17 Martin Street
Page 5
Firmly gripping the baby’s slippery pink body, she rubbed him with a soapy rag, avoiding splashes from his waving arms. Hearing Solly’s gurgles, Mossy pattered across the wet floor, wagging his stumpy tail.
‘Wait, Mossy,’ said Hetty in a gentle tone she reserved solely for puppies and babies. ‘I’ll feed you when I’ve finished with Solly.’
Da had said the puppies’ survival was thanks to the mercy of the Almighty. Ma said it was also due to Hetty’s devoted care. But Hetty knew in her heart that the courage of ‘that boy’ had been the vital factor. She was secretly grateful to him, but, of course, would never dream of showing it.
When Ma’d insisted they could keep one puppy only, there’d been a row during which Hetty had rushed away with the two puppies in her arms and flung herself and them on her bed, displacing an annoyed Mabel. Finally the other puppy, Flossy, had been given to cousin Eddie, the only person Hetty trusted to look after it properly.
Tonight was the last night of Hanukkah – the Festival of Lights – and her grandparents, together with Aunt Millie, Uncle Sam and Eddie, were all coming to Martin Street for the festival.
Aunt Millie always helped prepare the special festive meals, and she and Mabel had gone to Lombard Street West to choose from the fresh fish displayed by the dealers on wooden boards balanced on prams. They would also bring back delicious foods from Ordman’s shop in Clanbrassil Street, including Zaida’s favourite pickled cucumbers swimming in dillweed. Aunt Millie insisted, as usual, on paying for everything as she knew money was scarce in the Martin Street household.
This too was the night for Hanukkah presents. As Hetty dried Solly on a strip of old sheet on her lap, she reflected gloomily that, while presents in their family had always been modest, this year there probably would be none at all.
Last week their Da, usually at work long hours in the tailoring shop or wrapped up in his books, had gone off to the bookie’s at Kelly’s Corner and spent part of his much-needed weekly wage betting on the horses.
When Ma’d tried to stop him, he insisted, ‘This time I’ve got a real cert.’ His excited, agitated manner at these times was familiar to them all. On his way out he was still repeating, ‘I’m telling you, Sarah, this one can’t lose.’
But as they could see when he returned much later, all the animation drained away and replaced by an equally familiar hangdog look, it did lose.
‘More money down the drain,’ Hetty had hissed to her sister that night.
Mabel was in tears. ‘Ma promised to get a few yards of taffeta for a new dress for Eddie’s Barmitzvah party and for the hop at Carlisle – if I get asked,’ she moaned. ‘How can I go to anything now? I’ve nothing to wear.’ Dabbing her eyes with a corner of the sheet, she went on: ‘Why won’t they let me leave that stupid school? I mean, I’m nearly sixteen. I could be earning.’
‘Bobba says education helps you make something of yourself,’ Hetty reminded her. ‘She always says she wishes she’d had the chance.’
‘Grown-ups always say those things.’
‘D’you remember Zaida saying everything would be better here in Martin Street?’ Hetty brushed her teeth vigorously with a handful of salt from the dish beside the basin. ‘Well, it isn’t. Not with Da, anyway.’
Mabel, who never remained upset for long, sat up. ‘Some things are better here,’ she said, blowing her nose. ‘Those two girls up the street, Carmel and Maureen, asked me to go to the pictures with them, except they usually go on Saturday. And that boy in the synagogue last week – he was gorgeous.’ She went over to the mirror propped on a stool, which served as a dressing table, and fluttered her eyelashes at her reflection. Dreamily she said, ‘Did I tell you he came over and shook hands and said “Shabbat Shalom”?’
‘Only about twenty times,’ groaned Hetty. ‘And everyone says that after the service anyway – it only means “Have a peaceful Sabbath”!’
‘He’s called Michael,’ Mabel continued, oblivious. ‘He might ask me to the hop. And guess what? He’s a medical student!’
‘Oh great!’ said Hetty acidly. ‘And I s’pose the half-a-jar of greasy Brylcreem on his hair’s for medical reasons?’
Mabel ignored her, gazing around their bedroom, more lived-in now, with flimsy curtains and film star photos up on the wall, a flowery rug crocheted by their grandmother on the bare lino, a wind-up alarm clock on the mantelpiece. ‘You’ve got to admit,’ she said to Hetty, ‘there’s one good thing about Martin Street – our own room.’
