Ibrahim & Reenie by David Llewellyn

this to happen, but finally Vera gathered up the nerve to steer her new husband toward that mysterious grey building of stained-glass windows, creaking pews, and dog-eared Books of Common Prayer, and within a year of their marriage Albert Lieberman was spending his Sunday afternoons in church.
    At first the community said nothing. Albert was the survivor of something never discussed, at least not openly, among the grown-ups, not even in gossip, and perhaps this alone shielded him from the criticism any other man would have faced. The only person to say something, to say anything, was Mr Ostroff, and it was the last time he and Reenie’s father ever spoke to one another.
    â€˜Listen, Avram,’ he said, his heavy, kind hands – a workman’s hands – gripping the edge of the kitchen table. He always called her father by his Hebrew name, Avram, never Albert. Reenie listened to them from the bottom of the stairs, and caught occasional glimpses of them by poking her head through the gap where one of the balusters had been kicked through long before they moved in.
    â€˜It’s not that we disapprove… ’
    â€˜Then what would you call it?’ said Albert. ‘If not disapproval? Hmm? Prying? Is that the word for it?’
    â€˜No, it’s just… we’re concerned.’
    â€˜No, no. This is not concern. This is judgement. You prefer I meet a Jewish woman, yes? A nice Jewish widow or some nice young Jewish girl who doesn’t mind that I’m old and my hair is grey?’
    â€˜We just think, what kind of lesson does this teach to Reenie, to your daughter?’
    â€˜Her name is Irene.’
    â€˜You know she is going to these dances, with boys?’
    â€˜I know this. She goes there with girls . With her friends. ’
    â€˜But there are boys at these dances, Avram. And you want one day for her to marry a goy ?’
    Albert laughed dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t care either way.’
    â€˜You don’t mean that.’
    â€˜I don’t? It’s the truth. I wouldn’t care. You would rather I keep her under lock and key? Like a strict father? You would prefer I be like you, grow a beard, wear black every day, as if I were still in mourning, as if I am always in mourning? Or should I go around speaking in Yiddish, like you and your friends? Because let me tell you, if it were to happen again, if it were to happen here, in London, in England, they will come for you first.’
    â€˜Avram, what are you talking about?’
    â€˜We would have been fine if it wasn’t for the Ostjuden . The Nazis, they were thugs, but they would have left us alone if it weren’t for them, with their way of dressing, their way of looking, talking Yiddish. We were Austrians. My family had lived in Vienna for a hundred and fifty years. Irina’s came from Russia in eighteen ninety-six. We looked like any other family. But not them. They came down from Galicia and they brought the shtetl with them. They had to be different.’
    â€˜And what was so very wrong with being different?’
    â€˜It got us killed.’
    â€˜Avram…’
    â€˜You have nothing to say to me. Nothing.’
    â€˜Avram.’
    â€˜My name is Albert. Now get out. Go.’
    His face scarlet, Mr Ostroff stomped out of the kitchen, breathing heavily through his nose. He saw her, Reenie, on the stairs, but said nothing; as if he had lost all right to even speak to her. Reenie stood, her hands gripping the banister, and looked through to the kitchen, waiting for her father to say something, to call out an apology, but he sat in silence, his hands clasped together tight enough to bleach the colour from his knuckles.
    â€˜Papa?’ Her voice echoed off the hallway’s patterned tiles. Her father didn’t move.
    Reenie bolted from their house, leaving the front door open, and ran after Mr Ostroff. When she caught up with him he stopped walking, looked down at her and