Almonds and Raisins

by Maisie Mosco

  “When I want to give charity, I give it to the Benevolent Society,” Mr. Radinsky had told him. “So you’ll do a little work for the box.”

  He had put a broom into David’s hands and asked him to sweep the floor. To get his box, David would have scrubbed the walls and ceiling.

  “I like a boy who knows what he wants and even better one who doesn’t mind working for it,” the greengrocer had approved when David said what the box was for and had selected one which was not splintered for him. “But a bookcase you can’t eat. Tomorrow you’ll come back and work for me again and I’ll give you something for the tsimmes.”

  The next evening, David cleaned the fish counter and left with his arms full of carrots and onions. His family had not gone short of fruit and vegetables since.

  Sarah had shown more pleasure about this than she had about his scholarship entry and still smiled and patted his cheek when he handed her his edible earnings. Her priorities were the same as the greengrocer’s, how could they not be? Day to day existence, with its material anxieties, obsessed all the immigrants, including the few who, like Sigmund Moritz, considered education equally important. They fed and clothed their children and if anyone had to go without it was themselves. Even those like Mr. Radinsky and Isaac Salaman, who had established themselves and accumulated capital, did not feel secure. The feeling that what they had today would still be there tomorrow was one they would not acquire for a long time. David was aware that his parents had to struggle, but it was not until years later that he fully understood.

  When he got back from cheder that night, his father shook his hand warmly and said how pleased he was about the scholarship. David had not expected his father’s reaction to be any different from his mother’s and wondered if there might be more to him than he had come to believe.

  He was doing his homework at the table, after the rest of the family had gone to bed, when his mother returned to the kitchen.

  “It’s a pleasure to be without a lodger,” she said putting the kettle on to boil. Half-a-dozen had come and gone since they moved into the house. The last had left a few days ago and had not yet been replaced, so she would not have been walking around in her nightgown.

  “Are you ill?” David asked her.

  Sarah laughed. “When am I ill?” She bent down and stroked Nicholas, who for some reason scratched everyone else but not her and she was no longer afraid of him.

  Father can’t be ill, or she wouldn’t be laughing, David thought. So why had she come to boil the kettle at this time? The clock said half-past ten.

  “I’m just making you some tea,” she told him.

  He looked at her uncertainly. He often did his homework late at night, but she’d never done this before.

  “A boy who’s studying for scholarships needs something to refresh him,” she said with a smile.

  Everything was all right. His mother was proud of him after all.

  “You’ve got ink on your face,” Sarah chuckled.

  “What does it matter?” he said happily and went on writing his composition, choosing the words carefully because his teacher had said that was his only weak point.

  Sarah got a glass from the dresser. “Your pal Mr. Moritz came to see us while you were out.”

  “I sometimes think he’s the best pal I’ll ever have,” David said with feeling.

  “Listen, we don’t call him that for nothing, I think so also. He’s going to make you an outfit, eh, David?”

  “And the other things I’ll need shouldn’t cost too much.”

  “Whatever they’ll cost, you’ll have. We’ll buy.”

  David recalled how his father had surprised him. Maybe he didn’t know his mother as well as he thought he did, either.

  “Before Esther’s new boots we’ll buy.”

  “Miriam’s got an old pair that’ll fit her.”

  “What the Moritzes are giving to you is enough!” Sarah said sharply. Her pride was as strong as ever. Providing the school outfit was Sigmund’s way of helping David get ahead and not to be confused with handing down cast off clothing.

  The kettle began to sing; kept on the hob all the time, it never took long to boil and tea could be made at a moment’s notice. David watched her take a jar of blackcurrant jam from the cupboard and put a big spoonful into the glass, instead of lemon. So she’s made him go to cheder as usual, but this was a special treat. He noticed she had let down her hair for the night and it looked like a silk cape, the way it hung over her shoulders, down to her waist. He knew it had not always been touched with silver at the front, but could not remember when the streaks had appeared.

  “You look younger in your nightgown, Mother,” he said to her.

  Sarah chuckled. “In that case, it’s a pity I can’t wear it all the time!”

  How lovely it was when she laughed and joked with him, David thought. If only she had no worries and then she’d be like this all the time. She looked smaller, as well as younger. He’d never realised how tiny his mother was. Perhaps it was because he had grown much taller? He was tall enough now to see his reflection in the mirror above the table, without standing up. It was the only one in the house and had been hung in the kitchen so everyone could use it. His mother was reflected in it, too, pouring tea into the glass at the hob. Why had he never noticed that he looked like her?

  “When is the examination, David?” she asked.

  “In two weeks’ time.”

  “So you’ll pass it.” She brought the glass to the table. “And be a high-school boy.” Such a thing to happen to a son of mine, she thought. Who would’ve believed it? She kissed his cheek and moved to the door. “But don’t get any big ideas,” she told him.

  Chapter 8

  “Put the book down and come, Father!” Miriam said impatiently. They were going to Sarah’s Shabbos tea party and she could not wait to get there. It was the only time she saw David, now he was at high school.

