17 Martin Street

by Marilyn Taylor

  ‘How’s Cousin Eddie getting on with his Barmitzvah studies?’ asked Mabel, as she and Hetty hurried in and out of the kitchen, unpacking candlesticks and cutlery and setting the table.

  ‘Eddie’s smart, especially at Hebrew studies,’ said Da approvingly. ‘I’m sure he’ll do well on the big day.’

  ‘Still, nothing’s easy for children with polio,’ said Zaida. ‘The disease does such damage to the body.’

  ‘Well, at least now we’re nearer, we can see him more often,’ said Hetty, with rare warmth.

  Mabel carried in Solly, who looked around curiously with big dark eyes, and smiled as Zaida made clucking noises. Ma, wiping her hands on her apron, hurried in from the kitchen and lit the two tall waxy candles, covering her face with her hands as she recited the Sabbath blessing. Da poured the sweet red wine into tiny cups and handed them around with chunks of challah, the plaited Sabbath bread, fragrant with poppy seeds, baked that morning by Bobba. Then the children were blessed and Zaida dropped a kiss on Solly’s downy head.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Hetty murmured to Mabel as they carried in bowls of golden chicken soup swimming with noodles, the first two, as usual, for Zaida and Da.

  Then there was chicken with roast potatoes, and Ma brought in an earthenware bowl, announcing, ‘Bobba’s special sweet carrot stew with dumplings!’

  ‘Yummy!’ said Mabel.

  Just as they finished, Uncle Sam, their Da’s brother, and his son, Eddie, arrived.

  Glasses of tea were brought in, and Uncle Sam jigged Solly up and down on his knee. Hetty waited for the subject that always came up these days – the war.

  ‘Did you hear about the air raids on London and Coventry?’ asked Uncle Sam.

  ‘Yes, we’re lucky to be living here,’ said Da, ‘away from the real war.’

  Uncle Sam lowered his voice. ‘When the Nazis march in, first thing they do is round up the Jews.’

  Hetty had heard this before. ‘But why can’t they get away?’ she put in. ‘To here, or other countries not in the war?’

  They all looked at her in surprise, not used to her taking part in adult conversation. Da snapped, ‘You’re too young to understand these things, Hetty.’

  But Uncle Sam explained patiently, ‘The ones with foresight emigrated as soon as the Nazis came to power. A few even got work at a factory in the west of Ireland a couple of years ago.’ He sighed. ‘But now Jews need money and visas to get out; most countries, Ireland too, won’t admit penniless refugees.’

  ‘Please God the Nazis don’t come here,’ said Ma quietly.

  Da frowned. ‘Sarah, you’ll frighten the children–’

  ‘We’re not such children,’ snapped Hetty. ‘If the Nazis come here, we’ll be–’

  ‘That’s enough, Hetty,’ shouted Da. ‘Always answering back.’ In the silence that followed, Ma pressed Solly close to her heart.

  ‘Anyone heard the rumours about this German girl who’s supposed to have escaped to Dublin?’ enquired Eddie. Hetty glanced at him. Trust Eddie to help her out. She smiled a rare smile at her favourite cousin.

  ‘Nobody knows where she is,’ said Uncle Sam. ‘It may only be a rumour.’

  Hetty interrupted him. ‘Well, if it’s true, and someone doesn’t find her soon she’ll be sent back. And what’ll happen to her then?’

  What could she do to help this girl, Hetty wondered, carrying out the dishes with Mabel. Instead of all this talk, surely they should be searching for any refugees who might have escaped to here and had nowhere to go? Hetty made a decision: she would keep her eyes and ears open.

  Later, the washing-up done, Ma put Solly down on a blanket on the floor. He sat unsteadily, grabbing at his toes and tipping over as he tried to pull them up and stuff them in his mouth, making them all laugh.

  ‘Come, Papa,’ Uncle Sam said to Zaida. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  Zaida rose and turned to Ma. ‘May the family live here in peace and good health.’ Then, out of earshot of their father, busily unpacking prayer books, he murmured to her, ‘I’ll pray things will be better for you here, my dear.’

  Hetty and Mabel, overhearing, exchanged glances. Zaida said to them quickly, ‘Maybe one day you’ll both get married from this house! We’ll have such nachas, such pride and joy!’

  Mabel looked bashful, but Hetty, hating this kind of talk, frowned.

