BY PHILIP LOWE

My dearest wife has written her own memories in a book and has inspired me to write my own. I feel a little cautious in sharing my own memories of relationships and journeys. As long as everything I have experienced has brought me here, it is excusable.

I pray that our children do not experience the doubt, duplicity, and pain that I had.

I do not wish to deny the work my father must have effected, yet I believe, as my own future has taught me, he could have behaved differently—not only towards me.

My early teenage years became ripe picking fields. As I grew, my opinions changed.

At times, I recalled memories I thought were lost. Some were too uncomfortable. I have been able to reflect many times on motives and aspirations, yet it seems there has always been a different hand directing my path.

I do not know how my wife has relieved her life and her own difficulties. She must be so much stronger than me. Reader, I love her.

Marguerite

I did not know if it was how he told his story. I found it easy to talk to him, and we got along well and met and talked and played in the small space he was allowed whenever I could make it away; often my father was not here, and my mother was often busy with Pierre.

I decided to steer clear of religious things when talking with Adan. Or perhaps he decided not to pursue this with me. In any event, he spoke to me about the land of his birth—Switzerland, as it turned out. His family, however, must have moved a great deal. He talked of favourable laws for Jewish people, to which I just nodded. I did not understand how laws could be interesting or pertinent in people’s lives. I thought that politics was more boring than effectual.

He spoke of many places he had lived; I calculated he must have moved at least twice per year. A feat I found quite impossible to believe.

There were many places to the east of France to which he referred—indeed, he spoke much of the Grand Est, which I simply did not understand. He spoke of living in the Ardennes, Marne, Haut-Rin, Meurthe-et-Moselle—and most of the time I nodded, feigning appreciation.

Then he spoke of the Alsace and fell to the floor weeping. I did not know what to do.

More than weeping, he howled. I could tell that the effects of his experience were still fresh.

It was some time before he could speak. He started with an apology.

“I am so sorry—I do not expect you to understand this. In Alsace, there lived, and died, the love of my life.”

His nose was running, so he grabbed a kerchief from his pocket, loudly blew his nose, and then smiled at me.

“Her name was Marguerite. She must have been a year or two older than me, given her presence at the seminary. I was working for a wood merchant at the time and I was extremely young, could only have been short-lived, given the nomadic nature of my family. I was simply walking nearby the seminary and saw her entering the place. Her beauty, her mesmerising green eyes, her long black hair were… astounding.

“I say seminary; it was more a school incorporating a church. Marguerite was simply dressed and was accompanied by others, similarly dressed, and several nuns. Obviously, she was expected to become a nun. What a waste of life. And of her beauty.

“I noticed she had a bandage around her foot and used a crutch.

“Everyone else had gone in, and she stopped as if she had forgotten something. She turned and looked at me. We both smiled.

“I was so taken aback. I returned the next day at the same time, nothing. Yet the next day, she was there and made sure she was at the back of the line into the seminary. I made it my business to stroll by at that time. I pointed to myself and said my name. Again, she smiled.

“I then learned to my delight that my family would be staying in that area for at least the next month. Even better, the merchant I worked for said he would keep me working for at least that long. I would even be able to leave early on a Friday; as it was nearing winter, the Sabbath would be earlier.

“She had a friend to whom she would confide (and who did fast walking for her)—Mary-Anne, I think. It was at least a week until I saw her next: she smiled at me and then entered that dreadful seminary. Mary-Anne ran out to tell me I was invited into the church if I wanted to see her again. I said I would not enter: je suis Juif, I said. But I would climb the tree I pointed out to see her every day at her leisure.

“I saw her briefly a few days later from the tree. She had bruises around her eyes and forehead. She looked to me with sadness and despair in her eyes. 

“Soon after, there was a Hanukkah fair based in a small shop, not far from the seminary. Of course, my family and I attended. It being a rare thing, I was really surprised to see Marguerite there. She was accompanied by several seminary attendees. It looked like they were on their way to somewhere else—I like to think that Marguerite led them there.

“Briefly, I saw her lovely eyes, and she was looking at me too. She shook her head as she looked, almost in tears, and she walked away. I was bewildered and went back home as soon as possible, wondering why she should shake her head at me.

“The next memory was a few weeks later. Mary-Ann saw me—I had climbed down the tree to talk to her as she approached. I saw, as she moved closer, that she was in tears. She hurried towards me and handed me a crumpled piece of paper

“It said:

Marguerite has hanged herself

Funeral Thursday”

“So I was utterly distraught. Since then, I have not known what to make of it all. For some reason, I blame myself. Was this the result of her telling her family about us? We had done nothing and had no plans. Was it my religion? There was a distaste for Judaism at the time. Was it to do with the colour of my skin? I moved here to England soon after.”

