Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman by Natasha Solomons Page B
Authors: Natasha Solomons
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into his. He clasped it, his heart beating like butterfly wings. Afterwards, exhilarated by their daring, Jack kissed Sadie for the first time. They stood beneath the Christmas tree in the Gendarmenmarkt, cheeks flushed with excitement and cold, and Jack leant towards her, wondering if he ought to remove his spectacles.
Jack chewed thoughtfully on his lip. In half an hour he would return to the field and she would sink back into her silent gloom but, for an instant, they were in the same place – like travellers from opposite ends of the world happening upon the same village, and he did not want the feeling to pass, not just yet. ‘Let’s put up the mezuzah ,’ he said.
Ordinarily, Jack despised the trappings of religion. They only served to show up one’s differences. He was willing, however, to humour his wife in order to maintain this fragile equilibrium. Besides, he reasoned, a mezuzah was only a small brown box by the front door – another Jew would recognise it while an Englishman wouldn’t notice it at all.
Sadie looked at him, surprised and pleased. Clutching her towel, she went into the kitchen and fetched a carved wooden box, a few inches long and with a space at the top for a nail. She held it up and shook it so that the parchment inside rattled.
‘What are the words on the paper in the mezuzah ? Do you even know?’ Jack enquired, hoping that he was not jeopardising the peace.
‘No. But they’re supposed to ward off evil and bring good fortune to the household.’
‘With a cat, a dictionary and a mystery prayer I believe we are very well prepared for all eventualities.’
He placed a handkerchief on his head as a makeshift yarmulke and Sadie handed him a prayer book. It was evening now and the house martins zoomed under the eaves to their twittering young. Jack’s voice mingled with the birds as he sang a Hebrew prayer. His song was ancient; it sang of Israel and a desert land of milk and honey. The village of Pursebury Ash had never heard such a song before but the woodlarks continued their own choruses and the wind played gently in the long grass. Jack hammered the mezuzah to the doorframe in a single movement, his arm rising like Abraham’s, ready with the knife.
Jack worked as the long ears of corn turned golden and the days became slowly shorter. He laboured in the fields by the light of the high summer moon, the badgers watching him silently as he heaved piles of earth. As July slid into August, he finished moving the molehills. He retired his pulley system to the barn, fetched his mowing contraptions and for the first time in years the grass was cut. He left it long around the edges so that the rough remained strewn with frog orchids, goosegrass and bright pink ragged-robin. He read about the different kinds of grasses for the greens, the advantages of seed versus turf and ordered long hoses to keep everything watered. The dew pond would not be drained; it was filled by a spring whispered to have magical properties. The cold water seeped out from the depths of the earth, emerging from between the stones at the bottom. He could not tell how deep the pool really was, as the surface was covered with giant buttercup lilies. Sometimes, he glimpsed the silver shadows of fish and wisps of pondweed swaying in invisible currents but he did not like water, never having learned to swim. He poked a tall branch into the dark water, where it sank and was swallowed, never touching the bottom. It was good that he did not know the true depth of the pond: it was said to be so deep that it flowed for miles beneath the earth. One afternoon, he watched a duck bobbing on the surface – it dived under water and he waited for it to come up quacking, a fish in its beak. He waited and waited but the duck never reappeared. A few minutes later, a small boy throwing sticks in the pond many miles away at Ashbourne, was surprised to see a duck surface, certain he had not seen it dive.
By the beginning of
Jack chewed thoughtfully on his lip. In half an hour he would return to the field and she would sink back into her silent gloom but, for an instant, they were in the same place – like travellers from opposite ends of the world happening upon the same village, and he did not want the feeling to pass, not just yet. ‘Let’s put up the mezuzah ,’ he said.
Ordinarily, Jack despised the trappings of religion. They only served to show up one’s differences. He was willing, however, to humour his wife in order to maintain this fragile equilibrium. Besides, he reasoned, a mezuzah was only a small brown box by the front door – another Jew would recognise it while an Englishman wouldn’t notice it at all.
Sadie looked at him, surprised and pleased. Clutching her towel, she went into the kitchen and fetched a carved wooden box, a few inches long and with a space at the top for a nail. She held it up and shook it so that the parchment inside rattled.
‘What are the words on the paper in the mezuzah ? Do you even know?’ Jack enquired, hoping that he was not jeopardising the peace.
‘No. But they’re supposed to ward off evil and bring good fortune to the household.’
‘With a cat, a dictionary and a mystery prayer I believe we are very well prepared for all eventualities.’
He placed a handkerchief on his head as a makeshift yarmulke and Sadie handed him a prayer book. It was evening now and the house martins zoomed under the eaves to their twittering young. Jack’s voice mingled with the birds as he sang a Hebrew prayer. His song was ancient; it sang of Israel and a desert land of milk and honey. The village of Pursebury Ash had never heard such a song before but the woodlarks continued their own choruses and the wind played gently in the long grass. Jack hammered the mezuzah to the doorframe in a single movement, his arm rising like Abraham’s, ready with the knife.
Jack worked as the long ears of corn turned golden and the days became slowly shorter. He laboured in the fields by the light of the high summer moon, the badgers watching him silently as he heaved piles of earth. As July slid into August, he finished moving the molehills. He retired his pulley system to the barn, fetched his mowing contraptions and for the first time in years the grass was cut. He left it long around the edges so that the rough remained strewn with frog orchids, goosegrass and bright pink ragged-robin. He read about the different kinds of grasses for the greens, the advantages of seed versus turf and ordered long hoses to keep everything watered. The dew pond would not be drained; it was filled by a spring whispered to have magical properties. The cold water seeped out from the depths of the earth, emerging from between the stones at the bottom. He could not tell how deep the pool really was, as the surface was covered with giant buttercup lilies. Sometimes, he glimpsed the silver shadows of fish and wisps of pondweed swaying in invisible currents but he did not like water, never having learned to swim. He poked a tall branch into the dark water, where it sank and was swallowed, never touching the bottom. It was good that he did not know the true depth of the pond: it was said to be so deep that it flowed for miles beneath the earth. One afternoon, he watched a duck bobbing on the surface – it dived under water and he waited for it to come up quacking, a fish in its beak. He waited and waited but the duck never reappeared. A few minutes later, a small boy throwing sticks in the pond many miles away at Ashbourne, was surprised to see a duck surface, certain he had not seen it dive.
By the beginning of
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