The Credit Draper Episode 30

The rabbi placed the back of his hand on Nathan’s forehead. “And such a coldness. The doctor… what does the doctor say?” “Nothing physically wrong,” Papa Kahn said.

“A disease of the spirit. A melancholy.” “He has always been like this?”

“In the last few years he has been worse. Before that, he was just a quiet child. Very sensitive to others around him. If they were happy, he was happy.”

“And if they were sad?”

Papa Kahn did not reply. Rabbi Lieberman put his hand on Papa Kahn’s arm. “I am just thinking, Herschel. Just thinking. But have you heard of the legend of the lamed vav?”

The rabbi turned on Avram. “Lamed vav, boy. Quick, quick. What do the letters lamed vav stand for?”

“The number thirty-six.”

“Very good, Avram. I am glad you remember something of what I taught you. Now, Herschel, do you know of this mythology of the lamed vav? Of the thirtysix righteous men?”

Papa Kahn shook his head.

Suffering

The rabbi continued. “Some Talmudists believe that at any given time in this world there are thirty-six men who take on all the suffering of humankind. The lamed vav.

“They bear the burden of our misery. Without them, our collective grief over the condition of humanity would be so great we would not be able to endure living.

“These righteous lamed vav represent a great paradox. They must be sensitive enough to absorb all of our suffering yet strong enough to endure it on our behalf. They are truly righteous men.”

“You are saying Nathan is one of them?” The rabbi sighed. “Na, na, na, na. It is unlikely. He would have to be part of a tragic dynasty of suffering passed down from one generation to another.

“Although the boy may not at first be aware he himself is a lamed vav, someone of the previous generation would have had to bear the legacy before him. Is there anyone in your family like that?”

“No one.”

“Then Nathan will not be either. But perhaps he has some lamed vav blood in him. And therefore he is more sensitive to suffering.

“When this war is over as soon it must be and your family is reunited, let us hope, God willing, the boy will be returned to good health.

“Wait until then, Herschel. Wait until then and see what happens.”

The two men disappeared from the room leaving Avram to contemplate the righteousness of his companion.

He picked up Nathan’s skinny arm, feeling the lightness, almost a nothingness, before he let it drop back down on to the bedclothes.

“So, my little one of the lamed vav,” he whispered.

“I am giving you all my suffering. The suffering of a nothing. What do you say about that? Is it too much to bear?”

He shook Nathan’s arm which only caused the boy’s head to slump further sideways on the pillow.

“Well, tomorrow the suffering will stop.” Nathan let out a groan. Avram realised he had been squeezing the boy’s fingers too tightly.

Deep breath

The grandfather clock in the sitting room was still striking eight when the doorbell rang. Mary was working in the kitchen, Celia was out, and Avram was half-hoping Papa Kahn might go to the door himself. The doorbell rang again.

“Avram!” Mary called.

He ran into the hallway, wiped his palms along the sides of his short trousers, took a deep breath, then opened the front door. There stood Roy Begg in a brown threepiece suit, bow-tie and homburg.

Roy Begg without his whistle, without his tawse, without his punch bag. Yet his jutting, strutting physical power seemed hardly constrained by the confines of his suit.

The man loomed over him, now as a oneeyed civilian possessing a life outside of the school that allowed him to stride through the streets of the Gorbals in his brown and white co-respondent shoes, to ring doorbells and to hand over his hat and gloves.

“Sir.”

Begg grunted a greeting, twisted his neck in his collar, then sniffed the air. Avram sniffed too, taking in the thick aroma of boiling chicken drifting into the hall from the kitchen.

“Where is your… Mr Kahn?”

“I will tell him you are here, sir. Sometimes he doesn’t hear the bell.”

But Papa Kahn was already at the door of his study.

“Ah, Mr Begg. Welcome to my home.” The two men shook hands. Side by side, they drew up to the same height yet Papa Kahn appeared dwarfed by the gym teacher. Avram turned to leave.

“No,” Papa Kahn said. “Tell Mary to bring us tea in the study. Then you will sit with us. After all, this business concerns you most of all. Is that not correct, Mr Begg?”

Avram sipped at his glass of lemonade, stared at Roy Begg over the rim. The curtains to the normally darkened study had been opened and a shaft of light shone through the dust to light up a sheen on the gym teacher’s slicked back hair.

Black leather

He noticed that the usual black leather eye-patch had been swapped for a brown one which matched the colour of the man’s suit and shoes.

Begg sat stiff with a saucer palmed in one hand while his large fingers awkwardly hinged around the handle of a delicate cup. Papa Kahn drank his tea in his customary way, sucked through a cube of sugar wedged between his teeth.

The gentle noise Papa Kahn made when he performed this action was the only sound in the room. Avram squirmed to each slurp.

“These are Jew things, aren’t they?” Begg nodded towards a small table on which sat a filigree spice container, an etrog box and a pair of silver candlesticks.

“Yes, they are Jewish artefacts for specific festivals,” Papa Kahn replied. “Would you like me to explain them to you?”

“No. It’s all right.”

Silence again.

Without them, our collective grief over the condition of humanity would be so great we would not be able to endure living

More tomorrow.