by Alan Collins
“He sells it,” she mumbled, “to your Uncle Siddy and he sells it on the blackmarket.”
It was the end of the afternoon. Customers were starting to leave the cafe. Mitzi stood up. “I wish I had never met your Uncle Siddy or Solly,” she said. “They have brought me nothing but trouble. You will have to be in charge of your brother now, Jacob. I have told this to Mrs Pearlman. It is finished.’’
“Are you also finished with Uncle Siddy, Mrs Strauss?”
She did not answer me.
I waited outside the Vienna Wald until the Post Office clock struck five. Irma Kahn was one of the last to leave. She was no longer the gaunt figure I had first seen; she was wearing Australian-style clothes and carefully applied make-up. She was saying goodbye to a man who bent over her hand and kissed it in farewell. When he had gone I spoke to her. It all came out in a rush. I was near to tears as I told her of the trouble with Solly. She nodded knowingly as though it was only to be expected; it was plain she had a poor opinion of Mitzi Strauss. She told me she only went to the Vienna Wald because the man I had seen her sitting with was a former German lawyer who was preparing documents for claims against the Nazis if we won the war.
“Now, Jacob, do not worry, you have two friends — no, you have three.”
I looked surprised. “Well, you have Mrs Pearlman, a very wise woman, then there is myself — ach, I have learned such a lot in a short time — and Ruti is studying to be a social worker. I think she may be your most valuable friend.”
We walked together to the tramstop in Elizabeth Street opposite the Great Synagogue. I remembered Ruti kissing me there on the day of my barmitzvah and Solly using my new handkerchief. Mrs Kahn was asking me if I would like to come home with her and have tea. Ruti was at the Habonim meeting and would be home later. We sat in the outside compartment of the tram and I took great pleasure in paying both fares. This simple action seemed to restore my self-esteem. I thanked her and declined her invitation. As I left the tram, she pressed my hand and assured me both she and Ruti would be at the Magistrate’s Court in the morning.
At Bondi Mrs Rothfield was waiting for me. “Your uncle is here,” she announced with barely disguised distaste. “He offered me some butter without coupons. I do not do such things.”
Siddy was sprawled at his ease in her small lounge-room. He waved a hand airily at me. “You’re not lookin’ too bright young fella. I reckon y’ couldn’t go two rounds with a revolvin’ door! Tell Uncle Siddy your troubles.” He kicked a chair out for me. “Me an’ me nephew wants to talk private like, if you don’t mind, love.”
Mrs Rothfield, who had in her time faced Arabs, Turks, English and Australian soldiers without flinching, refused to leave. She sat in a straight-backed chair and reminded Siddy that this was her flat and she would stay right where she was.
“Well” — he turned his back on her and spoke to me. “By the look on yer face, I reckon you know why I’m here. Young Solly has got himself into a bit o’strife. He has to front up to the beak in the morning. It’s only a piddling offence and nothing serious will happen to him but,” his voice hardened, “I don’t want ’im blowin’ the gaff on me. We Yids have got to stick together.” He gave an exaggerated wink. “Get what I mean, Jack? Like kissin’ the mezuzah, eh? We’re all in the same club!”
Mrs Rothfield and I looked at each other in disgust and amazement.
I said with rising anger, “A lady I’ve been talking to says Solly could be put in the State Home for Boys and all he’s done is nick a few bottles of beer which you put him up to. They’ll say he’s in need of care and protection. She reckons that way they can keep him as long as they like.’’ I rushed to Siddy and hit him in the face with my open hand. “I’ll bloody well tell them how you keep the Vienna Wald in tea and coffee without coupons, you bloody mongrel. Thank God our father is not here to see what a bastard you turned out to be.”
Siddy didn’t move from his chair. He rubbed his chin reflectively and said, “You’ve got a bit o’ go in yer, Jack, I’ll say that for yer. If anybody else ’d done that to me, I’d ’ve floored ’em.” He got up and pulled his hat down hard on his head in a way that seemed quite threatening. When he reached the door, he said, “I’ll be havin’ a chat with young Solly. See ya in court.”
Mrs Rothfield slammed the door after him. “You need relatives like that like a hole in the head.”
