Scraps of Heaven (10 page)

‘Yoshua. Yoshua.' The words move at a leisurely pace.

Josh relents. After all, the football has been lost and the Swedish Girl is not about. And it is almost dark. He follows the trail of the voice from the corner of Canning and Macpherson over the median strip beneath the offending palm. He steps onto the pavement, walks past the row of five double-storey terrace houses, fully attached. The houses emit the aroma of evening meals. The smells seep through the crevices of closed doors. Their lights are invitations to join the family fold. By the time Josh reaches the front gate it is fully night. He is hungry, and content enough to come in from the cold. Uncle Yossel parks his Ford Customline and walks from the car to the front gate. His eyes are magnified by thick glasses, his pinstripe trousers held up by braces; his breath is laboured as he climbs the steps. Yossel is a jovial owl, ample-bellied, who wears a suit and bow tie over a white shirt. And he is a man who bears gifts.

The gift is clumsily wrapped in brown paper. Josh tears open the wrapping, while Yossel stands by his side. He retrieves a metal coconut tree and places it inside the doorstep, on the hallway floor. At the base of the tree sits a monkey. Josh winds the key and the monkey glides up to the fronds. Two steel coconuts are released into the monkey's arms; the monkey returns and comes to rest on its side. It is a present for a child much younger than Josh. Yet he is pleased. A present is a present. And he is impressed by the mechanics, the way the monkey is propelled up and down the trunk.

Yossel pinches Josh on the cheek. Josh winces and follows him as he strides from the passage to the lounge. Yossel trails the scent of aftershave and success. He bursts into the kitchen and greets Zofia with a kiss on each cheek. The chair creaks as he adjusts and shifts about. He is too large for this room, even though he is only an inch taller than his sister. His aura of confidence has created the added weight.

Zofia offers Yossel the remaining portion of the Friday-night meal.

‘I've already eaten,' he says, ‘but a
glezele tei
won't go astray.'

Zofia places a plate of poppy-seed biscuits on the tablecloth. She serves the tea black, scented with lemon, and a tumbler of whisky, straight. She knows her brother's tastes. Yossel downs the whisky, leans back in his chair and glances at the Sabbath candles, burning low.

‘Ah. I feel at home,' he sighs.

But Zofia is unnerved. In his company she is awkward, reluctant to talk. Yossel is ten years older, and she can never bridge the gap. She barely recalls the early years, pre-war, before he left. Even then he was a mysterious presence, a young man on the move. He glided in and out of their apartment in Kazimierz, Krakow's Jewish quarter. The stairs squeaked as he ran down, and back up, hours later, stopping only for a quick bite before running back out.

Yossel dips a poppy-seed biscuit into the tea and allows it to dissolve on his tongue. ‘No one bakes poppy-seed biscuits like Kalman,' he says with a full mouth. ‘May he live to be one hundred and twenty years old and continue to keep us content.' Yossel's forehead is dripping with sweat.

‘My teeth are rotting,' he announces. ‘I will have to replace them with gold. Meanwhile, what can I do? I am in love with Kalman's poppy-seed biscuits. I cannot resist another bite.'

He looks at the kitchen walls and notes the recently plastered cracks. He glances at the ceiling and observes the leprous stains where the damp has taken hold.

‘This kitchen is too dark. It is a
schvartz lokh
, a black hole. It reminds me of our kitchen in Kazimierz. That is why I ran from Krakow as if from a black plague. You should buy a brighter globe,' he advises his sister. ‘And you should get rid of this table. Who uses wood nowadays? You are living in the past. Throw it out! Laminex is where the future lies! And throw out those chairs! Just last week I bought new chairs with chrome legs, foam seats. What a delight it is to have your bum cushioned by such seats. They fit like perfect moulds.'

Zofia moves back to the stove. She lifts the boiling kettle from the enflamed ring, and refills his cup. Her anger is rising. In his presence she feels inferior. He does not see her, despite all his talk. She is the younger sister and cannot break the mould. She was ten when her brother left Krakow. He descended the stairs, suitcases in hand, with his four sisters trailing behind. ‘Take it slowly,' he had instructed the driver. ‘We are early. I wish to see Krakow for the final time.'

