Ben Preserve Us

By Chaim Bermant

I bring you up to believe that nothing is good enough for you, and you grow up to be good for nothing.

Thus, Mrs. Bindle, on learning that Ben, her only-begotten son, has decided to be a Rabbi; what is more, a Rabbi in a small provincial town in Scotland. Her anxiety proves to be not unjustified, although Ben's chosen career has its compensations-perhaps Helen, the promiscuous teenage daughter of his housekeeper; perhaps Simmy, the young wife of an elderly parishioner; perhaps the whole incident-prone pace of the pawky Scottish town in which this richly-human story is set.

First published in 1965, Chaim Bermant's third novel has all the wit, warmth and colour of its critically-acclaimed forerunners.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781448205448

Chaim Bermant

Chaim Bermant (1929-1998) was born in Breslev, Poland and moved to Glasgow, Scotland at the age of 8. He was educated in Glasgow and became a teacher before joining Scottish TV and then Granada. Bermant became a prominent Anglo-Jewish journalist, and had a regular column in The Jewish Chronicle and occasionally to the national press, particularly The Observer and The Daily Telegraph. During his lifetime, Bermant wrote a number of scripts for both Radio and Television, including the BBC, as well as several for Anglia TV. Bermant's book, The Squire of Bor Shachor was serialized on the Radio and Bermant also appeared in several productions in person, including, in 1981, one of the BBC's Everyman series. Bermant wrote a total of 31 books; his novels and non-fiction works reflect his sometimes controversial opinions and his observations on Anglo-Jewish society.

Book preview

BEN PRESERVE US

CHAIM BERMANT

Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part I

Chapter 1

Mother jumped into the taxi as it was beginning to move.

‘Where are you going to?’ I said.

‘I’m seeing you off to the station.’

‘But I don’t like being seen off. You know I don’t. I’ve told you I don’t.’

‘All right, I’m not seeing you off. I’m taking a ride in the taxi. I like taxi rides. Do you mind? It’s not as if it’s going to cost you any more, and if it does, I’ll pay for it.’

We travelled on in silence for a time. Then she said:

‘Do you still want to go?’

I sighed but did not answer.

‘All right,’ she went on, ‘all right. You want to be a Rabbi? Be a Rabbi. Be anything you like. Be a dustman, a-a-scavenger, a strip-tease dancer. It’s your life. You want to throw it away? Throw it away. But if you must be a Rabbi, why not in London? What’s wrong with London, tell me? Ten million people live in London, but it’s not good enough for my prince. Tell me what’s wrong with it? I live in London, all my family live in London, the Queen, all the best people. Do you have to run away five hundred miles to what-do-you-call-that-place?’

‘Auchenbother.

‘Auchen who?’

‘Auchenbother. I’ve told you a hundred times.’

‘If you would tell me a thousand times I still wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. All I know about the place is that Aunt Hilda lives there, which believe me is a good enough reason for not going there. Did I ever tell you about Aunt——’

‘A hundred times.’

‘It’s my fault really,’ she was now speaking to herself. ‘It’s my fault. I bring you up to believe that nothing is good enough for you and you grow up to be good for nothing. Well-educated, with degrees here and diplomas there, but good for nothing. Three years in Cambridge, two years in Jerusalem, but what for? Nothing. There’s boys with half your brains and none of your degrees already paying super-tax. Thank goodness you don’t have to be rich. You don’t even have to earn a living, your father saw to that.’ She sobbed. ‘Your poor father, if he was alive now he would be turning in his grave.’

‘Father would have been happy——’ I began, but I knew it would be a waste of time to argue, and let her go on.

‘Your poor father was too good to you. He was too good to me. He was too good to everybody except himself. He drove himself into an early grave the same way as you’re driving me into an early grave.’ She sobbed again. ‘If only he had lived twice as long I wouldn’t have minded if he had left half as much.’ It took her some time to collect herself.

‘It’s no good crying. Crying won’t bring him out of the ground, and even if it did he would go straight back if he found out what’s become of you. Well, it won’t be long. It won’t be long before I join him. It’s my only consolation.’ She blew her nose. ‘Have you packed your winter woollies? It’s cold up there at this time of the year. It’s cold up there at any time of the year.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘I asked you something. Have you packed your winter woollies?’

‘I’ve packed my winter woollies.’

‘Thank God you’re sensible about something.’

We drove on in silence, but not for long.

