When God Was a Rabbit

We were watching The Generation Game, shouting, ‘Cuddly toy, cuddly toy,’ when the doorbell rang. My mother got up and was gone for quite a while. She missed most of the conveyor belt bit, the good bit, and when she came in she ignored us and went over to my father and whispered in his ear. He stood up quickly and said, ‘Joe, look after your sister. We’re going next door. We won’t be long.’

‘OK,’ my brother said, and we waited for the front door to slam before he looked at me and said, ‘Come on.’

The night was cold and urging frost, and much too harsh for slippered feet. And we crept nimbly in the shadow of the hedge until we reached Mr Golan’s front door, thankfully still on the latch. I paused in the doorway – three months since I’d last crossed it; since I began to avoid my parents’ questions and his pleading, rheumy eyes – my brother offered his hand, and together we passed through the hallway, with its smell of old coats and stale meals, and headed towards the kitchen where the sound of subdued voices lured us like flickering bait.

My brother squeezed my hand. ‘All right?’ he whispered.

The door was ajar. Esther was seated on a chair and my mother was talking on the telephone. My father had his back to us. No one noticed our entrance.

‘We think he took his own life,’ we heard our mother say. ‘Yes. There are tablets everywhere. I’m a neighbour. No, you were talking to his sister before. Yes, we’ll be here. Of course.’

I looked at my brother. He turned away. My father moved towards the window, and it was then that I saw Mr Golan again. But this time he was lying on the floor; legs together, one arm out straight, the other bent across his chest as if he’d died practising the tango. My brother tried to hold me back, but I escaped his hand and crept closer.

‘Where’s his number?’ I said loudly.

They all turned to look at me. My mother put down the receiver.

‘Come away, Elly,’ my father said, reaching towards me.

‘No!’ I said, pulling away. ‘Where’s his number? The one on his arm? Where is it?’

Esther looked at my mother. My mother turned away. Esther opened her arms, ‘Come here, Elly.’

I went to her. Stood in front of her. She smelt of sweets. Turkish delight, I think.

‘He never had a number,’ she said softly.

‘He did. I saw it.’

‘He never had a number,’ she repeated quietly. ‘He used to draw the numbers on himself, whenever he felt sad.’

And it was then that I learnt that the numbers, which looked as if they had been drawn on yesterday, probably had been.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘Nor should you,’ said my father angrily.

‘But what about the horror camps?’ I asked.

Esther placed her hands on my shoulders. ‘Oh, those camps were real and the horror was real, and we must never forget.’

She pulled me towards her; her voice faltered a little. ‘But Abraham was never there,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Never there. He was mentally disturbed,’ she added, as casually as if she’d been talking about a new hair colour. ‘He came to this country in 1927 and he had a happy life. Some may say a selfish life. He travelled a lot with his music and had great success. If he kept taking his tablets, then he was my old Abe. But if he stopped – well, he became a problem; to himself, to others . . .’

‘Then why did he tell me all those things?’ I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. ‘Why did he lie to me?’

She was about to say something when she suddenly stopped and stared at me. And I believe now that what she saw in my eyes, what I saw in hers – the fear – was the realisation that she knew what had happened to me. And so I offered my hand, to her the lifeline.

She turned away.

‘Why did he lie to you?’ she said hastily. ‘Guilt, that’s all. Sometimes life gives you too much good. You feel unworthy.’

Esther Golan let me drown.