“An odyssey of cultural confusion and survival. Full of hope, honour and sadness.” MCKITTERICK PRIZE JUDGES (shortlisted)
“A rare evocation of the immigrant novel, with a welcome Scottish dimension. CLIVE SINCLAIR, The Jewish Chronicle
“A subtle, beautifully written story about a rarely touched subject. It unites two great literary traditions – the Jewish and the Scottish novel – without ever seeming to force them together. Sad but never sentimental, full of hardship but easy to read, The Credit Draper is a truly fine debut which heralds the arrival of a bold new voice in fiction.” RODGE GLASS
“For all the serious issues that Simons’ novel raises, it’s also a joyous book in many ways, delighting in the fun and ambition of a young boy who grows up, as we all must do, to learn the ways of the world.” LESLEY MCDOWELL, The Herald
“There is much to admire in this story. Set in a period of social and political turmoil, it examines the difficulties of maintaining religious traditions while attempting to blend into a strange environment. This novel has a ring of truth while bravely tackling themes that have uncomfortable echoes today.” THE SCOTS MAGAZINE
“What makes this book so attractive is that it is not the usual thinly disguised recreation of the writer’s childhood amongst domineering relations, but a genuinely imagined construction of what life was like for Scottish Jews nearly a century ago … this former journalist has transformed himself into a real novelist.” JEWISH RENAISSANCE
THE
CREDIT
DRAPER
J David Simons
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Glasgow 1911
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Glasgow 1915
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Oban 1923
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Novels by J David Simons
Copyright
For George
Glasgow
1911
One
THE CROWD MOVED AGAIN and Avram let it take him, trundling him along among the damp shawls, the overcoats, the parcels, the pots, the battered cases, the rolled-up blankets. He strained to see something of the city, but from within the clutch of passengers all he could make out were the shadowy outlines of warehouses and cranes charcoaled into the early morning fog. Underfoot, the cargo ship swayed in its moorings with a gentle thud, thud, thud against the timbers of the pier. He felt so tiny. A thimbleful of soul lost in a vast adult universe.
A seagull swooped to perch on a line of rope stretching just above his head. Its feathers were streaked in grime, its beak snapped emptily ahead of tiny black eyes. The bird reminded Avram of the story of Noah, the message brought with the arrival of the dove. And then he warmed to the memory of his mother telling him the tale. Her two fingers marching across his body until he wriggled and giggled as she found refuge for her animals in his armpits, along his thighs or under his chin.
He wrapped his arms tighter around his chest. But for a few murmurs, the stamping of feet against the cold, the sob of a younger boy, the crowd was still and silent. Then came a surge and he felt Dmitry’s hands guide him, stealing an inch here and there over the others.
The seaman’s lips moved close to his ear. “I have to help with the cargo.”
Avram struggled to twist back his head but Dmitry’s firm grip at the base of his neck kept him facing forward.
“Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”
Dmitry leaned in again. Avram felt the man’s stubble graze his cheek.
“I’ve kept my part,” the seaman hissed.
“But … but my mother paid you.”
“Bah! A few roubles to keep you company.”
Avram fingered the coins sewn into his jacket. The crowd shuffled forward, pushing him with it. He turned round but Dmitry had disappeared. A tightness forced its way through his chest and into his throat. He tried to gulp it down.
“Are you all right?”
He wiped his eyes. A fair-haired girl was staring at him, clutching a cloth doll to her chest.
“I’m fine,” he said, quickly pulling himself up straight.
“Where’s your family?” she asked.
“I’m alone.”
“But I saw you with a man.”
“He works on the ship.”
The girl tilted her head to one side, then the other. “You’re very brave,” she said. “Coming by yourself.”
“It wasn’t hard.”
“I couldn’t do it,” she said, more to her doll than to him. “Where are you going?”
“I’m staying here.”
“We’re off to America,” she said. “On a bigger ship than this.” She held the doll even tighter. “America, America, America,” she chanted, then squeezed herself between the two adults in front of her.
“Shah, girl,” one of them said.
Avram knew of this America. With its buildings so high they blocked out the sun, where people walked on golden cobblestones, where the land stretched free and forever.
The crowd moved again and he was swept forward in the crush, edging ever closer towards the head of the gangplank. He saw the girl’s fair hair bob ahead of him. One time she turned, caught his stare, waved back at him, mouthing the words: “America, America.”
Once off the boat, Avram perched himself on top of a capstan, his small case grasped tight in his lap. He was totally on his own now. He knew he had to do something, to make adult decisions about reaching his destination. But instead he distracted himself with his view of the dockside chaos as drivers forced their wagons through the melée of porters and passengers. A blinkered horse whinnied then reared up to the lash of a whip. Those closest pulled back from the flailing hooves until a porter grabbed the reins, calmed the snorting beast. Avram spotted some of the crew off his ship working on regardless of the incident, retrieving crates from inside the tangle of nets.
“Where’s Dmitry?” he shouted, failing to disguise the desperate shrill in his voice. “Where’s Dmitry?”
