found ways to dissociate themselves publicly from the British Union of Fascists; and Father became a bitter, disappointed man. His charm went with his confidence. His good looks were ruined by resentment, boredom and drink. His intellect had never been real: Margaret had read his book, and she had been shocked to find that it was not just wrong but foolish.
In recent years his platform had shrunk to one obsessive idea: Britain and Germany should unite against the Soviet Union. He had advocated this in magazine articles and letters to the newspapers, and on the increasingly rare occasions when he was invited to speak at political meetings and university debating societies. He held on to the idea defiantly as events in Europe made his policy more and more unrealistic. With the declaration of war between Britain and Germany his hopes were finally dashed; and Margaret found in her heart a little pity for him, among all her other tumultuous emotions.
“Britain and Germany will wipe one another out and leave Europe to be dominated by atheistical communism!” he said.
The reference to atheism reminded Margaret of being forced to go to church, and she said: “I don’t mind, I’m an atheist.”
Mother said: “You can’t be, dear. You’re Church of England.”
Margaret could not help laughing. Elizabeth, who was close to tears, said: “How can you laugh? It’s a tragedy!”
Elizabeth was a great admirer of the Nazis. She spoke German—they both did, thanks to a German governess who had lasted longer than most—and she had been to Berlin several times and twice dined with the Fuhrer himself. Margaret suspected the Nazis were snobs who liked to bask in the approval of an English aristocrat.
Now Margaret turned to Elizabeth and said: “It’s time we stood up to those bullies.”
“They aren’t bullies,” Elizabeth said indignantly. “They’re proud, strong, purebred Aryans, and it’s a tragedy that our country is at war with them. Father’s right—the white people will wipe each other out and the world will be left to the mongrels and the Jews.”
Margaret had no patience with this kind of drivel. “There’s nothing wrong with Jews!” she said hotly.
Father held a finger up in the air. “There’s nothing wrong with the
“Which is under the heel of the jackboot, in your—your Fascist system.” She had been on the point of saying “your filthy system,” but she suddenly got scared and bit back the insult: it was dangerous to get Father too angry.
Elizabeth said: “And in your Bolshevik system the Jews rule the roost!”
“I’m not a Bolshevik. I’m a socialist.”
Percy, imitating Mother’s accent, said: “You can’t be, dear. You’re Church of England.”
Margaret laughed despite herself; and once again her laughter infuriated her sister. Elizabeth said bitterly: “You just want to destroy everything that’s fine and pure, and then laugh about it afterward.”
That was hardly worth a response; but Margaret still wanted to make her point. She turned to Father and said: “Well, I agree with you about Neville Chamberlain, anyway. He’s made our military position far worse by letting the Fascists take over Spain. Now the enemy is in the West as well as the East.”
“Chamberlain did not let the Fascists take over Spain,” Father said. “Britain made a nonintervention pact with Germany, Italy and France. All we did was keep our word.”
This was completely hypocritical, and he knew it. Margaret felt herself flush with indignation. “We kept our word while the Italians and the Germans broke theirs!” she protested. “So the Fascists got guns and the democrats got nothing ... but heroes.”
There was a moment of embarrassed silence.
Mother said: “I’m truly sorry that Ian died, dear, but he was a very bad influence on you.”
Suddenly Margaret wanted to cry.
Ian Rochdale was the best thing that ever happened to her, and the pain of his death could still make her gasp.
For years she had been dancing at hunt balls with empty-headed young members of the squirearchy, boys who had nothing on their minds but drinking and hunting; and she had despaired of ever meeting a man of her own age who interested her. Ian had come into her life like the light of reason; and since he died she had been living in the dark.
He had been in his final year at Oxford. Margaret would have loved to go to a university, but there was no possibility of her qualifying: she had never gone to school. However, she had read widely—there was nothing else to do!—and she was thrilled to find someone like herself, who liked talking about ideas. He was the only man who could explain things to her without condescension. Ian was the most clear-thinking person she had ever come across; he had endless patience in discussion; and he was quite without intellectual vanity—he never pretended to understand when he did not. She adored him from the very start.
For a long time she did not think of it as love. But one day he confessed, awkwardly and with great embarrassment, uncharacteristically struggling to find the right words, finally saying: “I think I must have fallen in love with you—will it spoil everything?” And then she realized joyfully that she too was in love.
He changed her life. It was as if she had moved to another country, where everything was different: the landscape, the weather, the people, the food. She enjoyed everything. The constraints and irritations of living with her parents came to seem minor.
Even after he joined the International Brigade and went to Spain to fight for the elected socialist government against the Fascist rebels, he continued to light up her life. She was proud of him because he had the courage of his convictions, and was ready to risk death for the cause he believed in. Sometimes she would get a letter from him. Once he sent a poem. Then came the note that said he was dead, blown to bits by a direct hit from a shell; and Margaret felt that her life had come to an end.
“A bad influence,” she echoed bitterly. “Yes. He taught me to question dogma, to disbelieve lies, to hate ignorance and to despise hypocrisy. As a result, I’m hardly fit for civilized society.”
Father, Mother and Elizabeth all started talking at once, then stopped because none of them could be heard; and Percy spoke into the sudden silence. “Talking of Jews,” he said, “I came across a curious picture in the cellar, in one of those old suitcases from Stamford.” Stamford, Connecticut, was where Mother’s family lived. Percy took from his shirt pocket a creased and faded sepia photograph. “I did have a great-grandmother called Ruth Glencarry, didn’t I?”
Mother said: “Yes—she was my mother’s mother. Why, dear, what have you found?”
Percy gave the photograph to Father and the others crowded around to look at it. It showed a street scene in an American city, probably New York, about seventy years ago. In the foreground was a Jewish man of about thirty with a black beard, dressed in rough workingman’s clothes and a hat. He stood by a handcart bearing a grinding wheel. The cart was clearly lettered with the words REUBEN FISHBEIN—GRINDER. Beside the man stood a girl, about ten years old, in a shabby cotton dress and heavy boots.
Father said: “What is this, Percy? Who are these wretched people?”
“Turn it over,” said Percy.
Father turned the picture over. On the back was written: RUTHIE GLENCARRY, NEE FISHBEIN, AGED 10.
Margaret looked at Father. He was utterly horrified.
Percy said: “Interesting that Mother’s grandfather should marry the daughter of an itinerant Jewish knife grinder, but they say America’s like that.”
“This is impossible!” Father said, but his voice was shaky, and Margaret guessed that he thought it was all too possible.
Percy went on blithely: “Anyway, Jewishness descends through the female, so as my mother’s grandmother was Jewish, that makes me a Jew.”
Father had gone quite pale. Mother looked mystified, a slight frown creasing her brow.
Percy said: “I do hope the Germans don’t win this war. I shan’t be allowed to go to the cinema and Mother will have to sew yellow stars on all her ballgowns.”
This was sounding too good to be true. Margaret peered intently at the words written on the back of the picture, and the truth dawned. “Percy!” she said delightedly. “That’s
