Julia folded her arms. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘We move.’
Julia rested her arms on her head and then raised them up, pleading. ‘Our entire life has been about moving!’ She dropped her hands on the table. ‘Where?’
‘I’ve been thinking for the past two years about Sydney. I’ve been planning. Meeting with people. Seeing where the opportunities lie. We need to earn money, and we can’t do it here anymore. Sydney has jobs for people like us, I don’t necessarily care what it is, but it will be a sight better than cutting cane for 18 hours a day. It’s a city, we can rent a small place like we did in Germany.’
Julia shot him a skeptical look.
Henry walked over and sat down. ‘It will be temporary. But cities are where the opportunities are. We have to move with the tide.’
Julia groaned, and reached over for his cigarette, which both shocked Henry and connected him to her briefly. She inhaled on it and gave it back to him. ‘And isn’t that the way, for us, Henry.’ The smoke rippled out of her mouth. ‘Isn’t that how we survive. The leopard that changes his spots for his world.’
Henry lit a fresh cigarette, searching her face. ‘God knows we’ve made a meal out of the misfortune of last two years.’
Julia stood up and walked over to the window by the door. She saw so little of what had been. ‘When will we come back to ourselves, I wonder.’
‘When the time is right for us to.’ Henry tapped fresh ashes into the tray beside him. ‘But we can never get back to who we were. Life doesn’t work that way. We learn more about who we are when we look ahead.’
Later that night, after Henry had retired to bed, Julia remembered again that it was his birthday, their birthday. Soon, this house would be empty, deserted of the lives that they had created, and she would be gone, and so she decided that she could write. She would write to them finally, and she would see them if only for a second.
She scanned the shelf behind her for a piece of paper and then saw it: the faded book that she had read to them so many times, about the lost mitten and the family of animals that had burst it at the seams. She opened it and wistfully shuffled the edges in her fingertips, stopping on something inside: two pressed wildflowers that they’d picked for her only a year ago, and that she’d casually promised to keep but then actually did. She’d forgotten about this, and it flooded her memory with their faces and their voices and their laughter. She ran her fingers over the small dried husks and flat petals and was grateful for the discovery, as she placed it back on the shelf and began to write, her tears staining the paper.
Once she finished, she folded it and walked over to her bedroom. Henry was already asleep, the deep sound of his breathing filling the quiet room. She padded to the dresser and opened a drawer, knocking over her handbag in the process. She turned but saw that he didn’t stir. She picked up the handbag to replace it and saw the contents of it had spilled, and as she picked them up, she saw a small piece of paper with delicate and even handwriting. It was an address in Melbourne. Her heartbeat quickened and her face flushed. She’d forgotten that she’d kept this too, and immediately returned it to her handbag with the letter beside it, and snapped it shut.
It was a week later when Julia walked solemnly down a quiet street in Melbourne, her pockets now empty, her throat tight, her hands trembling. She had been so close. She had almost seen their faces.
She had heard their laughter; she had seen the house. She knew they were happy without her, and it was a small comfort. But it would be the last time her footsteps would take her anywhere near them. The tide was receding under her feet again, but this time, she would be different. This time, she would lock away a part of herself. And with each mile that took her back to Stratford, each road that she walked, each frame of landscape that passed by her window seat on the bus— she would grow stronger still, until this memory healed into a faded scar, like the one on her face.
Just before she arrived at the bus stop, she passed by a stone with heavy red-painted wooden doors, worshipers filing in slowly for service. She looked at the engraved plaque. St. Maria Goretti Immaculate Church. She said a silent prayer that someday, she would find them, and kept walking.
Over the next year, the family had resettled in Sydney— they had found space in a hostel in the center of town, and Henry began to work for a wealthy property developer, collecting rent from tenement buildings down by the docks. Though the work was menial and occasionally hostile, he was the only one in the group of migrant workers who insisted on wearing a suit, as if he could see more for himself than this. It was a pleasing arrogance that caught the eye of the developer, and over time, he kept a watchful eye on this tall, dark-eyed man who kept to himself and didn’t talk much.
