Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  She muttered, ‘Zat Kurt spoil ever’zing.’

  ‘It’s not Kurt that’s spoiling the food. What about that lochshen soup . . . won’t it be getting cold?’

  Rifkah gasped, ‘Oh!’

  ‘Your first lochshen . . . and it’ll have to be chucked down the sink. How can your bubbeh rest in peace, as you’re always saying, if you do a thing like that?’

  She uttered a little whimper, kissed the hand she held. ‘Come on,’ he said, raising her. Prindy flew to open the screen. With his arm tucked in hers as he led her out, Jeremy said, ‘We can do without the religious bit.’

  She halted. ‘Ve must have Blessingk!’

  ‘Now, now! You can’t expect Kurt to do what he doesn’t want to. Can’t I give the Blessing?’

  ‘No . . . it must be Jew.’

  He urged her on. ‘Now, listen, dear . . . you know this’s not a religious house . . . you gave me to understand that you didn’t care much about religion . . .’

  ‘Ist different mitt Shabbos. If you cookingk do for it, and light candle, and vish Gooten Shabbos . . . you moost have Blessingk!’

  ‘Can’t you give it yourself?’

  ‘Only if I am vidow mitt no barmitzvah son.’

  They were coming down the inner stairway. He asked, ‘Can’t you pretend to be that?’

  She was silent for a moment. Then she answered suddenly, and, it sounded, grimly, ‘Ja . . . yes, I can . . . I vill!’

  Kurt was standing as Jeremy had left him. He bowed ceremoniously to Rifkah, who ignoring him, went straight to her place at the table and felt the soup tureen, lifted the lid and sniffed, then addressing no one in particular, said, ‘Moost mek hot again. Excuse pliss. I call ven ready.’ She took up the tureen and went off to the kitchen, followed by Nan and Prindy.

  As Jeremy and Kurt went back into the lounge, the latter said with a grin,

  ‘You see vot I mean, ze arrogance of Jewish voman, mitt basis of domestic economy. Anozzer voman . . . ze shickseh, ze stranger, as zey say in arrogance of beingk zemself elite, vood in circumstance compromise mitt cold soup . . . but not Jewess, no!’

  Pouring more drinks, Jeremy chuckled, ‘I think you’re a little hard on your women, Kurt. Maybe we’re all hard on things we know too well. My ex-wife had a different kind of fierce domesticity, as I’ve told you.’

  ‘I haf not tell about my own ex-vife . . . first vun, Jewish. Yes, from experience I speak. Alzo I am already seeingk through ze falseness of Judaism, too mooch afraid vos I of zat mourningk ceremony my Mumma vood make my Papa haf, vile she herself vept for his hardness on her kleine menscheleh’. Droll now, as he mostly was whenever, apparently, he felt called upon to be sociable, he told how his first marriage began to break up through his wife’s emptying the Shabbos lochshen over his head because he had refused to don the Yarmulke, the ceremonial head-covering. They were chuckling over it when the triangle rang again, and went hastening in response, saying they must not risk the repetition of Jewish history, which, murmured Kurt just as they were about to enter the dining-room, ‘Unfortunately haf been repeatingk itself for five t’ousand year.’

  Now the chalah loaf and salt and wine were at Rifkah’s end of the table. Sitting prim and stiff, that old-age look on her face, despite its youthful beauty, the complete matriarch, she dispensed the ceremonial, the male response to which was led by Prindy, who at once covered his head with his napkin. Kurt stole a wink at Jeremy while they did likewise. She broke the bread and salted it, poured the wine, all with appropriate muttering, to The Eternal, Our Gott, passed the offering to the others for solemn collaboration. Then with an entirely different mien, a sharp watchfulness for appreciation or lack of it in response to sweet savours that were the pay-off to her invocations, she dished out and passed the soup, her own response rather one of dilation of her beautiful nostrils sniffing the heavenly steam — and then the golden fry-fish. The Galilean, said by non-Jews to be a Jew, and supposed by these to have organised a fish-fry on a gigantic scale, presumably on the Sabbath Eve and with the help of the very female angels who had instructed Old Sarah in the Dream Time of the race, could not have made a better job of it than this. To say that the aureate flakes melted in your mouth, as Jeremy, lacking the necessary piety and talent with words remarked, was to belittle their divine quality. Rather did one’s mouth, one’s whole being indeed, melt about the morsel, as the most inspired of those followers of the False Messiah, might feel about what they call the Blessed Eucharist. A very nice salad, of oiled lettuce, tomato, beetroot, went with it, but merely as unconsidered trimmings. However, as climax to the offering was what was lightly described by her dispensing it as Nosh, meaning a bit of something tasty, but proved to be no less than Manna from Above again: tiny pufftaloons, not much bigger than guineas and just as golden, made simply by dropping the last of that perfect batter in blobs into the oil in finishing off the ceremony of the fry. These were eaten with a touch of honey. It was Jeremy, using a bushman’s term, who called them pufftaloons. The proper name was Pfannküchen. But religious in basis though the whole thing might be according to Kurt, Rifkah seized on the name Pufftaloon as the perfect one for them, a fact that hardly supported Kurt’s contention that Jewish women were arrogant and conservative.

