Rock Me Gently (8 page)

She made a sourpuss face as she stood up, brushing at her tunic and glowering at me. ‘What were you talking about for so long, anyway? I’ve never had a private talk with Father Holland once and I’ve lived here years.’

‘I told him everything,’ I said confidently.

‘Everything? Even about not wanting to make your First Communion and all?’

‘Yes, even about not wanting to make my First Communion and all.’

‘Did you tell him about not taking the host on your tongue?’

‘That too.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Not much. He just gave me all these biscuits,’ I said holding up my bulging serviette.

She studied the serviette with a baffled frown. Clearly it was beyond her. As we climbed the steps into the convent she shook her head.

‘I don’t know, some people have all the luck. There’s no advantage in trying to be a good Catholic. I might just as well be a sinner like you.’

Chapter
5

As soon as I mentioned Buckingham Palace and The Beatles, Cydney’s manner towards me changed. She became friendly, looking at me with a mixture of shyness and faint curiosity. I felt guilty for misleading her. I knew myself to be secretive and dishonest.

‘Yesh! Yoffi toffi!’
she said with a smile. We started at a brisk pace down a path.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘Yesh
means cool.
Yoffi toffi
is nice toffee.’

‘I see,’ I said, feeling bemused. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To eat. It’s six o’clock.’

‘But isn’t the dining hall over there?’ I said pointing in the opposite direction.

She made a face. ‘Yeah, but we’re going to the volunteers’ camp where they make real chow. The others from our Hebrew course are there. All of us have only been here for a day or two, but we already get along real fine.’

So I allowed myself to be herded down the pathway, though part of me wondered at the fact that I could still be bossed around by women like Cydney.

The kibbutz looked like a big park, with ragged green lawns, trees and water sprinklers. The resident kibbutzniks lived in rows of cream bungalows with red roofs. Beyond a meshed wire fence lay a bright rectangular swimming pool, where several children and adults splashed up water like chips of glass in the sun. At the far end of the kibbutz, we came to a square of wooden houses. Cydney pointed to a group of five or six people hanging around chatting, oblivious to us.

‘They’re what we call “volunteers”. They work six or eight hours each day, but get more leisure time than the Ulpanists do.’ The volunteers were a fascinating assortment of hangover hippies, burnt-out runaways and tourists who came and went looking for the unwired world, moseying around in flowery long-haired groups dressed in paisley and denim.

A delicious smell wafted over to us as a girl in a long sixties Judy Collins dress, with her blonde hair braided and wrapped around her head like a golden crown, stirred a pot of communal stew. Further on, I could make out the shapes of people seated and standing, and heard the sound of chattering voices, punctuated by explosions of laughter and underpinned by the strumming of an acoustic guitar.

A bunch of people wearing brightly coloured T-shirts and shorts were having a barbecue. They all looked upsettingly young, no more than teenagers, though I knew that most must be in their early twenties. I felt my mouth jerk into a premature smile, as if practising, and made it stop. It might look funny to appear with a big smile already stuck on.

I need not have worried because, just as we came upon the group, someone threw a cupful of something at the barbecue. Orange flames erupted with a
whump.
Everyone jumped back, yelling and hardly noticed as Cydney and I joined them.

Cydney grinned and rested her hand on my shoulder.

‘This is Jude, my room-mate. She’s so British, she sounds like the Queen of England.’ Everybody laughed, and those sitting hopped to their feet. All extended hands to me.

‘Jude. Great to meet you. I’m Rick,’ smiled a sunburnt man with long blond hair. He was slim and long-necked, with big prominent lips. I smiled back, murmuring something inane.

‘Hi! My name is Mark,’ said a strikingly handsome Jim Morrison look-alike.

‘Paul,’ said a third, with a grip like a vice. He was about seventeen years old, with crazed brown eyes. A scarf was tied round his head and his reddish brown hair hung over it in strands. ‘Hey Jude! Let me guess which part of England you’re from,’ he said. ‘London. Right? Forget London, man. This is where it’s at.’

I wondered what the Queen would say in such circumstances.

‘Wonderful,’ I kept saying. ‘How lovely.’

Cydney pointed to a young man with a whiskery face and bright blue eyes, playing a guitar.

‘That’s Michael,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t speak much, he just plays music.’ Michael raised the arm of his guitar in acknowledgement. ‘And this is Mario,’ continued Cydney. ‘He’s from Uruguay and doesn’t speak English.’ Mario was heavy-set, his blond-flecked hair and beard accentuating cornflower blue eyes. He nodded at me without offering his hand.