Over the course of several months, he developed a liking for Henry, and would call him into his office for a quick chat, finding more about who he was and where he had come from, and what family he had. It was on one of those occasions that he told Henry about his cousin in New York.
‘You haven’t ever been, I assume.’ the man lit up a fat cigar and unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a silk waistcoat. He had a paunch that matched the roughness of his face, and fat fingers that splayed out, a thumb hooked into his pocket.
‘No sir, I have not.’ Henry sat uneasily.
The man cleared his throat. ‘I sometimes forget that you’re a Uke, a spillover from the war.’
Henry was used to these kinds of conversations. They didn’t matter to him anymore.
‘Reason is, I think there’s something about you.’ He chewed on the end of the cigar. ‘Something that I think I could use you for.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Work. You and a load of other immigrants that have gusto. Fire. Mettle.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
The man leaned forward. ‘New York. I have a cousin who has a few buildings in the city. A part of the city, anyway, called Brooklyn. He’ll need people like you.’ He lit the end of his cigar again, took a few puffs, and leaned back.
Henry was interested. ‘What kind of work?’
‘Oh, very wonderful and amazing. Job of a lifetime.’ The man smiled, knowingly overselling it, his bald head glistening as he sat behind his oak desk. ‘Beautiful buildings that need work and managing. He needs me to ship over a whole load of you to him, and he’ll sponsor it. God knows both of us are rich enough, and there are too many of you here, crawling around as it is. Australia needs a bit of a clean out.’ He stared at Henry. ‘Well?’
Henry flattened his mustache with his fingers, his breath even. ‘Where would we live?’
‘Tenement housing. Everywhere, there are people dropping off boats over there, like little ants, getting work. It’s the American Dream, son.’ The man was only ten years older than Henry but looked and acted as if he’d stumbled into money and grabbed it all voraciously. Greedily. ‘What do you say?’
Henry closed his eyes and wondered if this decision would finally be the one to destabilize him. Or maybe it was the one that would build him back up again.
25
Julia stood at the side of a pale, white, steel ship painted with huge black letters ORSOVA, Sydney harbor surrounding her and countless others waiting to board. Black smoke poured out of the top of the ship like a boiling kettle, simmering, waiting for its owner to claim it. Spires of metal protruding into the sky, life rafts secured up at the top, tugboats tethered to its side. It all felt too familiar. She turned to watch as office buildings stood tall and watchful, rooted in their places, an unchanging landscape to her constantly changing one. Though it was so large, the ship projected a kind of submissiveness: it was tied to the docks, on both sides, with giant ropes the width of two of her legs, if not more. It looked strangely submissive, this incredibly grandiose beast. It sat and waited for them all.
She held Slava’s hand, gripped it tightly as if reassuring herself that this was all real, all right, all supposed to happen. Slava stood sti
ll, her recently bobbed hair glossy and thick underneath a hat. Her dress was thick, layered with a sweater and coat in preparation for the unknown weather changes. They were all ready to board, Henry had already given over all of their possessions and they’d signed the passenger list.
In comparison, it was a more comfortable journey than the passage to Australia. Leaving is nicer, it seems, she thought romantically. There was talk of fresh food and music and rooms that have quaint portholes to watch the world go by. She didn’t know what Henry had paid for, and what they could afford, and she was careful in her expectations.
‘Three weeks or so, they say,’ a woman leaned towards Julia, clutching a pamphlet and fanning her face. And Julia assessed her, as women do, quickly and surreptitiously: she had tight red curls gathered underneath a small cream-colored pillbox hat with lace edges and wore a dress that cinched at her waist and was the buttery color of late-autumn sunflowers. She smelled extraordinary, like musty roses and lilies, and hanging off her thin wrist was an impractically small beige handbag. ‘Good gracious, three infernal weeks stuck on this thing. Well. At least there’s decent food.’
