Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Then it was time to go home. They were getting the couple of sacks of fish, which had been lying in a cool spot in the creek where the small fry had been trying to get at them, to load them onto the pack-horse, when Prindy, grey eyes on Rifkah, suggested a dip before they leave. Off came the others’ clothes at once, while Rifkah stood red-faced and slack-lipped, obviously miserable. They all shot a look at her before turning vari-coloured behinds to her and plunging into the big hole. They all vanished, came up again in a burst of silver bubbles and shiny dark skin and bright eyes and teeth, trod water looking at her. She uttered a little whimpering sound. Then suddenly she sat down, began to pull off her boots. She wasn’t looking at the water-treaders now — but they at her, all eyes now, brown and black and grey, mouths tight. Still avoiding looking, her eyes up in the paperbarks, she slipped out of the brown silk shirt. It revealed the ivory whiteness of her torso from somewhat sunburnt neck, but not entirely, because she wore a brassière. She had to drop her eyes to take her pants off, but without meeting the others. Off came the moleskins. Long white shapely legs, but only as far up as the bit of lace on the skimpy drawers. She rose — the line of eyes rising with her. Now she met them. Here was the moment. Whitewomen who had no bathing costumes sometimes took a dip in the Beatrice in bra and panties. Her face was redder than the sun had made it, much redder. She dropped her eyes to the ground, came stepping to the water’s edge. But her slim hands slipped behind her, up her back, unhooked the brassière, pulled it off. A slight sigh of released pent breathing, as small white slightly pendulous breasts were revealed. Still looking down, she stooped slightly, lifted a leg and pulled down on the drawers — and the sunlight caught the copper of her crotch. A deep inhalation on the water. The other leg out. She stood erect. A gasp. All white and gold! Not merely a naked woman, but something as lovely as a white crane poised immobile fishing. Still not meeting the wide wide eyes, she stepped daintily into shallow water, out into it to knees, then dropped down with a splash, looked at the dark faces, which at once broke into smiles. She smiled back. Down went the faces. Up came the arses. A swirl. Then up again and round, splashing, ducking. She stayed where she was, rolling over, showing white toes, knees, once or twice her bottom. Not that they took much notice of her now. Nor were they much concerned when they all came out together, just a glance or two as she got back into her things.

  They went home singing Jewish folksongs that Rifkah had already taught Prindy and which he now played on his flute, swinging to the trot of his golden pony: Rozinkes Mit Mandlen, Chosen Kalah Mazzeltov.

  Walking that night, Rifkah told Jeremy of the stripping, confessing to the effort it cost her, explaining how what was regarded as chastity in Jewish women was carried to such lengths as cutting the hair off at marriage and replacing it with the sheitel, as she had told him. Sex was never discussed by modest women. Young girls were left in total ignorance of bodily function until menstruation, at first appearance of which, in the old style, they were actually subjected to ritual beating, in the form of face-smacking by mother or grandmother, as punishment for reaching sexual maturity and becoming a potential snare to pious men. She said the Nazis used the public stripping of Jewish women, especially before Jewish men, as a form of torture, or sport, knowing how it affected them. Particularly prone to it were those Germans who obeyed the law concerning what was called the Crime of Shame, which was to have sexual intercourse with a Jewess and for which the statutory punishment was death. Rape was common enough, but had to be done in secret. But the raping, to those who’d suffered it, meant nothing so shameful as that public stripping. Not that she felt anything like that at the fish-holes, she said, ‘Ist like . . . vell, if I don’t do, somehow I offend zem. Vot you zink?’

  Jeremy said, ‘I don’t know, really. They do put you to tests . . . to see if they can trust you. But then, it might’ve been out of sheer curiosity . . . to see what you look like underneath.’

  ‘Zey are so strict wit’ many law of relationship . . . you can’t talk ziz vun, you can’t look zat vun . . . but you can all go naked together!’

  ‘Maybe there’s more logic in their behaviour than in ours. Our faces are our distinguishing features. Bodies are all much alike. Maybe it was the Jews who first used clothing as more than mere protection . . . Thou shalt not look upon the nakedness of this one and that one, as it says in the Bible.’