Two women drifted over to the group, their suntanned skin shining like caramel. They looked at me curiously.

‘Hi,’ said one. Her dark fringe fell into her deep brown eyes. ‘I’m Nadine, and this is Evelyn, she’s from England too.’

‘Oh jolly good! Whereabouts in England?’ I asked in my best English accent.

‘Southend,’ replied Evelyn. She had black waist-length hair and couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

‘Ah yes, Southend,’ I replied. ‘That bleak seaside town so beloved of fixed caravan sites and Punch and Judy at the end of the pier.’

They all burst out laughing.

‘Far out!’ yelled Cydney.

But Evelyn just looked at me with cold disgust and whispered something to her companion. Turning to me, she said, ‘Do you normally speak like that or is this for our benefit?’

An undertone of hostility threaded through her voice. My stomach tightened. I forced a laugh from the back of my throat and turned my attention to the smoking barbecue. Forget it, forget it. But I felt outnumbered, as if they were all a different species.

Everyone sat down cross-legged on the grass, staring at me as though I were an alien fallen from the sky. I suppose I was, in a sense. They began to ask me questions in their rolling American drawl. Why had I come to Israel? Was I some kinda dropout debutante? Were my parents very rich? Did they own a goddam country estate? Their attention was turned on me full force. I felt ambushed. Too much interest brought out every ounce of reserve I had, made me unable to think, to formulate answers, even to hear the questions. I stuttered replies, shook my head, finally just looked blankly back at them all. Everywhere I turned there were faces that expressed the sheer golden, self-satisfied joy of good health: their hair shone, their colouring was rich and their teeth were strong. I was alone, separated from everyone by an aching void of loneliness, but I deserved it. I did not dare to look them in the eye. I did not want to contaminate, did not wish to find further evidence of my lack of worth. Everyone here is an adult, I thought, whereas I am merely in disguise. Probably they thought I was a weird frump, sort of like their high school teachers. It had been crazy to think I could fit in here. I was beginning to sweat. I felt as if I was at the dentist, mouth gawkily open while some stranger with a light and mirror gazed down my throat at something I couldn’t see.

‘Why don’t you say something?’ Evelyn demanded, ‘You do, after all, speak the Queen’s English, don’t you?’

I looked down at my feet in their thick brown shoes and traced a pattern in the dusty red soil. Probably she’s out to get me now, I thought, and probably she’ll succeed. She thinks I insulted her, yet I never intentionally insulted anyone. I sometimes thought that I didn’t have to say a word to offend people, that my existence itself offended them.

‘Hey! Don’t pressure her, man!’ Rick said. And I breathed again as their attention shifted. Plates were passed around and food from the grill slapped on. Warm bagels and large ladlefuls of various kinds of salad were heaped on to my plate.

Michael began to quietly strum The Beatles’ song ‘Yesterday’ on his guitar.

‘That’s gross, man, it’s giving me bad vibes,’ said Mark. ‘Don’t you know any Doors music?’ Michael thought for a moment and then plunged into a rousing rendition of ‘Light My Fire’.

To my relief, they all began to talk to each other as though I didn’t exist. They were explaining their plans for the future, holding them up to each other like crystal treasures. They took it for granted they would always be useful and busy. They were versatile and thought they might do all sorts of things in the future. Archaeological digs, university, European travels, skills to be learnt, intellectual heights to be scaled. I felt envious of their belief in the future, and wondered at their confidence, the sort that planted trees for a hundred years ahead.

‘We’ll all be working our asses off every friggin’ day during the next six months,’ said Mark. ‘Morning, noon and night.’

Rick shrugged. ‘No problem, man. I’ll work and study, I’ll never quit.’

‘Yeah, you’ll be perfect.’ Cydney gave a mocking nod, her eyes gleaming behind her round gold spectacles. ‘Hey, you guys, I was rapping with Lorna and she told me that we’re never to venture into the Carmel Hills without an armed soldier.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Why?’

‘Because there’s an Arab terrorist group based in a village that overlooks the kibbutz.’

Mark yawned. ‘Well, I don’t hear any sounds of gunfire or explosions. Only the crickets and the flies.’

I felt my skin prickle and the familiar rolling pressure of panic building inside me. I didn’t operate on the same frequency as these people. Dimly, I noticed Cydney staring at me with concern. I hunched my shoulders, half turning away. I wanted nothing from anyone but indifference. It was easier to handle; I was used to it. Indifference, or something more definite, like the strong waves of unfriendliness I could feel coming towards me from some of the group. They obviously didn’t like me. Why? We hardly knew each other.