The alleys of Kazimierz spiralled into the broad avenues of The Royal Way. The horse-drawn carriage traversed Rynek Glowny, Market Square. For an hour they trundled over the cobblestones, past baroque arcades through a city of palazzos and churches, castles and Gothic spires; and with a flamboyant gesture Yossel had lifted his cap in mock farewell to every passing landmark, each renowned square.

There are moments that are indelible and remain engraved upon the mind. The Krakow–Berlin express is poised by the platform. Passengers are embracing loved ones before clambering on board. They lean out of windows as the train eases out. The crowds on the station are waving their hands like stranded bathers crying for help. Zofia's brother is an apparition, a shrinking face. And, abruptly, he is gone. This is how it is with farewells. No matter how leisurely the detour, the final separation is always abrupt and a loved one vanishes, just like that.

Yossel lifts another poppy-seed biscuit. ‘To
gehennim
with my teeth,' he says, in his habitual mix of English and Yiddish. ‘Live for the day. And tomorrow will take care of itself. That is how it is. And that is how it should be. And this is the secret of my success. I arrived here with nothing.
Gornisht.
I walked the streets with just one address. I made my way through empty streets to Lipski's Cafe.'

Many times Josh has heard the monologue. The key phrases remain the same, but each telling is slightly different. He is aware of the changes in detail, the embroidery. And he has begun to sense the uncertainty that lies at the heart of Yossel's compulsive boasts. Yet he is drawn to his grand gestures, his grandiose presence. When he visits he brings life to the house.

‘Khaver Lipski was a true
mensch
, a learned man, well informed on worldly affairs. A man of many roles: cook, waiter, proprietor and cleaner, boss and confidant. His cafe stood on the corner of Faraday and Drummond. I think of him whenever I drive by, and I think of my first night, upstairs, above the cafe. I could not sleep. My mind was on fire. I could not wait to get started. I slept as if on a bed of needles; and in the morning I drew the curtains and saw that the streets were deserted. There was not a soul about. I had arrived in a city of the dead.'

Yossel dips a third poppy-seed biscuit into the tea. He talks to Zofia, to Josh. Perhaps to the walls. He does not care. ‘I wandered the streets like an automaton. It was Sunday. Everything was closed. The blinds were down, the curtains drawn, the world slept and I wandered around. There were more dogs than people, sniffing the pavements, squatting to relieve themselves, smelling each other's bums, skulking in back lanes.

‘In the evening I returned to the cafe. It was crowded with guests. And I knew no one. Not one ship-brother was there. They had disappeared at the wharf. They all had family, a relative who met them at the boat. But I have never been shy. I joined a game of cards here, a game of chess there, entered an argument, expressed an opinion, ordered a cup of coffee, a glass of borscht, a little bite.

‘And I kept my ears open. I moved from table to table. There were single men, and married men who had preceded their children and wives. I listened to those who had been here longer, even if only a few months. I asked where I could get a
dzjob
. That is the first word of English I learnt
.
Isn't this why we all came here from the black alleys of Krakow and Warsaw, from the godforsaken streets of Minsk, Pinsk and Chelnabinsk? Even the fools of Chelm were wise enough to leave their town in search of a
dzjob
. But a
dzjob
at that time was not so easy to find. The country was sinking into a depression, a swamp. The whole country was in search of a
dzjob
.

‘If you want to do well take whatever comes your way, I was told. Don't be proud. And if nothing comes your way take a suitcase, fill it up with trinkets, reels of cotton, underwear, pins and needles, a bit of this, a bit of that. Then put one foot in front of the other, and make your way out. Don't be shy! Take the first tram that comes by. Stay on board till the end of the line. Get out, walk to the nearest house, knock on the door. And when it is opened put your foot in, quick. Then keep it glued to the floor. Make sure you are in, before the woman of the house knows what is what. Unlock your suitcase, spread out your goods. And voila, you are ready to haggle and trade. Just point at the goods. Use your fingers to indicate the price and you are on your way.'

Yes, Zofia knows his tales well, and has known them for some time. She had first read them in instalments in the letters that had arrived in Krakow with dutiful precision, four times a year. The stamps bore photos of English monarchs. Perhaps Melbourne too was a city of palaces containing the tombs of bishops and kings.

