Almonds and Raisins

by Maisie Mosco

“And Ludwig?”

  Rachel remained silent.

  “My husband always gives in to me about everything, but I couldn’t make him stay in Vienna.”

  “Doesn’t that prove how seriously he takes what’s going on there? Sigmund worries about his brother who’s still there, all the time.”

  “My family’re there, too. So they’ll get their windows broken every now and then, it’s not so terrible. They’ll sweep up the bits of glass, go and have coffee and pastries in the Ringstrasse and forget all about it. Where can a person go here? In this miserable town? When we first came, we went for a walk in the centre one evening. Everything except the public houses where the drunks go was closed.”

  “You haven’t taken a tram in the other direction? To Heaton Park with miles of grass and lovely flower gardens?”

  “Sure. But where are the cafés and the smart people, and the feeling that’s nowhere else but Vienna? Who wants to see nothing but flowers and grass? If my husband had used his brains to make money for himself instead of that store he was manager for, we wouldn’t have had to leave, we’d’ve moved away from Eisenstadt and entertained the rich goys in our great big house.”

  Rachel laughed. “One like the Rothschilds live in?”

  “You’re making fun of me. I mean we could’ve been among those who’re accepted by Viennese society.”

  “Sigmund thinks the time will come when even they won’t be.”

  “Sigmund thinks!” Paula got up and paced the room. “Such a pleasant apartment you had before and me also, even if we did live in the ghetto. What have we got now, because our husbands had a brainstorm and brought us to England, where they can’t afford anything better than this? But at least I don’t have to entertain visitors in the kitchen, like you do.”

  “You object to being entertained in the kitchen?”

  “Listen, I know the reason. It’s not that I object.”

  “Then what is it?” “

  "The way it doesn’t seem to bother you. Your friends who knew you in Vienna find it sad.”

  Rachel’s soft lips tightened. “I hope you enjoyed talking about me.”

  “It upsets us to see how you’ve changed. You don’t even mind mixing with people from dirty little shtetlach and it isn’t doing you any good.”

  “Was it their fault they had to live in them?” Rachel bristled. “And if you mean the Sandbergs, they lived in a country townlet which was probably cleaner that Eisenstadt.”

  “So they’re not all alike,” Paula shrugged.

  “All Viennese aren’t alike either,” Rachel told her. “Some of us aren’t snobs.”

  Paula’s gaze moved to the table. “Once, you’d have put a lace doyley on that dish before you laid the cake on it. I still do. Is it snobbish not to lower your standards?”

  Rachel thought of Sarah, who did not own any lace doyleys, but whose hospitality came from her heart with no notion of impressing anyone. “You know I never realised until now how empty those standards are.”

  Paula sighed and shook her head. “So you’ve got a few funny ideas these days, but we still love you. Come to me for coffee tomorrow, some of the girls will be there.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. Sarah Sandberg’s coming here. Why don’t you all come and join us? My coffee pot’s big enough.”

  It sounded like a challenge and Paula avoided her eye. “I don’t think so, thank you,” she said as her husband came into the room with Sigmund. “So you’ll come to me some other time.”

  “I don’t think so, thank you,” Rachel replied.

  Ludwig Frankl’s anxious grey eyes were fixed on his wife’s frowning countenance. “Something’s wrong, Paula darling?”

  “A little difference of opinion,” Paula said stiffly.

  Rachel laughed. “I’d call it a big one myself.” She turned to Ludwig. “I didn’t have time to ask how you are. You rushed straight into the workroom with my husband.”

  “He was worried in case his suit wouldn’t fit,” Sigmund joked to ease the strained atmosphere.

  “The trousers were too tight round the waist at my last fitting,” Ludwig accused him. “And this time they were too loose.”

  “Am I to blame if you eat more shnitzels one week than you do another?”

  “How can a person be, Rachel, with a tailor like him and a boss who won’t let you read while you’re working?” Ludwig smiled.

  And a wife like Paula, Rachel added mentally.

  “If he’d let you read while you work, you’d have no fingers left!” Paula snapped. Ludwig was employed at a glazier’s in nearby Redbank, as quite a number of immigrants were.