The Children’s Court was a few doors up from the Shelter where Solly and I had been taken by the police-car the day Father died. A gloomy sandstone building in the shadow of the bridge pylon, the only bright part of it was the brass plate outside. Families stood around on the footpath and were shepherded into the Court by fussy lawyers and the occasional Salvation Army officer. I had arrived far too early. I saw boys and the occasional truculent girl sitting in the gutter smoking. One boy called out to me as he went through the swing-doors: “What they got you for, Ikey? Pinchin’ a leg o’ pork, was yer?”
As the mist rolled away from the Quay I could see the ferries through the gaps in the waterfront buildings. People were streaming off them, oblivious of the misery just a block away. Despite the solid breakfast Mrs Rothfield had pushed into me, I felt empty and drained. I found a niche in a building where the sun could reach me; a cat rubbed itself against my leg, received no solace and went on its way. I closed my eyes for a moment. Then I heard a woman’s voice complaining about a jammed car door. Mrs Pearlman had arrived. Solly was wrestling with the door; then they were on the footpath.
Mrs Pearlman came up to me and kissed me on the cheek. Solly was hanging back by the car. She beckoned to him to join her. I wanted to go to him but was frightened by the intensity that seemed to radiate from him. He presented a terrible contrast; while he was wearing good quality, stylish clothes, he had the look of a whipped greyhound. His fine fair hair hung lank over his forehead, his face was white and his eyes puffy from crying.
Mrs Pearlman led me across the few feet that was the chasm that separated us. I put my arms around him; the gesture was futile. Solly’s body was stiff and unyielding. I had to prise his hand away from the car door.
“Solly, Solly,” I whispered. “Everything will be all right. We’re here to help you, Mrs Pearlman and me. Don’t worry.”
“Some brother you are, Jack,” he gritted, “pissed off and left me you did. It’s all your fault. We should have stuck together like we said we would when …’’
I released him and stood back, shattered by the enormity and the accuracy of what he had said. “But … but, you were the one who wanted to go and live with Mrs Strauss and that twerp Manfred,” I gasped. “It was you that left me.”
Mrs Pearlman cut in. “That will get us nowhere. When all this is over, we shall make other arrangements for the two of you.” She linked her arms through ours and led us up the steps of the court. Down the hall, the kid who had called me Ikey was being led away by two policemen. He slid his fingers across his throat as he saw me.
Solly saw the gesture. “Do you know him, Jack?” he said fearfully. I shook my head. Mrs Pearlman was now talking with a court attendant. The man beckoned us to follow him upstairs into a small, wood-panelled room with benches and a huge Australian Coat of Arms above a raised desk. We sat down on either side of Mrs Pearlman, whose small stature seemed to me to grow in that impersonal room.
We waited in the gloom. The attendant came and went with bundles of papers. Finally he switched the light on and said in a loud voice: “Be upstanding.” A thin, dark-suited man appeared as if by magic from a door behind the high desk. The attendant sat below him. “Call Police Constable Perkins,” he boomed out. I looked around, and instead of a policeman, Mrs Kahn and Ruti came in. Ruti attempted to come to me but the clerk of the court ordered her to sit down. The constable’s squeaky boots echoed around the courtroom. He marched to the witness box and was about to take the oath when the magistrate irritably reminded him that this was a children’s court and he need not be quite so formal.
“Well now,” he began, “will Solomon Kaiser please stand up.”
Mrs Pearlman gently prodded Solly, who dragged himself to his feet.
The policeman said in a flat tone, “My name is Charles Murray Perkins. I am a police constable attached to the Darlinghurst station on the fourth day of October at five o’clock in the afternoon I apprehended the accused —”
‘‘Is he present in court?’’
“He is your Worship that’s him with the fair hair — removing beer from the back of a brewery wagon the property of Tooth and Company Limited I asked him if it was his property and he said no I then asked him what he was doing and he said may I refer to my notes your Worship —’’
“He said what?”
The constable flourished his notebook.
“Oh yes, do go on, Constable, and try to remember we are dealing with minors here.”
“As your Worship pleases he said it’s for my — and then he shut up your Worship and never said another word so I took him into custody and we found the address of a Mrs Mitzi Strauss on him.”