‘Hey Jude, more food?’ said Cydney, ‘You look like you need building up.’

‘No, thanks, I’ve had quantum sufficio,’ I said, hoping to raise another laugh. ‘Any more and I shall bust.’

But no one even looked at me, and the two girls, Evelyn and Nadine, exchanged a grimace. Even if it had been funny, they still wouldn’t have laughed. What was the expression that Ruth used? It was like putting a poultice on a wooden leg. Well, that was too bad. So what? They could all go to hell. I didn’t care.

The evening wore on and the lowering sun lit up tiny insects in the evening air as they described arcs and things unknown. Michael played his guitar, and some of the others started to sing along, their voices mixing with the crickets. Occasionally someone would fumble the words, and then they’d laugh and tease each other. I sat hugging my knees. The distance between us was insurmountable. I did not inhabit the same sphere.

Finally Cydney turned to me. ‘I guess we should go if we have to be up by five tomorrow morning. We gotta be in the orchards by six to pick apples.’

‘Super dooper, Gary Cooper!’ I said and they all burst out laughing. But to my ears, the sound was false.

Chapter
6

29
October

Every day someone gets hit. Sister Mary hit us all last night
with the cane. We stood in a circle and held out our hands.
My thumb is still swollen.

3 November

Sister Mary banged my back against the wall. She hit my
face. My nose was bleeding. I was really scared because it
hurt. She put me in St Joseph’s cupboard. Why did she pick
on me? It’s not fair. I was sent to bed and some girls made a
cradle for me.

Winter was darkly on its way and the convent was large and draughty, with treacherous cracks that the cold air crept through. Standing huddled against the wall in the playground one day, with patches of ice still on the gritty concrete, I thought I would never be warm again. My hands were bluish with cold and I dug them deep inside my tunic pockets. I remembered with longing the unbelievably luxurious clothes I used to wear: knitted mittens, thick woollen socks, my red pixie hat.

The playground was just a bare yard, surrounded on one side by squat thorn bushes and on another by a row of tall poplar trees. The afternoon sun did little to contain the cold wind whipping around. My feet felt so numb I thought they would fall off. I stamped them on the ground. The steam came out of my mouth like cigarette smoke. I put my fingers to my mouth like I was holding a cigarette, and breathed out.

Groups of girls circled around the bushes, eating leaves and calling it bread and cheese. Bored of my fake cigarette, I began chewing the ends of my hair, a habit I had acquired recently during punishments of silence. These were moments when time seemed to slow down to a stop. Just one word from a nun, and we had to stand still with our hands on our heads for ten minutes or an hour or two hours or however long she said, until the silence became thick and crushing. I had felt it like a tangible thing, swelling like a balloon under so much emptiness.

At those times, my life stretched away in front of me, every boring bead-like minute of every boring bead-like day lining itself up to be got through. Now I always had one lock of hair that was pointed and wet.

Almost three months had passed without any word from Mum. Whenever I thought of her it was like a vacuum pushing in my chest. Was Sister Mary really hanging on to her letters, like Frances said? She had no right. Or was it just that Mum hadn’t written to me? I felt a rage rising in me as I stood against the cold playground wall.

Shoving away from the wall, I threw out my arms for balance and began to spin wildly, round and round. The cold air pulled against my arms, trying to stop them from going so fast, like dragging them through water. I kept going, faster. Eyes closed, little steps in a circle, my heels scrunching on the gravel, really fast - the convent, trees, the hedges all waiting to stop my feet. So what if Mum doesn’t write? I don’t care, I don’t care - I tottered and fell to the ground, on my back, gasping. I could almost feel the spin of the world beneath me.

I opened my eyes. Dizzy. I had to lie there till it was over, trying to grab and hold on to the swooping red-brick building and grey clouds through force of will. Close your eyes and you’re powerless, at the spinning world’s mercy. Stuck in the convent.

I felt sick. With an effort, I kept down our dinner of mediocre potatoes, shreds of rusty gristle and ponky cabbage, all mixed together and served in a mess from a huge aluminium pot.

Staggering a little, I stood up. No one was taking any notice of me. I felt warmer, at least. I leaned moodily against the wall again, watching as some of the girls slid on a frozen puddle. Frances beckoned to me to join them; I shook my head. She shrugged and carried on playing. She was used to my moods by now.

Suddenly Sister Mary came swishing into the playground with giant strides. I blew warm air into my hands, making a loud hissing sound as she thundered past me, her long rosary beads clattering as if in protest.
Your fault,
I thought sourly.
It’s all
your fault that I haven’t heard from Mum yet .
. .

