Scraps of Heaven (23 page)

She stares at him with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Who are you?' she asks. ‘I do not know who you are.' She pushes him back. ‘You are one of them. I do not know who you are.' The voices are returning. They descend from the ceiling, they rise from the floors. She glances at her son and sees he is frightened. She wants to embrace him; but then she sees his desperation as laughter. He is a stranger. His face is grotesque. He is one of them. Surely he is one of them.

Josh glimpses a pair of shoes beside the bathroom door. He lifts one up. The heel is worn, the black leather cracked. The silver clasps flash. Scraps of bitumen fleck the sole. The graze of many pavements are imprinted on the nail heads. The shoe is perfectly moulded to Zofia's feet. It contains her presence. Josh rubs it against his cheeks. He is soothed by its smoothness. He raises it to his lips, and kisses it. Zofia springs towards him and wrenches the shoe from his grip.

‘Loz op!'

The blows from the shoe rain down on his shoulders and back, but Josh holds his ground. Zofia stops, and is stunned to realise she is holding the shoe in her hand. She realises what she has done. She hurls the shoe to the floor and steps back.

Josh sees a flicker of recognition.

She sees her son, a twelve-year-old boy.

He sees her black hair falling free of its combs.

He wants to console her, but is stranded mid-step.

She glances about her in confusion.

He wants to reach out and touch her.

But she is shivering. Shrinking back.

She sits down by the kitchen table.

And quietly, she weeps.

And at the Kadimah, in the upstairs banquet room, they are laughing
.
The cast party is in full swing
.
Bloomfield is loitering outside. Podem invites him in. He is ushered to a seat at the table. He glances around with a childish grin. He feels warmed by the company. Podem pours him a glass of wine, and Potashinski is singing a theatre song:

We are all hotzmakhs, some older and some younger.
We are all peddlers, all dying of hunger.
We wheel and deal as the years steal by
Perhaps, just perhaps, my trinkets you will buy.

When he concludes, Waislitz, the elder statesman, rises to his feet. He lifts a glass of wine and proposes a toast. ‘We have wandered to God knows where. We will always wander, and we will always perform. If only to spite our enemies. May they burn in hell.'

‘Amen,' the cast replies. And Zlaterinski, how can he resist it, is on his feet, glass in hand, and he recites:

Quiet evening, dark gold
I sit by my glass of wine
What has become of my day
A shadow and a shine.

‘Now tell me,' he asks, ‘who has written such fine poetry? Ah? A rose is a rose is a rose! Bah! Give me Itsik Manger. He captures our sorrows and our luminous moments, equally, both. He understands who we are. He is the true poet of our godforsaken people.'

‘Listen to the genius!' says Potashinski. ‘Again he is lecturing, flying in the clouds. And where did all this flying get us? Even a nonsense song contains more wisdom than Zlaterinski's lectures.' Potashinski spreads his arms and sings:

I ask you, my wise men,
How does the Czar eat spuds?
You build a barrel of butter,
And place the Czar on the other side,
And a battalion of soldiers with cannons,
Shoot the spuds through the butter,
Straight into the Czar's mouth.
Oh, that is how, oh that is how,
That is how the Czar eats spuds.

Waislitz is back on his feet. He turns to Bloomfield and raises his glass. ‘To our colleague,' he says. ‘I saw him perform at the Novosci, the best theatre in Warsaw. It contained two balconies and an ample stage. It could seat an audience of two thousand, and even then there was room enough for everyone to yawn and stretch their legs. And it staged the plays of the best Yiddish Art Theatre in Poland, with our greatest actors. Zygmund Turkow! Ida Kaminska! David Herman! Avram Morewski! They all performed on the Novosci stage. And Bloomfield was one of the company. He was still an apprentice, but we could see he was talented. Even in a chorus his voice stood out.

‘He was at the Novosci for the final performance. The city was on fire. People were fleeing, trying to escape. They were boarding overcrowded trains. Loading their belongings, taking to the roads by foot or wagons that creaked over muddied paths. Ah, my friends, we know this scene so well. But I was not there. I had already left. I was here, in the golden land. I have had more than my measure of good luck, while my former colleagues were stranded in hell.