  Zaida reminded them, ‘Don’t be late for synagogue tomorrow.’

  As they kissed their parents goodnight a short time later, Da said gently, as he did every night, ‘Goodnight, children; God bless, happy dreams.’ He patted Hetty’s shoulder to show she was forgiven.

  ***

  Hetty groaned inwardly as she hurried out, shivering, to the lavatory in the yard. If only they could miss the Sabbath service for once and have a lie-in in their new room. But Zaida, his eyes on the ladies’ gallery in the synagogue, would notice their absence, and no one liked to upset him.

  ‘I’m sure we’re going to be happy here,’ said Mabel dreamily as the girls undressed and washed quickly in a basin of cold water.

  ‘It has to be better than Mary Street,’ said Hetty, pulling her Locknit pyjamas on over her vest and jumping into the sagging bed.

  ‘And to have our own room–’

  ‘Even if it’s freezing.’ Hetty sat up in bed vigorously brushing her hair till it crackled and sparked.

  Mabel was examining her face for pimples in the old, spotted mirror. ‘It’ll be even more freezing downstairs tomorrow,’ she told Hetty. ‘Pity we’ve no Shabbos goy to come and light the fire in the morning.’

  Hetty made a face. It was sometimes a nuisance not being allowed to work on the Sabbath – even something as simple as flicking a switch or lighting the fire. ‘Surely there’s a child in the street who’d like to earn a penny?’

  ‘Ma knocked next door,’ replied Mabel. ‘She said smoke was coming from the chimney but no one answered.’ ‘The house where that boy with specs was watching us?’

  Mabel nodded. ‘He was staring so hard I thought he was going to fall out the window.’

  After a moment Hetty said casually: ‘He looked a bit like the boy I told you about at the canal that day we rescued the puppies. He had specs too.’

  ‘Surely he’d have recognised Mossy and come and asked about them?’

  ‘If it was him, it shows he doesn’t care about them,’ persisted Hetty. ‘I gave him a really dirty look.’

  ‘It mightn’t have been him,’ retorted Mabel. ‘You know you need specs yourself.’ She added patronisingly, ‘When I start earning I’ll buy them for you – they’re only two shillings in Woolworth’s.’

  Selecting several thin, bendy pipe-cleaners from a bag she began curling her fair hair expertly round each one, securing it with a hairpin. ‘Maybe he was just shy.’

  Looking like a porcupine, she climbed into bed beside her sister. ‘You’re always so angry, Hetty.’ Snuggling under the threadbare blankets she went on, ‘Anyway, there’s other families around.’ Giggling, she went on, ‘Ma said we might meet some nice, suitable boys tomorrow in Greenville Hall Synagogue.’

  ‘I don’t want to meet any boys, especially suitable ones,’ Hetty said, yawning. ‘There’s more important things to think about, like the war, and what’s happening to Jews in Europe–’

  It was Mabel’s turn to yawn. ‘Yes, it’s awful. But what can we do?’ She lay down carefully, keeping her head rigid on the pillow. ‘I mean, it’s all so far away.’

  ‘Still, there might be refugees here in Dublin,’ insisted Hetty, ‘in hiding, like that girl Eddie was talking about.’

  No answer from Mabel except a snore. Hetty tried to switch her thoughts away from war and refugees. Through the thin wall she could hear the baby whimpering and a low murmur from her parents. At least they weren’t arguing. In Mary Street there’d been rows, mainly over Da gambling his wages on the horses.

  Maybe that would change here in Martin Street, like Zaida said. As long as they could pay the ren
t every week all would be fine. Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep, though, was of that nosy boy peering down at them from the upstairs window. Was he the boy from the canal?

  4

  The Broken Window

  ‘Come on, Ben, forget the glimmer man, Billy’s doing a message in Clanbrassil Street and then we’re going to try out the football he got from his uncle.’ It was a holy day, school was closed, and Smiler was at the door, with his neighbour Billy Flynn. Ben glanced at Granny, who said encouragingly: ‘Go on with you, Ben. It’s time you got out. Don’t forget your scarf.’ She gave them each a freshly baked jam tart and off they went, picking up Maurice Woolfson – known to everyone as Mickser – further along the street.