The nun froze, fixing me with a stony stare. She beckoned to me, holding out her forefinger and curling it up like a worm. Terror clutched me by the throat. Had she read my mind?

‘You, what’s-your-name, come here quickly when I tell you!’

‘Me?’ I pointed to myself.

‘Yes, you!’

I went forward very slowly.

She drew herself up stiffly, glaring down at me. ‘I have read the letter you wrote to your mother yesterday.’

‘Why?’ I protested with a surge of anger and defiance.

‘I’ll ask the questions and you’ll give me the answers. I examine every letter you write here. If I do not approve of it, then I will not send it. Why did you ask her if you should make your First Communion?’

‘Because ... she may not want me to.’

‘Why not?’

I bit my lip. I had hoped that Mum would come and take me away from the convent once she heard I was to make my First Communion. But my plan had gone awry. My heart began thumping so hard that I found it difficult to breathe.

‘Your mother goes to church, doesn’t she?’ I heard Sister Mary say.

I tried to evade the question.

‘Well, she told me she’s a spiritual person, Sister.’

‘I should hope so, too. But does she go to church?’

‘There isn’t one of her sort where she lives.’ I faltered for a second. ‘She - she thinks that God exists in all creatures and in nature, she’s never in the synagogue.’

Sister Mary’s nostrils dilated. Her clenched-up face tightened further, if that were possible. ‘In
what?’

‘In creatures, and ... and nature.’

‘No. You said she’s never in the
what?
What did you say?’

I swallowed. My throat was sandpaper. ‘In the synagogue. That’s what they call my mum’s church.’

‘Who do?’

‘My grandparents do. They’re Jewish and so’s my mother.’

Sister Mary jerked backwards as though I had slapped her.

‘Nonsense!’ she hissed. ‘You’ve been poisoned by the devil! Don’t you know that?’

‘But,’ I stammered, ‘it’s all right, Sister. There’s nothing wrong in it. My mother says that Our Lord was a Jew.’

She let out a roar of rage and charged at me, her mouth twisted with fury. ‘Blasphemer! Devil out of hell!’ she screamed, almost spitting in my face.

I whirled around to get away from her, but she grabbed my hair. She snapped my head back, so that I lost my balance, staggered, but she was holding me up by my hair and pulled me to my feet. I cried out as I felt a chunk of it tear away.

Abruptly, she grasped my shoulders and slammed me against the brick wall. Once, twice. I lost count. The pain in my back felt red then purple and all I could do was gasp. It felt as if my throat was being squashed into my chest and I had lost the secret, the rhythm of breathing. Behind it, there was only a hole, filled with pain.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ I could hear myself screaming as if it were someone else’s voice. Sister Mary’s face twitched violently. She hit me in the face.

Crack!

A great stillness enveloped my shock. I clutched at my face. I wouldn’t take my hands away, not for anything. My nose, what had happened to my nose? It felt as if it had been pushed right into the interior of my head. Blood ran through my fingers. I tried to pull myself up. I didn’t know I was screaming, the others told me later. My chest ached and tears splashed into my mouth.

‘I want my mum,’ I wailed, my voice hoarse as a pink bubble popped out of my mouth. Bent over, half standing, half sitting, I looked across at the other girls. My eyes met theirs in mute appeal, but what could they do? I was alone. All around me, I could feel their fierce sympathy reaching out to me, but nobody moved or made a sound.

Sister Mary took hold of my chin, yanked it up to make me look at her. She was a blur of black and white. I could hear her breathing heavily. She bent down, stared into my eyes for a moment, and said in a tight, soft voice, ‘Do you understand? You’re a wicked child. I have torn up that letter you wrote to your mother. You will rewrite it without mentioning your First Communion. Do you understand?’

I shook my head and shrugged, confused and sore.

‘And if you ever write such things again ...’ She made some sort of signal over my head.

I nodded slowly. Now I understood. She would murder me.

‘I’m sorry, Sister. I’m really sorry.’ My teeth were chattering.

She grabbed my arm and dragged me off to a cupboard built into the wall, just inside the entrance to the playground. She unlocked it, pushed me inside. I heard the lock click shut.

The daylight disappeared. The cupboard was cold and damp, and smelt like mouldy earth. Outside in the playground the senior girls’ voices cried out: ‘All in! All in!’

Then a nun’s voice: ‘Get in with you! In, in, in!’

