But he wouldn’t know how to climb up the back of a tram, hang on and get around town like that, without being seen by the police, or how to lead a gang of kids from the Jewish quarter against a gang from the marketplace, or how to fight one against ten . . .’

‘And you fought one against ten? When?’

‘More times than you’ve had hot dinners,’ Ben replied, deeply resentful, imitating the biting reply Nastasia had made to her rival, the woman who sold herrings, who’d accused her of never having had a marriage proposal from any of her lovers.

But they were tired of shouting and getting upset, so Ada and Ben fell silent. Night was already falling: it was the early dusk of winter. A cockroach slowly crossed the room, twitching its feelers; others climbed up the wall, attracted by the warmth from the wood-burning stove. They were never chased away: they were a sign of wealth in a house. Through the frozen windowpane, they could just make out the shoemaker’s sign next door: a boot made of golden metal, decorated with spurs, all covered in snow and lit up by the low flame of a gaslight in the street. Everything was still, but it was an empty, joyless stillness. Ada buried her cheeks and forehead in the pillow and closed her eyes. Beneath her lowered eyelids, she pictured a long road in the dead of night, but it was a summer’s night, warm and dark. She was walking with Harry. Harry was tired and he was leaning against her; Harry was hungry and she gave him food. Then she was the one who was afraid, who was cold, who was in pain, and Harry consoled her, reassured her, took care of her. The game transformed into a dream: the images were detailed, but bathed in a peculiar light, pale and grey, like the first breaking of dawn, and the sounds (the voices of the children who were running away with them, Harry’s laughter, their footsteps along the road), all the sounds were clear, yet somehow muffled, distant. Harry! What a wonderful name . . . The name of a true prince . . . That name alone would have been enough to make her fall in love, even if she had never seen his face or his house . . . To be allowed inside, even just to cross the threshold, to see Harry’s room, his toys . . . He might let her touch them. He might even take books, coloured crayons, balls and pile them into Ada’s arms, saying, ‘Here. We can share.’

She thought she could almost hear him whispering in her ear. She sank deeper into a feverish sleep. She could feel her imaginary friend’s cheek next to hers, a cheek as cool and soft as a piece of fruit. She took his hand and fell asleep.

6

The Jews who lived in the lower town were religious and fanatically attached to their customs; the Jews in the wealthy areas were strict observers of tradition. To the poor Jews, their religion was so completely engrained in them that it would have been just as impossible to extricate themselves from it as to live without their beating hearts. To the rich Jews, loyalty to the rites of their forefathers seemed in good taste, dignified, morally honourable, as much as – perhaps more than – true belief. Between these two classes, each observant in their own fashion, the lower middle classes lived in yet another way. They called upon God to bless their business dealings, heal a relative, a spouse, a child, then forgot about Him straight away, or, if they did think about Him, it was with a mixture of superstitious fear and contained resentment: God never fully granted anything that was asked of Him.

Ada’s father went to Synagogue from time to time, in the same way someone might go and see an investor who could help you in business – that is, if he wanted to. He even had the power to drag you once and for all out of the poverty trap, except he had too many protégés, too many people asking favours, and was actually too rich, too great, too powerful to spare a thought for you, a humble earthly creature. But you could always turn up where you knew He would be . . . Why not? Perhaps He might notice you? Or when things were going badly, you could remind Him of your existence with a whisper, a sigh: ‘Ah! Bozhe, Bozhenka! (Ah, my God, my dear sweet God!)’, with just a glimmer of hope, with a sad, resigned reproach: why have You abandoned me?

But religious laws were really too complicated, too strict to be followed faithfully; you took your pick: some were observed and some weren’t. People fasted one day a year, and during Passover they ate unleavened bread – but with ordinary Russian bread on the same plate, which was a great sin.