fromSpitalfields; except that New York had a certain deep generosity of sky which he would never forget. And, anyway, Frink wasn’t wrong to be wary: Sinner wanted gin, or whatever they drank here, and one way or another he would get some. He looked back at the little boy, and thought about how the kid would soon know his name, just like everyone else in this city would.
Rabbi Berg’s house was crowded with paintings and ornaments and little lamps and half-broken things. He welcomed them in saying, ‘Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.’ His face was deeply and finely lined all over, as if he’d once been caught in a shrimping net. ‘A great pleasure to meet you, Seth. Who is your rabbi in London? Rabbi Brasch? Our paths have not crossed. Come and sit down because I cannot stand up for too long and Mr Kölmel is already here.’ They went into the dining room and drank iced blackberry cordial. Within a few minutes the two remaining guests had arrived: Mr Balfour Pearl, a handsome dark-eyed man in his mid-thirties, introduced as having come straight from the mayor’s office, and Rabbi Shmuel Siedelman, who was around the same age as Pearl and much more reserved than his colleague Berg.
Their host sat at the head of the table, with Kölmel and Siedelman on his left, Sinner and Frink on his right, and Pearl at the opposite end. As his maid brought out their dinner of veal sausage with minced onion dumplings and cabbage, the rabbi led his guests in a prayer for the Jews in Germany. Everyone closed their eyes except Sinner, who looked around the dining room. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in a nice house: there were toffs he’d met in the Caravan who’d taken him back to grand old places in Belgravia or Knightsbridge. But this was the first time he’d been in a nice house as a proper guest, let alone a guest of honour, and the first time he’d been attended by a maid. The rabbis he knew in London didn’t live like this, and they wouldn’t aspire to havegovernment officials over for dinner, either. He wondered what the difference was, really, between a man like Rabbi Berg and a man like Albert Kölmel. You knew everybody, everybody knew you, and that was the foundation of your power: before long, there was no one left who didn’t owe you a favour. It was only the incantations, it seemed to Sinner, that were different.
‘Tell me, Seth,’ said Berg after the prayer, ‘how long have you been boxing?’
Sinner shrugged. ‘Since I can remember.’
‘Max, tell them how you found him,’ said Kölmel.
‘I don’t want to embarrass the boy,’ said Frink, looking at Sinner, but Sinner made no response, so Frink went on, ‘Well, this was when he was twelve years old. Some rich bloke in a big black Bentley – no idea why he was in our bit of town – but he’d given Sinner – Seth, I should say – he’d given Seth a shilling to watch his car for an hour, with another shilling promised when he got back. After ten minutes the boy just sidled off. Probably spotted something he could pinch,’ he added, smiling at Sinner, who again made no response. ‘When he got back, some pimply steamer was sitting on the bonnet, smoking. Must have been eighteen or nineteen. And Sinner wanted his second shilling. He told the other bloke to leave. He didn’t leave. So Sinner just jumped on him. I seen the whole thing from the dairy across the road. Had to run over and pull him away or I don’t know what might have gone off. Blood all over the both of ’em. Told Sinner he ought to be a boxer.’
After Berg had questioned Frink and Sinner a bit more, Siedelman said, ‘And you are not worried that the sport is a little …
goyishe midas
?’ Sinner didn’t know what that meant. ‘Lashing out to shed another Jew’s blood.’
‘Come on now, Shmuel,’ said Berg. ‘You take the Jews out of boxing and there is no more boxing. We should be proud of that. And it is no coincidence, I think. We know how tokeep a diet. We
Rabbi Berg’s house was crowded with paintings and ornaments and little lamps and half-broken things. He welcomed them in saying, ‘Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.’ His face was deeply and finely lined all over, as if he’d once been caught in a shrimping net. ‘A great pleasure to meet you, Seth. Who is your rabbi in London? Rabbi Brasch? Our paths have not crossed. Come and sit down because I cannot stand up for too long and Mr Kölmel is already here.’ They went into the dining room and drank iced blackberry cordial. Within a few minutes the two remaining guests had arrived: Mr Balfour Pearl, a handsome dark-eyed man in his mid-thirties, introduced as having come straight from the mayor’s office, and Rabbi Shmuel Siedelman, who was around the same age as Pearl and much more reserved than his colleague Berg.
Their host sat at the head of the table, with Kölmel and Siedelman on his left, Sinner and Frink on his right, and Pearl at the opposite end. As his maid brought out their dinner of veal sausage with minced onion dumplings and cabbage, the rabbi led his guests in a prayer for the Jews in Germany. Everyone closed their eyes except Sinner, who looked around the dining room. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in a nice house: there were toffs he’d met in the Caravan who’d taken him back to grand old places in Belgravia or Knightsbridge. But this was the first time he’d been in a nice house as a proper guest, let alone a guest of honour, and the first time he’d been attended by a maid. The rabbis he knew in London didn’t live like this, and they wouldn’t aspire to havegovernment officials over for dinner, either. He wondered what the difference was, really, between a man like Rabbi Berg and a man like Albert Kölmel. You knew everybody, everybody knew you, and that was the foundation of your power: before long, there was no one left who didn’t owe you a favour. It was only the incantations, it seemed to Sinner, that were different.
‘Tell me, Seth,’ said Berg after the prayer, ‘how long have you been boxing?’
Sinner shrugged. ‘Since I can remember.’
‘Max, tell them how you found him,’ said Kölmel.
‘I don’t want to embarrass the boy,’ said Frink, looking at Sinner, but Sinner made no response, so Frink went on, ‘Well, this was when he was twelve years old. Some rich bloke in a big black Bentley – no idea why he was in our bit of town – but he’d given Sinner – Seth, I should say – he’d given Seth a shilling to watch his car for an hour, with another shilling promised when he got back. After ten minutes the boy just sidled off. Probably spotted something he could pinch,’ he added, smiling at Sinner, who again made no response. ‘When he got back, some pimply steamer was sitting on the bonnet, smoking. Must have been eighteen or nineteen. And Sinner wanted his second shilling. He told the other bloke to leave. He didn’t leave. So Sinner just jumped on him. I seen the whole thing from the dairy across the road. Had to run over and pull him away or I don’t know what might have gone off. Blood all over the both of ’em. Told Sinner he ought to be a boxer.’
After Berg had questioned Frink and Sinner a bit more, Siedelman said, ‘And you are not worried that the sport is a little …
goyishe midas
?’ Sinner didn’t know what that meant. ‘Lashing out to shed another Jew’s blood.’
‘Come on now, Shmuel,’ said Berg. ‘You take the Jews out of boxing and there is no more boxing. We should be proud of that. And it is no coincidence, I think. We know how tokeep a diet. We
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