Noah's Child Read Free

the evening star; but we’ll call it “Joseph and Maman’s star”.’
    My mother had a way of renaming stars.
    She put her hands over my eyes, twirled me round then pointed at the sky.
    â€˜Where is it? Can you point it out to me?’
    I learned to recognize ‘Joseph and Maman’s star’ without fail in all that vastness.
    My mother hugged me to her and sung a Yiddish lullaby. As soon as she finished the song she asked me to point to our star. Then she sang again. I fought off the urge to slide into sleep, eager to live this shared moment in all its intensity.
    My father was at the far end of the room, bent over his suitcases, folding and re-folding his suits and grumbling to himself. In between two murmuredcouplets from my mother I managed to ask him, ‘Daddy, will you teach me to sew?’
    Slightly thrown, he didn’t answer straight away.
    â€˜Please,’ I insisted. ‘I’d like to make treasures, like you.’
    He came over to me, and this man who was frequently so stiff and withdrawn held me to him and kissed me.
    â€˜I’ll teach you everything I know, Joseph. And even what I don’t know.’
    His coarse, prickly black beard must usually have hurt him because he often rubbed his cheeks, and wouldn’t let anyone touch it. That evening it can’t have been troubling him and he allowed me to finger it inquisitively.
    â€˜It’s soft, isn’t it?’ whispered my mother, blushing, as if confiding in me.
    â€˜Come on, don’t talk nonsense,’ he scolded.
    Even though there were two beds, one double and one single, Maman insisted I slept with them in the double bed. My father didn’t object for long. He had really changed now that we were noble.
    And there, gazing at the stars that sang in Yiddish, I fell asleep in my mother’s arms for the last time.

Three
    W e never said goodbye to each other. Perhaps it was because everything happened in such a muddle. Or maybe it was deliberate on their part. They probably couldn’t face such a scene, much less subject me to it . . . the thread was broken without my even realizing it: they went out the following afternoon and never came back.
    Every time I asked the Comte and the tiny Comtesse where my parents were, the answer invariably came back: ‘Somewhere safe.’
    I made do with that because all my energy was taken up discovering my new life: my life as a nobleman.
    When I wasn’t on my own exploring every nook and cranny of the house, or watching the maids in their constant dance of polishing silver, beating carpets and plumping up cushions, I spent hours inthe drawing room with the Comtesse who worked on improving my French, and wouldn’t allow me to utter a single expression in Yiddish. I was all the more compliant with her because she spoiled me with cakes and piano waltzes. Apart from anything else, I was convinced that I would achieve true noble status only by mastering this language Sadly, it struck me as lacklustre, difficult to pronounce and nothing like as amusing and colourful as my own, but it was gentle, measured and distinguished.
    In front of visitors I had to call the Comte and Comtesse ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunt’ because they were passing me off as one of their Dutch nephews.
    I had reached the point where I believed it myself, when the police surrounded the house one morning.
    â€˜Police! Open up! Police!’
    Men thudded violently on the front door; the bell wasn’t enough for them.
    â€˜Police! Open up! Police!’
    The Comtesse, wearing only a silk negligee, burst into my room, grabbed me in her arms and took me to her bed.
    â€˜Don’t be afraid of anything, Joseph, answer in French, just like me.’
    As the police climbed the stairs, she started readinga story, the two of us propped up against the pillows as if this was all quite normal.
    When they came in they glowered at us furiously.
    â€˜You’re