  The boys walked up the South Circular Road, busy with traffic, and into bustling Lower Clanbrassil Street, lined with kosher bakeries and butchers’ shops, along with watchmakers, grocers, drapers and wine-sellers. Billy and Smiler couldn’t resist bouncing and kicking the new ball all the way up the noisy street, through a heaving mass of people chatting, the older ones in Yiddish; tempting smells of pickled cucumbers, spices and hot bread wafted from all sides.

  Billy collected his father’s boots which had been repaired at Atkins, and then Mickser darted into Weinrock’s bakery and emerged, grinning, with three bagels, marked down because they were yesterday’s. Ben munched the delicious bagel – he loved these round bread rolls with the hole in the middle and crispy onions and poppy seed on top. Turning into Lombard Street they started an impromptu game with the new ball and were soon joined by local children. After the ball just missed a passing cyclist, a woman told them they shouldn’t be playing there. Ben was uneasy, but as soon as she’d passed, the game continued.

  Not wanting to be a spoilsport, Ben said nothing. Caught up in the momentum of the game, he received one of Billy’s famous headers and gave an almighty kick which Mickser, running, tripped and missed. As they watched in horror, the ball zoomed on to hit a white-haired old man who’d just emerged from Rubenstein’s butcher’s shop on the corner, with a newspaper-wrapped parcel under his arm. Then, bouncing hard off him, knocking him off balance, the ball hit the plate-glass shop window, smashing it to smithereens.

  ‘Run!’ shouted Billy, and they all sprinted off down Lombard Street. But Ben had never been a fast runner, and after a couple of minutes, breathless and terrified, his glasses slipping down his nose, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Just my luck, he thought miserably as the Guard marched him back to the shop, crunching over innumerable shards of glass which covered the path. And there stood the old man, dazed but upright, still clutching his parcel.

  Only then did Ben realise who it was – the old man he’d spied that night through the window of the house next door.

  ***

  People crowded around and someone brought a chair for the old man, who seemed as breathless as Ben.

  ‘Now, young fella,’ grunted the Guard, ‘look what you’re after doing!’

  Ben looked around hopelessly for the others. Eyes on the ground, he stammered, ‘S-s-sorry … I, er, we … d-didn’t–’

  A ruddy-faced man in a blood-stained apron appeared from the shop and said angrily: ‘You’ll have to pay for this! And there’s this poor man as well–’

  ‘It wasn’t just me,’ muttered Ben. But he knew the offending kick had been his.

  Then the old man spoke up. ‘Just a minute, young man.’

  Ben forced himself to look up, and was taken aback to see the man wasn’t consumed with rage as he had expected. In fact, he was saying mildly, in a strange, guttural accent: ‘You needn’t look so terrified. I’m not hurt. I played football myself when I was a boy in our shtetl, our village in Lithuania. I know it can get out of hand.’ And he smiled a sweet, kindly smile, showing broken teeth. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Martin Street,’ stuttered Ben, wondering would the old man arrive at his house to complain to his father.

  The Guard, wanting to be off, butted in. ‘He’ll have to pay.’ The butcher nodded vigorous agreement.

  ‘I … haven’t any money,’ Ben mumbled to the old man. ‘It’s hard to get jobs …’ Perhaps he could ask Uncle Matt, and maybe the others would pay something? But if Dad heard about it … He gulped down tears.

  The old man stood up and said in a low voice to the butcher and the Guard: ‘You can see the child has nothing. I will pay for the window.’

  The Guard objected, ‘Ah no, these young ones need to learn a lesson.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the old man. ‘The children can each pay me five shillings towards it. I’ll give this boy a weekly job so he can pay me back bit by bit.’

  The crowd, realising there were no real casualties and no row, was beginning to drift away.

  Ben felt a surge of relief. A job would be all right – but what kind of job would it be?

  ‘It’s all the same to me,’ said the butcher. ‘As long my window’s replaced.’ His wife was already sweeping the glass into a heap. Ben ineffectually tried to help.

  ‘I have to go,’ said the old man, holding up his parcel. ‘My wife’s waiting for this chicken.’

  ‘Er, th-thank you,’ murmured Ben, longing to get away from the whole mess.

  ‘So you must come tomorrow morning, that’s Shabbos, the Sabbath, and every Saturday to kindle the fire,’ the man went on. ‘Two pence a week.’

  Two pence! Though he’d have to pay towards the window, there might be a bit left to get something for his mother.