Then the coughs and voices ebbed away until there was silence. Apart from a crack in the door, there was no light. I whimpered, a cupped hand still protecting my nose. My skin itched at the thought of spiders and creepy crawlies swarming up my legs in ticklish streams. To drive them away, I began to stamp my feet in a steady rhythm. My nose pounded to the beat of my feet. It had stopped bleeding, but felt sticky and swollen.

I wiped away the drying blood with my sleeve. Nausea soured my throat, and I tried not to gag. I wanted someone to hold on to. Anyone. But now I really had turned into a bad person, and nobody would want me any more, nobody would like me. What should I do? Maybe even Frances would chase me away. No one wanted a friend like me.

I forgot the bugs and curled up on the floor. When would it be time to come out? Stifling darkness pressed down on me. I hugged myself, shaking. I felt like a different person lying there in the dark; it was as though I had said goodbye to some central part of myself, leaving an unfamiliar shell.

I remained curled on the floor, breathing in the smell of dirt and mould, for what seemed like hours. I listened as hard as I could for footsteps. Everything stayed quiet. I don’t know how long I had been there when I finally heard a click in the lock and the handle snapped down.

It was still daylight. I pulled myself stiffly to a sitting position. Attempts to open my eyes brought bright lights and shooting pains. I groaned and then made out a large figure looming above me, black on white. A pair of clean lace-up boots, shiny and hard as a man’s.

Sister Mary leaned over me. ‘Right, upstairs with you. Wash your face and go straight to bed.’ Her voice wobbled as she spoke.

I felt her hand tug my arm. I stumbled out of the cupboard into the daylight and gasped as hot pain shot through my eyes. What had happened to my eyes? The light stabbed like needles, even through my closed eyelids. Guided by Sister Mary’s hand, which now shoved me insistently towards the stairs, I put one hand against the wall to support myself as I struggled upstairs towards the washroom. My tongue felt like a lump, and my mouth was glued shut.

A nun met us on the stairs. I stopped and looked up. It took me a moment to focus my eyes. Then I saw that it was Sister Cuthbert staring down at me with an anxious look on her face. Sister Mary put her finger to her lips and took the nun to one side, speaking quietly.

I stood clenching my teeth together, staring at Sister Mary as her whispered voice rose and fell. Finally both nuns looked at me. Sister Cuthbert motioned for me to come closer.

I swallowed, and stayed where I was. Sister Mary would kill me if I said anything to the other nun. Sister Cuthbert beckoned again, more urgently. Slowly I fought down my fear. I went up to her. She smiled sympathetically as she scrutinised my face.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, we
have
been in the wars.’ The sympathy didn’t seem to belong; it could be peeled off her eyes like a plaster from a grazed knee. ‘Your face is very swollen,’ she said, as Sister Mary glared at me sideways, from behind the jutting edge of her headdress. ‘You must have taken quite a tumble, but you’ll live. Best go and sleep it off.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ I whispered. I couldn’t look at Sister Mary. I had the sense of being hemmed in by evil.
Things are so wrong here.
Things are so wrong, and I’m so scared ...

I hobbled rather than walked the remainder of the way to the washroom and the rescuing darkness of my bed. I wrapped myself tightly in my blanket. My stomach began to make crawling sounds. The rustling on the other side of the dormitory sounded suspiciously like a mouse scurrying across the hollow floor. I lay with my knees up, as close to my body as I could get them. As well as biting my fingernails, I’d developed a habit of sucking the tops of my arms, which were now covered in small bruises. I squeezed my eyes tight shut, as if somehow blindness would protect me.

Nana and Pop. Nana and Pop.
I chanted their names over and over. I took out each memory, caressing them like favourite photos. I didn’t want to lose or forget anything, because I wanted to get out of here, I wanted to get back to my grandparents. I’d been so happy living with them after Dad had died. The only way I’d find my way back would be if I remembered everything about where they lived.

I closed my eyes. I could see every detail of their house in London, as clear as a picture - the balcony with the geraniums, the kitchen with the sun streaming through the windows - and I could walk every room blindfold. I remembered all the familiar sounds of the area of London where they lived: The cries of the newspaper vendors in the languid evening air; the last few birds in the street, the bustling of traffic and the murmuring of the sky before darkness spilt over.

All these sounds marked out a familiar road. Then, bedtime was the time when I used to feel happiest. Cosily tucked in by Nana with a kiss on my forehead, and a night of easy, dreamless sleep to look forward to.

I shivered as I lay in the dormitory. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull these two worlds together. Nothing connected to anything else any more. Nothing was in its right place. That life was no longer mine. There were no feelings left. I couldn’t even feel my breathing; I couldn’t feel my ever-present hunger or the cold.