As Hetty nodded grudgingly, there was a scratching at the door. Brightening, she flew to open it, and gathered up the puppy into her arms. As he devoured her with slobbering licks, she said, ‘And there’s Mossy, too.’
‘Mmm,’ said Mabel, patting him absently. ‘Hetty, y’know Ben, the new Shabbos goy?’ Ignoring Hetty’s stony expression, she went on: ‘He hardly talks when we see him. Hasn’t he even asked you about the puppies?’
Hetty shrugged. ‘They’re strange people next door.’ She’d been so close to Ben on the canal bank. But now if she saw him in the street he looked away, and so did she. She wasn’t going to admit to Mabel that she couldn’t forget that day on the ice and his sympathy when she’d wept. Still, maybe he really didn’t care?
And anyway, she scolded herself, why was she, Hetty, even thinking about him? Why was she hurt by his indifference? Hetty always ignored boys, except Eddie, of course, and sneered at Mabel and the others for their stupid chat about boyfriends. Why did her thoughts now keep returning to this boy? Hetty was confused, and a little bit ashamed of herself. She must put him out of her mind.
Determinedly, she climbed into bed, and cuddling Mossy to her, resolutely opened her library book, Anne of Green Gables, and settled down to read.
***
Later that Sunday morning, having dressed Solly and put him in his cot for a rest, Hetty was sitting with twenty other boys and girls at the old scored wooden desks in the classroom in Zion Schools, its musty, chalky smell mingling with the pungent odour of fresh varnish.
After being stuck in school the whole week, Hetty resented Sunday Hebrew classes.
Beside her one of the boys was stumbling through his English translation of the Hebrew Old Testament. On her other side, Gertie, the closest Hetty had to a best friend, was following her book. Hetty stared longingly out of the high windows at the expanse of blue sky and racing clouds above the houses in Bloomfield Avenue.
At least she was avoiding the flurry of cooking and cleaning for the visitors. Aunt Millie, her mother and Mabel would be busily mincing fish, mixing it with egg and crumbly matzo meal and seasoning to make gefilte fish, served with extra strong red horseradish sauce that made your eyes water.
Hetty brightened up when the teacher, Reverend Roth, switched from Hebrew study to the story of the Hanukkah festival. In spite of herself she got caught up in the dramatic tale of the heroic Jewish leader Judah Maccabeus, who in ancient times led an army to recapture the holy temple in Jerusalem, destroyed by their enemies. Although there was only enough holy oil to light the everlasting flame for one day, through a miracle it had lasted for eight days, burning brighter every day. ‘And so,’ the teacher finished, ‘even in the dark days of Jewish defeat and exile, the flame was kept alight.’
He closed the book. ‘Who can tell me how we celebrate this miracle?’
‘We start with one candle and light an extra one each night,’ a boy said.
To speed things up, Hetty added, ‘So tonight there’ll be eight candles burning together.’
‘Good,’ said the teacher. ‘Happy Hanukkah!’ The class finished with a rousing chorus of the Hanukkah song, Ma’oz Tsur – Rock of my Salvation – sung at top speed. Finally, after a prayer for fellow Jews and all victims of Nazi persecution, the class was over.
***
‘Who’s ready for potato latkes?’ asked Ma that evening, her face flushed amid the talk and laughter around the crowded table. ‘Or should we light the Hanukkah candles first?’
‘All due to Millie!’ said Ma, gathering up the plates.
‘Maybe Leon should let out our waistbands,’ joked Zaida.
‘No-one gets rich letting out trousers,’ snapped Bobba. Jokes were not her strong point. ‘It’s time he moved on from buttonholes to something that pays better.’
‘All clothes need buttonholes,’ Ma put in quickly. ‘It’s a skill.’
Bobba sniffed. ‘There’s better skills.’ Listening, Hetty reflected that Bobba, a tiny woman with thinning flossy pale curls and soft skin like a peach, was a lot sharper than she appeared.
