ‘That’s what we will do too. We’ll go bankrupt. Spend, spend, spend. Where’s all the money coming from?’
‘You should worry.’
‘I should worry,’ Isidore said. ‘I’ve got plenty to worry about, believe me.’
After Otto had phoned, Hannah rubbed thoughtful hands under her elbows. What a day for him to arrive! Everything was packed ready for the men and there wasn’t anywhere to sit down at the shop, let alone put someone up. As for Woburn Road, the decorators were only just out: they wouldn’t be straight for days. Oh well, Otto could have Colin’s new room, at least until he was demobbed. She shrugged herself into action. They had a duty to Otto: he was family.
Hannah went to the head of the stairs: ‘Mr Goldberg.’
‘What can I do for you, Mrs Adler?’ The face of Mr Goldberg, Isidore’s manager, appeared around the doorpost from the shop. He was a dark, rather fat man in a white overall which fitted him like a pillow-case.
‘Ask Mr Adler to come up for a minute, will you?’
Isidore appeared. ‘So now what is it?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Got customers. What is it?’
‘Come up here, I’ll tell you.’
Isidore Adler looked up the stairs at his wife. Two firmly planted feet at the top of the stairs would take no arguments. With a sigh, Isidore began to climb. Five pounds ten, those shoes.
‘Guess who just landed in England,’ Hannah said.
Isidore swung his head. ‘The Russians?’
‘Otto Kahane.’
‘Otto Kahane?’
‘That’s right. Your uncle Otto. Uncle Otto, surely you remember? He visited us before the war. Surely you remember your own uncle?’
‘Sure I remember,’ Isidore said.
‘He’s coming to stay with us.’
‘OK, fine. He’s coming to stay with us. Fine. Now will you do me a favour, Hannah? Let me get on with serving the customers before they all cross the road to Mr Sainsbury?’
‘Mr Sainsbury,’ Hannah said, ‘doesn’t sell smoked salmon like Adler’s smoked salmon.’
‘Listen, don’t give ’em any ideas, please, do you mind?’
‘Don’t talk like that, Issy. You know I don’t like it. Talk properly, please.’
‘I got work to do. I can’t stand here talking. I got work to do.’ Isidore turned and went for the door. ‘Anyway,’ he said finally, ‘he’s not really my uncle.’
‘Of course he’s your uncle.’
‘He’s not my uncle,’ Isidore said. He pointed a finger at Hannah. ‘He’s my half-uncle. By marriage. In law.’
3
Otto Kahane passed his small black attaché case from one hand to the other. In the camp he had to move. He had to move, for otherwise he would be dead. Here there was no need to move. No one’s eye fell on him for not moving. It would not be unreasonable to stand on the kerb of the Cricklewood High Street all day. Where was Adler’s delicatessen? It might as well have been in the next world. Freedom was too much for him. A prisoner, there had been cause to act; free, there was none. In the camp he had belonged; to be on this street, on this day, was a mere accident. It was stranger to stand on this pavement than to be in the camp. How did one make a beginning with people? Break into a family, and become part of it? Wasn’t it a kind of liberty? These people, his relations, he
‘Excuse me,’ the schoolgirl said, ‘can I help you across the road? You look as if you’re stuck.’
Otto said: ‘That’s very kind of you, very kind indeed.’
Julia Adler took her great-uncle’s arm and led him across the road. ‘Now will you be all right?’ she asked.
‘I’m looking for Adler’s delicatessen,’ Otto said.
Julia’s face went solemn. ‘That’s where I live.’
Otto nodded at the two dark eyes. ‘Of course, of course, the daughter.’
‘Well, I suppose you’d better come along,’ Julia said, tightening the belt of her blue overcoat. ‘Ought I to know who you are? Because I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘I’m your uncle. Your great-uncle I suppose it would be.’
‘Are you? I don’t remember seeing you before.’
Otto smiled. ‘The last time I saw you, you were’ – he put his hand at waist level – ‘so high, so high. No.’ He held his hands apart. ‘So long. You know?’
‘Oh, really? That must have been a long time ago.’
‘Thirteen, fourteen years.’
‘Have you come to help with the move?’ Julia inquired.
‘The move? I’m sorry – ’
‘I should have thought everyone knew about it by now.’
‘I’ve been a bit,’ Otto smiled distantly, ‘out of touch.’
‘Oh, have you been living abroad or something?’
‘That’s right,’ Otto said. ‘I’ve been living abroad.’
Hannah Adler came down the street, her hands held out in welcome, her head tilted on one side. ‘Uncle Otto!’ she said, and embraced him. Julia was relieved by her mother’s arrival. There were so many relations, and she had nothing in common with any of them. Mostly they spoke in Yiddish (yes, they’d started already) and she couldn’t understand their jokes or their problems or anything about them.
The tears were running down Hannah Adler’s cheeks. She kept patting Otto’s face. ‘This is your uncle,’ she said to Julia. ‘Your Uncle Otto. He came to visit us from Poland. Years ago. Nineteen thirty – oh, what was it? – nineteen-thirty it must have been.’
Otto nodded. ‘Nineteen thirty.’
‘Nineteen thirty,’ Hannah said. ‘Where are we now? Nineteen – ’
‘Forty-five,’ Julia said, ‘for heaven’s sake. It’s nearly Christmas.’