  “So you don’t like me working there. I’m not full of joy about it myself, but what can I do?” he said placatingly.

  “You should have asked yourself that before you left Vienna.”

  When Sigmund returned from seeing the Frankls out, Rachel was staring through the window. “Tell me something, Sigmund,” she said without turning. “Do you still look down on the Poles and the Russians?”

  “Where does looking down come into it? I think like Ludwig and Max, that it’s a waste for them to be so narrow.”

  “Is that why you take such an interest in David Sandberg?”

  “If I don’t, who will? All Abie cares about is feeding and clothing him and preparing him to be Bar Mitzvah. What else does the poor fellow know?”

  “You don’t think it’s beneath us to have the Sandbergs for friends?”

  “King Edward I’m not!” Sigmund chuckled. “So that’s what that foolish Paula’s been saying to upset you. Come, Rachel, I’d rather talk to your lovely face than your stiff back.” He turned her around and settled her beside the table, then sat down in his wing chair.

  “You’re getting ready to give me a lecture?” she asked as he crossed his legs and took off his pince-nez thoughtfully. “I’m not the one who needs it. I had a shock today and I haven’t got over it yet. I used to think my friends from home mixed together to talk about old times, but it isn’t just that.”

  Sigmund smiled. “I’m surprised it took you so long to find out. Their husbands I like, but those women have always been impossible.”

  “But Paula is one on her own. Shall I tell you what I think about her?”

  “If she wasn’t Jewish she’d be anti-Semitic,” Sigmund said before she had time to.

  “How did you know what I was going to say?”

  Chapter 7

  David was late coming out of school and found Sammy, Miriam and Esther waiting for him as usual.

  “I thought you’d gone without us,” Esther piped accusingly.

  “I didn’t.” Sammy’s trust in his brother was absolute.

  David wiped Esther’s runny nose.

  “I lost my hankie,” she snivelled.

  “How could you, when Mother fixed it to your pinafore with a pin?” he asked exasperatedly.

  The two little girls clutched his hands as they began the trudge home. To reach Strangeways from Derby Street, where the school was situated, they had to traverse a stretch of Waterloo Road and it was not uncommon to find Gentile children from adjoining Hightown waiting to jeer at them.

  “Moishe Lipkin got spat at yesterday,” Sammy informed the others.

  “Well David won’t let us get spat at,” Miriam said confidently, skipping to keep up with his long-legged stride. “Why were you late, David?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” He wanted to hug his wonderful news to himself for a little longer. “You didn’t have to wait for me, did you?”

  Miriam looked hurt. “But I always walk home with you. Just like Helga goes with Saul and Bessie Salaman.”

  “Helga and Saul’re sweethearts,” Esther giggled.

  David knew they were. Saul was his best friend.

  “I bet Bessie won’t ever have a sweetheart, she’s a dirty thing.” Miriam grimaced. “She never wears a clean pinny and Helga said I might get nits because I sit next to her in school.”

  “I
t’s because she’s got no mother,” Sammy said charitably.

  “Saul hasn’t, either, but he’s nice and clean,” Miriam replied. “Or Helga wouldn’t love him.”

  Esther was lagging behind, pulling at David’s hand. “Give me a piggy-back down the hill, David,” she whined as they turned into Waterloo Road. “My toes are hurting.”

  “It’s because your shoes’re too small,” he told her. He hoisted her onto his back and wished his parents could afford to buy her a bigger pair. “What’d you two do if you didn’t have me to look after you?” he asked taking Miriam’s hand again.

  “Don’t be silly, David!” Miriam laughed. She could not imagine not having him there. Her brother could not be relied upon. Once, he had almost got her run over by a horse and cart because he was reading while they crossed the main road. She tightened her hold on David’s hand.

  The soft little fingers were warm and confiding and David felt ashamed of his joy about what his teacher had told him. It would mean deserting Miriam and Esther. And Sammy, whom the Gentile children ridiculed because of his jiggling walk. What would his mother say when she heard? His father’s opinion did not seem important, it never had. He made up his mind to tell Mr. Moritz before telling his parents. Somehow it seemed right he should be the first to know.

