The Lubetkin Legacy

Berthold: Silk Pyjamas

Like it says in the song, she was wearing pink pyjamas when she came. Not that pale girly shade of pink but a deep rose colour made of heavy silk with an embroidered pattern at the ankles and cuffs. Sort of harem meets M&S. Her hair was loose and tumbled over her shoulders. She looked divine. I was touched that she had gone to so much trouble for my birthday.

‘Violet!’ I pulled out a chair for her at the table. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she murmured. ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.’

‘No matter,’ I said. ‘How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?’

An expression of sweet puzzlement glimmered on her face. Then Inna bustled in with a steaming plate of golabski covered in thick juicy gravy she calls yuksha — one of her specialities and not nearly as bad as it sounds.

‘Pliss. Ittit!’ she growled.

A look of panic flitted across the angelic features. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve already had supper. I couldn’t manage another thing.’

‘Oy! You no like my golabki?’ Thunderclouds gathered on Inna’s brow.

I intervened. ‘It’s okay, Inna. She needs to preserve her figure.’ To my surprise a thundercloud also gathered on the heavenly brow, so I quickly added, ‘Which in form and moving is express and admirable.’

Inna grumpily lifted the golabki and slapped them down in front of me. That was good as I was starving by now. Then she fetched a plate of kobaski — sausages covered in the same juicy gravy — and slapped them down in front of Violet, who raised her delicate pale palms in a gesture of refusal.

‘Oy! Oy! You no eat kobasa. You Jew?’

Violet silently cut off an inch of the kobaski and raised it to her lips. As she bit, a fat gob of gravy slithered off and landed on the knee of her silk pyjamas making a dark oily stain. She looked down, and burst into tears.

To my surprise, Inna also burst into tears. ‘My good Jew husband never eat kobaski!’ she wailed. ‘Oy, he was good man! He said I do anything for you, Inna, but I not eat kobasa! Now he dead! Murdered by olihark! I missing him too bad!’

The two of them were at it, blubbing like a burst water main. Should I join in like a new man? What would George Clooney have done? Soon they had their arms around each other and were blubbing on to each other’s shoulders. This was definitely not in the script.

‘Okay. Tell us what happened to your husband, Inna,’ I said, sceptical of the tale about the oligarch, which she had mentioned before.

‘Killed by biznessmyen. Arkady Kukuruza. You know it?’

‘I can’t say I do.’

‘He want buy secret of bacteriophage, mekka big profit. Dovik say, my friend you cannot mek profit from this. It come out of toilet. Kukuruza say, “Alfandari, I can mek profit from anythink. You look out, you next time dead.” ’

The gist of her tale was that this gangster-oligarch tracked down the hapless Dovik in London and made him an offer he didn’t realise he couldn’t refuse.

‘What a farrago of bollocks, Inna, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor.’

‘He invite him in restoran for biznyess talk, and mek him to eat poison slatki!’

Poison slatki! I felt the blood drain out of my head. Is that where she got the idea? Is this practice common in her neck of the woods? While I was reviewing my options, she started her sinister keening once more.

‘Povee vitre na Ukrainou! Blow wind into Ukraina. Beautiful song. Beautiful country. People has beautiful heart. Only problem is oliharki. They make all money blow away out of my country. Money flies into Vest, but people cannot follow! Oy-oy-oy!’

‘Shut up, Inna!’ I commanded. Let’s face it, there’s only so much bollocks that a man can be expected to put up with on his birthday, especially when he’s just on the point of making it with the woman of his dreams. But to my dismay instead of listening to me, my lovely neighbour too was getting bewitched by this bullshit.

‘It’s exactly the same in my country, Inna!’ she cried. ‘They rob the people and spirit the money away into secret bank accounts! And we facilitate them! The money flies away but the people have to stay behind in poverty. Thousands of Africans drown in the sea trying to follow where their money has gone!’

‘Oy, Blackie, world is same everywhere! Better we eat, drink, sing, forget all this sad story!’

Then Inna disappeared into the kitchen again and came back with a small bottle of vodka and a plate of freshly baked slatki, filling the air with their almond and honey scent. Violet stopped crying and her face lit up. Panic seized me. As she reached to take one, I grabbed the plate from Inna and crammed all six of them into my mouth. Would George Clooney have been man enough to sacrifice himself for the woman he loved?

Violet stared, and her round brown eyes filled up with tears again.

Inna took her in her arms. ‘Oy! Oy! You no cry, Blackie! This man no good for you. He lady-man, too much like sweetie slatki. You will find better one.’

‘No, Inna, I’m not gay …’ I spluttered out a mouthful of crumbs, feeling suddenly wheezy and tight-chested.

‘Poor Bertie, you still feeling sad for you mama. I understand.’

To deny being gay is incredibly uncool, according to George Clooney, and I didn’t want to sound like a homophobe, so I shut up. Anyway, it seemed like Violet hadn’t heard, for she started to moan, ‘I just messed up on a perfect job and I spilled wine all over my boss! I’ve ruined my life!’

I wanted to hold her close in a comforting embrace and explain the sacrifice I had made to save her from possible poisoning, but Inna had already got her arms around her, so I had to content myself with pouring another round of vodka.

We raised our glasses.

‘To absent loved ones!’ I said, and would you believe it, I started to blub too.

All that went on for at least an hour, then someone — I think it was Violet — started to giggle. By then the vodka bottle was empty, and so was the bottle of Pinot Noir I had bought as the perfect accompaniment for globalki, as well as a bottle of sweet sherry that Inna had discovered under her bed.

Flossie was asleep, her cage covered with a tablecloth to keep her quiet. Inna was asleep with her head on the table; stray silver hairs had escaped from her plaits and were trailing through the gravy. I fell asleep on the sofa, with the rose-silk angel snuggled up chastely in my arms.

I have no idea how George Clooney celebrated his birthday.