His commentary is drowned in a chorus of curses and cheers. Women clutch their hats, losers feed their shredded tickets to the winds, and Potashinski is dancing for joy. His horse has come first. âAll I did,' he says, breathless, âwas close my eyes, jab my finger, and it landed on Baystone. Zlaterinski, for once I agree with you. Blessed be the land that stops for a horse race.'
In the streets of Carlton it is quiet, the post-race hush, and in the house it is cool, the blinds drawn at half-mast. Josh is in the dining room at the upright radio. Elvis Presley is singing âKing Creole'. Romek is seated at the kitchen table dressed in cotton trousers and a flannel shirt, and Zofia sits opposite, in her self-made yellow dress.
Romek is the master of the watermelon. It is one of the few domestic tasks he is allowed to perform. He fetches the large knife, carves the watermelon into halves, quarters, and finally, neat eighths. He works with care. He does not want the knife to slip. He does not want to spoil his rare chance to successfully perform his task. Zofia takes little notice of what he is doing. She is empty of thought. She has the contented exhaustion of a waitress at the end of a night shift, and she observes the white pigeon's comical walk, the way it juts its head. She attempts to emulate the movement, and bobs her head to and fro while trying to keep her neck still. Zofia softly laughs at her failed attempt.
Romek observes the whiteness of her upper arms, the permanent tan on the skin above her breasts, the gradations of sun-burnished darkness that extend from her lower arms. He observes that which he no longer touches. Her body fits comfortably in her yellow dress. Her beauty is heightened, as it always has been, because she seems unaware of it. Perhaps that is what love is, he reflects, a moment of forgetfulness, a suspension of the past, with no thought for the future. A moment of respite blessed with colour: the yellow dress, the floral pattern on a fruit bowl. All is reduced to mere presence, and within that presence can be seen the textures of a lover's skin, the uniqueness of a birthmark, and three slices of watermelon seeping pink juices upon a plate.
In the adjoining room Josh turns off the radio, stretches his arms, and makes his way to the front door. He pauses on the verandah, descends the steps and opens the creaking gate. Yes, Uncle Yossel was right. It needs to be oiled. He leaves the gate ajar as he steps out.
The last race has been run
.
The winds have dropped, the heat is subsiding, and Bloomfield retraces his steps. He hears the sound of sedate conversation trickling from backyards. The pavement beneath his feet is hard. And snow-less. This, above all, is what he appreciates about his daily walks on the streets of the new world: the absence of snow.
He returns to Curtain Square. At this time of day, and this time of year, when the trees are restored to full growth, the shadows are darker, the contrasts between shade and light sharper, pools of black against lucid greens. At this hour, despite the presence of people, the square is a still life.
The holy day of the horses, 1958. Weintraub and company are driving back. Their wallets are empty. They have squandered a minor fortune in five-shilling bets. But they do not mind. There is something they have experienced, despite the winds, the heat, the sweltering crowdsâa carelessness. Tomorrow they will reopen their shops, return to their infant businesses or to machines on the factory floor, but for now it is live for the day. Weintraub brings the truck to a halt outside his shop just as Josh makes his way by.
As soon as he arrives in Curtain Square, Valerio sends the soccer ball skidding towards his feet. âRun
ragazzo
, run,' he instructs. âDo not take your eyes off the ball. Chase it. Catch it. Hold it to your toes. Pass it back. And run.'
The lights of houses that front the square are turning on, one by one. A crow darts overhead, a black apparition that settles upon the upper branches of a Moreton Bay. Bloomfield sits in the darkness, beneath the canopied arches, and follows each movement between the players. The moon is rising, and all that exists for Valerio and Josh is the arc of the ball, boot to boot, back and forth.
Josh makes his way from the square on the run. A magpie swoops in front of him, then behind, marking out territory, her battleground. She returns to the lower branches of the tree, to her chirping offspring, and moments later she is back, in their defence, swooping, diving, scraping Josh's scalp.
Josh runs long after the magpie has abandoned the chase. He rejoins the median strip beneath the poplars, and runs past Rose and Tulip cottage, past Limerick and Boucher's corner store; he darts under the hem of the verandah, and circles the block. He cuts through Sutton Street to the vacant lot. He is running towards the future, towards intimations of freedom, running on empty, running fast.
There is an apparent symmetry in this chaos. It can be seen in the spiralling galaxy of the Milky Way, and the amber pools cast by streetlamps. It has something to do with dustbins and overflowing drains; with men and women making whoopee, and couples embracing in the hidden recesses of back lanes. And with flywire doors creaking in a breeze, and bras flapping in erratic winds. With gamblers scanning their cards for that elusive red ace, and the awkward grace of a mother and father on their daily walk with a deformed son.