  A February fog had descended during the afternoon and the acrid thickness was in the children’s throats, making them cough. David had hated the fog, initially, but now it was just part of Manchester. He pulled his muffler around his mouth and told the others to do the same. This made talking impossible and allowed him to concentrate on his thoughts.

  Tonight, if he wasn’t too tired, he would light the stub of candle he kept hidden in the bedroom and read Oliver Twist again when everyone was asleep. He wasn’t supposed to read in bed, but if his mother ever caught him doing it she wouldn’t be able to accuse him of wasting gaslight, which cost money. Oliver was his favourite, because it was the first book he had ever owned, his reward from Mr. Moritz when he’d learned to read. Mr. Moritz was the only person he knew who spent money on books, and had given him three others, too, for birthday gifts. There was still plenty of room in his orange-box bookcase, but last month when it was his eleventh birthday, he’d worked out that if Mr. Moritz kept on giving him one every year, by the time he was eighty he’d have seventy-three.

  Sometimes he thought of the time Mr. Moritz had met him and Carl after school and taken them with him to the second-hand bookshop in Long Millgate. They’d gone by tram and it was the only time David had ever been on one, and also the only time he had ever been to town. Though it was within walking distance, his parents had forbidden him to go there in case he got lost. They had sat on the top deck and he’d watched the trolley-boy holding the long shaft in place and wished he could ride around town all day and see everything, the way the boy did. Mr. Moritz had shown him a street called The Shambles, with very old buildings that had black and white gables, and a place called Poets Corner, which he’d thought was a lovely name, where one of the buildings had looked as if it was going to tip forward onto its bulging black-beamed face. He’d seen a school called Chetham’s Hospital, too, and Mr. Moritz had said it wasn’t because the pupils were sick. It had been near the Manchester Grammar School and they’d seen some big boys coming out of there with funny little round, peaked caps on their heads. David and Carl had said they wouldn’t fancy wearing one and Mr. Moritz had laughed and said they should only be so lucky.

  But the best part of the outing had been going inside the bookshop, David thought as he plodded down Waterloo Road. It had been full of people standing about reading and some had left without buying any books, but the man behind the counter didn’t seem to mind. David had thought what a friendly place it was, with its musty smell which wasn’t unpleasant, but somehow exciting, and had enjoyed touching the worn leather bindings and wondering what the stories inside them were about. It had been before he’d learned to read properly and the next day he’d worked even harder than usual at his English lesson so he would be able to find out.

  Now it seemed a long time ago and he couldn’t imagine not being able to read English. He wished his parents would go to night school, Like Mr. and Mrs. Moritz did, so they’d be able to read and write, too. He sometimes thought they’d still be speaking nothing but Yiddish if they didn’t have children who spoke English. At home, he and his brother and sister spoke a mixture of both with their parents, not like at the Moritzes’, where only English was spoken at mealtimes so the parents could learn to speak it properly, like their children did.

  “Thank goodness we’re nearly home,” Sammy said through his muffler. “My leg’s starting to ache.”

  David glanced compassionately at the thin little figure limping beside him. Sammy’s leg must be hurting a lot, he rarely complained.

  “And I want to get on with my carving, before bedtime,” Sammy added.

  “Why don’t you sit and read one of my books, for a change?”

  “Reading’s a waste of time.”

  “You always say that, but you’re wrong, Sammy.”

  “Books take too long to finish.”

  “So do the things you make, but you don’t mind that, do you?” David could not understand why his brother had the patience to sit for hours carving things out of bits of wood with his penknife, but couldn’t be bothered to use his brain.

  “Those dolls you made for me and Esther’re lovely, Sammy,” Miriam said. “I like mine better than the big real one Bessie Salaman’s father bought her.”

  “I’ll make you a big one when I’ve finished Mother’s pin tray,” Sammy told her. “If I can find a big bit of wood. Can I take my muffler off my mouth, David? It feels all wet.”