‘I mean take Nick, your best friend—he is your best friend, isn’t he? You grew up together, went to the same school, went to Cambridge together, you were even in the same college together, and look at the difference. He is a doctor, a consultant nearly: you a nothing, a Rabbi maybe. All right, you don’t like medicine, but what’s wrong with law? Couldn’t you solicit? Couldn’t you be a barrister? As a matter of fact, it would have been a good idea for you to be a barrister. You’re getting thin on top and you’d look nice in a wig. Right, I know, I know, you don’t like the law either. But there are other things. There’s dentistry. There’s psychiatry. That’s a very good trade. Somebody once told me the whole world’s mad except the sane people, and the sane people are madmen suffering from delusions. It isn’t medicine really, psychiatry, it’s a meschugas, and very profitable. Where there’s madness, there’s money. It wouldn’t take you long to be a psychiatrist. You’ve got a degree in Greek already, that should help. In another five or six years you could be certifying people right and left.’

‘I would certify you to start with.’

‘Nice. Very nice. That’s the Rabbi for you. Calling his mother mad. That’s how he keeps his commandments.’

‘You may not be mad, Mother, but you’re certainly driving me mad.’

‘And I suppose you’re driving me sane? All right, if I had two sons, three sons, half a dozen, I wouldn’t mind. But you’re my only son, my only child. Except for brothers, sisters and inlaws, I’ve got no one left in the world. If you have a large family you can afford to be extravagant, so if one son becomes a Rabbi, the others make up for it. But me, I’ve got all my eggs in one basket and you’re the basket.’

She blew into her handkerchief.

‘All right, you want to be a Rabbi? Be a Rabbi. Ruin your life. But why do you have to leave London? You don’t have to answer. Just say yes or no. Is there nothing suitable for you in London?’

‘There isn’t.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing at all.’

Her face brightened. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy you a synagogue.’

At this I stopped the taxi, grabbed my case and jumped on to a bus.

I caught the train as it was pulling out of Euston, pushed my case on to the luggage rack and staggered into my seat.

‘Freedom at last,’ I gasped as I wiped my brow, and was then startled by a vision of my mother opposite me in the corner seat. I shut my eyes, shook my head, then opened them again. She was still there.

‘Now, now, now,’ she said, ‘don’t panic. I’m not going to what-do-you-call-that-place. I wouldn’t if I was paid. I’ve a cousin in Leighton Buzzard and this train stops——’

‘You haven’t got anybody in Leighton Buzzard.’

I haven’t?’

‘You know bloody well you haven’t.’

‘That’s very nice language for a Rabbi to use. You should get on very well in that place you’re going to.’

‘But it’s true and you know it’s true.’

‘Are you trying to tell me what family I’ve got and what family I haven’t? As a matter of fact there’s whole sections of the family you haven’t even heard of, and if I say I have an aunt in Leighton Buzzard, I’ve an aunt in Leighton Buzzard.’

‘You said a cousin.’

‘She’s a cousin through one side of the family and an aunt through the other.’

‘Who then?’

‘Who?’

‘You mean to say that you don’t know yourself?’

‘I mean to say that you don’t know either.’

‘Right, there’s Rudi.’

‘Rudi who?’

‘Rudi Leighton.’

‘She’s in Manchester.’

‘She was, but she’s in Leighton Buzzard now. She’s on holiday.’

‘In Leighton Buzzard?’

‘Yes.’

‘In February?’

‘Sure, on winter holiday. You’ve been on holiday in February.’

‘In Switzerland.’

‘So she went to Leighton Buzzard. She doesn’t like foreign places, is that my fault? She says they always over-charge and you can’t get a good cup of tea. And as a matter of fact Leighton Buzzard happens to be very nice for winter holidays. I was thinking of taking a house there myself, that was before you decided to go away. I was thinking of taking a house for a month.’

I was too furious to argue further. I pulled out the Guardian and buried myself behind it.

Mother sat in silence for a time, then she said:

‘Don’t you read The Times any more? The nicest people read The Times. The Guardian’s provincial.’

I did not answer. She rummaged around in her bag for a few minutes, then turned to an old lady sitting next to her.

‘That’s my son.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s a clergyman.’

‘Very nice.’

‘He’s a Rabbi. That’s a sort of vicar.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s got a special call from a place up in Scotland to be their Chief Rabbi. That’s a sort of bishop.’

‘A bishop?’

‘Yes.’

‘He looks so young.’

‘He’s even younger than he looks. He’s twenty-five. He should only be twenty-four and a bit, but about the time he was expected I got a shock and he was born a bit too soon.’

‘A bishop of twenty-five. That is remarkable.’

‘That’s nothing, I didn’t tell you about his scholarships, did I? When he was eleven——’

At this I fled into another compartment and returned as the train was pulling into Leighton Buzzard to help her down.

‘I’m glad to see you’re a bit human,’ she said. She was in tears.

Chapter 2

I was met at the station by the entire board of Management of the Auchenbother Synagogue, headed by Mr Schrayer the President, who was carrying a small bunch of posies. The other members of the Board were lined up in two columns like a guard of honour, and Mr Schrayer introduced them to me as we passed—Mr Bills, the Senior Warden; Mr Balls, the Junior Warden; Mr Arkard. the Hon. Secretary; Mr Balchack, the Hon. Life President and, a little apart, the Rev. Basil Plotz, the Cantor, and Mr Asher Ochsher, the Beadle.

