BEARDED, BESPECTACLED, with a deeply lined face and dark, wise eyes, he was Chief Rabbi of Britain, that much I’d been told. But right away I could see
he was much more. An eminent scholar, a religious philosopher, a prolific writer with more than two dozen books to his name, he’d spent many of his days staring out of windows and thinking about the root causes of sorrow, of evil, of hate.
He offered me a cup of tea, then dived straight in. He didn’t mince words. He condemned my actions. He wasn’t unkind, but it had to be done. There was no way round it. He also placed my stupidity in historical context. He spoke about the six million, the annihilated. Jews, Poles, dissenters, intellectuals, homosexuals. Children, babies, old people, turned to ash and smoke.
A few short decades ago.
I’d arrived at his house feeling shame. I now felt something else, a bottomless self-loathing.
But that wasn’t the rabbi’s aim. That certainly wasn’t how he wanted me to leave him. He urged me not to be devastated by my mistake, but instead to be motivated. He spoke to me with the quality one often encounters in truly wise people—forgiveness. He assured me that people do stupid things, say stupid things, but it doesn’t need to be their intrinsic nature. I was showing my true nature, he said, by seeking to atone. Seeking absolution.
To the extent that he was able, and qualified, he absolved me. He gave me grace. He told me to lift my head, go forth, use this experience to make the world better. To become a teacher of this event. Henners, I thought, would’ve liked the sound of that. Henners with his love of teaching.
No matter what I did, the calls grew louder for me to be barred from the Army. The top brass, however, were holding fast. If Prince Harry had been in the Army when he dolled himself up as the Führer, they said, he’d have been disciplined.
But he’s not in the Army yet, they added. So he’s perfectly free to be a thicko.