  Out on the ritual walk that night, following the milky road that, so low hung the Milky Way in the southern sky, they seemed to be climbing to that bolt-hole of Old Tchamala’s, Rifkah again refuted Kurt’s contention while speaking of his intolerance to Judaism, saying, ‘What you call Lose him Dreamin’, eh?’ The expression was used of such Aborigines as those in missions or towns who had renounced the old ways. She went on to say, ‘Effer’body in zat refugee settlement goingk to be like zat. Zey intellectuals. Zey know more zan Gott. Might-be zey von’t permit fry-fish. Zen I haf to come ’ere on Friday.’

  Jeremy chuckled. ‘I can’t see them losing a cook like you, whatever their scruples about religion. I notice Kurt’s didn’t prevent him from eating more of tonight’s lovely tucker than any of the rest of us.’

  She cuddled up to him, sighed. ‘I don’t vont zis settlement now.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I am so ’appy ’ere. I do not vont politic and economic and all zat intellectual stuff. Sure zey vill mek goot place . . . but it vill not be true bush place . . . and now I can be ’appy only in true bush place.’

  ‘You’re new to it. You’ll get tired of it someday.’

  ‘Nevair, nevair. I loff you all so mooch . . . ist . . . it is . . . like I have been far avay and I come ’ome.’

  After a little silence she asked, ‘Ven Kurt go . . . can I stop?’

  ‘Stop as long as you like, my dear.’

  ‘So I vill not be nuisance to Nan, I can do some job . . . teachingk school, if Darcy vill first teach me . . . or helpingk you in lab.’

  ‘I’m sure Nan would never regard you as a nuisance . . . rather the opposite. Don’t forget we’ve got this military and anthropology mob coming next week. You’re going to be a godsend to her in the house. You might get the General off my back, too. He likes Jews, and’s very partial to Jewish food . . . and you. With a combination of things, you might be able to get him to relive the old campaigns of Asia Minor, instead of trying to involve me in new ones he’s dreaming of in Asia Major. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘Ze only man I vont to talk to is you.’ Suddenly she leaned to him and kissed him on the mouth. How it affected him could not be judged in the gloom, except perhaps for momentary deeper breathing. She giggled, as if at her boldness, then said, ‘But I am so ’appy Jeremy . . . Kayn aynhorah!’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Well . . . it is old bubbeh zing you say so not to spoil luck.’

  ‘Like keeping your fingers crossed?’

  ‘Vot is zat?’

  ‘Oh, silly Christian superstition.’

  ‘Tell me, pliss.’

  II

  That the interest of the Wurruld in the new condition of things at Li
ly Lagoons had not waned for lack of seeing anyone from there since the Races was evident enough when a truckload of the household arrived at Beatrice River in mid-afternoon of the first train-day of October, and heads popped out from everywhere as it came roaring up from the crossing. Jeremy, driving, remarked to Rifkah and Kurt sitting with him, referring to those nearest them as they came across the railway tracks, meaning the people of the Police Station, ‘Better give ’em a wave . . . even though Hitler is their god.’

  Constable and Mrs Stunke waved just as genially in response as their blacks already were waving to those in the back.

  As Jeremy swung in towards the Railway Station, the two staring members of the staff there vanished. He chuckled. ‘The other would-be Beatrice River Gauleiters. But don’t let it trouble you. They’ll be as sweet as pie. Don’t forget what I told you . . . the only people Australians are rude to . . . when they’re sober . . . are the boongs. Australians generally, I mean. If Pat Hannaford’s driving the train you’ll see him give Col Collings the Nazi salute as he comes in. I don’t know if Pat himself takes if seriously . . . but no one else does.’

