The Novel in the Viola Read Online Free PDF

diligence, He would take pity. I did not believe this, but as I listened to stout Herr Finkelstein singing the Hebrew, double chins trembling with fervour, I was torn between scorn at his religious faith (I was Julian’s daughter after all) and a sense of congruity. His words licked around me in the darkness, and in my mind’s eye I saw them shine like the lights of home. I pictured Anna’s Moses, a hero of the big screen (James Stewart, perhaps) leading the Jews into a rose-red dessert and then something older, a glimpse of a story I had always known. As a modern girl, I fumbled with my butter knife, embarrassed by Herr Finkelstein’s chanting. He gazed heavenward, oblivious to the dribble of schmaltz wobbling at the side of his wet lips, and I wanted him to stop, never to stop.
    We murmured the blessings over the cups of wine, and the youngest, Jan Tibor, started the ritual of the four questions: ‘Why is tonight different from all other nights? Why tonight do we eat only matzos?’
    Frau Goldschmidt pushed her reading glasses up her nose and recited the response: ‘Matzos is used during Passover as a symbol of the unleavened bread that the Jews carried with them when they escaped out of Egypt, with no time for their uncooked bread to rise.’
    Margot snorted. ‘A Jewish household with empty cupboards? Not even a loaf of bread? Seems unlikely to me.’
    I kicked her under the table, hard enough to bruise her shin, and I felt a small pulse of satisfaction as she winced.
    ‘Elise. The next question,’ said Julian, in his no-nonsense voice. He held up a sprig of parsley and an eggcup brimming with saltwater.
    I read from the worn book in my lap: ‘Why is it that on all other nights we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night we eat only maror, bitter herbs?’
    Julian placed his book face down on the table, and looked at me as though I had really asked him a question to which I wished to know the answer. ‘Bitter herbs remind us of the pain of the Jewish slaves, and the petty miseries of our own existence. But they are also a symbol of hope and of better things to come.’
    He did not glance at the Haggadah , and as he continued I realised that the words were his. ‘A man who has experienced great sorrow and then has known its end, wakes each morning feeling the pleasure of sunrise.’
    He took a sip of water and dabbed his mouth. ‘Margot. The next.’
    She stared at him, and then glanced down to her book. ‘Why is it that on all other nights, we don’t dip our herbs at all, but on this night we dip them twice?’
    Julian dipped a sprig of parsley in the pot of sweet charoset and leant across the table to hand it to me. I popped it into my mouth and swallowed the sticky mixture of apples, cinnamon and wine. He bathed a second piece of parsley in the saltwater and gave it to me, watching as I ate. My mouth stung with salt, and I tasted tears and long journeys across the sea.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Enough clouds for a spectacular sunset
     
     
     
    After dinner, Margot and I stole onto the balcony. The rich beef stew had been one of Hildegard’s best; I wanted to cram myself with the taste of home while I still could. Margot tossed a few cushions onto the floor, and we sat side by side, looking at the shaking leaves on the top of the poplar trees.
    ‘You will write, Bean,’ she said.
    ‘Well, I shall try. But I expect to be rather busy with bridge parties, lawn picnics and such.’
    To my surprise, Margot clutched my hand. ‘You must write, Elise. No joking.’
    ‘Fine. But my handwriting’s terrible and I don’t plan on improving it.’
    ‘That’s all right. It will give Robert something else to complain about. And you know how happy that makes him.’
    My litany of faults had provided Robert with another source of interest, and consequently I felt he ought to show a little more gratitude towards me. The balcony doors creaked and Anna stepped out. Margot and I shuffled along to make room for her on our