Fervor - Softcover

Lloyd, Toby

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1668033348 ISBN 13: 9781668033340

Verlag: Avid Reader Press / Simon & Schuster, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

* FINALIST FOR THE NATIONAL JEWISH BOOK AWARD FOR FICTION and DEBUT FICTION * FINALIST FOR THE SAMI ROHR PRIZE *

A “magnificent” (The New York Times), chilling, and unforgettable story of a close-knit British Jewish family pushed to the brink when they suspect their daughter is a witch.

Hannah and Eric Rosenthal are devout Jews living in North London with their three children and Eric’s father Yosef, a Holocaust survivor. Both intellectually gifted and deeply unconventional, the Rosenthals believe in the literal truth of the Old Testament and in the presence of God (and evil) in daily life. As Hannah prepares to publish an account of Yosef's years in war-torn Europe—unearthing a terrible secret from his time in the camps—Elsie, her perfect daughter, starts to come undone. And then, in the wake of Yosef’s death, she disappears. When she returns, just as mysteriously as she left, she is altered in disturbing ways.

Witnessing the complete transformation of her daughter, Hannah begins to suspect that Elsie has delved too deep into the labyrinths of Jewish mysticism and gotten lost among shadows. But for Elsie’s brother Tovyah, the truth is much simpler: his sister is the product of a dysfunctional family, obsessed with rituals, traditions, and unbridled ambition. But who is right? Is religion the cure for the disease or the disease itself? And how can they stop the darkness from engulfing Elsie completely?

Bristling with the energy of a great campus novel and the unsettling, ever-shifting ground of a great horror tale, Fervor is a powerful family story—and “fans of Isaac Bashevis Singer and Stephen King alike will thrill to this superb modern folk tale” (Publishers Weekly, starred review).

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Toby Lloyd was born in London to a secular father and a Jewish mother. He studied English at Oxford University before moving to America to pursue an MFA in creative writing at NYU. He has published short stories and essays in Carve Magazine and the Los Angeles Review of Books and was longlisted for the 2021 V. S. Pritchett Short Story Prize. He lives in London.

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Chapter One

ONE

It is told:

Before Yosef died, the three Rosenthal children were summoned in turn to the attic where he’d spent his final decade, a bedroom with an en-suite and adjoining kitchen, all sheeted in a layer of dust; the last cleaner had given notice weeks earlier, and there’d been no need for a replacement. Tovyah, being the youngest, went third. No one said this was going to be the last time he would speak to his grandfather, but he wasn’t allowed up before he’d washed his face and changed into a clean shirt. His mother put one hand on his shoulder while she dragged a brush through his knotted hair.

“That hurts,” he said.

“Life hurts,” she replied, and straightened his collar.

He found the old man piled under blankets and propped up by several pillows, his posture not of relaxation but collapse. Zeide’s eyes were screwed shut and Tovyah thought he’d fallen asleep. But then Zeide said his name, as though reminding himself what the boy was called.

“I’m here,” Tovyah said.

Blinking a few times, the old man opened his eyes. He wanted to know if his grandson was doing well in school. Of course! Nineteen out of twenty in his latest maths homework, and no one else got more than fifteen. He left out the part where, after class, Jack Thomas rewarded his success with a Chinese burn.

Zeide coughed, then resumed his perpetual frown. “Gut.”

Tovyah had grown up terrified of his grandfather. His earliest memory was of firing marbles across the floor with Elsie, ecstatically happy until Zeide thundered down from the attic and screamed at them. “Five minutes together of peace! What’s so hard?” The old man waved his stick in the air, and Tovyah had feared the beak of the eagle-shaped grip would come swooping down towards him.

But illness had transformed the man. These days his hands wobbled and his speech was choked. Looking closely, Tovyah could see a line of red beneath each of his grandfather’s faded eyes, almost colourless themselves, like raw egg whites. As for the tautness in his bearing, the sharp edges, the irresistible glowering that could force even his mother into submission—all of that was gone.

Now Zeide’s breathing grew hoarse and uneven. Tovyah wondered if it might stop altogether, if he was about to witness the moment the line was crossed. Could the old man die before his eyes? What then? Sam Morris, who on weekends derived great frustration and a little sadistic pleasure from hammering basic Hebrew into kids like Tovyah, was cagey when asked about the afterlife. “That’s not for us to know,” he’d say, before changing the subject.