Adan was called away and left me mulling over what he had told me. He seemed too young to me to have a love of his life. Certainly, she had sent Mary-Ann, yet I think Adan made more of this than there was. Yet who am I to judge?

A few months later, entertainment was organised for the kitchen staff. I went to listen—mostly to dramatic speeches, some comical. My ears heard the word “Alsace,” which I had only ever heard Adan say before.

An elderly relative of a member of staff was there; I remember his large brown coat and the stick he carried. And his dog!

He was talking about Napoleon and said, “In Alsace, at least, he has taken legal measures against those money-grubbing Jews.”

Adan encouraged me to play with what I assumed were his brothers. We played, throwing the ball to each other as they complained about the size of their lodgings. I think they spoke about lodgings in Portugal, which made them all laugh. I briefly noticed another woman who, given her skin colour, must have been related to Ada n and his brothers. I say briefly as she just looked in at where they played and disappeared, seeing me.

We played with each other daily for just a few minutes. I never discovered if they were really his brothers—they did not seem to want to talk to me, quite unlike Adan. I assumed that their presence was to be kept secret, so I did not speak of them to anyone.

One day, my father arrived unexpectedly, and I heard him stamping and shouting. I remember him shouting, “Lor, no amount of money is worth this.” There followed a great deal of noise below.

I ran down to the level of the house entrance as a fight seemed to ensue. A black man with a bloodied nose ran ahead of my father and made his way towards the front of the house. Then some men—whom I didn’t recognise but who were wearing military gear—overtook the running man and overpowered him, striking him until he hit the floor unconscious. They lifted him and carried him outside at my father’s instruction. My father then looked at me. He looked with no affection but as if he were measuring attendance. I felt guilty somehow, even though I did not know what had happened.

It was quiet, and my mother emerged with my drowsy brother. She was more concerned about the noise than anything else.

Then there was activity outside; I saw my father giving a gardener some instructions; the gardener fetched a range of planks and poles to be leaned against the wall; the gardener then left and returned some moments later with rope. The black man was then brought out, unconscious and stripped to the waist,

This moment I will regard as my shift from innocence to maturity; things had already shifted for me—but herein everything changed. My house suddenly became bigger; I saw that there were rooms in the loft, many more rooms in the kitchen, and below stairs. It takes my breath away, thinking how naive I was. Or as I was kept. 

The black man had a gag fixed around his head, although he was still unconscious. The ropes held him to the post as he awoke. The post was at a slight angle from the wall, and his arms were tied to it. Once atop the pole, his hands were made to look as if they were reaching up for something. He was struck there several times.

He looked like a puppet. Soon after, what I assumed were his family members were brought to see him under the watchful eye of what looked like henchmen, keeping the line straight and at a distance from him of about ten feet. The girls and children were weeping loudly.

I thought back to my own tears in the carriage after I had left the south of the country. How insignificant my abandonment seemed now.

Then two large black women joined the crowd with tears in their eyes. I recognised Adan’s mother. Adan himself was with the weeping children, his eyes full of the tears he endeavoured to brush away. I then noticed the black women had fresh and swollen marks on their faces, looking as if they had been freshly beaten.

He was left there for three days. On the third day, I noticed children from his family were allowed to see him. Thinking about it, it was a very cruel punishment. The discomfort must have been intolerable. The way the ropes were tied made it impossible for him to favour one leg. 

I had only ever seen pictures of Jesus nailed to his cross, yet in those pictures, Jesus looked infinitely more comfortable.

All this made me think again about the nature of my father and the secrets he obviously kept. I had never really considered this before. He had never been a fixed point in my life; work seemed to him far more important than anyone who lived under his roof. As far as I knew, he had never kissed me, played with me, or been anything like a father. I decided that my hatred of him was valid. This was a much more aggressive thing to do than just ignore him, which I had tried to do. I disliked and abhorred him. The experience of Cadiz was unforgettable.

I determined not to look at him.

After the three days of Adan’s father’s suffering. A caged cart arrived and took away the black families, including Adan. More people had emerged. Adan’s father staggered with his head down and rags in his hands. The families helped him into a seat in the cart. A woman—I assumed his wife—put her arm around him and reached out for some children whom I noticed had their ankles chained.

They were treated like suffering animals, I thought, and still think so. Maybe he had stolen something. Maybe he was being tortured just because of his skin colour.

My father was away a great deal after that; I could not really care less. Despite Adan’s absence, I played with the ball, practicing what he’d shown me. Playing with the ball made me miss Adan more.