Mr Schrayer was my host over the weekend. He lived in a large house over the road from the synagogue (or shul, as I prefer to call it), with stucco eagles grimacing at each other across the doorway and a large, stained-glass window over the staircase in the hall.

I was introduced to a young woman whom I took to be his daughter. She was slight, with dark skin, large brown eyes, black curly hair, and gleaming white teeth which her mouth couldn’t quite cover. ‘That’s the second Mrs Schrayer,’ he said. ‘You can call her Simmy.’

Mr Schrayer was about the same height as his wife, but perhaps thrice her girth, with an immense head, bald at the top, and with long white hairs at the back. His face was as wrinkled as a walnut, but his eyes were bright blue, and his voice firm and vigorous.

On Friday night the entire Board of Management came to dinner.

‘We’re all one big happy family in Auchenbother,’ said Mr Schrayer after the meal, ‘and I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean we’re related.’ He waved a hand towards his guests. ‘Cousins or second cousins, all of them.’ He put a hand on my shoulder.

‘You are single, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. We’ll soon see to that. We depend on our clergy for new blood. You’ll like it here very much.’

‘Wait,’ I cautioned him. ‘You may not like me. You haven’t heard me speak. You may not like my sermons.’

‘Sermon shmermon. What’s a sermon? Words. You’ve been to Cambridge. You’ve been to Jerusalem. You’ve got a University degree, a Rabbinical diploma. You mean to say you can’t put a few words together? The job’s yours and it’s a waste of time talking about it.’ And all the heads round the table nodded agreement. The next day they were shaking.

I had taken as the theme of my sermon the hardships of the Israelites in Egypt.

‘Hardship,’ I began, ‘is the sinew of religion. There can be no faith without sacrifice, and no belief without self-denial. Had there been no Pharaoh there would have been no Jewish people: had there been no affliction there would have been no Jewish faith...’ And I continued the argument for a further half-hour.

At the reception which followed the morning service I looked around for approval and found turned backs. Then Mr Arkard, the Hon. Secretary came over to me.

‘Good Shabbos,’ he said.

‘Good Shabbos,’ I said.

And he cleared his throat.

‘You make sermons often?’

‘I hope to make them every week.’

‘Every week?’ he said weakly, and disappeared into the crowd.

When I went home with Mr Schrayer we strolled in silence for a time, then he turned to me:

‘You know, I’m thinking you’re too good for us.’

‘I see you’re trying to flatter me into leaving. Well, I’ll leave, but I can’t travel on Shabbos. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow.’

‘No, no, you’re far too intelligent for that. No, I’m thinking what’s a place like Auchenbother with its twelve hundred Jews doing with a graduate from Cambridge? I mean, up to now we’ve been having foreigners who could hardly speak English, let alone Cambridge English.’

I stopped and looked him squarely in the face, which wasn’t easy, for I had to crouch.

‘Mr Schrayer,’ I said, ‘what exactly was wrong with my sermon?’

‘Exactly, I can’t tell you, but inexactly it was this. First, you spoke too long, which is bad enough if you have nothing to say, but you said the wrong thing and you kept saying it for forty minutes.’

‘The wrong thing? It was a very general sermon—an appeal for blood, sweat and tears.’

‘Exactly. If you start with blood, sweat and tears, what’ll you finish with?’ He turned to make an appeal to the street at large. ‘Blood, sweat and tears he wants. I’ve been here forty years, fifty years. We’ve all been here from about the same time. What do you think we’ve been doing here, having a garden party? Fun in the morning and larks at night? Forty, fifty years we’ve been here. We came here with nothing and now we’ve got some of the finest businesses in town. How do you think we did it? Jews’ luck? I would trade it in for non-Jewish luck any day in the week. Dishonesty? It can help in a difficult minute, but you can’t make a career out of it. We’re no more honest or dishonest than anybody else. More clever? I wish we were. We’ve worked harder, that’s the secret. When everybody went into work at eight in the morning, we went in at seven. When everybody stopped at six, we stopped at seven. When everybody went for two weeks’ holiday, we went for a week, or didn’t go at all. And now, when we’re a bit older, and taking things a bit easy, and looking up at the sun, there comes a young shmock who’s never done a day’s work in his life and asks for blood, sweat and tears.’

‘I was speaking in general terms.’

‘General, schmeneral—you were speaking in a language everybody could understand. I mean we’ve had preachers here before, and they could call for blood, sweat, tears, lungs, liver and kidneys for all it mattered, because nobody ever understood a word they said. No one could follow and no one was following, but you spoke in clear, simple English that even Rev. Plotz could understand. A man who is understood has got to watch his words.’

What he said depressed me. I had taken