  Despite that legendary secrecy of the Jewish woman fish-frying, there was no suggestion of it in that first Friday’s fry. Although it was evident enough from the way Rifkah went about it, starting as soon as the kitchen was clear after lunch, that she would have regarded assistance as intrusion, not only did she suffer all who were interested to watch her, but explained what she was doing. Such intricacy needed explanation: the precise filleting, to give uniform texture and size, slight salting, drying off with clean linen, making pale ghosts of the fillets with the finest flouring, batter of pure egg, broken so that it seemed even the skin inside the shell went in like a tiny sliver of silver, and the shells stacked neatly as if to be used, if only as witnesses to the perfection of the beating, to make a bowl of twenty-four carat liquid gold; a dainty two-finger job the dipping, second-timed, with a similar precision movement to the hot oil that must keep constant temperature for absolute results; again a dip that’s like baptism of an infant lifted for dunking by the heel; the seconds again counted lest the lovely thing be destroyed instead of metamorphosed, as it surely is when lifted out faintly smoking and laid gently in pattern on white paper on a great dish, to render first a sweet savour to the God of Israel. Surely the way she flew about it was a state of religious ecstasy?

  Even Jeremy came to take a look, ostensibly to see if the olive oil, which had been in stock for medicinal purposes for some time, did not Crack, as he put it scientifically, under heat. As if there could be any excess to crack anything in an operation so delicate! Even those eggs had seemed to deliver their substance up with volition. Prindy spent the whole time there, staring. No touching. It could not be eaten until cold and arrayed like Solomon in all his glory on the gleaming cloth on the Shabbos table under the twin candles that could not be lit before two stars appeared and the words were said in the Holy Tongue: Blessed art Thou, O Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who hath sanctified us with his Commandments and enjoined us to kindle the Sabbath Light. Prindy, by the silent movement of his lips, seemed to be singing it all, what she did, what she said. A new way to commune with Old Tchamala, perhaps, in Hebrew, so right-sounding a lingo for the purpose: Eternal One, King of the Universe.

  It was hardly likely that Kurt could be kept in ignorance of what was going on, as it had been requested by Rifkah that he should be, when the house was redolent with it. However, it would seem that the request was quite unnecessary, since he showed no interest whatsoever. Pretty well all day he had been preoccupied with the radio news, sitting with greying head cocked and thin face pinched with worry, tuning from one kind of foreign gabble to another. His first words, when Jeremy came to join him at five-thirty were, ‘Anozzer blow to ze ’eart! Benes, ze vun ’ope for Czechoslovakia, haf resigned. Looks like Hitler stooge, Henlein, vill be put in as Nazi Gauleiter. Poor, poor Bohemia! Again to become ze butcher-shop of Europe. Bismarck say: “Who is master of Bohemia is master of Europe.” But ze Bohemian is traditionally ze freest of all men and do not take to masters easy. Poor Bohemia!’

  But that long Jewish nose was not being excluded utterly from its natural functioning by the too-receptive ears was shown when after a couple of drinks Kurt sniffed appreciatively and grinned, remarking, ‘Ze old Yiddisher Friday eveningk smell! Takes me back old times . . . bad old times, but seem goot zen. Zey say ve human beingks haf lost our olfactory sense compare mitt ozzer animal . . . but more memory come through ze nose zan ozzer vay.’

  Nanago came to join them. She brought apologies from Rifkah, who wouldn’t be coming at all. No word was said of the elaborate preparations for the forthcoming meal. Prindy also didn’t come.r />
  As it darkened, Prindy went outside to watch for the Two Stars. There at last they were in the pale saffron of the southwest — tonight the Pointers of the Cross, Alpha and Beta of Centaurus according to the Greek version, part of a broken fish-trap so the Snakemen had it, the trap set by Koonapippi to catch Tchamala as he came out of that hole in the Milky Way, but scattered by the Old One, its remnants the Southern Cross itself and other stars in the vicinity. Prindy ran inside, through lounge and dining-room to the kitchen, with the tidings, singing them, ‘Two star, two star . . . two star to light two candle by, to bring in Shabbos.’ Rifkah kissed him, snatched up matches, and with an arm about his shoulders, went hurrying with him into the dining-room.

  Those in the lounge came at the ringing of the triangle — to stop and stare at the enchanted scene, even the two who’d seen the set-up in daylight, even Kurt who must have seen it many a time. Rifkah and Prindy, arms about each other, were part of it. Rifkah said, ‘Goot Shabbos, dear pipple.’