Zeide’s breathing returned to a steady rhythm. Attempting to push himself upright, he beckoned the boy closer. So this was it, the reason he was here. Now he would receive his grandfather’s parting gift, the great revelation, something he’d carry with him through the course of his life.

“Don’t make me shout,” Zeide warned. Tovyah approached his bed.

Doggedly, the old man rose and sank against the headboard until he reached a stalemate. The effort seemed to do him good. His voice rang out clearer now, more insistent. “The second son is very special. Abel was the second son, Isaac was the second son, and Jacob was the second son. I was the second son, and you also are the second son. Not Gideon, you.”

Unsure if a response was expected, Tovyah kept his mouth shut. He’d heard this sermon before. Zeide continued. “Tell me. You believe in God?”

The question struck, a blow from the dark. “Of course,” Tovyah said. His toes pressed into the carpet.

“No, not of course.”

Zeide coughed again and there was silence.

“Let me show you.” With pitiful slowness, the way he now performed every little action, he tugged at the sleeve of his night shirt. Tovyah wished his grandfather would stop, and not expose that ancient limb.

“You know what this is?” Zeide asked, holding the raised sleeve above the elbow.

Tovyah stared at the white forearm and couldn’t speak. The goose flesh, those horrible black marks.

“And you know what it means?”

Tovyah nodded.

“You don’t know. It means there are people who think they decide who is human and who is not human.” He paused, scratched his sagging elbow, and went on. “It has no point, a life without God. What meaning is there? Don’t shake your head. What means something to you?”

There was nothing to say.

“You think God cares you don’t believe in Him? God laughs.”

Still Tovyah didn’t speak. And soon, he didn’t have to; Zeide, having expended what small reserves of energy remained, drooped against his pillows. His eyes closed. When he spoke again, he asked his grandson if he had seen Ariel lately. Tovyah was used to this kind of talk, the dropped threads, the questions from nowhere. But he’d never known anyone called Ariel.

His grandfather continued. “Elsie plays with him sometimes, doesn’t she? He’s only a little boy. Be gentle.”

“With who?”

“Ariel! Listen. He has colour on his face. Here.”

Zeide was tapping the ridge of his eyebrow, and Tovyah felt his memory prickling. The dimmest of recollections, a shadow at the edge of his mind. On some distant night, he’d been woken by voices from Elsie’s room. He’d tiptoed over, wondering who Elsie could be talking to. There was a little light spilling from the open door. And when he peeped through the crack, he saw Elsie’s face lit up by her reading lamp. Sitting on the end of the bed, with hands folded in his lap, was a boy his own age. No one he knew. And above his eye was a dark patch, reminding Tovyah of the dappling you get on cows. When he spoke, the language that came out was not English.

Tovyah couldn’t be sure if this was a true memory, or something he’d dreamt. It was so watery in his mind. Zeide, meanwhile, was squirming.

“Where am I going?” he said.

Tovyah didn’t understand.

“Will they keep me locked up, or set me free?”

The boy lowered his gaze. No answer was required; his grandfather was talking nonsense to himself again.

“Listen!” Zeide said, alert to his grandson’s presence once more. “Watch out for Elsie. And Gideon. The second son protects the others, yes? He carries the torch. Now help me change my pillows. They’re scratching. Filthy chicken feathers!” When this was done, he told Tovyah to refill the glass by the side of his bed. For a moment, the boy lingered. Was there nothing more? His grandfather’s bent finger and fierce eyes sent him on his way.

Before he reached the kitchen, he was ambushed by his brother and sister on the landing. They led him to Elsie’s room, and Gideon shut the door. “So?”

Tovyah was conflicted. Elsie was his closest ally in the family; the perfect daughter, she always defended his minor lapses to their parents—chocolate and milk within a few hours of Sunday roast, flicking the light one sleepless sabbath to see where he was peeing. But Gideon made him uncomfortable. His brother was sixteen now, had a man’s hard voice, and made a point of standing...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Avid Reader Press / Simon & Schuster
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1668033348
• ISBN 13: 9781668033340
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 276
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar