‘Dovid! Russia has invaded Lithuania!’
Gittel hurried into the lounge with the ‘Yiddisher Americaner’ in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed and her glasses quivered at the tip of her nose.
Dovid put down his book and smiled indulgently at her. Since his mishap on the Town Hall steps fifteen months ago, they had grown closer. It was Gittel who had nursed him when he came out of hospital. Sheinka withdrew from him completely, and Phillip became the pivot of her existence. She clung jealously to the child and would allow neither Dovid nor Gittel to draw near him.
‘Shvieger,’ he said patiently, ‘that happened in June 1940, the news is seven months old. In addition, it is incorrect. Russia was asked by the Lithuanians to protect them from the Nazis, they did not invade the country. It’s time you changed from the “Americaner” to the “Afrikaner”. At least the local Yiddish press is topical, if biased. If you carry on reading the American paper not only will you get the wrong information but you won’t even know when the war is over.’
Gittel opened up the paper.
‘Here, let me read it to you: “This is all part of the Nazi-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact, a true misnomer if ever there was one. Aggression Pact it should be called, for the two totalitarian giants have cut up Europe between them. Stalin guards the back door while Hitler invades Poland, and now Russia, with Hitler’s blessing, takes over Lithuania. What will be the fate of the Jews in these two countries?”’
‘All lies,’ Dovid said. ‘The “Americaner” is a reactionary anti-Soviet paper. Russia had to sign a non-aggression pact with Hitler because the Western Powers would not come to an understanding with her. She had to survive. But that doesn’t mean that Russia is really Hitler’s ally. It’s just political strategy.’
‘I don’t understand politics but I’m worried about the Jews,’ she said. ‘In the First World War the Russians sent us into exile because we were too near the frontier with Germany and they said that Jews were traitors. Onto cattle trucks they loaded us and deep into Russia we travelled…’
‘Don’t worry, shvieger,’ Dovid interrupted. She forgot that he too had been part of the exodus from Ragaza. Gittel was growing old. ‘Don’t worry, the Jews will be all right. In fact,’ he said wistfully rubbing his right hand which had not completely healed, ‘Lithuania will now enter a golden age. Jews, Christians, workers and peasants will live together like brothers; the wealth of the country will be redistributed and a new era will begin. More than ever I long to be there. A bloodless revolution! My brother Meishke has realised the dream of a lifetime.’
‘Well,’ Gittel said doubtfully, ‘it doesn’t say all that in the “Americaner”. And a wise woman like Miss Breen would not write for a paper that told lies. By the way, have you heard from your family lately?’
‘No. But I’m sure they’ll be all right now. I envy them. To be living in a true socialist state!’
‘And your hand, Dovid,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve seen you in pain, often. Why don’t you give up your workshop? I hear Yaakov Koren has offered you a job as works manager in his factory. You wouldn’t have to use your hand…’
‘I’d rather starve than work in that sweatshop,’ Dovid said brusquely, turning back to his book.
Thus dismissed Gittel walked out of the room. Berka would explain the Russian invasion. He had cleared a wall of Yenta’s pictures and pinned on it a large map of the world. Every night he listened on the wireless to a man from London—the miracle of it—and then made marks on his map. He knew what was happening all over the world.
Gittel dragged her swollen feet heavily along the pavement. I’m growing old, she muttered to herself. Her eyes were worn out with watching for the postman; her gallstones bothered her; the buzzing in her ears had worsened and lately her feet had swelled badly. See a doctor, everyone urged. She, however, had confidence in Brown the Chemist. Your swollen feet are from your heart, he told her, and he should know. It was a good profession, a chemist. Brown was loved and respected by everyone. Joel too might have been respected had he become a chemist. Instead people were saying that he was even meaner than Uncle Feldman. Not to have asked Yenta to his wedding. A heart of stone the boy’s got.
As for Raizel, she always knew she would come to a bad end. Not that anything had happened since she ran away with that goy (a terrible fate in itself), but Gittel was expecting to hear bad news at any time. Miss Breen insisted that mixed marriages ended in tragedy.
In the meantime Raizel was writing cheerful letters to Berka and Yenta. They had had to forgive her; what could they do? How she could be cheerful on that farm in Rhodesia, living with a raw boy, surrounded by black people, Gittel could not imagine. And to think of all the rabbis in their family. They would turn in their graves if they knew that Yenta would be the grandmother of a little chatas. That was nachas for you.
Count your blessings Gittel, she counselled herself. At least your daughter married a good Jewish man. So he isn’t such a marvellous provider. If Sheinka had married a goy, God forbid, he would have beaten her to death long ago. As for her son Chaim Leib, at least he was healthy, even if he didn’t write from America.
She hurried past the Burgers’ house. No need to run past, she remembered as she looked into the garden which was choked with weeds. Only the honeysuckle had survived, perfuming the whole street. The Burgers had moved out soon after Raizel and Jan fled to Rhodesia. They had opposed the marriage as strongly as Berka had, even though Raizel had converted and probably wore a large cross over her heart. Opgeschmat, converted. Bitter, bitter.
There were more goyim than Jews in First Avenue these days. As the Jews moved out, they moved in. Mrs. Zaidman and her daughter were in Yeoville; the Zlotniks, the Pearlmans and the Weinbrins (it was so hard to get the ‘Americaner’ these days), had moved to Greenside, and even Leib Schwartzman and his family were leaving Mayfontein. He had bought a little motor spares business in Germiston.
‘From horses to horseless carriages,’ he said. ‘So long I remain in the transport business.’
Had her family moved out of Mayfontein earlier… What was the use of speculating? The damage was done. With Raizel’s departure the tension had eased. Even Mrs. Pinn was quiet. Berka claimed she had no time for local politics because she was working for the Gestapo. The ideas that man had.
Gittel waved to Faigel Singer who was standing on her veranda, all dressed up, ready to go collecting. After Hershl built the new bakery she had stopped work and was elected chairlady of the women Zionists. The Singers now mixed in the highest circles. Why people in their position still lived in this dusty mining suburb, Gittel could not imagine.
‘Good morning, Gittel,’ Berka said cheerfully as she walked into the house. ‘What brings you here so early on a Sunday morning?’
‘I’ve forgotten. I’m growing old, Berrala. Where’s Yenta?’
‘Since she became Manageress of the new shop she’s a changed person. I hardly see her. And with her new false teeth and her blue-grey hair I wouldn’t recognise her if I did. But at last I’ve got my slippers back, holes and all. Do you know Gittel, she looks better now than she did as a young woman. Some people are born middle-aged and gradually grow into it.’
Gittel dismissed his remarks with a wave of the hand. It was shameful though the way Yenta neglected her home and Berka. He lived on smoked meat and polony from the shop. She hadn’t cooked a meal in months.
‘So early in the morning,’ she looked disapprovingly at the glass of beer in Berka’s hand.
‘My medicine,’ he said, ‘without which I could not conduct the war. It’s good for despairing hearts, desolate souls and foul tempers. Just as you hug to yourself your hot water bottles when you get a gallstone attack, so I pour down a couple of these and everything is cured at once. You should try it.’
‘Russia has invaded Lithuania,’ Gittel said, remembering why she had come. ‘I know you know. Dovid said it’s old news. But I want to know why. Dovid says one thing and the “Americaner” says another.’
‘Greed, madness,’ Berka answered promptly. ‘A crazy need for power. Here,’ he said digging into a file which he kept near the map. ‘Look at this picture I cut out of the paper. Molotov, Von Ribbontrop (zol arop zein kop) and Stalin signing an agreement on the partition of Poland. Bandits, the lot of them. Look at Stalin. Like a cat who’s had a saucer of cream. Dovid believes everything they say in Moscow. He’s remained a slave to his old ideas. I, my dear shvegerin, think independently.’
‘And the Jews? What will happen to the Jews? The “Americaner” says there are three million Jews in Poland and 200000 in Lithuania. God alone knows what will happen to them.’
‘Then leave Him to care for them. There’s nothing we can do,’ Berka said casually but a pained look passed over his face. ‘Come, shvegerin, let’s bring you up to date. Have a look at my map here…’
When Ruth came into the lounge she saw Gittel seated in an armchair and Berka standing in front of the map, like a school teacher.
‘…and so you see how black the situation is. Not only have Czechoslovakia, Poland, Denmark and Norway fallen to the Nazis, zollen zei varbrendt veren, but they’ve overrun Holland, Belgium and Luxemburg as well. France has fallen and now they’re getting stuck into the Balkans. There’s fighting in Yugoslavia and in Greece. Hello, Ruthie. Come in, my sweetie. Join my class on global warfare.’
‘Daddy’s also got a map but not such a big one. And Mommy won’t let him put it onto a wall. Bobbe, I’ve reached the heel but I don’t know how to turn it,’ she said handing over a half-finished khaki sock to Gittel.
‘Cripples the soldiers must be to wear your socks,’ Gittel said looking critically at Ruth’s knitting. ‘Long in the leg, short in the foot, one foot bigger than the other. But she tries,’ she told Berka. ‘At school the children are all knitting for the soldiers up north.’