For one decade his letters had flowed and each letter seemed more extravagant in its claims than the last. Within a decade Yossel had risen from hawker to factory worker, to manager, and factory boss with his own workers at his command. He had married the daughter of immigrant Jews from Warsaw. ‘A true lady,' he had written. ‘An aristocrat. Liebe eats with her mouth closed. She chews food like an angel. Marry above your station. It helps if you want to get out of the swamp. So I married a true lady, a
dama
, no less
.
Who would have believed it possible, eh? Look what has become of your Yossel.'

In the tenth year there appeared photos of his newly acquired house. Yossel, his wife and first-born child, stand by the porch. ‘My
palatz
!' declares the caption. ‘Can you believe it? I arrived here with nothing, a
nebekh
, with just one address in my hand. I spent my first night, alone in a room, as if smitten by a black plague. And ten years later, to the day, I live in South Yarra, with the well-to-do, in a
palatz
with enough rooms for a prince, and with one baby born and another on the way. Who would have believed it possible?'

He would bring the family over, he wrote. ‘You have not long to wait.' He would shower them with his benevolence. ‘I have more rooms than I know what to do with. I stroll around them and want to butt my head against the walls, and they are big rooms, with high ceilings, not cramped booths. Just now, however, it is difficult. The gates are closing. It is almost impossible to obtain a visa. But never fear, I can fix it. I know people in high places. I am a
makher
, a doer. I have the ear of ministers. Look at the photo.' He stands, Yossel, in a pinstriped suit, beside an important man of state. ‘A Government Minister', the caption claims. ‘Nu? See what has become of your Yossel?'

In the final months of 1939, the letters ceased. Perhaps they were stranded upon the high seas as nations fought battles in a world that seemed to be coming to an end. And when the smoke lifted, six years later, of a once-extended family just one sister remained.

Zofia pours her brother a second whisky, a third cup of tea. The cup is shaking as she places it on the table, but he is unaware of her simmering rage. He sips it with the uninhibited slurp, slurp, slurp of a man who knows he is among peasants again. Zofia watches as he slurps, as if trying to fathom when her adulation began to sour. She had sensed it as soon as she stepped from the boat, her belly rounded in advanced pregnancy, to an embrace from the brother whom she had not seen for over two decades.

It was not the reunion she had expected. Not the welcome anticipated from the sentiments of his letters. Nor the brother she had dreamt of since he vanished on the Krakow–Berlin express. He was acting out of duty. She was an intruder, a stranger. She belonged to the time before. She was a bearer of unimaginable horrors, a messenger from an alien world.

They drove from Station Pier in an uneasy silence. They detoured to the heart of the city, to the garment district in Flinders Lane. Yossel guided them up a flight of stairs and conducted them on a tour of the factory floor. He spoke lovingly of his knitting machines lined up row upon row. He had ushered them into the showroom and shown them samples of his fabrics, and dummies draped in next season's fashions. He outlined his future plans. He spoke fast, as if trying to paper the gulf between them, and as he spoke, he avoided Zofia's eyes.

They descended to a restaurant at the base of the building, and for a moment Romek and Zofia felt at home in the bustle of cafes crowded with factory workers, salesmen and shoppers. For a moment they were back in the alleys of Kazimierz amidst a babble of fast talk sprinkled with Yiddish and a smattering of many tongues.

It was dusk when they drove back over Princes Bridge. ‘Call this a river?' Yossel had said. ‘Compared to the Wisla the Yarra is nothing. But it is not the river that matters, but what it means to move across it, to live on its south side. Perhaps this is the
Sambatyon
, the river the ten lost tribes of Judah have been in search of for millennia. Perhaps if they retraced their steps back from exile, over this river, they would have arrived in a
gan eiden
, a paradise!'

Yossel is dunking yet another poppy-seed biscuit. He glances at his watch. ‘I must be going,' he says. ‘A businessman must work. I have to deliver a new knitting machine. It is the most up-to-date. Imported from Paris. Or was it Milan? The stars are out, the Friday night candles have burnt down, and my family waits, but I have one more
dzjob
to do, such is my fate. I am a busy man, and Mrs F. in Amess Street is my best seamstress. She has worked for me many years. She will put it to good use.' After one last dunk, one last slurp, Yossel stands, and Zofia helps him on with his overcoat.