  ‘Where d’you live?’ Ben ventured.

  The man smiled. ‘Oh, it’s not for us. Our neighbour’s daughter does that. It’s for my son, Leon Golden, and his family. They live near you, at 17 Martin Street, and they need a Shabbos goy!’

  5

  The Shabbos Goy

  Ben sped home from Clanbrassil Street. The only time he’d even come near trouble like this was ‘boxing the fox’ in the orchards in Rathmines and Rathgar. Even then, he’d always been the timid one, hanging back, admiring the courage of Sean and the others, but not really enjoying the apples they’d picked in case the Guards caught them.

  In Martin Street he saw Smiler perched on the windowsill of his own house waiting for him. ‘Sorry you got caught,’ he said with a sheepish grin. ‘I nearly did too.’

  Hearing Ben’s story he hastened inside and brought out two shiny half-crowns from his precious bike savings. ‘My sister does that, lighting the fire and switching on lights for the people round the corner,’ he said, ‘and she only gets a penny and some sweets.’ But, thought Ben, Smiler’s sister didn’t have Ben’s dad to reckon with.

  As Ben turned towards home, Smiler asked him, ‘What’s that they call that job?’

  Ben lowered his voice and reeled off the explanation the old man had given. ‘Shabbos is what they call their Sabbath, and goy means a stranger – someone who isn’t Jewish.’

  ‘But they’re the strangers, not us,’ protested Smiler.

  ‘Well, we’re not Jews, are we? So I’m a goy to them and so are all of us.’ said Ben. ‘And listen, you’re not to yap about this to anyone. I don’t want Sean or me dad to hear.’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ said Smiler solemnly.

  At home, luckily, only Granny was in, pressing Dad’s shirt with one of the two heavy irons heating on the range. When she saw Ben’s face she put down the iron. ‘What’s wrong, pet?’

  She listened quietly. Though cross with him for what she called ‘stupid messing’, she swung into action and insisted Ben accompany her straight away to Billy’s and to Mickser’s houses. ‘We’ve got to get this sorted before your dad or Sean get home,’ she said. ‘Better keep it quiet.’

  Mrs Flynn gave out yards to her son Billy, whom she sarcastically called ‘yer man, the football champion’, while Mrs Woolfson needed some persuasion that her Maurice could have been mixed up in any wrongdoing. Eventually they both agreed to pay five shillings towards the cost next pay-day, which, with Smiler’s contribution, lef
t Ben with five shillings to earn.

  Going back down the street, Granny said, ‘I’m not happy about deceiving your dad, Ben, but he has a lot of worries. That old man’s a decent skin to pay out for the window after what you lot did, and you have to pay your share.’ She sighed. ‘And there’s no money to spare here. Sean and Uncle Matt help out, but …’

  Ben knew Dad was going ‘down the pub for a few jars’ more frequently these days, ‘trying to drown his worries in drink,’ as he’d heard Uncle Matt mutter to Granny. At least, now, Ben finally had a kind of a job, though he couldn’t use the money for Mam, at least not for quite a while.

  ‘Sorry, Granny,’ he murmured. ‘You going to tell Mam?’

  ‘No need to worry her.’ She pushed open the door and they went back into the kitchen, still hot from the ironing. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘like Marie said, that family next door are harmless enough.’ She sank into the ancient súgán chair, looking suddenly old.

  ‘Will I make you a cup of tea?’ Ben offered. She nodded, and taking a spoonful of used tea leaves from the basin in the scullery he put them to steep in boiling water in the mug to squeeze out every last bit of strength, added milk from the press, a half spoon of sugar, stirred it and handed it to her.

  ‘Grand cup of tea,’ she said, smiling. ‘Good thing you know how to light a fire as well.’

  ***

  Soon after Dad and Sean had left for work the next Saturday morning, Ben, checking no one was around to spot him, knocked on the green door of Number 17. His stomach knotted up at the thought of entering the alien house forbidden by his dad, and meeting that strange girl again.

  He was let in by the father, in his best suit, who clearly didn’t know what he was there for.

  Ben muttered, ‘Er, I’m …’

  Feet thumped down the stairs and Mabel, plump and cheery-looking, hairbrush in hand, appeared in the tiny hallway. She looked surprised. ‘Aren’t you–’ she paused, ‘from next door?’ He nodded. The father quickly disappeared upstairs.