Hetty and Eddie were trying to play a game of draughts on the rug in front of the fire, interrupted by Mossy sniffing hopefully at the pieces, and by Solly trying to grab them and put them in his mouth. With relief, she could see that her parents appeared to be back on speaking terms. After the loss at the bookie’s, Ma had been tight-lipped for almost a week. She glanced at her sister, laboriously sewing a deep lace frill around the hem of a dress passed on to her last year by her school friend Alison, unfortunately a good few inches shorter than Mabel, and much thinner.
The family would muddle along till Da did it again, she thought. But there was the higher rent, due every Friday. Thank goodness Ma got help from Zaida and Uncle Sam, and that Millie was so generous with food, especially for the Sabbath and the important festivals.
‘Your turn, Hetty,’ said Eddie. ‘You’re not concentrating.’ As the baby made a grab for his iron leg-brace, stuck awkwardly out in front of him, Eddie picked him up, swinging him in the air so that he gurgled in delight.
‘Now who’s not concentrating,’ said Hetty triumphantly as she overtook three of his pieces with her king, laughing at Eddie’s groans.
***
‘What are the neighbours like?’ Aunt Millie enquired as she helped Ma to clear the table.
‘There’s a pleasant old couple on one side,’ replied Ma. Then, as they carried plates into the deep stone sink in the scullery, she lowered her voice, ‘But the people the other side, the Byrnes, are a puzzle …’
Hetty, sent in by Da to find the box of Bo-Peep matches for the candle-lighting, stopped to listen. ‘The old lady’s nice – I met her out shopping – and there’s two boys,’ Ma said. ‘The younger boy’s our Shabbos goy, but he doesn’t say much. And the father never gives so much as a nod. I believe the mother’s in hospital.’
‘That must be hard,’ said Aunt Millie.
‘Yes, poor woman. I sent in some milky cake, just made this morning.’ She smiled. ‘I even sieved some coarse flour through a stocking, to make it white!’
I hope she washed the stocking, thought Hetty. Aloud she said casually, ‘Who left it in?’
‘Mabel gave it to the older boy.’
Hetty wondered if they’d had it for their tea. Maybe Ben would be sent in to thank them. She might even remind him about the rescue, and he might become more friendly. That made her unaccountably pleased.
In the parlour, Da, mindful of shortages, selected a single match. Squeezed together in the small room they lit all the candles, each taking a turn. According to custom, Zaida placed the flickering menorah by the window and recited the prayer. They belted out the Hanukkah song with mock-reproachful looks towards Da when he sang, as usual, painfully out of tune. ‘Throat needs a drop of oil,’ murmured Zaida, as he always did.
Bobba sang one of the verses alone, her voice cracked but still sweet, the frown lines in her face relaxed, and in the soft candlelight they could see for a moment how she might have been as a striking, determined young woman, uprooted from her home in Poland, having to cope with hardship in an alien land.
Later they ate the latkes – crispy fried potato pancakes dipped in apple sauce – along with tea for the grown-ups and lemonade for the children. Then the wireless was turned on for the six o’clock news.
Further rationing of clothes and essentials in Ireland were announced, and Irish town dwellers were asked to help the severe fuel shortage by volunteering to cut turf on the bogs.
Mabel whispered to Hetty that it sounded fun, but she guessed they’d never be allowed. ‘I’ve heard it’s harder than you’d think,’ muttered Eddie. He grinned ruefully, glancing down at his withered leg. ‘I wouldn’t be much use anyway.’ His mother reached out and touched his shoulder. ‘There are plenty of other things you can do well, dear.’
Listening to the news, the adults, as usual, discussed the plight of the Jews in Europe.
Hetty burst out, ‘In Hebrew classes we learned that a rabbi said: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am for myself alone, what am I? And if not now, when?” It meant we must stand up for ourselves and also help other people in trouble, and do it now, not put it off.’
They looked at her, surprised at the outburst. Da frowned, but Uncle Sam said, ‘Yes, a rabbi did say that.’
Da put in, ‘It’s not so simple–’
‘Why?’ asked Hetty defiantly. ‘We could start by following up the rumours of that refugee girl Eddie heard about and try and help her.’ As Eddie nodded approvingly, she went on, her voice rising, ‘It’s no good just sitting here doing nothing.’
‘Now, Hetty!’ said Ma warningly.
Hetty ignored her. ‘After all, we’re all here only because Zaida and Bobba came as refugees and were able to stay.’