‘Every other theatre in Warsaw was closed, but at the Novosci the queues for tickets were getting longer. Every day members of the cast vanished, but Turkow and his dwindling band of actors stayed on. As long as there was an audience they would not forsake their sacred craft. They kept performing until the theatre was bombed. They remained until the Novosci was razed.'

Bloomfield maintains his childish smile. They know him, those present, and they know that September 1939 is as far as they dare go. They know that no one could emerge from what he had endured and remain sane. Bloomfield inhales the lingering scent of greasepaint. He recalls his excitement and fear as he would await his entrance in the wings. This is all he wants, to live one step removed from the stage, in the semi-darkness, suspended in that moment before a performance, in the time before time, when his daughters were still alive.

Bloomfield is trembling. He glances left and right. He hunches back into his seat, and sinks into his overcoat. The guards are pointing left, right, death or slave labour. Khannele. Sorrele. The names ring out. He is being held back by camp guards. And he cannot help them. His shoulders sag. His smile is a grimace. The glass of wine falls from his hand. He stumbles from his chair. ‘Yes,' he hums. He closes his eyes; cuffs his hands over his ears. He quickens his steps. ‘Yes. Yes.' But he cannot contain his trembling. Podem guides him towards the balcony. Only then does he re-open his eyes. Bloomfield glances back at the assembled company as he steps out, and fixed on his face is his childish smile. Zofia remains seated by the kitchen table long after Josh has withdrawn. She glances at the discarded shoes as she makes her way to the back room. She undresses, pulls on her nightgown, and slips into bed. Through the window she sees the outline of the wash-house and the barbed branches of a neighbour's tree. And inside the clouds are reassembling. They are floating above her, sinister energies suspended in space. Without warning they descend, and pin Zofia to the bed.

She claws at her assailants. The darkness is a weight on her chest. She is fighting with all her strength. With great effort she wrenches free, and regains her breath. The clouds assume their separate shapes. But they remain in the room. They are biding their time, waiting for another chance to attack. She must remain vigilant. She must not allow them to breach her defence.

Night begets night and the house trembles with uneasy sleep. Romek and Zofia lie at the extremities, and Josh in between. The greying dawn greets a silent Sunday, so quiet the Nicholson Street tram can be heard from inside the house. The winds have died. The rains have ceased, but the streets remain damp. And for the first time Zofia does not rise from bed. She dreams of Bloomfield. He sits by the kitchen table and winks as he slurps his food. ‘Yes,' he hums. ‘Yes. Yes.' His hum fills the entire room.

‘The bodies are in the dining room cupboard,' Zofia says when she awakes. She is feverish. Romek is by her side. He tries to cool her face with a moist towel. She pushes his hand away and turns her face to the wall. Romek leaves the room, defeated. Zofia adjusts her pillow. It is too soft, too damp. Her fever is rising, and she is singing:

Oh little goat, about a shepherd this song begins,
And how a girl wove her magic upon him.

‘Ah,' she says, when Josh enters with a cup of tea. ‘I was waiting for you.' Josh places the tea on the bedside table. Zofia pummels the pillow and tries to mould it to the right shape. She seeks its coolness and support.

‘I am one of the mysteries because I stayed alive. We had a big family, and I am the only one left, and that is a miracle. And that is the truth and nothing but the truth.' She sips the tea, then pushes it away.

‘No one knows who I am. Except Zalmanowicz.
“Mir shtammen foon felzen,”
he used to say. “We come from rocks. And from the stars, and from the seas, and from the winds. And from an explosion that shattered into billions of fragments, each with its own soul, each with a life of its own.” He was my teacher in the Yiddish folk-school, but such teachers are rare to find.

‘Once Zalmanowicz announced, “Today I am going to re-enact Moses' journey into the wilderness,” and he said: “Moses took his stick in hand and set out. And he walked and walked and walked.” Zalmanowicz walked as he talked. He circled the class. He strolled down the aisles and said: “Moses walked and walked and walked, out into the wilderness, with his stick in hand.” And Zalmanowicz walked out of the classroom, and he kept walking, and he did not return that day.' She chuckles. Readjusts the pillow. And recites: ‘An oak has fallen, a fully-grown oak, / With a head higher than all those around it.

‘Zalmanowicz loved to talk about nature and evolution. He taught us geology and astronomy. Biology was my favourite subject. I wanted to know what made the world spin round. He told me: “You are an intelligent girl. You should continue your studies, and your family should support you.” He was a big man with a black moustache. He believed in
yoisher
. Justice was his God. He would stride through the streets of Kazimierz. He was strong. He was an oak.'

