We chat of summer plans, jobs, dreams, and hopes. And who we are. I find myself defending something I never thought so much about
“H
ow could they do that?”
She is talking of an incident at the zoo. Men mumbling broken English to staff, kids and carriages and 55 snack bags. Strange clothing, same, same, same, like a cult. Davening Minchah right in middle of the grounds.
How could they?
Them. The chassidim. Your people.
Gulp.
Mine?
She says it’s her Britishness that makes her bristle.
I’m British too, am I not?
But not like her. My friend of the Queen’s English is infallibly polite, reserved.
“I’m not them,” I say too quickly. I’m not the people she cringes about.
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