  Nan and Jeremy, schooled, returned the greeting. Not Kurt, who was staring at the head of the table, where within reach of whoever was to sit there was a small mound of mystery, at least to the uninitiated, something under a white table napkin, on one side of it a silver dish of salt, on the other a decanter of red wine. When Rifkah repeated the greeting, using his name, her voice sharpish, he looked at her quickly, stared a moment, then asked as sharply, ‘Was meinen dieser?’

  The sweet smile was gone. She answered in English, ‘To pliss zese pipple.’

  He turned to the others, asked even rudely, ‘So?’

  Jeremy, looking somewhat alarmed, answered, ‘I asked her, Kurt.’

  Kurt’s expression became surprise for a moment. Then he smirked, shrugged, looked again at Rifkah: ‘You vont vot?’

  She replied in Hebrew.

  He elaborated the shrug, spread his hands in Jewish fashion, and grinning now, asked, ‘Vot vill ze Eternal, Gott of Universe, et cetera, et cetera, zink of ze blessingk of atheist?’ He moved to the head of the table. Rifkah went to the foot, where there was an array of serving dishes, the others to seats aside evidently allotted them, Nan on Rifkah’s right, Jeremy next her and on Kurt’s left, Prindy on Rifkah’s left. They sat down.

  Still smirking, Kurt reached for the napkin on his plate, shook it out, placed it on his head, and as Jeremy and Prindy did likewise, he said, ‘Ve moost haf Yarmulke . . . no goot half do a zing.’ He looked at Prindy. ‘You know vot is Yarmulke?’

  Prindy’s covered head nodded. ‘Ah! Soon ve vill haf barmitzvah, eh?’ Kurt turned the smirk on Rifkah, staring at him with great eyes, her face stiff. He grinned as he asked, ‘Ze Blessingk in Hebrew, Yiddish, English, Polonski, Russki . . . Mumma?’

  The great eyes flashed with anger. He dropped his own, drooped his head, pronounced in sing-song voice, ‘Blessed art thou, O Eternal, our Gott, King of Ze Universe, who bring forth bread from ze earth.’ He reached for the mound before him, removed the napkin, to reveal an oval loaf of bread, golden-crusted, crowned with a plait and pimpled with tiny seeds. He drew the loaf to him, bent over it, searchingly, remarked, ‘Genuine Yiddisher chalah.’ He looked at Jeremy: ‘Truly is zis ze Promised Land. Who vood believe poppy seed here?’

  Jeremy chuckled. ‘I happened to have a couple of old opium-poppy heads. Got them for my father years ago. He believed in the superstition that if you put an opium-poppy capsule in the stuffing of your pillow it’ll induce sleep. I suppose you’ve heard of it?’

  Kurt nodded, then shook his head. ‘Superstition, superstition, superstition!’ He cast his big black eyes as if piously aloft, adding: ‘Herr Gott . . . ven, oh ven, are you and all ze rest of ze devils goingk to get off ze back of humanity?’ He said it with such feeling that his face became distorted, looking strange beneath the drooping napkin. Then dropping his eyes and seeing that the others were staring at him, he smirked again. ‘Excuse. If I embarrass you . . . it is because I am myself embarrass mitt ze job.’ He concentrated on the loaf, rather in the manner of a surgeon, muttering. ‘Now . . . vot is it I haf to do.’

  Again Rifkah spoke to him in Hebrew, sharply. He answered without looking up: ‘Ken, ken . . . Mumma!’ Again the great hazel eyes beyond the candles flashed with annoyance.

  Perhaps to ease the situation, Jeremy asked Kurt, ‘Why do Jews use poppy seeds for this special type of bread?’

  It was a most unfortunate remark, since in his obvious resentment Kurt could not help but seize on it as he laid hands on the bread, looking quickly at Jeremy: ‘Karl Marx, a Jew in ze beginning, gave ze answer . . . “Religion is Opium of ze People”. Ze poppy seed in ze holy chalah bread is symbol . . .’