  Kurt said, ‘I zink politics only a game mitt you people.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe everything’s a kind of game . . . as it is to children. But isn’t it time we grew up?’

  ‘Pliss . . . not like Europe!’ Rifkah protested.

  ‘No . . . for godsake not like Europe . . . but by the same token, not stay like nasty children for ever!’

  They entered the station to find Col Collings and Oz Burrows busy preparing for the train, ostensibly surprised to see the party, and certainly as pleasant in receiving them as Jeremy had predicted. Upon Col’s saying he hadn’t had the pleasure of being introduced to the doctor and the lady, Jeremy gravely did the honours; whereupon Col declared that Rifkah must meet his wife. Jeremy got in a wink while the accumulated mail was being got for him. There was also a telegram for Jeremy, which Col said he would have sent out by blackboy tomorrow if no one had come in today. Evidently Col was interested in that telegram. Looking at him, Jeremy seemed to be debating whether to take it away with the rest of the mail or read it then and there and see the effect on Collings. Col started to busy himself again. Jeremy opened the envelope. The wire read: EXPEDITION HOPE BASE ON LILY LAGOONS STANDING BY AWAITING YOUR CONVENIENCE TIME OF ARRIVAL IF NOT BEFORE FRIDAY PLEASE WISH YOUR JEWISH VISITORS SHABBAT SHALOM FROM ME TO YOURSELF AND WIFE MY KINDEST REGARDS ESK. Reference to the underlined words was made in the section of the form reserved for official data, with the word Hebrew, in accordance with regulations demanding identification of foreign or unusual wording. Jeremy looked up to catch Col eyeing him. He then passed the form to the others, saying, ‘From General Esk. Mentions you.’

  Kurt’s eyes widened at mention of the name, and sought the telegram rather quickly. But having read, he smiled, nodded. Rifkah, handing it back to Jeremy, said, ‘Zat is ver’ kind of General.’

  Jeremy nodded to Col, now looking indifferent. ‘Thanks, Col.’ Then he led the way outside. Out of hearing, he said with a grin, ‘This’s rather comical. They’re all going to get steamed-up over using Hebrew. Must push it along by replying to him with some. What can I say?’ The others only stared at him, not appreciating the comedy, since not knowing the ways of the country and its people. He had to answer himself, ‘I know . . . I’ll wire him to come for Sabbath Eve . . . fry-fish . . . Oneg Shabbat.’ He looked at Rifkah. ‘Do you mind doing another big fish-fry . . . there’ll be six of ’em?’

  Her face lit. ‘I loff it!’

  He chuckled. ‘Yes . . . that’s it . . . with all the trimmings, candles, chalah, salt . . . the Blessing! Would you mind, Kurt? Just for the fun. Good. Collings’ll ask me what the language is. “Hebrew”, I’ll say loftily. They won’t be talking about anything else in the bar tonight.’ As they were heading back to the office he added: ‘If only we could have old Shame-on-us Finnucane out to Friday night supper, within a week the country would be saying I’d turned Jew . . . hahaaaaaaah!’

  Speak of the devil! As Jeremy entered the Station office, Col Collings rose from his desk with the telephone receiver in his hand, saying to him, ‘Finnucane. He wants a word with you.’

  Jeremy gaped. ‘Me?’

