Back The Song of Names
Chapters (17)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Norman Lebrecht
  4. Dedication
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. What’s next onyour reading list?

His narrative is coming to an end. Account has been rendered, the books balanced. All that remains is to scan the entries, and then – the reckoning. He recounts through tight lips the power struggle that raged on the death of the Rosh when the mashgiach ruchoni, the spiritual guide and dean of studies, proposed to turn the yeshiva into a more modern, outgoing institution. The mashgiach wanted to introduce one-year residencies for Jewish grammar-schoolboys after their matriculation, before they entered university. Dovidl opposed the plan ferociously, forming an alliance with fellow recusants to run his Lithuanian study-partner, Yoel, as their candidate for head of college. It was, he wryly reflects, not unlike the election of a new master at Trinity, a bitter, rule-bound contest of principles, personalities and tough practicalities. Yoel was elected Rosh by a nine-to-six majority on the rabbinical council and Dovidl accepted the vacant post of mashgiach, mainly to fortify Yoel’s resolve to reserve the yeshiva for those who intended to dedicate their entire lives to the study of Torah. In the intro-extrospective schism that afflicts every belief system, Dovidl won the battle of the navel-gazers.

‘I could not have stayed here, had it become a place of comings and goings, of parents from London dropping off and collecting their classically educated sons,’ he admits. ‘I wanted no part of the outside world. I could not bear the need to avert my eyes for fear that some nosy parent might recognise my former self and start asking questions. Even now, I cannot go shopping without looking over my shoulder to make sure I am not being followed. By whom? I haven’t a clue. But if I see a workman loitering on a street corner, or a teenager staring at my quaint outfit, I think of the inquisitive plumber at the seventy-three bus-stop and quicken my pace or hail a cab. Behind the happy face, Martin, I am a haunted man, hiding a guilty conscience. It has not been as peaceful for me as it may seem, and sometimes I have prayed for it to end.