Hetty started to get up. ‘It’s Solly’s dinner time,’ she explained. ‘I need to get home.’
But Ben didn’t budge. He knew he must find the courage to confess one more thing to her, otherwise how could they really be friends, with this remaining lie between them?
He forced the words out. ‘Listen, er, I … I heard you and Eddie talking about the refugee.’ She stared at him, the frown back in place. ‘I couldn’t help hearing,’ he went on desperately, ‘and … and I even nearly reported her, but I–’
‘You what?’ Her shouted exclamation frightened Solly, who let out a yell. Hetty scrambled to her feet and lifted him into the pram, quickly strapping him in.
‘Hetty! Wait!’ Using her name felt strange. ‘I didn’t report her in the end. I even saw her calling to your house, I know now how risky it is for her …’
Ignoring him she started wheeling Solly, red-faced and screaming, across the road.
As she gave the child his dummy, Ben, running to keep up, kept talking. ‘Honestly, Hetty, please believe me. I nearly did something stupid, I didn’t realise … Uncle Matt explained it all, and Zaida, and now I understand.’
But she hurried on without speaking. I’ve lost her, he told himself flatly. I found her and I lost her.
And then, in despair, he thought of the words in Mam’s last letter: she would always be there to help when she was needed. Mam, he said silently, as he followed Hetty homewards, help me now.
As they approached her house, Hetty turned to him, scowling, but at least talking to him.
‘You … you say you saw her. I s’pose you frightened her off?’
‘No, no,’ Ben almost shouted. ‘I spotted her putting in a note. I didn’t want to scare her …’ He paused, then rushed on, ‘Maybe I could help you find her somewhere safe and get her to her father.’ After a moment he added, ‘I helped before, remember?’
At first there was a chilling silence. But after a few moments she said distantly, but less angrily, ‘I’ll have to talk to Eddie.’
Ben drew a long breath. Surely Eddie would understand? ‘Right,’ he said softly, ‘see you Saturday.’
As Hetty went into Number 17, Solly, all smiles now, waved ‘Day-day’, to him. Ben waved back.
Silently he said, Thanks, Mam, and went in home for his dinner.
19
For Whom the Bell Tolls
At home in Number 17 everyone was busy and Hetty didn’t mention her meeting with Ben, though it stayed in her mind. It was always hard work preparing the family Passover meal, with matza crackers and wine and traditional foods, but Hetty usually enjoyed sitting around the table eating and drinking, and, interspersed with lots of family jokes, recounting the story of the miraculous escape of their ancestors, the Hebrew slaves, from Ancient Egypt to the Promised Land.
But this year it had all been a bit muted. Ma was preoccupied – orders for clothes and alterations were piling up, even with help from Carmel and Maureen’s mother. ‘Still,’ Ma said, ‘it brings in a few bob.’ Da was still doing overtime work, and since his wage cut there’d been no more gambling, but everyone was tired and worried.
Hetty had to admit that even the few shillings Mabel earned helped with the rent. Lying on her bed after supper Mabel explained in detail that she was now learning CMT – cut, make and trim. ‘But the days are awful long.’ She yawned. ‘And I really miss the crowd at school. Haven’t seen Alison for ages.’ Then, cheering up, she added, ‘Still, lucky I’ve got Carmel and Maureen, and Rebecca and the girls from Carlisle.’
‘You were the one mad to leave and get work,’ snapped Hetty, whose days seemed long as well, what with school, and extra chores due to Mabel’s absence, messages for Ma, and minding Solly. And she was all too aware that her only real friends were her cousin Eddie and faithful Gertie. And maybe Ben?
‘How’s it going with Cyril?’ she asked Mabel, forcing a pleasant tone.
Mabel, with less energy than usual, had started on her hair. ‘Don’t talk to me about Cyril,’ she moaned. ‘He’s only interested in his new Slazenger tennis racket. He didn’t even ask me to the Passover Matza ramble.’ Carefully pinning a curl, she added, ‘I went with Rebecca and the other girls.’
‘You don’t have to go to things with a boy,’ said Hetty scornfully. ‘Anyway, it’s only a picnic with matza crumbs everywhere. I went with Gertie, and it was fine. And Eddie, of course.’