  He broke off at sudden movement from Rifkah. She was rising, staring a him, but with the great eyes now swimming with tears. With a stifled sob she swung from the table, went rushing out to the kitchen. The others just sat staring at the communicating swing-door swinging to shut. As it did so, Kurt said with a sigh, ‘My apology. But I haf strong feeling about religion . . . Judaism . . . as you, Jeremy, about Christianity. She know zat. Vy moost she . . .’ He broke off again as Nan rose hastily and went rushing after the girl. As she disappeared he sighed again: ‘Yenteh!’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘Vomen . . . vomen as distinct from men. Literally mean Talkers. As if Jewish vomen only talk, vile ze men zink and act. Mumma scoldingk in ze kitchen . . . while Papa sittingk contemplatingk ze Infinite. It is a lie. Papa is smellingk ze fry-fish, ze gefilteh-fish, ze tsymmis. Ze ’Ouse of Israel is build about ze kitchen. Take avay kitchen . . . ze ’Ouse fall down. But for ze Yiddisher nosh, ze rich and ceremonial cookingk, Judaism vood haf died mitt Mithraism and Baalism and all ze rest of ze primitive devil-vorship . . . and ze vorld vood not be plagued mitt vot you call Jesus Business!’ Kurt’s usual expression, an amiable watchfulness, had suddenly changed to one of fierce animation, so that under the drooping napkin he looked like a ravening Bedouin. He must have become aware of the strangeness of his appearance as Jeremy stared at him, because he snatched the napkin off his head.

  Uncovering his own head, Jeremy said, ‘But surely religion based on practical things, like good food, clean habits, morality, instead of silly mysteries like the Ascension, the Trinity, the Virgin Birth . . .’

  ‘Is still religion . . . which means acceptance of supernatural control, vich moost stifle true progress in man. Besides . . . ze food, ze hygiene, ze moral law, is only part of Judaism. Ze Children of Israel are ze Chosen of Gott. Zey are ze elite of humankind. To believe you are elite is Fascist, for vont of better name. Judaism, alzogh ze declared enemy of Fascists, is only Fascism mit anozzer face . . . ze first Fascism and ze moost subtle, because its arrogance is disguise by mock humility.’

  Kurt had risen, still talking emotionally, his hands waving. He stopped to glance at Prindy slipping out. Jeremy said then, ‘But when you think like that about your own people, how can you work to found a settlement for them?’

  Kurt’s hands froze in the air. In an instant the Semitic animation was wiped out by that foxiness. He blinked. As he dropped his hands he shrugged, saying evenly, ‘Settlement for refugees . . . refugees from any kind of madness . . . in ze hope zat might some community for progress be established.’ His falling into silence then made it seem as if he felt he’d said too much.

  Jeremy, rising, broke the silence: ‘It was my fault, the religious business. I should have consulted you.’ Kurt merely shrugged. Jeremy went on: ‘She’s had such a frightful time . . . and has seemed so happy being Jewish again.’

  Kurt spoke in his usual polite and somewhat wary way: ‘Vot do you vont to do?’

  Jeremy hesitated, then waved to the table, ‘She’s given so much to this. I . . . I wouldn’t like it to be spoilt for her.’

  Kurt smirked, the way he had at Rifkah. ‘Mumma’s gefilteh-fish. Even if it gif you ze diabetes . . . a very common Jewish complaint, by ze vay . . . you must eat, so as not offend. But excuse my jokingk. You a
re master of ze house. You do vot you vont. I vill comply. Vot you suggest?’

  ‘Well . . . only I’d like to get her back . . .’

  ‘I cannot to her apologise.’

  ‘I know . . . I know. I told you the fault’s mine. Surely we can do it without religion?’

  Kurt shrugged again, smirked. ‘You zink?’ Then he added: ‘If you vill take your proper place at head of ze table.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I will. Now, I think I’d better go and get her. You’ll stay . . . as if nothing happened?’

  Kurt bowed slightly, but said, ‘You sound like Englishman . . . not Irish-Welshman born in vild Australia.’

  Jeremy seemed to be trying to work it out. Then he turned towards the kitchen. Out there were only the black housemaids, who said the others had gone out and up top by the outside stairs. He went that way, too, and straight to Rifkah’s room, although there was no indication either by sound or sight that anyone was there. Only the verandah lights were lit. He stopped at the screen door, asked, ‘You there?’ A mumble in reply. ‘May I come in?’ He entered without invitation, to see three figures seated in line on the edge of the dim white bed. He asked, ‘What about all that lovely food going to waste down there?’ The answer was a sniffle. He added: ‘You promised us Sabbath fry-fish. What are we going to do . . . chuck it out to the chooks?’ The answer was a gasping sound. He came up to the bed and found Rifkah the middle one of the trio. He put a hand on her shoulder, asking, ‘Aren’t you going to come down and give it to us?’ She snatched at the hand, pressed it to a wet cheek, mumbled something. ‘What did you say?’ He bent to her.