The magistrate waved the constable to silence. He consulted his papers then asked Mrs Pearlman to approach him. As she rose, I moved down the seat and sat next to Solly. I could feel him trembling. Mrs Pearlman and the magistrate were talking quietly together. Suddenly Mrs Pearlman’s voiced echoed around the courtroom.
“No! No! You can’t do that, he’s only a child for God’s sake!”
“Please resume your seat, madam.”
“I will not! You cannot do such a dreadful thing.”
“Will you assume personal responsibility for him?”
Mrs Pearlman’s spirit seemed to collapse. Her defiant stand disappeared. She said in a low voice, “I am a single woman, your Worship, what can I do?”
I heard Ruti’s voice from the back of the court, “We will care for him, won’t we Mutti?”
“Are you a relative?” the magistrate asked.
She shook her head.
“Then I will sign the order. Solomon Kaiser, please stand up. You have already had one brush with the law when apprehended stealing milk. These are difficult times; the country is at war. We cannot have law breakers on our own doorstep where people are left without protection from black marketeers, no matter what their age.’’
He wrote in a large ledger. I held Solly’s hand in a fierce grip. A pervading smell of shit rose in the courtroom. Solly’s face was grey with strain; a brown slime slid slowly down his leg.
I put my head close to his ear. “Solly, remember how we made a run for it once before? Away from the coppers and down to the ferries? Listen, we can do it again. You head for the door and go for your life, I’ll be right with you. Make for a ferry that’s just leaving.”
The magistrate was blotting what he had written. He raised his head. “Solomon Kaiser will be detained at the State Home for Boys pending a further review of his case. Call the constable.”
“NOW!” I yelled. God, how we ran! We reached the double swing-doors of the courtroom together, swung them open, tore down the passage to the entrance, leaped from the top step to the bottom. Solly was already a couple of feet ahead of me. As 1 landed on the footpath, he screamed out, “There’s Uncle Siddy!”
Siddy grabbed me as I recovered my balance. He locked an arm around my neck. “Hold hard, Jack, me boy, doin’ a flit was yers?” He held me while two policemen flew past us after Solly. “What did he tell the coppers? Did he mention my name?”
I bit him savagely on the wrist. His grip relaxed for a moment and I wriggled free. I took off again, down the hill to the Quay. Far ahead, weaving in and out of the traffic and the crowds, I could still see the broad backs of the police. I could hear whistles blowing and over their shrillness, the solid blast of ferry horns.
By the time I got to the nearest ferry berth, an eerie silence had descended on that part of Circular Quay. People were hanging over the iron railings. I pushed my way through. I could see a policeman’s jacket hanging on one of the spikes. The water was churned up in the wake of a departing ferry and a life belt bobbed about on the dirty froth. I hung on to the railing in utter fear and exhaustion. Men around me were muttering, “Little bugger chased by the cops … tried to jump on the bloody ferry … copper dived in after him … reckon the kid got sucked under by the propellor … ah, y’d think the coppers ’d ’ave better things to do with their time instead o’ chasin’ kids.”
I fainted.
Ten
In the months that followed Solly’s death, I was pulled in a hundred different directions. I was unable to make any decisions affecting my life without becoming the recipient of advice from women. They had taken me over; whatever I suggested or showed an inclination for was subject to their close scrutiny and prolonged debate, which perversely, never coincided with what I wanted. So unanimous were their wishes that they had all the hallmarks of a conspiracy. I never actually saw Mrs Pearlman, Mrs Rothfield, Mrs Kahn and Ruti in conference, yet their carefully worded recommendations were always preceded by the pronoun ‘‘we’’. Their wishes were conveyed to me by Mrs Rothfield. No matter what the topic, she invariably managed to work in a reference to Solly, followed by the traditional Jewish phrase when referring to the dead, “May he rest in peace”.
This cliché, meant to comfort those left grieving, had no other message for me than reproach. The women avoided even the slightest hint of my culpability in Solly’s death; they achieved this by their very solicitousness for my well-being.