‘And of course there’s the war in North Africa,’ Berka added. ‘Well Gittel, nothing they write in the “Americaner” will surprise you again. You’re up to date. Ruthie,’ he said kissing her on the forehead. ‘I always said you’d be as straight as a bluegum and as pretty as kosmos. Like Greer Garson you’ll look with your auburn hair and green eyes.’
‘Stop already with such silly ideas.’ Gittel frowned over the sock. ‘She’ll noch want to be an actress. It’s enough she reads all those books. Small wonder she talks in her sleep. At least if she’d speak in Yiddish I’d understand.’
Ruth smiled shyly at Berka over Gittel’s head.
‘The other night,’ Gittel told the story for the tenth time, ‘she got out of bed and put on her shoes. “Where are you going?” I asked her. “To school”, our student replied. “To night school?” I asked.’ Here Gittel smiled, pleased with her little joke. ‘Go back to bed immediately,’ I said and back to bed she went, grumbling. The day’s not long enough for her. And where are you going now?’ she asked as Ruth moved to the door.
‘To Mavis. We’re collecting silver paper from the streets and the veld. When we’ve made a big ball, we give it to the government to make bullets for the soldiers.’
‘She’s fighting the war single-handed,’ Berka said. ‘Clothing the soldiers, producing ammunition. Hitler won’t last long with such an enemy.’
‘I’d rather go to the Zionist meeting,’ Ruth said wistfully. ‘All the Jewish children go on Sunday mornings. They learn Hebrew songs and play games and get books to read. But Mommy won’t let me go. She says there isn’t money for uniforms and she doesn’t like Zionists. Goodbye Zeide Berchik, I’ll bring my silver paper ball to show you after school tomorrow.’
‘Sweet child,’ Berka said. ‘You should see the walls in my workshop. Every inch of them is covered with her drawings. I still have the first one she did at school. Gittel, Sheinka should let her go to Zionist meetings. Ruth should mix with Jewish children.’
‘Sheinka doesn’t let her live,’ Gittel said angrily. ‘She must have someone to devour. With Dovid it doesn’t work any more, so she takes it out on Ruth. And you should see the child hanging around her, waiting for a little love. Kadoches she gets.’
‘Is she reconciled to the loss of Zutzke? She really loved that dog.’
‘She still dreams about him,’ Gittel said biting her lip. ‘She wonders what she did that made Zutzke run away from her.’
She preferred not to think of Zutzke; she’d been an accomplice in his disappearance. One day she’d heard Sheinka speak to Avremala the poultry vender about taking Zutzke away. He’s a danger to the health of my baby, she told him. His hairs give Phillip asthma. Avremala had shrugged, grabbed the squealing Zutzke by the scruff of his neck and stuffed him into an empty chicken cage. The squawks of the chickens and Zutzke’s terrified yelps still rang in Gittel’s ears. For weeks Ruthie had run through the streets looking for her dog. Berka, like everybody else, believed Zutzke had run away.
‘Sheinka, I notice, isn’t upset by the loss of Zutzke,’ Berka said looking carefully at Gittel. ‘Nachas from parents. Has it ever struck you Gittel, that we parents often get what we deserve? And it’s not nachas I’m talking about.’
‘Berka, what are you saying? I’m dropping my stitches. Eina links, eina rechts…’ She manipulated the four needles with deft fingers, then folded up the knitting.
‘Don’t go,’ Berka said. ‘It’s not often that I have an intelligent audience.’
‘Teasing me again,’ Gittel replied but she sat down. ‘I remember when you had an intelligent audience. You and Hershl and Dovid used to sit out there on the veranda in summer and for hours the whole street would ring with your discussions. In those days the streets smelled of gefilte fish and tzimmes and other things. Now it smells of bacon. Those were the good years.’
‘When we lived in the good old days, we were forever evoking other good old days.’
‘You know what I mean. The children were young and we were all together…’
‘I know what you mean, Gittel, and I’ve also had longings for the good old days. I miss, among other things, those talks on the veranda. Only Hershl had an inkling of what was happening. All Dovid wanted was to get back to the old country and make his revolution. But I was also wrong. Correction. I wasn’t wrong; Hershl was right.’
‘Berka, you’ve been marvellous just to survive all your troubles. I’d have been in a madhouse by now.’
