Doorstepping the Rosenblats
It’s a strange article all around. This fuss blew up just before Christmas so The Observer isn’t exactly quick off the mark here. Also if you are going to doorstep someone when you many as well do it properly, hang around for a few days and make them answer some questions.
When I ring their bell, Roma answers, her unsmiling face blurred by the mesh of the security screen. She is a squat but formidable 76-year-old, wearing a striped shirt over cream trousers and lumpish slippers. Her short hair is dyed brown. Her small, dark eyes squint into the light. Herman, 78, is standing silently in the corridor behind her, an imposing man in glasses and a goatee.
I ask if they are Mr and Mrs Rosenblat. “No,” she says flatly, in a thick eastern European accent. “They’re not here. They don’t live here.” But having already seen photos of the couple, I know it is them. When I say I would like to give them a letter, it is Herman who softens. He takes a few steps forward and gestures with his hands for Roma to open the screen. She takes the letter and closes the door. As I walk away, I wonder if either of them is struck by the irony that they are still lying about who they are.