  He was wary; but without cause. The voice so well known telephonically to the Wurruld was dripping with blarney. The Finnucane household were just about to sit down to take a drop o’ tay before the train arrived, and were wonderin’ if the good doctor and his lovely lady would be carin’ to join them — and, of course, ‘Jerry, yeself, me boy.’ Jeremy replied that he didn’t doubt but that his guests would be glad to come, but excused himself because he had some telegraphic business to attend to before the train. ‘Ah, yes, the Gineral,’ said old Shame-on-us, apparently quite unashamed of the fact that he was betraying the confidence of another betrayer of confidences, namely he who stood beside Jeremy with an ear cocked towards the instrument crackling to the vibrations of the Voice. ‘You’ll be havin’ him out wit’ you anny day . . . which remoinds me, that I promised the good man a drop o’ the cryather for his night cappin’ away in the woilds . . . so if you’d be good enough to pick it up before you go home. An spaykin’ of the Gineral and Tullamore Dew in the same breath, as ye moight say . . . that was a cliver one ye put over me about him and the Black and Tans, seein’ he was there to stop the shpalpeens, as he explained to me most explicitly . . . and I did loikwise in regard to yeself, tellin’ him that ye are a boy who must have his bit of divilment, high or low, no matter the company . . . hahaaaaaah! And you’ll be sendin’ the good Jews along, eh? They can rest assured, tell ’em, that there’ll be nothin’ to offind ’em in the way o’ food. Remimber the couple o’ Jew hawkers out at the tin-field in the ould days that we had to get goats for and let ’em kill ’em themselves and hang in a special place so’s not to get contaminated by our Christian mate . . . and how in one o’ your moods o’ divilment you rubbed pork fat on the carcasses? But as I says to you at the toime, I says: “You can’t take Sh . . . er . . . Jews in,” . . . and we got left with two rotten carcasses we’d paid a lot o’ money for. I’m presumin’ you haven’t told ’em that one . . . so I won’t be repeatin’ it.’

  Jeremy, red, said shortly, ‘Okay . . . I’ll send them up right away.’ As he turned from the telephone he muttered, ‘My God, how that man can talk!’ He caught Collings’s quizzing eye. How much had those sharp ears heard?

  Kurt and Rifkah accepted the Finnucane invitation readily, and went off at once, accompanied some of the way by Prindy. Prindy was heading for Barbu, who was standing outside his shop awaiting him. Jeremy then composed the reply for telegraphing to General Esk, using the term Oneg Shabbat, giving its derivation when asked by Col in the tone to be expected of him, but the tone of his own voice hardly the mock curt indifferent one that might have been expected when he planned the joke. Evidently Finnucane’s joke on him had cramped his style a bit. However, to show that he took it in good enough part was the fact that soon after, meeting Tom Toohey as he arrived with his gang on the motor trolley, he told him how old Shame-on-us had got even with him, chuckling over it. Toohey was less concerned about the joke than the fact that Jews ate special food, perhaps for one reason that he would be putting them up with Jeremy that night at his place. He asked, ‘Do they slaughter their own beasts and pray over ’em out your way?’

  ‘Christ, no! They eat the same as us . . . only they prefer meat with the veins pulled out. Blood’s what they don’t like.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think smart people like Jews’d be fussy over their tucker, though.’

  ‘Shows how shrewd they are. Blood’s the main source of transmitting disease in meat . . . and also in its deterioration. Also, meat without blood’s much better tasting. Since the girl’s been there we’ve been having all game birds killed bled instead of having their necks wrung. You wouldn’t believe the difference in taste. Your missus might like a few tips from her. Nan lets her just
about run the kitchen now.’

  Tom shot the speaker a sharp glance. Then he said, ‘I see in that Australia Free paper of yours . . .’

  ‘Christ . . . don’t call that anti-Jew rag mine!’

  Another glance at the outburst of feeling. Tom went on: ‘It says’t the Jewish way of killing beasts is sadistic . . . and Hitler prohibited it the first thing he came to power.’

  Jeremy leered. ‘Course castrating Jews isn’t sadistic.’

  Again that look from Toohey. Now Jeremy was turned to look at Prindy, who was coming with Barbu. He remarked, ‘Train must be coming, eh? Marvellous hearing that boy’s got.’ But then he turned towards Finnucane’s, adding: ‘She wants to see the train come in. Old Shame-on-us’ll hang on to her till the last minute with his maggin’.’ He looked even anxious, was moving as if to go across to the hotel, but turned again to Prindy and called, ‘Go and tell Rifkah to come.’ He turned back to Toohey to meet that quizzing look for the first time, but without appearing to consider it significant. He cocked his head on hearing the name Rifkah spoken in the group of halfcastes and blacks now crowded about those from Lily Lagoons — Mitchis Rifkah. He couldn’t hear what they were saying about her; but it was the story of her swimming with them naked, received with indrawn exclamations of, Eh, look out! and Properly!

  There was a Beatrice River Station utility pulling in, Clancy at the wheel. Father and son met each other’s glance, nodded. As Clancy alighted he saw Rifkah coming hurrying with Kurt and Prindy. He went red, turned hastily away.

  Just then the cry went up: ‘Here she comes!’ A plume of steam above the trees beyond the bridge — Boo-oooo-oot! — and then the rumble of wheels amongst the red girders.