‘I don’t know, Gittel. Things are changing too fast for me to keep up. I don’t recognise the new Afrikaners. Just listen to what they’re saying these days,’ Berka said picking up the newspaper from the floor. “Hitler is not a barbarian. He is like Dr. Malan, who tries only to liberate his people… General Smuts is an imperialist who’s making us fight England’s wars… We and the Germans are the only true Aryans.” And so on and so forth. I’m beginning to feel like a stranger in this terrifying new world.’
‘Berka,’ Gittel said getting up. ‘Come over to our house sometimes. Dovid is as lonely as you. You can forgive him already.’
‘We greet each other,’ Berka said stiffly. ‘Some things just, just die, I suppose.’
‘Come anyway. I must go now. If I don’t prepare lunch there won’t be any. Sheinka’s too busy with that spoilt brat of hers who’s got the mumps.’
Ruth tiptoed into the house to fetch her silver paper ball. She did not want Sheinka to hear her. On the way out she peeped into the bedroom through the half-closed door. Phillip, whose swollen face was bandaged, was leaning against Sheinka as she paged through the photo album.
‘And when you’re bigger you’ll also play the fiddle,’ she was saying. ‘I’ll buy you a little black velvet suit and a white blouse with a round collar. You’ll put the fiddle under your chin, just like this man in the picture, and you’ll play the most beautiful sad songs. I only hope you’ll have a better fate than he had, poor man. Such a woman…’
‘I don’t want a fiddle,’ Phillip whimpered. It’s sore under my chin. I want a motor car.’
A glass wall seemed to descend between them. Sheinka and Phillip drew further and further away until Ruth could barely hear them. The ache in her chest dissolved and was replaced by a frantic beating of her heart. As she stretched out her fingers, the glass wall receded. With her head spinning she turned away and went into her room.
She threw herself onto the bed and repeated feverishly: I am Ruth Erlich. I am Ruth Erlich. I go to Rand Mines Primary School and next year I’ll be at High School. It’s all right. It’ll go away. This glass wall always melts away. Breathe slowly… Slowly… Think of ordinary things, of ordinary things…
Had she been a baby she would have called out to her father. But she was big now; her father didn’t sing any more and her own throat closed up tightly as she was about to call him.
Think of ordinary things, she whispered urgently as she felt herself fading away again. If she went too far away she might never come back. Think, think. Tomorrow Daniel would walk to school with her again. He’d wait outside his gate, pretending to tie up his shoe laces or to look for something in his school bag. Then she’d come out of the house and he’d follow her to the veld and they’d walk together, silently often, but she knew he was her friend. You can play with our cats any time you like, he offered when Zutzke disappeared.
Zutzke, Zutzke. Where was he now? Starving in the veld? Dead? She used to fall asleep at night holding him close to her and the comfort of his warm, somewhat smelly body kept her nightmares away.
The pain in her chest started up again and the glass wall began to lift. She thrust her head into her pillow and cried bitterly.
Everything looked strange and distant as she walked out of the house, clutching her silver paper ball. She walked through the damp veld along the path that led to the school and to Mavis’s house. It had rained the previous evening and the puddle was there again, as it had been on her first day of school. Raizel had jumped over it and said ‘Mind the puddle!’ Impatiently. One image followed another in rapid succession: Raizel fetching her from hospital after her tonsils operation; Raizel clutching her unbuttoned blouse in Dovid’s workshop; Raizel standing behind Berka in the lounge, crying softly while her mother screamed on the sofa. That was the first time the glass wall had come down. She had been sitting on the floor with Zutzke, feeling frightened and somehow responsible for what was happening. Then suddenly they all seemed far away. She felt safe from them behind the glass wall.
Mavis was waiting for her impatiently outside her house.
‘I thought you were never coming,’ she said drawing Ruth away towards the veld. ‘Let’s go to our den. I’ve got so much to tell you. There’s no time for collecting silver paper today.’
They walked over to a clump of blue gums whose enormous trunks had been partially destroyed by a veld fire. Mavis withheld her secret until they were seated on a fallen trunk.
‘Thelma told me the secret. She’s known it for a long time. When you’re about thirteen you start to bleed. From your wee,’ she said impatiently when Ruth looked puzzled. ‘It’s very sore. Sometimes it happens earlier, sometimes later,’ she added knowledgeably.
Ruth turned pale and squeezed the silver paper ball tightly in her hand.
‘But why? Why?’
‘So’s you can have babies of course,’ Mavis said, surprised that Ruth did not see the connection. ‘And Thelma said you mustn’t let a boy touch you because you’d have a baby. Nor must you play with yourself, you know how.’
Ruth’s heart beat uncomfortably. She panicked even when her nose bled.