‘Fifteen years ago,’ Hannah said. ‘Fifteen years, can you believe it?’
‘That’s right, nineteen thirty.’
‘Nineteen thirty,’ Hannah said.
‘Mummy, for God’s sake.’
The two of them were standing nodding at each other, the tears coming into Otto’s eyes. The removal men came clattering past. Hannah put her finger under her nose and sniffed. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what I’m crying about. Come in and see Issy. He’ll want to see you.’ She guided Otto into the shop. ‘Julia, run upstairs and get me a hankie from my drawer, will you, dear?’
Isidore was serving a customer. Hannah called out, ‘Isidore, come here.’ Isidore came out from the cooked meats counter, rubbing his hands on his white overall. ‘Here’s Otto to see you.’
One of the assistants said: ‘Mr Adler, how many points is the pineapple?’
‘Sixteen,’ Isidore said. He and Otto looked at each other. Isidore smiled and lowered his eyes, with a little nod. ‘Well, Otto. Well, how are you?’
‘I’m not so bad, Isidore. And you?’
‘I’m not complaining,’ Isidore said.
‘Much,’ said his wife. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs.’
‘I can’t leave the shop, Hannah, do you mind? Good morning, Mrs Spira, be with you in a minute.’
‘You go on,’ Otto said, ‘don’t worry about me.’
Julia came in. ‘One hankie.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘That’s all right.’ She started out of the shop.
‘Would you mind taking your uncle upstairs – find him somewhere to sit down?’
‘Come on, Uncle Otto,’ Julia said, with a resigned shake of her pigtails.
Isidore stood there, looking after them: ‘How long is he going to stay?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s he gonna do?’
‘You serve Mrs Spira,’ Hannah said. ‘We’ll worry about that later.’
4
Woburn Road was on the Finchley side of Golders Green. It contained neat, detached houses. Number fifteen had a green, fish-scale roof. Green tile pillars supported the portico above the front door. The face of the house was made up with white stucco. The dormer windows had green tile lids. Isidore cared little about the house one way or the other, but it was certainly an improvement to be able to garage the Wolseley on the premises rather than two streets away, as he had done for years. Still, he didn’t see the sense in moving. As soon as you’d saved enough money to live decently in one neighbourhood, you had to move to another you could only just afford. What was the sense in it? He’d always lived above the shop. He liked to live above it. That way you knew it’d still be there in the morning. He fumbled to find the new door key in the new leather key-ring Hannah had given him. Always finding excuses to spend money, that was Hannah. Well, she had put the mezuza on the doorpost. That at least was something.
‘Anybody at home?’
‘We’re in here. In the lounge,’ Hannah called back.
Isidore went in. ‘In the lounge,’ he mocked. ‘In the lounge.’
‘What’s wrong with the lounge?’
Isidore sat down on the couch. ‘Very comfortable,’ he conceded.
‘Glad you like it.’
‘How much did it cost?’
‘I bought it with my money,’ Hannah said, ‘so don’t give me any of that, please.’
Otto said: ‘It’s a nice place you got here, Issy.’
‘So it should be, for the money.’
Hannah said: ‘We’re just having some tea, do you want some?’
‘Where’s the girl?’
‘Tanya? In the kitchen, doing supper. Susan and Ben are coming over.’
‘Why so soon?’
‘Susan so wanted to see the house.’
‘Bringing the baby?’
‘Of course. Did you know I was a grandmother?’
‘You told me,’ Otto said.
‘A lovely little girl. Three months old.’
‘My son-in-law’s a Communist,’ Isidore said. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘A Communist!’ Otto acknowledged the fact.
‘Whassa use having children?’ Isidore stood up suddenly. ‘What’s Julia doing?’
‘She’s upstairs, working.’
‘Mm, I think I’ll go wash my hands. Where’s the bathroom? Where’s my room? Where’s anything? I don’t know. Moving after all these years. What’s the sense in it?’
‘I’ll show you. Then you can come down and have a little chat with Otto. He’s longing to have a good talk.’
‘Where’s my suits?’
‘Hanging in the wardrobe. Everything’s put away.’
‘Smell of paint everywhere,’ Isidore said.
‘It’s nice and fresh,’ Hannah replied. ‘Mind the carpet on the stairs. It hasn’t settled yet.’
Isidore returned, having washed his hands and had another shave. Whatever he might think of Ben, he always shaved twice a day if there was company for dinner. When he came downstairs again, Hannah left the two men alone in the sitting-room. Although Tanya, the Adlers’ Hungarian housekeeper, was looking after the supper, there were a great many things to do: the house was far from straight. Hannah was always happier if she was doing something. She hated to sit still. She loved change. No sooner had she bought one thing than she was thinking of replacing it. Her energy was made dynamic by her love of change.
Isidore said, ‘Do you want sherry?’
‘Sherry?’
‘A glass of wine before dinner, it’ll do you good.’
‘It’s very kind of you, Isidore.’
‘Don’t know where anything is any more,’ Isidore groused. ‘Hannah. Hannah.’
‘What is it?’
‘Where’s the sherry?’
‘In the cocktail cabinet, exactly the same.’
‘I dunno how you’re expected to find anything in this house. I never wanted to move. What’s the sense in moving?’ Isidore handed Otto his sherry. ‘How are you?’ he mumbled. ‘In yourself I mean. Not sick, are you?’