  Carl, who saw him every day, could not understand why his sister got so excited about it, though everyone knew Miriam and David were sweethearts. She was still only ten and David twelve, but youthful alliances were not unusual in the ghetto. Children grew up side by side and married, as they had in the old country. Failing this, the matchmakers would lend a hand.

  Sigmund closed his book and rose to put on his hat, chuckling at his little daughter who stood tapping her foot as she waited. How pretty she looked in the green velvet coat he had made for her. She’ll be a real beauty one day, he thought. He shooed his family out of the house, as if he had been kept waiting by them, a habit to which they were all accustomed.

  When they turned into Bury New Road it was thronged with people. On Saturdays, Strangeways changed character according to the weather. If the day was fine, the immigrants strolled decorously in their once-a-week finery, taking the air. On wet days it was like a dead city, nobody stirred from their homes except to go to synagogue or visit family. The Sabbath was strictly observed and stores remained shuttered from Friday evening until Sunday morning.

  Most people had relatives, living nearby, but the Sandbergs and Moritzes had nobody, which may have accounted for the closeness which had developed between them. The extended family was a long established Jewish way of life. Who needed friends if they had relations? Friends came and went, but family was a rock to lean on, always there. Other children had cousins and in lieu of these the Sandberg and Moritz youngsters had each other. It was the same with their parents, different in attitude and background though they were.

  Since Rachel Moritz had sensed the Sandbergs’ loneliness on their first Passover in England and invited them to share her table, the two families had come together on all festive occasions. Sabbath afternoons were always spent at Sarah’s home and leavened the week’s dull routine. Sarah and Rachel would chat together and Sigmund enjoyed talking with David and Carl. Helga played games with Sammy and Esther; she was now thirteen and liked to be in charge of younger children, who always adored her. Abraham would si
t quietly, a contented smile on his face, happy that everyone was there.

  All Miriam wanted to do was gaze at David. Handsome he isn’t, she would think sometimes, watching him arguing the point with her father and brother, his Adam’s apple wobbling in his skinny throat. He’d grown lanky as a string bean since he’s been at the new school and his nose looked beakier than ever. But he was David.

  The tea party on this particular Sabbath went wrong from the very beginning. David was not there, which ruined it for Miriam. And as his absence was a source of distress to his parents, nobody enjoyed themselves. Even the sponge cakes were sad. Sarah had been making them the previous day when he had told her he could be out and the sorry repast on the table was the result.

  “How can my hand be light to beat the mixture when my heart is heavy?” she sighed to Rachel pointing a quivering finger at the cakes. “I’d have thrown them away, but who can waste eggs and sugar?”

  The Moritzes had hardly stepped across the threshold when she began telling them.

  “To who else but you would I pour out my heart? Like family you are.” She looked at Sigmund accusingly. “And you are to blame for everything.”

  “Tell us where David is already,” he replied. “And for what am I to blame?”

  “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

  Rachel put a calming hand on Sarah’s. “Where is David? At least you can tell us that.”

  “He has a goy for a friend now,” Sarah declared as if this explained everything.

  Miriam knew this. Carl, too. The boy to whom Sarah had referred was in their class at school.

  “Has David gone to Jim’s birthday party?” Carl asked.

  “And round the corner it isn’t,” Sarah nodded grimly. “A Jewish boy, who’ll be Bar Mitzvah next year, buys himself a railway ticket and goes by train on Shabbos.”

  Miriam saw her parents exchange a shocked glance, but all she herself felt was disappointment because David was not there.

  “God will punish him,” Esther piped up. Then Sammy slapped her and she ran weeping to her mother.

  Miriam burst into tears, too. She could not help it. David had let her down and now Sammy, who was always kind and smiling, had hit his sister and had an angry look on his face.

  “So that’s what he wanted the shilling for,” Carl muttered.

  “He got the money for the railway ticket from you?” Sarah flashed.

  “From where do you get money to lend?” Sigmund demanded.

  Carl had been saving the penny-a-week allowed him when he started at high school. He now wished he had not lent some of it to David and sulked instead of replying.

  Sarah got up to make the tea, but the water in the big urn kept on the hob throughout the Sabbath because putting the kettle onto the fire was forbidden, had gone off the boil and everyone got their mouths full of tea leaves. It was that kind of afternoon.

  “So how come you think I am the criminal?” Sigmund asked Sarah when the Moritzes were leaving. Nothing she had said had explained the accusation and he could think of no possible reason for it.

  Sarah did not reply.

  When David returned home, his mother was the only one of the family still up, though it was not yet nine-o’clock. It had been that kind of evening for the Sandbergs, too.

  “You had a nice time I hope not?” she said acidly.

  David sat down by the hearth with a dreamy expression on his face.

  “So what did you do there so many hours? Breaking the Shabbos!” Sarah had not meant to speak to him at all, but could not contain herself. “Did your highty-tighty goyim friends give you a nice tea?”