‘Don’t answer back to your elders,’ snapped Da. He turned to Bobba and Zaida. ‘She thinks she knows everything.’
Bobba said quietly, ‘Hetty may be lacking in respect, but she spoke the truth.’
‘I know what it is to be uprooted,’ agreed Zaida. ‘People who’ve always lived in the same place don’t realise how hard it is to make a new life. And it’s much harder for refugees to stay here now than when I came years ago.’
‘In Northern Ireland there’s a farm for young Jewish refugees at Millisle in County Down,’ said Uncle Sam. ‘And we’ve set up a Refugee Aid Committee here to help the Belfast people raise funds for them.’
‘That’s all very well, Sam,’ Bobba put in, ‘but how do you find any refugees who got to Dublin?’
‘This country’s neutral in this war and we have to be careful to stay within the law,’ said Uncle Sam.
Hetty thought about the poor girl people said was somewhere in Dublin. She decided that she would not wait around for all this talking and planning and being careful. She would DO something even if it got her into trouble.
Ma finally stopped all the war talk and argument, saying, ‘It’s time for the Hanukkah presents.’
The presents were a surprise, due mainly, everyone knew, to their aunt and uncle. Hetty got a little brightly painted wooden weather house, with a boy and girl in the doorway. ‘We got it in Switzerland before the war,’ said Aunt Millie, smiling. ‘When the weather’s going to be fine, the girl comes out–’
‘And when it’s bad, the boy comes out,’ finished Hetty.
‘That’s not fair,’ interrupted Eddie. ‘Why’s the boy the one to show the bad weather?’
‘That’s just the way it is,’ said Hetty sweetly, flinging her arms around her aunt. ‘It’s lovely. I’ll keep it on the mantelpiece in our room.’
Eddie received a new chessboard, and Solly a toy rabbit with floppy ears made by Bobba from oddments of material. They all got a hug and kiss and a shilling from Zaida. But happiest of all was Mabel, presented by her aunt and uncle with a length of sky-blue taffeta for a new dress.
As they left, Hetty stepped out into the sharp cold of the street. Turning to go back inside, she heard a footstep and saw a boy standing on the path. At last, she thought, it’s him! And her heart jumped in a peculiar way. But then she saw, in the deepening dusk, that it was a different boy, taller and older – the brother.
Silently, he held out a package. Not sure what it was, she took it.
Soundi
ng embarrassed, he choked out, ‘Er, sorry, Da said we don’t need this, thanks.’ And he turned and hurried back next door.
She pulled off the paper. It was her mother’s milky cake.
8
Christmas
‘What’re you getting for Christmas?’ asked Smiler. He and Ben were squeezed into Smiler’s tiny bedroom poring over his stamp collection. Licking a hinge, Smiler carefully secured to the page his new Irish halfpenny stamp with the Sword of Light picture. Smiler went on, ‘I’m getting a new stamp album, and Granda might give me some money for the bike.’ Smiler had been saving for months for a bike to replace the wreck he’d inherited from three older brothers, but the five shillings he’d paid for the broken window set him back a lot and he was nowhere near having enough money even for the second-hand bike he longed for.
‘Don’t know what I’m getting,’ said Ben gloomily. He was living in hope that Mam might be home for Christmas. Before she was sick she used to save small sums over the year for Christmas presents. One year his dad had carved a wooden model boat for them which they called the Lady Marie, and they’d all gone to sail it on the canal on St Stephen’s Day.
If he could help Mam get well, he told himself, maybe Christmas would be like it used to be. He’d prayed to Our Lady, as Granny advised, hoping for an extra job at Christmastime.
But jobs were hard to find. He helped Smiler with his paper round, and carried sacks of potatoes for an elderly neighbour. Now it was a week before Christmas, money was scarce, and he hadn’t even got a Christmas present ready for Mam’s homecoming.
***
But Mam didn’t get home for Christmas; she was still in Crooksling. Ben pictured her sitting up in bed on the veranda wrapped in her shawl, the golden-haired girl beside her, thinking about them all. She hadn’t even been well enough for visits, but Granny and Dad told the boys she was improving.
Ben and Sean together had sent her a bottle of Bourjois Californian Poppy perfume from Woolworth’s, and she sent woollen mufflers she’d knitted for them, and cards with loving messages. Still, if only he could see her…