  “All right. And I’ll help you to find some more wood if you promise to try harder with your school work,” David bargained. Three years of living in Strangeways had taught him you had to use your brains if you were ever going to get anywhere, but Sammy was like their father, who seemed satisfied to be spending his life pressing garments. What makes me think I’ll get anywhere myself? he mused as they reached Bury New Road and walked towards the Moritzes’ street. Then a tremor of excitement rippled through him. He was going to pass the scholarship exam, wasn’t he? Go to high school. Boys who went there could become doctors and lawyers even if they were Jews. Hadn’t his teacher said so, when he told him he was clever enough to sit the exam? It was that that had started him off thinking about being something better than Father was. Until this afternoon, he hadn’t thought about it the way he was doing now.

  Carl was also to write the examination and Sigmund promised to make school uniforms for both of them if they passed, which lessened David’s apprehension about telling his mother. The expense of a regulation outfit had been worrying him, but now she would only have to pay for a badge to be sewn on his pocket and a cap like the Central High School boys wore.

  Not for a moment did it enter David’s head that he might fail the examination. He could already see himself striding to town in the mornings, with Carl beside him. He wished his best friend could go, too, but Saul Salaman wasn’t the studious kind. So Saul’ll end up owning his father’s factory and be my father’s boss, he smiled to himself. The smile was still on his face when he arrived home and walked into the kitchen with Sammy and Esther.

  “You lost a farthing and found thruppence?” Sarah asked.

  “Mother just said a whole sentence in English!” Sammy laughed.

  “Well, David? Tell me why you look so happy, already.”

  “Guess.”

  “You didn’t find thruppence, you found a pound note, we should only live to see one!”

  “Better than that,” David told her his wonderful news.

  “Mazeltov!” She congratulated him, then resumed stirring the borscht. “So hurry up or you’ll be late for cheder.”

  David eyed her back resentfully. Carl’s parents were letting him miss Hebrew class tonight, as if being one of those who wer
e good enough to sit the high school exam was something to celebrate and he deserved a treat. He’d hoped his mother would tell him he needn’t go because it was a special occasion, but it didn’t seem to be one to her. His teacher had said it was an achievement, but she was behaving as if it was nothing. Most of the boys who took the exam had been born in England, Saul had, but he was bottom of the class. Why wasn’t she proud of him, the way Mr. Moritz was of Carl? Mr. Moritz was proud of him, too, and he wasn’t his son. He could feel his face growing hot with rage. If he’d found a pound note, or even thruppence, his mother would be dancing for joy!

  Sammy and Esther had taken off their coats and were sitting at the table.

  “Like a lemon he’s standing there! You’d think he had all day,” Sarah exclaimed giving him a gentle shove.

  He sat down with the others and she brought a loaf of black bread to the table, cut a slice for each of them and spread it with chicken fat. They always had this to sustain them when they came home from school on winter afternoons and had their supper later, when their father returned from the factory.

  David sat munching his sullenly, watching his mother fill Nicholas’ saucer with milk, which she did at this time every afternoon so it would be waiting for the cat when it came home, the way she did everything that had to be done, no matter how tired she was. Living in their own house had not turned out the way he had hoped. His mother was always too busy to talk to her children about their school life. School was just somewhere they went in the mornings and returned from in the afternoons, what they did there didn’t seem to interest her.

  “Finish your bread and shmaltz already!” she said to him. “The evening is short enough with all you still have to do.”

  Usually, David did not mind his evening chores, but today he felt sick at the thought of them. He’d begun learning his Bar Mitzvah portion at cheder, Rabbi Lensky said it took a long time to become word perfect and his lesson now lasted longer than it used to. Afterwards, he’d just have time to come home and eat his supper, before he went to help Mr. Radinsky clean up his shop. Other boys he knew had evening jobs, too, and some got paid in goods, instead of money, like he did. The fruit and vegetables he brought home were always a bit squashed or bruised, but they were fit to eat. Mr. Radinsky wouldn’t palm him off with anything that’d gone rotten, he was a fair man and had proved it when David went to cadge an orange-box from him. If it hadn’t been for the orange-box he wouldn’t have got the job, Mr. Radinsky hadn’t employed a boy before then, he’d managed with just himself and Menachem his assistant. Thinking about the night he’d got his orange-box bookcase gave David a nice, warm feeling and took his mind off how his mother had reacted to his news.