‘Mmm. Yes, three weeks.’ Julia nodded, immediately chastising herself for speaking to this woman. The woman smiled, her claret-red lips revealing teeth that hadn’t touched a drop of wine or smoked a single cigarette. ‘So. America as well, then?’ Julia was taken aback by the light conversation, and she smoothed her hair.
‘Sorry?’
‘America. You are going there, yes?’ her words were deliberately slow, but it was imperceptible to Julia.
‘Ah. America. Yes,’ she nodded a few too many times, and then once she said it out loud, it felt real, as if a missing brick in a wall had been found. Julia was too conscious of her own thoughts to hear that the woman had whispered something about ‘infernal immigrants’ before she moved aside.
One of the first things Julia noticed when they boarded was that there were soft lounge chairs. And tables with smooth wooden corners. And oddly shaped glass ashtrays. And crisp, white napkins on tablecloth-draped tables in the main dining area. It was as if someone had poured the contents of a wealthy man’s house straight into the belly of a ship. She was staring, amazed that such a thing existed.
‘Madam, please keep going, tourist class is down below,’ a steward sniveled and interrupted her thoughts, though he didn’t realize she’d knowingly been holding up the line.
‘This, it’s all so wonderful,’ she gestured. She’d never seen anything so grand that made her feel so insignificant.
‘First class, madam’, he responded, staring at her as if he’d smelled something awful.
‘Mmm. Yes. Yes of course,’ and deliberately, slowly, walked in the direction he’d pointed towards. She had learned to stand tall in the face of ignorance.
‘You did that on purpose,’ Henry admonished with laughter in his eyes.
‘Of course, I did.’
The family finally reached the lower level, and then it was onward to find their cabin: past the toilet room, past the hall with the hot machinery spitting steam, past many crowded other cabins with families and couples and around the corner from another set of rooms, this time used for the storage of medical equipment. And then a small oval door, and they saw what their space for the next many weeks would be: a small room decorated in green and yellow plaid cotton fabric and brown tones. There was a small wooden dresser that was secured to the wall, a sink and cabinet, and two beds, one on top of the other, in bunk-fashion. There was one toilet and one shower, and they were down the hall, and were communal.
They dropped their bags in a heap and tried to remember where the dining hall was, which now, looking back, seemed a gargantuan journey. ‘Christ. Davai, Slava, come with me,’ Julia grabbed her hand. ‘Let’s have a look around.’ As she left the cabin, she turned to see Henry leaning against the tiniest porthole, half the size of his head.
‘Do you want to come with us?’
‘No. You go. I can meet you later.’
The ship felt like a small city, teeming with people dressed in immaculate silks and hats with grosgrain ribbons, men in suits carrying leather briefcases; it all felt as if she were in a dream, or part of a large theater, and background players were the ones that looked like Julia: plain cotton dresses and sensible shoes, hair tied back and faces slightly reddened from exercise, or fresh air. Slava was in awe of it all, walking the decks with her parents, their hair whipping across their faces, listening to stories about this big city called New York that they would arrive in, and the new lives that would unfold for them.
In the weeks ahead, Julia would find time for reflection, and search for quiet moments where she was alone. The pages of her life had been scattered, but she felt that someday she would find the missing ones and stitch the story back together again— there was still hope there. It wasn’t just because she had kept the birth certificates. Henry had reminded her that she was made of dreams. And when the breezes combined with the water to cool the air surrounding her face, she looked at the sea and sky as they pursed the horizons together. And she finally almost felt whole again.
Like billowing clouds, like the incessant gurgle of the brook,
the longing of the spirit can never be stilled.
— Hildegard von Bingen
Part III
New York
1954-1981
26
New York
It was the 21st of April, and Henry had forgotten her birthday by five days, so Julia hadn’t at all expected him to walk through the door home brandishing two wrapped packages under his arm.