‘All the time? Does it bleed all the time?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, silly. Only for a week a month. My mother’s made bandages for Thelma and she has to wash them every day.’
She looked critically at Ruth’s tiny breasts which were barely visible under her blouse. Then she touched her own rounded breasts proudly.
‘You’re not well enough developed to get your periods yet,’ she said. ‘That’s what it’s called. Periods. I’ll start before you.’
Whom could she ask, Ruth wondered as she walked home. Who would explain? Gittel would say such things were not for the ears of young girls. Her mother would shout and make her feel ashamed. Raizel would have told her. She was the only one she might have turned to.
The sun shone fiercely out of a pale blue sky and the veld seemed grey and endless. The suburb, the mine dumps, the plantation and the dam looked still and distant, like a painting against a blue wall.
Ruth walked wearily over the veld and felt as though she was the only being on earth.
The following morning Ruth opened her eyes slowly, fearfully. Her grandmother’s feather bed was still unmade, her school books lay scattered on the table where she had left them the previous evening and a soft breeze blew the curtains open, bringing in the smell of damp earth.
She closed her eyes and sighed with relief.
All was well. It had been a nightmare, a terrible nightmare. Her consciousness lapped around the edges of her dream, throwing up an image here and there, but the dream itself receded and left her with the bitter dregs. If only she could remember.
She lay back and listened to the sound of hushed voices from the kitchen. That was Chaya Schwartzman speaking. A stab of recognition went through her. Chaya had been in her dream. She must remember, she must remember.
She had lain in the hot dark room last night, unable to sleep. Now and again she heard the sound of distant thunder, then a wind blew up, parting the curtains and revealing a purple turbulent sky. An empty sky. God was not there for her any more. When she was small she had prayed to him through the gap in the curtains: Please stop my parents from fighting; let my mother love me; send away Phillip forever; let me find Zutzke. But the sky was as empty as Zeide Berchik’s veld.
She could not fall asleep. Just once more, she promised herself, then I’ll never do it again. She moved her hand slowly over her flat stomach, towards her rising breasts, then down again towards her thighs… Blood! Soon there would be blood spurting from there. She shuddered. After much tossing and turning she finally fell into a restless sleep.
As she did, there was a roar of planes in the sky. Bombs fell and flashes of fire lit up the dumps and dam. People streaked with blood ran screaming through the streets. She looked at the foot of her bed. Zutzke was gone. She had to find Zutzke. He’d be killed if she didn’t find him. Her movements were slow and heavy; her need to find Zutzke urgent. She walked numbly out of the cluttered up room, into the dark passage, towards the front door. She lifted the latch and stepped onto the veranda.
Zutzke! She tried to call but no sound came from her throat. She watched the planes zoom into the distance and disappear but the sky still flashed with fire. The stones pricked her bare feet as she walked slowly, doggedly, towards Leib Schwartzman’s house. She rang the bell once, twice, a third time. The lights went on in the passage and Chaya Schwartzman stood before her, clutching her night gown to her throat.
‘Mrs. Blackman,’ Ruth said then forgot what she had come about. Was it for the big black pot her grandmother wanted for taiglach? ‘Mrs. Blackman,’ she began again. There’s been an air raid and I’m looking for Zutzke. He ran away from home. He could be killed.’
The voices from the kitchen, no longer hushed, could be heard clearly in her room.
‘It’s not so terrible Sheinka. Don’t take on so. If it is a kind of madness, it’s only temporary. It happened to Sora-Riva’s daughter as well. She didn’t walk, she used to sing in her sleep. Also at that age…’
Ruth began to cry softly. It had not been a dream. She remembered now. The veranda had felt wet and cold to her feet as she looked into the shocked faces of Chaya and Leib. He put his jacket over her shoulders and led her gently back to her house. The pavement had been wet and muddy…
Ruth threw off her blankets and looked down at her feet. They were caked with mud. The sheets were dirty. Stiff with horror she listened to the conversation from the kitchen. ‘I’m to blame.’ Sheinka was crying. ‘I should never have taken the dog away from her.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. It’s not the dog,’ Chaya comforted her. ‘I’m telling you. Some girls take it harder than others. Once she starts menstruating she’ll become normal again. The blood boils and flows wildly through the body until it’s time to break out. And of course, when the moon is full you must shut all the curtains. That brings on the walking. And put a bowl of cold water at the foot of her bed…’
‘I’m mad, I’m mad!’ Ruth bit into her pillow to stop herself from screaming. ‘I’ll never be like other girls. God! Why did you let me born?’