Zofia pounds the pillow, and turns it round. Josh leans over to help her. She dismisses him with a wave of her hand. She wants only to continue her tale. She veers between lucidity and confusion. Her fever goads her on.

‘
Amol is geven.
Once upon a time. That is the way to begin a story. Once upon a time there was a palace, and it contained the bodies of bishops and kings. The palace stood on a hill by the Wisla River. In winter the Wisla was covered in mist. I once came around a bend in the river, and took fright. The palace looked like a phantom. Its turrets vanished into the clouds. And it was full of
dybbuks
. You know what is a
dybbuk
? It is a spirit that can invade your body. It can make you say strange things. It can take away your voice, and replace it with the voice of someone else.

‘There are little
dybbuks
in this room. I can see them now. They look like clouds, but it is a trick. They are waiting for an opening. But I know how to hold them off. They are clouds, not rocks.'

Zofia looks up at Josh. She is startled by the clarity with which she sees her son. She is derailed by his concern, and afraid of the silence that has stolen back into the room. Now that she has started, she is terrified of having to stop. She resumes her mono- logue. Lest she be diverted, she speaks quickly. The words tumble out.

‘
Amol is geven.
Once upon a time there was a palace made of rocks. It stood on the top of a hill not far from where I lived. One day I climbed the stone steps. When I reached the top, the palace gates were open. I was small. The guards did not see me. Or perhaps they did not care. I crept past them and ran into the palace grounds. I was not afraid. The dentist said I was the bravest girl he had ever known.

‘In the grounds there stood a castle and a cathedral, and in the cathedral lay the bodies of bishops and kings. They lay in tombs under slabs of rocks. Zalmanowicz taught us that we come from rocks and we return to rocks. And he said that the palace was over seven hundred years old. He told us that forty-one of Poland's forty-five kings were buried there.

‘And he told us the story of Krak, the founder of the city. Krak belonged to a past so distant no one could say how long ago he lived. Before Krak could found the city he had to kill a dragon, and he did this by feeding him animal skins stuffed with sulphur and tar.

‘Then Zalmanowicz told us this was a grandmother's tale, and only scientists know the truth. The bones of the dragon were in fact a whale's rib, a mammoth's shinbone, and the skull of a hairy rhinoceros. He said these prehistoric bones were kept in a passage near the cathedral door.'

Zofia sits up higher, adjusts her nightgown and clutches it to her chest. Her eyes are feverish, and Josh is riveted. He cannot tear himself away.

‘That is why I climbed the hill. I wanted to see the bones of the dragon that Krak killed. I was not afraid of the cathedral, but I was afraid of the word prehistoric. It made me think of death. I would lie in bed at night and imagine how old the world is. I wanted to know what lay beyond the planets, and what lay beyond the beyond. I imagined travelling to the ends of the universe, but then I wondered what lay beyond the end. I thought if I could stay awake all night I would solve the mystery, but I would always fall asleep. So I decided to climb the hill and see the prehistoric bones for myself.

‘When I entered the cathedral I could not find the passage. I wandered from chapel to chapel and into the crypt. I stared at vaults that contained the bodies of bishops and kings. I discovered the vaults also contained the bodies of poets and queens. Then I realised
dybbuks
were watching me. I could sense their presence. Only then did I become frightened. I ran through the cathedral out into the palace grounds. I ran down the steps of the hill two at a time.

‘One day Zalmanowicz wrote down the names of the forty-five kings. He said that Kazimierz was named after the greatest king. He said King Kazimierz deserved to be called great because he founded a university in 1364. I can still remember the date. I have always had a good memory. Zalmanowicz told me, one day I would go to university. Then he turned to the board, and wiped all the names off with a flourish. “Pff. They are all gone,” he said. “Just like that!”

‘And he told us kingdoms come and go, and armies march in, but sooner or later, they are driven out. He told us that madmen rant and shout, but all storms pass. Then he said it is not insignificant that we come from rocks, because rocks are bound up with seas, and seas are blown by the winds, and winds can travel great distances, yet return to reshape the rocks. And he said,
“Men vert geboiren un men vert farloiren.”
One is born, and one becomes lost.'