At my flat I dressed carefully and conservatively. I did not even tell Mrs Cornelius where I was going. I still had a faint suspicion I might be falling into one of Brodmann’s traps. I had not survived for so long without anticipating such things, the legacy of all those years.
A taxi for so great a distance was out of the question. Instead, I walked up to Notting Hill Gate and got the Central Line to Liverpool Street where I easily found a taxi to take me to Brick Lane.
We drove down the mean, narrow road, full of bagel bakeries, rag shops and kosher butchers. To be honest, Brick Lane was never an area which attracted me. The denizens had reproduced their original slums and shtetls. The cab turned into Princelet Street. Number 19 was about halfway along an old run-down row of eighteenth-century houses, typical of the time, with an arched doorway and two matching arched windows beside it. Above this were two rows of three windows and above them some sort of attic. Even compared to the nearby buildings the place had a distinctly neglected look. No doubt the home of an impoverished refugee, like so many in Notting Hill these days. The door was poorly painted, the knocker filthy with rust and dirt. I lifted it and let it fall; the interior sent back a hollow echo. Something seemed wrong. Was this indeed a trick? I was poised to turn and flee. Perhaps after all I should have brought one of Mrs Cornelius’s sons with me. Too late to change my mind. The door was opened by a smart, stocky woman of about my own age. Her hair and costume were clearly that of a person of substance. She smiled and swung the black door back, admitting me into a narrow hall. On both walls were arranged groups of fly-spotted photographs. The place smelled strongly of onions and cabbage. More of old Kiev came back to me. I hesitated. I removed my hat.
‘Maxim!’ Her smile was sweet as always. Awkwardly we hovered, unsure whether or not to embrace. At last I did my best to smile in return. I shook hands with her. Her poise and manner were distinctly French. She wore a deliciously floral perfume. Guerlain, I thought. I know these things from the women who come into the shop. I was not a bit surprised at feeling a strong attraction for Esmé.
Needless to say, she was not the bright little girl or the sober young woman I had known long ago, but she wore excellent makeup. Her well-cut clothes were flattering. She spoke good, educated Russian in a beautifully modulated accent such as I had scarcely heard in years. Again tears came to my eyes.
‘Good afternoon, Maxim Arturovitch.’ She was sweetly sardonic. ‘It seems the prodigal son has, if not returned, at least arranged to meet for tea. How are you, my dear?’
‘Well, thank you.’ Keeping control of myself, I kissed her on both cheeks in the Parisian manner. ‘Did you have a good journey, Esmé Alexandrova?’
‘We took a plane,’ she said. ’So much quicker! The first time your mother has flown. Unlike you, Maxim!’ Her grin was mischievously attractive. She had been the first person ever to witness me harness the power of flight, to soar over the towers and steeples of old Kiev. Oh, how she had loved me then! How often I had missed that love!
The house smelled of antiquity and grief, its rooms unlived in and musty. Yet in contrast to the prevailing atmosphere the front parlour was almost opulently furnished, with big armchairs, a solid table, a floral carpet, some heavy, blue velvet curtains. The wooden blinds were half shut to admit two bright bars of sunlight, one of which shone on fresh flowers in a large green vase, the centrepiece of the table. Around the walls were arranged an old-fashioned radio set, a bureau and a bookcase with dark, matching volumes. Over to the right in the shadows stood two stocky old women in black, neither of whom I recognised. One of them stepped forward holding out her arms. And we embraced. I began to shake. Esmé suggested we sit down. The other old lady murmured in what sounded like German. I heard a few words. She went to get us some tea. My mother sat down across from me on the sofa.
‘We can go on to Liberty as soon as you feel like it.’ Esmé stepped back. ‘I can order a taxi.’ I remained intensely aware of her floral scent. I noticed how the shafts of light caught her hair. She had good cheekbones, soft skin. She had aged well. ‘But if you’d rather stay here don’t worry. You aren’t disturbing anyone. Mrs Stein’s only here part of the week. She’s the caretaker. The house hasn’t been used for several years. Are you familiar with its history?’
Why should I be? I thought. I told her that I hardly ever came to this neighbourhood. ‘In London East and West are two separate worlds.’ I did my best to laugh. ‘You go through an invisible gate at Holborn.’
‘Mrs Stein tells us the place was once well known. They are trying to get a grant, she says, to preserve it. The house was the last of its kind in London, according to Mrs Stein, originally built to accommodate Huguenot weavers, but around 1870 they added on behind. It remained an ordinary house in the front. Perhaps a rabbi lived here. The addition was a tiny synagogue! You can still see all its decorations, prayer books and so on. The last members of the congregation either died or moved away. Mrs Stein has been telling us about it.’
This news confused me. Had Esmé converted to Judaism while in Palestine? This ordinary working-class front room was a synagogue? I saw no sign of such a building. Was this after all an elaborate hoax? Yet Esmé spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Did she seem over-controlled?
‘A synagogue?’
She was awkwardly respectful. She gave a small, uncertain shrug. ‘Such places were common, apparently, in this part of London. Poor immigrants could not afford very large ones. The whole thing fills the little backyard! Incredible, eh? Do you want to look at it later? The rest of the house, of course, is just a normal dwelling. You can still see where the Protestants had their looms.’
The woman who I supposed was my mother shook her head, speaking in Russian. She smiled uncertainly. ‘No doubt they had to keep it secret. For fear, I would guess, of pogroms.’
‘Pogroms?’ I was completely at sea. ‘In London? The Jews were never threatened. You’re thinking of Mosley in the 1930s. But that came to nothing. The Jews were always tolerated in London.’
As I spoke Mrs Stein re-entered the room. She shrugged. ‘Pray to God it’s true. I heard things were all right in Leeds, but here —? Even today you are never surprised.’ She shared a complicit glance with the other two women.
I felt extremely uncomfortable. ‘So it is now a museum?’ I asked.
‘Not even that,’ said Esmé. ‘This room Mrs Stein keeps up. But the rest of the place has fallen into disuse. The Rodinsky family lived here until recently. Then they died or moved away. One, I gather, was mentally disturbed. This is Mrs Rodinsky’s furniture. A shame.’ ’
I was allergic to the dust. I coughed, wiping my eyes. Though the house had recently been cleaned, I felt a strong need to get back into the street. Such rooms always made me claustrophic. ‘Perhaps we should go straight on to Liberty?’
The old lady - my mother - brightened. ‘You find this place a bit depressing. So do I. We’ll go have our tea at the restaurant you mentioned. Mrs Stein won’t mind.’ Then she frowned. ‘But it would not be good manners ...’ She began to weep again. ’It is so wonderful to see you, my darling.’ She opened her arms, and I was again in her embrace, delighting in the maternal softness of her body, the warmth, her smell. My caution was leaving me. I hugged her as tightly as she hugged me. I had not known such affection since I was last in Kiev, promising to return as soon as possible. I could not control my sobs. ‘Oh, Mother!’ Only now did I understand what I had been suppressing for so long.