And with the resistance of a punching bag, and broken slates tumbling down pitched roofs, with cups of tea steaming vapour, and a lost ship-brother circling the streets. And with the opening siren in a football match, and the scent of damp carpet in a vacant lot; and a school assembly singing âGod Save the Queen' while dogs root in weed-strewn lanes; and with the Swedish Girl's knowing smile, her perfumed embrace. And with a lone palm that rises tall and slim from a backyard above the lanes.
He is that palm, bound to a mother's fragility and a father's crippling doubt. And he knows he cannot set them free, and he knows their regret and sorrow will never cease. And he knows they are servants to duty, and prisoners of a chilling fate. And he knows that they love him, as he loves them, and loves these streets; and he knows also, that one day he will get out.
Romek is bent over his books, reading his beloved Yiddish poets. Their poems add lustre to the mundane. They keep him company in his silence. They accompany him through restless nights. They herald the steps of the milkman's horse in the pre-dawn dark. He copies them out, learns them by heart. Then recites them in a dying night:
Though I have much to tell you
I shall hold my tongue
You are the doer of deeds.
And I, the man of song.
Bloomfield dozes on his bench with the stars for candles, and the moon as his Sabbath bride
.
He dreams of Sabbath nights in that country far removed. A train is hurtling across the flatlands to the Gates of Death. He is crushed against the sides. His comrades are scaling each other, reaching for air, a slim crack in the boxcar roof. And beside him, his daughters. And he cannot help. He is gasping for breath. Why do men murder and maim? It will remain his eternal shout. And beside him his daughters. He whispers their names as he awakes to a clear spring night.
Zofia sits by the kitchen table. The walls enclose her, threaten her, yet also protect her
.
The voices are returning, the
dybbuks
are gathering for their eternal wake. They will always return. It cannot be otherwise. But she has endured the journey. She has made it to the other shore.
And she sings, inaudibly almost.
Enjoy yourselves
Enjoy yourselves
It's later than you think.
Scraps of Heaven
is a work of fiction. The characters owe as much to the imagination as they do to research, childhood impressions, and the experiences of refugees and displaced people I have come to know over the years. They include asylum seekers from Afghanistan and the Middle East whose recent journeys have highlighted the universality of the immigrant experience.
The scenes in the Displaced Persons camp are based on conversations with survivors, and on references such as Patrick Gordon-Walker's âBelsen: 24 April, 1945', in
The Faber Book of Reportage
, J. Carey ed, Faber & Faber, London, 1987; and Martin Gilbert's monumental work
, The Holocaust
, Collins, London, 1986. Gilbert asserts that when the first British tanks entered Belsen on 15 April 1945, the survivors could not believe they were free. For the next forty-eight hours the camp remained only nominally under British control. When the British troops reentered Belsen in force, they discovered 10,000 unburied corpses. Most had died of starvation. Of the many thousands of remaining inmates, up to 300 died each day in the ensuing week from typhus, starvation and other diseases.
Other sources include Ian Polanski's
We Were the 46th
, Queensland, 1999; Sender Burstin's Yiddish memoirs, Nahma Sandrow's,
Vagabond Stars
, Harper & Row, NY, 1977; and Ruth R. Wisse's,
A Little Love in Big Manhattan
, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1988, for Zishe Landau's poem, âI Am the Man of Song'. I drew also on the archives of the State Library of Victoria, and the generous guidance of Laura Mecca and Lorenzo Iozzi at the Italian Historical Society.
I owe much to Peter Re whose father was a fruiterer in Rathdowne Street. In a memorable conversation in a Carlton cafe in 2001, Peter reminded me of the âstrips of heaven' he consumed as a child. I coined a variation of this expression for the novel's title. A lifelong friend, Peter passed away on 29 May 2004, just as I was completing the manuscript.
I received valuable feedback from Richard Freadman, Tony Knight, Kevin Brophy, Angela O'Brien and Kavisha Mazzella. Many people shared their stories, anecdotes and knowledge including Harry Zable, Benny Zable, Theo Doukakaris, Pino Luzzo, Kathy Koronakis, Bernard Halperin, Sonia Lizaron, Morris Gradman, Romek Mokotow, Dorothea Tallon, Tony Birch, Billy Andriopoulos, Sol Gotlib, Ida Caplan, Paris Aristotle, Mohammed Arif Fayazi, Amal Hassan Basry, Usama Aboujandi and boxing twins extraordinaire, Leon and Henry Nissen.
Michael Heyward of Text supported the novel from its inception, both as an editor and enthusiastic publisher. Melanie Ostell was a generous editor with a sharp eye. Chong Wengho produced the striking cover design. The Literature Board of the Australia Council and the School of Creative Studies, University of Melbourne, offered material support. I am also indebted to the Victorian Foundation for Survivors of Torture.
My wife Dora supported me in many ways, and my ten-year-old son Alexander is a constant reminder that life is a gift.