‘It doesn’t count as going with a boy if he’s your cousin,’ said Mabel, equally scornfully.
‘You better not tell Eddie he doesn’t count!’ snapped Hetty. She gazed out of the window at the yard, where Ma’s marigolds struggled for life in the cracks in the concrete. ‘Anyway, at least Passover’s finished now – no more matza!’
‘Ma gave some to the neighbours, even next door,’ said Mabel, in good humour again, ‘and I brought a packet in to the girls in work.’ She finished her curls. ‘They all liked them.’
‘They don’t have to eat them for eight days like us.’ Still, Hetty wondered if Ben had tried the crackers. She’d ask him next time they met.
***
At Number 19, Ben had also kept quiet about his talk with Hetty, which had warmed his heart. These days he was struggling with dreams of Mam. Sometimes when he woke his pillow was wet with tears. He tried to call up the memory of her smiling in her summery yellow dress, Dad’s arm around her. But the image that lingered was of Mam on the veranda in Crooksling, her eyes too bright, her thin cheeks too flushed, feebly raising her hand to wave as they left, with the golden-haired girl sitting up in the next bed.
Puzzling over the strange quotation Mam had inscribed in his autograph book: ‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee’, he asked Uncle Matt what it meant. ‘Think about it, Ben,’ Uncle Matt replied, pulling Ben close as he sat in the súgán chair nursing his bad leg, his war injury, which swelled up from time to time so that he had to use a stick. ‘Here’s a clue: the poet who wrote that, John Donne, was lying sick when he heard the church bell toll. That meant someone had died.’
Ben thought while Granny made tea. After a while he shouted triumphantly, ‘I know! You have to care about what’s happening to other people in case it happens to you.’
Uncle Matt clapped him on the back. ‘Almost right! What’s really important is to care about and help people in trouble as if their problems were your own.’
He nudged Granny and she ruffled Ben’s hair and said approvingly, ‘A chip off the old block!’
When Dad arrived home from work and they all sat down to Granny’s shepherd’s pie, Uncle Matt asked Dad, ‘Comin’ to the Trade Union protest tomorrow, Stephen?’ He tapped his bad leg. ‘I can’t march, but if you’re going early, Sean and Ben could come with me.’
‘Ah sure, I might follow on with Sean.’ Dad was evasive. ‘We’ll see you and Ben there later.’ That meant he was going for a few drinks.
‘We could have a jar afterwards,’ said Uncle Matt quietly. But Dad was opening the Evening Mail.
In bed, Ben reflected about the tolling bell. Was Mam telling him that, whatever about his dad, he, Ben, must try to help the refugee girl? Some of his sadness had fallen away at the possibility of doing something brave and important with Hetty again, and seeing that vivid light in her blue eyes.
In the morning, as always, the yearning for Mam was still with him – ‘seas of sorrow’ as Granny once put it when she’d heard him sobbing and come into his room and hugged him.
Yet last night he’d had no dreams, and in the morning the pillow was dry.
20
The Protest
All over Dublin there were huge posters announcing the mass demonstration against the anti-trade union Bill.
‘Did ya hear, Ben, there’s fifty-three unions marching from Mountjoy Square, with bands an’ all?’ said Smiler excitedly when he called for Ben. ‘They’re all ending up in College Green for the big rally.’
The two set off together for Uncle Matt’s. Smiler
had his grey ‘steelier’ marble in his pocket, but Ben, though the conker season was long over, still had his ‘sixer’; fingering its knobbly contours reminded him of happier times.
When they reached Ovoca Road, Auntie Bridie gave them thick slices of soda bread with jam ‘in case they got a bit peckish’.
Uncle Matt muttered to Ben, ‘Got a bit of not-so-good news. I haven’t told Gran yet, she has grief enough as it is.’ He paused. ‘Fact is, our Paddy’s ship was torpedoed by enemy U-boats. It was damaged, but they managed to get back to port.’
‘Was Paddy hurt?’ asked Ben anxiously.
‘Bit of shrapnel. We think it’s only a flesh wound, thanks be to God. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ Biting on his clay pipe, he went on, ‘He’s in hospital in Liverpool. We’re going over to bring him home for his sick leave, I’ll tell Granny then.’ He grinned reassuringly, but Ben could see the worry in his eyes.