The weather had been grey, and the sky had opened up, and the city pavements were flooded with hurried footsteps of people heading back home to dinners and musty hallways and rain pelting the windows. He placed his umbrella by the heavy door and took off his felt tweed fedora that he was almost never without. He shrugged off his overcoat, hooked it on the back of the door, and remembered to turn the three metal latches to lock it, as well as the one above that slid into the top of the frame. Sometimes he forgot how strange it was, to lock a door more than once, but this was New York, and he’d seen enough doors kicked off their hinges to remember.
Twenty years had passed since the steamship docked in San Francisco. Twenty years since they boarded a train that seemed to take months, and where Slava had suffered with a poorly stomach due to incredibly suspect food, and where their journey finally ended as the train pulled into Pennsylvania Station. Almost immediately to them the smell in the air was of steel and exhaust fumes, along with horns, voices crowds of people and children sitting on stoops and playing games in the street.
The family found a small two-bedroom tenement apartment, on East 71st street on the corner of 1st, in an area called Lenox Hill (‘but there are no hills, Henry! Madness.’). It was on the street, which was odd, to them anyway. There was no garden, there were only wide expanses of concrete surrounding doorsteps. The apartment was in the basement (‘Henry, are we supposed to live underground?? Who lives like this?’) and they soon found out that their landlord, Jeffy, hated children. He made Slava scream every time she saw him: he had the blackest skin she had ever seen (‘like molasses, Mama’), and his face was covered in small, round and hard scars. He was short and loud and had thick curly hair piled on top of his head and wore orange trousers that were wide at the bottom and had an unusually long index finger that he used when he emphasized his words. ‘I. Don’. Want. Crazy. Chil’ren.’ He would bellow and then laugh, in a thick Jamaican accent. It gave Slava nightmares. It was only over the course of many months that she would learn of Jeffy’s own dark story, that he told her in quiet moments: Jeffy’s grandmother and grandfather had been slaves, and he explained what slaves were, and then and his own mother had married a white man and when he’d been born, his own father had rejected him and put out cigarettes on his face, and as a result he spent his entire life feeling a specific kind of anger at the world, and felt lonely in a city tha
t was teeming with bodies.
New York was full of colors and shapes and towers of concrete and brick, streets that scattered their capillaries of rubble and noise and life, and rats and sewers that steamed through the streets and subways that smelled faintly of urine and roasted peanuts, but it was beautiful in its own grotesque way. Julia had traveled from farmland and storms, open skies and animals (and insects) afoot, to a city that smelled like the color grey. It was wonderful and shocking and unnerving and incomprehensibly narrow. She enrolled Slava in a small school down the road, on 69th and 2nd, and it wasn’t an easy transition for her. Slava spoke very little English, tinged with an Australian lilt, and her long blonde hair fell down her back, so she wore it in a plait wrapped in a circle on top of her head. She was indefinable and misplaced, which was seen as ‘weird’ by most of her peers. Slava’s name was purposefully mispronounced as ‘Slave’, or ‘Saliva’, and these trials made her strong, but not without many tears. Julia had accepted a job at William H. Fisk Insurance Company: a neo-gothic monster of a building with a facade that looked like an overuse of architectural styles on South William street, as an assistant, and she enjoyed it, because it was the same, every day, and that monotony was comfortable to her. People found her likeable and hard-working, and they endeared themselves to this small, dark-haired woman who had kind, sad eyes and always kept a small photograph of what looked to be her parents, in her desk drawer. She arrived not a minute later than 9, and sometimes a minute before, and spoke very little, as her broken English was still an obstacle for her, though no one minded very much.
‘Happy Birthday.’ Henry handed her two boxes: one small one, wrapped neatly in gold paper, and one rectangular one, wrapped in red. His face was beautifully expectant.
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