Their intrusion began the day of Solly’s funeral, when Mrs Pearlman, Mrs Rothfield, Mrs Kahn and Ruti all insisted that they should ride with me in the first car behind the hearse. They also agreed to make a common enemy of Mitzi Strauss, whom they forced to ride in the second car with Uncle Siddy. The pathetically small cortege left the dingy funeral parlour in Chippendale for the long drive to Rookwood cemetery.
Mrs Pearlman and Mrs Rothfield sat beside the driver. To my distaste they chatted away about people they knew, pointed out shops along the way that had Jewish owners and discussed the progress of the war. As I sat behind them, with the slim figures of Ruti and her mother comforting me, I could see between the two women in the front. I could see the battered old hearse with its blacked-out windows and single Star of David on the rear door. But I could not see Solly and had not seen him since he ran from the court — when we were both so very young.
On that morning, of all the mornings of his short life, I had surely failed Solly. And if it had not been then, would it have inevitably been on another occasion? What if I had drowned myself at Bondi and had never been in the court to whisper to him to run to his death? Should I have fought with Mrs Pearlman against separating us? Why did I not warn him against Uncle Siddy?
Why did our father have to die and leave me with the responsibility for our lives?
Why, why, why?
It was Irma Kahn’s face above me that I had seen first when I came to that morning at the Quay. My head was in her lap; over her shoulder I could see Ruti, her face wet with tears. I remember being helped back up the hill and into Mrs Pearlman’s car; Ruti was struggling with the obstinate door handle. I heard Mrs Pearlman’s voice giving orders to her to take me away — “anywhere, just get him away from here”.
Uncle Siddy appeared from the fringe of the crowd. “You leave it all to me, missus,” he said. “I’ll drive and I’ll leave yer car in Darlinghurst, right at your office. Don’t worry about a thing.”
I could see a policeman moving toward us. Siddy leapt into the driving seat. “I’ll get you away from them nosey buggers, Missus, ’old tight, ’ere we go.”
He drove with the same bravado as our father had done in happier days. He tooted the horn and gave exaggerated hand signals. Distressed as I was, I could see that the bastard was enjoying himself. As the car turned out of William Street into Darlinghurst Road, I looked out guiltily as we passed the shabby building where Peg Piper lived.
The car continued at breakneck speed
down Oxford Street, through Bondi Junction and paused momentarily at the top of the rise where I could see the ocean glistening in the morning sun.
“Where to now, Miss?” Siddy asked.
Ruti was about to give him directions.
I sat up suddenly and interrupted her. “Drive down to the beach,” I ordered him.
“Whaffor?”
“Do as Jacob asks you,” Ruti said. He hurled the car down the hill, swung on to the promenade and halted outside the pavilion.
The beach was deserted except for a fisherman who knew his way through the barbed wire. I got out of the car and walked to the long steps that led onto the sand. I sat down and took off all my clothes except my under-pants. A sharp wind whipped the sand against my body. I threaded my way through the vicious coils until I reached the water’s edge then waded through the shallows until the waves could break over my head. I could see the fisherman’s line, taut and strung with silver droplets; looking back I could see the black dot of the car and three figures beside it. One of them was waving. I dived beneath the breakers once more then came ashore. I stood there for a moment enjoying the sound of the ratchet of the fisherman’s reel then walked carefully back through the wire to my clothes.
Mrs Kahn spoke first. “I understand you Jacob,” she said, “you must, how do you say?”
“Cleanse, Mutti, Jacob must cleanse himself of what has happened.”
“Yes, that is so, Jacob. I understand what you did.”
Siddy said, “You mean like the Christians what dunks ’emselves in the river, like?” Nobody bothered to answer him. We got back into the car.
For the first time that day, Siddy’s voice showed concern. “As I was sayin’ Missus, before Jack decided to take a swim, where do youse wanter go? I’m ’ere to help.” Ruti gave him directions.
The car swung into a side street and pulled up outside a block of fiats. Siddy was out in a flash, wrenching the door open in a mock gesture of courtesy. I saw my teeth marks still fresh on his wrist. “I hope they last forever,” I told him. He shrugged and attempted to assist Mrs Kahn from the car. She ignored him, waited until the three of us were on the footpath then said to him with pointed irony, “Do not kill yourself on the way back, Mr Kaiser.”