Ben realised that since his mother’s death he’d almost forgotten about the war that was raging and the soldiers, many Irish like Paddy, fighting the Nazis. Wishing he could find better words, he told Uncle Matt, ‘Tell him I was asking for him.’
***
College Green was solid with people jostling on the footpaths, leaning out of office windows and climbing on to walls and railings to get a better view.
Such was the crush that Ben, Smiler and Uncle Matt were carried along by the crowd, mostly men and boys, towards the imposing stone entrance of Trinity College. ‘We’ll never meet your dad or Sean in this,’ said Uncle Matt.
There was a roar from the crowd and Uncle Matt helped Ben shin up an already crowded lamp post, and then hoisted Smiler up.
A voice shouted, ‘Look, it’s Big Jim Larkin! He’s going to speak!’
‘That fella’s afraid of nobody,’ said another man. ‘He’ll tell them how the working man’s being squeezed dry.’
Far away across the sea of caps and hats Ben spied a wooden platform with a row of seated union and Labour leaders. A tall, vigorous man, speaking passionately into a microphone on a metal tripod, was waving a copy of the anit-trade union Bill in the air. They heard snatches: down with the wages standstill’ … ‘a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay’ … ‘must rely on ourselves’ … punctuated by yells of approval from the crowd.
And then, like a conjuror, the speaker swept a match from his pocket, set the Bill alight and held it aloft in flames. The crowd cheered wildly.
A few more speeches, then it was over. Ben slid down the lamp post. His mam, he knew, wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
A sudden shower speeded the dispersing crowds. As they shoved their way towards George’s Street, Smiler, spying his older cousin ahead in the crowd, said, ‘See ya’, and ran to catch him up.
‘No sign of your dad or Sean,’ said Uncle Matt. ‘Though it’s hard to see anyone in this crowd.’ The rain grew heavier. Their jackets soaked, they took shelter with a group of others under a tree.
An unmistakable voice behind them said, ‘Isn’t that our Shabbos goy?’ Ben whirled round. Zaida, in the old greatcoat which he seemed to wear always, summer and winter, black skullcap on his silver hair, was holding up a large umbrella. Huddling under it were Eddie, Hetty’s da – and Hetty herself, wrapped in an old rubber mackintosh, not exactly grinning, but not frowning either.
Trust Hetty, thought Ben with delight, to be one of the few females at the protest.
‘Come on,’ cried Zaida, ‘there’s room for us all under this umbrella!’ There wasn’t really, but they squeezed in anyway.
Ben, relieved that his dad and Sean weren’t around, felt a wave of gladness at the sight of the Goldens. He still wasn’t sure if, after his confession to Hetty, she and Eddie would accept him as a friend. Wanting to be their friend as well as their Shabbos goy was something that had seemed unthinkable a few months earlier. But now he wanted it more than anything.
***
Uncle Matt, looking pleased, asked the Goldens, ‘So you’re all union supporters?’
‘Of course, from years back when we were new immigrants,’ said Zaida proudly. ‘Tailors’ assistants only earned a few shillings a week, and I could hardly speak English, but so many of us joined the Garment Workers’ Union that they called it the Jewish Union.’
‘My wages were cut recently,’ murmured Hetty’s da, ‘and decent wages is what the unions are fighting for, so here we are.’
Uncle Matt nodded sympathetically.
The rain had lessened and they started walking up George’s Street towards home. Uncle Matt mentioned the Nazi invasion of Russia. ‘At least it’ll weaken the Nazis,’ said Hetty’s da. ‘The Russians are strong fighters.’
‘The Nazis have bitten off more than they can chew,’ agreed Uncle Matt. ‘It could do for them in time, though I know it’s not going so well for us now.’
Zaida said anxiously, ‘I worry in case the Nazis get to my little shtetl, Akmiyan.’ His voice shook. ‘I haven’t heard from the family for so long.’
Uncle Matt put a strong hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Surely they’ll be all right?’ he said. ‘The Nazis wouldn’t bother with a small village.’
Zaida sighed. ‘I’m not so sure. The Nazis … there’s no end to their evil, their killing … They want to conquer the world.’