  “I had strawberries and cream,” he said rapturously.

  “And bacon sandwiches?”

  “Don’t be daft, Mother.”

  “Who is being daft? After you’ve taken one step, it’s easy to take another.” She left the room without kissing him good night, a sign of her deepest disapproval, then popped her head around the door to deliver a parting shot. “You want proof? Have a look in the mirror!”

  For a moment David did not understand. Then he knew she was reminding him of how he had cut off his sidelocks before starting at high school. A new chapter had been opening for him and he did not intend to begin it with a handicap.

  At the Jews’ School all the boys from Hassid families wore them and many others did, too, but those like Carl, and Leo and Otto Rosenthal, who did not because their fathers never had, did not pass derisive remarks. Even boys whose families had joined the Reform Synagogue, which eschewed many of the old traditions, were not intolerant of the orthodox majority, but to Gentile lads the sidelocks were “cissy” and David and Sammy had frequently had the offensive word hurled at them. They were called “sheeny,” too, as all the Jewish children were, but David had decided he did not have to look cissy as well. It would be hard enough in a Gentile school, without the sidelocks adding to it.

  Despite this, the first day of term could not come quickly enough for him. He wanted to be something, though he did not yet know what, and going to high school would lead him to it. When the day arrived, he was full of trepidation. The life he had led so far made this inevitable. For the Gentile boys who enrolled on the same day, it was just another school. For boys like David it was another world. He was put into the same class as Carl, for which they were both thankful and the master allowed them to sit together. It might have been better if he had not. They felt like a small island in a foreign sea.

  Carl did not look especially Jewish, but David was singled out immediately and examined with interest by the other boys, who had not met any Jews before. He did not learn this was the reason until he made friends with Jim Forrest, several weeks later. At the time, he thought it was anti-Semitism. But he had not previously encountered Gentiles who were not anti-Semitic and expected them all to be the same. When they had to call out their names for entry in the class register, Carl was similarly scrutinised, which confirmed David’s impression.

  “So?” his mother said eloquently when he returned that afternoon.

  David managed to smile and did not answer.

  Throughout the first week he had to steel himself each morning to face the day. Carl was less sensitive and was by now back in his customary trance. At the Saturday tea party it was taken for granted that both boys had settled down and David said nothing to indicate otherwise. Miriam was the only one to whom he told the truth. He wished he was back at Derby Street, he hated the new school.

  “You don’t have to stay there,” she said.

  But David knew that he did. After a while, things improved. He and Carl became as familiar to the other boys as the classroom furniture and nobody treated them differently anymore. The work became all-absorbing and the gym a place they both loathed going to.

  “You didn’t pass the scholarship to jump over wooden horses,” Sarah said when David described the gymnastics to her.

  He agreed, but had to endure it. Not only did he dislike the rigorous exercise, it seemed a waste of time when he could be cramming his head with knowledge.

  Both David and Carl were recognised as brilliant from the beginning, but had they not been they could not have overcome the handicaps which were their heritage and won places at the school. Bar Mitzvah classes, spare time jobs and material privation were part of this, but the ghetto had begun to breed scholars and the heights to which this would rise nobody yet dreamed.

  The Jews’ School was responsible for sowing the seeds. From a small establishment in Hanover Street in 1849 had sprung the flourishing educational institutions now in Derby Street. By the middle of the twentieth century, men and women prominent in all walks of English life would be proud to say they were once pupils there.

  Many boys took packed lunches to school and the food David and Carl brought intrigued their classmates. The black bread was not unlike wholemeal bread in appearance and passed without comment. But pickled cucumbers, eaten in the hand like chocolate bars? And chunks of sm
elly sausage and herring? One day, David brought two fried kefulte fish balls.

  “Whatever are they?” Jim Forrest asked. He was a small, freckle-faced boy, destined to be a partner in his father’s law practice. “They look like Scotch eggs.”

  “Perhaps they’re Jewish eggs?” Hawkins, the class joker, quipped.

  “Try one,” David offered.

  Hawkins hesitated. “I don’t think so, thank you very much.”

  “I will,” Jim said.

  The others watched him bite into it.

  “It’s fish!” he announced.

  David felt relieved it was recognisable.

  “And absolutely scrumptious.” Jim gobbled it down.

  “If they’re that good, bring a few more next time, David,” Hawkins requested.

  David wondered what his mother would say if he asked her to make a batch of fish balls for the Gentile boys and exchanged a grin with Carl. Jewish food had just been proved tasty and non-poisonous.

  “You’d better have one of my sandwiches, as I’ve eaten half your lunch,” Jim said.

  David could see something pink protruding from the bread. “What’s in them?” he asked warily. He had never seen ham, but had a feeling it might be.

  Jim told him it was.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said reluctantly. The pink meat looked savoury and succulent, but even if it had been beef he would have had to refuse. That kind of temptation had not come his way before, but he had not been out in the world before.