I sat with the Rabbi in his plush, Regency room, red cushions, a view of the park. I told him I wanted to convert to Judaism. At school I had sided with the Jewish girls, opted for Jewish prayers instead of Christian, I felt that those beginnings at a private girls’ school on Harley Street had come full circle, it was meant to be. I told the Rabbi I was committed. My feet were bare, he was kind, he said love wasn’t enough of a reason. He sent me away to long for my Israeli in the stark uncomfortable spare bedroom of my mother’s tall, uncomfortable house. I sat at the desk facing the window and made necklaces from beads brought home from an Indian market. I didn’t talk to my family and they didn’t talk to me. Days passed. Weeks of silence. I was unthinkably absent from my surroundings. I was terribly sad. One day, unable to contain the loss, I picked up the phone and rang him. I remember the telephone in its alcove, the carpet beneath my feet, the sudden and unexpected jolt of his voice. I told him I missed him and incredibly I heard him say he missed me too. This was enough, the only invitation I needed, it was like pressing go on a racer who has leant against the starting rope, ears trained for the pistol. I was off. That afternoon I went to a travel agent near the station and bought a plane ticket to Israel. I came home and packed a bag. I imagined a life of headscarves and simplicity and picked up my sewing machine, too. Money allows for these things; a momentary flick of the switch, a plane ticket bought, no conversations had with anyone but him. I told no one. I took a taxi to the airport, a folded note on the kitchen table for my mother that I thought she’d find at breakfast. It said, Gone to live in Tel Aviv.
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