***
Following behind, Ben and Hetty slowed their pace so Eddie could keep up. He murmured to Ben, ‘Hetty told me you saw the refugee girl.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ben quickly. ‘But don’t worry, I said nothing–’
But before he could finish, a tall, slim girl, her fair hair bundled under a beret, hurried up to them. Staring at Zaida’s skull cap, she addressed him in a low foreign-accented voice. ‘Er, excuse please, you are of ze Jewish people?’
Taken aback, Zaida reached out his hand. ‘Yes, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘Can I help you?’
They all watched, dumbfounded.
The image of the refugee girl Ben had nearly reported and later spotted in Martin Street, had been driven from his mind, along with much else, by his mother’s death. But now the girl was here beside them, thin, strained and obviously frightened – his interest and involvement came flooding back. Her eyes, shadowed with fear, were like those of a hunted animal.
Glancing at Ben and Uncle Matt, Zaida told her, ‘Perhaps we can talk at my house.’
She looked anxiously around the group. ‘But I must soon catch bus!’
‘You can trust us,’ Uncle Matt said quietly to Zaida.
‘I know,’ said Zaida. ‘Perhaps together we can help this young lady.’
Hetty broke in excitedly, ‘She’s Renata Stern, a refugee from the Nazis.’ Turning to the girl, she asked, ‘Did you get the message we left at the house?’
‘House?’ Hetty’s da looked puzzled. ‘What house? How did you know where she was?’
But Hetty was saying urgently to Renata, ‘Come home with us, we can hide you.’
‘Yes, I would like, but I must first go to lodgings, to get sewing machine …’ She glanced nervously over her shoulder. They had to listen hard to understand as she explained she was from Berlin, her father was in a town in Ireland but they’d lost touch. Meanwhile her visa had long ago run out and she could be deported. ‘Somebody tell me Jewish people here maybe help. But I oblige move my lodgings. When I go back for sewing machine, I find Hetty note.’ She glanced at her gratefully. ‘I do not know where is zis Portobello, I afraid ask in case …’
As they stood listening in an entranced circle, a young Guard approached. ‘Move along, now. Protest’s over,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Have ye no homes to go to?’
Renata’s eyes widened, and before anyone could stop her she fled down a laneway. ‘Oh no!’ wailed Hetty. ‘We haven’t got her address, and now she’s gone.’ She dashed after her.
Ben wanted to follow, but Uncle Matt stopped him. ‘No point everyone rushing after her, it’ll just draw more attention.’
Suddenly, realising the secr
et was out, everyone started to speak at once, Eddie explaining to Hetty’s da and Zaida, and Ben to Uncle Matt, about the search for Renata.
‘To be a refugee and alone,’ said Zaida, sadly. ‘It is hard … and for such a young girl …’
Gazing after Renata and Hetty, Uncle Matt said, admiringly, ‘Still, two determined young ones there.’
Minutes later, Hetty returned alone. ‘I couldn’t find her,’ she muttered to the circle of expectant faces, and burst into tears.
Eddie put his arm round her. ‘Don’t worry, Hetty,’ he said gently. ‘We may not have her address, but don’t forget, she has yours!’
21
The Visitor
The Saturday after the protest was cold with heavy rain clouds. There had been no further news about Renata, and Hetty was distraught.
Ben, alone in the Goldens’ house, was lighting the last fire of the season, and wondering about Paddy in Liverpool, and how badly wounded he was. Then his thoughts moved to his mam, back down into the well of grief that was always with him. Would he ever stop missing her and get used to the gaping hole that had opened up in his life?
These days Dad was mostly silent – ‘his way of grieving,’ Granny had said – but with occasional unexpected gestures of comfort to Ben – a pat on the shoulder, a ruffle of his hair. He’d never mentioned Ben’s job again, and Ben wondered if he’d changed towards the Jewish neighbours. At least he’d been polite to those who’d called to sympathise.
Ben himself knew now that, apart from small things like customs or festivals or foods, the so-called ‘foreign’ neighbours weren’t really that different from themselves. They might pray in a different way, but they had the same joys and sorrows and troubles. Surely Dad and Sean would come to see that too?
17 Martin Street Page 11