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in Budapest still violently mourned. Dora’s youth had been filled with Judits; it never occurred to her how the name might wear outside the clannish walls of Sunderland Judaism, in a sturdy English classroom filled with Charlottes and Victorias. And she would have been horrified to learn of the treacherous h her daughter stealthily added to the end soon after her fifth birthday.
    â€˜It sounds funny, Bubby,’ Judith said to Rebecca during the walk back from kindergarten, hanging her pale blonde head. ‘They laugh at me. Why can’t I have another one? Will you ask Mummy for me?’
    â€˜Oh mommellah ,’ Rebecca said, her freckled hand stroking the white, chubby one. ‘One day when you’re older, you can choose your own name, just like Papa did, and I did too. But when we’re little we have to have the names our parents give us. They’re our baby names, they show that our mamas and papas love us so much and hold us close to their hearts.’
    â€˜But why did she choose such a funny name? Your name isn’t funny. Tony doesn’t have a funny name either.’ Anthony, her wealthy teenage cousin, was much envied and talked about in the Gold household.
    â€˜ Your mama called you after her mama, because she loves you as much as her mama loved her . That’s how we remember the people we love, by keeping them alive in our children. That’s why your papa gave you my name too, so that when I’m gone you can remember me and keep a little piece of me alive.’
    Judith shivered and drew her grandmother’s warm hand next to her cheek. A pet budgie had died in their class the week before. She had watched in tears while the teacher scooped up the tiny bright body, its red legs curled into withered little stalks on the soiled cage floor.
    â€˜Don’t die, Bubby,’ she said very seriously. ‘I want you here.’ How would life be without her grandmother’s easy voice, her warm red hair and soft lap to sit on?
    Rebecca was as much a part of her as her name. Rebecca was the shriek of the gulls above Ryhope Road, the air scrubbed and raw as a kitchen sink, the distant moan of the shipyards. She was the grimy churn of the sea at Roker beach, the roar and grind of the docks – the sounds she called the heartbeat of the north. Sometimes, when the great tankers sailed up the Wear and stirred the waters into foamy life, Rebecca would take her down to the banks. And Judith would be lifted, safe in her arms, to hear the cheers of the crowds and wave her pocket handkerchief at the shining vastness of steel.
    Sometimes Judith wondered why their family seemed so thin and small compared to the other Jewish clans at Shul every Saturday. They never felt like a clan even together – even on the family days out at Roker beach. There, Dora would sit motionless on the deckchair behind her sunglasses, while Jack fanned himself with the Sunderland Echo and Shipping Gazette . Gertie stayed under the umbrella, fully clothed, and Judith would sit alone with her bucket and spade – desperate to paddle but afraid of the waves.
    Rebecca explained it like this.
    â€˜You come from a family of mensches ,’ she said, using the Yiddish word that means a worthy and righteous man. Her fingers traced the gold Star of David always hanging around her neck – a wedding gift. ‘That’s not true for everyone round here, mommellah . Your grandpa and I, God rest him, had three wonderful boys. Each of them did something good with his life. Your Uncle Max is fighting to build our homeland in Israel. Uncle Alex is giving some of all the money he makes to help poor and sick people. And Jacob, your papa, well – he and your mama thought they could not have children, so they took Gertrude in when she was a little girl just like you, saving her from the Camps. And they are keeping me in my old age, too.
    â€˜So you see, God sent them you as a reward. And He sent work