Lubji smiled hopefully, but the soldier brutally slammed the butt of his rifle into his chin. He fell head first out of the window and crashed down onto the path.
He looked up to find a bayonet hovering between his eyes.
‘I’m not Jewish!’ he screamed. ‘I’m not Jewish!’
The soldier might have been more convinced if Lubji hadn’t blurted out the words in Yiddish.
6
Daily Mail
8 February 1945
Yalta: Big Three Confer
When Keith returned for his final year at St. Andrew’s Grammar, no one was surprised that the headmaster didn’t invite him to become a school prefect.
There was, however, one position of authority that Keith did want to hold before he left, even if none of his contemporaries gave him the slightest chance of achieving it.
Keith hoped to become the editor of the St. Andy, the school magazine, like his father before him. His only rival for the post was a boy from his own form called ‘Swotty’ Tomkins, who had been the deputy editor during the previous year and was looked on by the headmaster as ‘a safe pair of hands.’ Tomkins, who had already been offered a place at Cambridge to read English, was considered to be odds-on favorite by the sixty-three sixth formers who had a vote. But that was before anyone realized how far Keith was willing to go to secure the position.
Shortly before the election was due to take place, Keith discussed the problem with his father as they took a walk around the family’s country property.
‘Voters often change their minds at the last moment,’ his father told him, ‘and most of them are susceptible to bribery or fear. That has always been my experience, both in politics and business. I can’t see why it should be any different for the sixth form at St. Andrew’s.’ Sir Graham paused when they reached the top of the hill that overlooked the property. ‘And never forget,’ he continued, ‘you have an advantage over most candidates in other elections.’
‘What’s that?’ asked the seventeen-year-old as they strolled down the hill on their way back to the house.
‘With such a tiny electorate, you know all the voters personally.’
‘That might be an advantage if I were more popular than Tomkins,’ said Keith, ‘but I’m not.’
‘Few politicians rely solely on popularity to get elected,’ his father assured him. ‘If they did, half the world’s leaders would be out of office. No better example than Churchill.’
Keith listened intently to his father’s words as they walked back to the house.
When Keith returned to St. Andrew’s, he had only ten days in which to carry out his father’s recommendations before the election took place. He tried every form of persuasion he could think of: tickets at the MCG, bottles of beer, illegal packets of cigarettes. He even promised one voter a date with his elder sister. But whenever he tried to calculate how many votes he had secured, he still didn’t feel confident that he would have a majority. There was simply no way of telling how anyone would cast his vote in a secret ballot. And Keith wasn’t helped by the fact that the headmaster didn’t hesitate to make it clear who his preferred candidate was.
With forty-eight hours to go before the ballot, Keith began to consider his father’s second option — that of fear. But however long he lay awake at night pondering the idea, he still couldn’t come up with anything feasible.
The next afternoon he received a visit from Duncan Alexander, the newly appointed head boy.
‘I need a couple of tickets for Victoria against South Australia at the MCG.’
‘And what can I expect in return?’ asked Keith, looking up from his desk.
‘My vote,’ replied the head boy. ‘Not to mention the influence I could bring to bear on other voters.’
‘In a secret ballot?’ replied Keith. ‘You must be joking.’
‘Are you suggesting that my word is not good enough for you?’
‘Something like that,’ replied Keith.
‘And what would your attitude be if I could supply you with some dirt on Cyril Tomkins?’
‘It would depend on whether the dirt would stick,’ said Keith.
‘It will stick long enough for him to have to withdraw from the contest.’
‘If that’s the case, I’ll not only supply you with two seats in the members’ stand, but will personally introduce you to any member of the teams you want to meet. But before I even consider parting with the tickets, I’ll need to know what you have on Tomkins.’
‘Not until I’ve seen the tickets,’ said Alexander.
‘Are you suggesting my word is not good enough for you?’ Keith inquired with a grin.
‘Something like that,’ replied Alexander.
Keith pulled open the top drawer of his desk and removed a small tin box. He placed the smallest key on his chain in the lock and turned it. He lifted up the lid and rummaged around, finally extracting two long, thin tickets.
He held them up so that Alexander could study them closely.
After a smile had appeared on the head boy’s face, Keith said, ‘So what have you got on Tomkins that’s so certain to make him scratch?’
‘He’s a homosexual,’ said Alexander.
‘Everyone knows that,’ said Keith.
‘But what they don’t know,’ continued Alexander, ‘is that he came close to being expelled last term.’
‘So did I,’ said Keith, ‘so that’s hardly newsworthy.’ He placed the two tickets back in the tin.
‘But not for being caught in the bogs with young Julian Wells from the lower school,’ he paused. ‘And both of them with their trousers down.’
‘If it was that blatant, why wasn’t he expelled?’
‘Because there wasn’t enough proof. I’m told the master who discovered them opened the door a moment too late.’
‘Or a moment too early?’ suggested Keith.
‘And I’m also reliably informed that the headmaster felt it wasn’t the sort of publicity the school needed right now. Especially as Tomkins has won a scholarship to Cambridge.’
Keith’s smile broadened as he put his hand back into the tin and removed one of the tickets.
‘You promised me both of them,’ said Alexander.
‘You’ll get the other one tomorrow — if I win. That way I can feel fairly confident that your cross will be placed in the right box.’
Alexander grabbed the ticket and said, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow for the other one.’
When Alexander closed the door behind him, Keith remained at his desk and began typing furiously. He knocked out a couple of hundred words on the little Remington his father had given him for Christmas. After he had completed his copy he checked the text, made a few emendations, and then headed for the school’s printing press to prepare a limited edition.
Fifty minutes later he re-emerged, clutching a dummy front page hot off the press. He checked his watch. Cyril Tomkins was one of those boys who could always be relied on to be in his study between the hours of five and six, going over his prep. Today was to prove no exception. Keith strolled down the corridor and knocked quietly on his door.
‘Come in,’ responded Tomkins.
The studious pupil looked up from his desk as Keith entered the room. He was unable to hide his surprise: Townsend had never visited him in the past. Before he could ask what he wanted, Keith volunteered, ‘I thought you might like to see the first edition of the school magazine under my editorship.’
Tomkins pursed his podgy lips: ‘I think you’ll find,’ he said, ‘to adopt one of your more overused expressions, that when it comes to the vote tomorrow, I shall win in a canter.’