The men ignored him except for one who swore, lifted his eyes to the upper decks, mimed the smoking of a cigarette. Then a hansom drew up and Avram watched the fair-haired girl scramble inside. She dropped her doll, and only her scream caused the cab to halt so she could step back out to retrieve it. He thought about following her to America but instead he forced himself to move away from the ship. He approached a
group of leering spectators who had appeared out of the fog. His hand trembled as he held out the letter his mother had given him. Curious fingers plucked the envelope from his grasp, smoothed out the paper, while heads drew closer to peer at the lettering. The address was passed around as he tried to grab back the envelope, anxious that the precious lifeline of ink-strokes should not be smudged or torn. These strangers, their faces like hideous puppets, smiled back at him over broken teeth, breathed alcohol onto his cheeks, patted his curls, pointed the way along dark tenement-lined streets. He picked up the case containing his few clothes, the one bottle of schnapps for his hosts, and started to walk into the thick mist.
“There’s a tram to take ye where ye want to go,” a voice trailed after him. “If ye’ve got a farthin’.”
He shrugged at the incomprehensible words and ploughed on.
Gas street-lamps struggled to light his way. Towering cranes hovered over him like skeletons signposting his route. An empty milk-bottle rolled and broke at his feet. Bare-footed children taunted him as their threadbare dog snapped at his ankles. A woman tried to give him food, but he shook his head, frightened that what was offered was not kosher. He heard a scream. Another time, piano music. Then the desolate echo from a foghorn on the river.
But it was the lack of colour that haunted him most. Everything was grey. The buildings, the people’s faces, the mangy dogs. Even the air he breathed. It was a greyness that he felt as a terrifying pallor, clinging to his face and hands like the faint touch of cobwebs on his skin. He kept his attention on his feet, letting them walk him faster, pounding out the terror from his wildly beating heart onto the cobbled streets. The air drew thick and cold in his lungs, tightening his chest, causing his breath to shorten. He began to sweat despite the chill. With every few steps, he switched his case from hand to hand. His arms ached, his palms began to blister. He observed his feet moving him on, as if they had a consciousness of their own.
But the fog lifted and the streets grew wider, the buildings taller and the façades grander. A smear of sunlight crept into the morning. His head lifted too. He saw streetlights that were not lit by gas but by some other miracle. He paused to wonder at the horseless trams and carriages. He passed shop windows crammed with merchandise. He lingered outside a bakery until the warm smell of freshly baked loaves was too much to bear. As he moved deeper into the city, the pavements began to fill up with pale, stern-faced people not unlike those from his homeland. He had no choice but to approach them, and with his cap in hand, he offered the envelope. Some guided him with elaborate hand signals, others walked him ahead to street corners before showing him the way.
It took him nearly six hours to reach the Gorbals. There, the first sight of a Hebrew shop-sign soothed his fears. An old woman who spoke Yiddish accompanied him to his destination. He entered the close at number 32, and grasping the heavy brass knocker on the door of the ground floor flat, tapped out his message of arrival. Still holding on to the envelope, he collapsed starving and exhausted into the arms of the woman who answered the door.
Two
AVRAM FELT THE INCREASED PRESSURE of Madame Kahn’s hand on his back and he stumbled forward almost dropping the bottle of schnapps.
“This is the boy,” she said. “Rachel Escovitz’s boy.”
Papa Kahn looked up from the picked-clean bones of a pickled herring, dabbed a napkin to his moist lips.
“What is your name, boy?”
“Avram, sir. Avram Escovitz.”
Papa Kahn popped an apple slice into his mouth and crunched slowly. The only sound in the room. “You kept your mother’s name?”
“I know no other, sir.”
“What about your father?”
“I have no father.”
“What do you mean? Of course you have a father.”
“The Cossacks took him before I was born.”
Papa Kahn frowned as he chewed. “Mmm. So that’s how it is. How is she, your mother? Is she well?”
Avram didn’t know if his mother was well. The last time he’d seen her, her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, her hands fluttering over his face like a blind woman, trying to imprint his face on her memory with her fingers.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Is she in good health?”
“I think so, sir.”
“And how old are you, Avram?”
“Eleven years and eleven months, sir.”
Papa Kahn smiled. “Nu. Come. Come closer. Let me have a look at you.”
He did as he was told, letting Papa Kahn cup a hand round his chin, drag his head from side to side in the light from the window. He wondered if Papa Kahn was in mourning, for he only wore black. A black suit, black shoes, black tie and a black yarmulke.
“Teeth.”
Avram opened his mouth wide.
“The teeth are good. Bicarbonate of soda. Every day. Do you understand?”
He didn’t but he nodded anyway.
“Now tell me, Avram. How were you allowed into this country?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You must know. There are controls now. You can’t just walk off a ship into this great country. This Great Britain. Where did your ship dock first? Before it arrived in Glasgow?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Southampton?”
Southampton? He recalled the rush down the gangplanks into a large shed partitioned into sections by long tables. Braziers heating the chilly space. The other passengers brandishing papers, swearing in Yiddish, clamouring for the attention of the men in uniform. A medical examination, the doctor pressing the cold disc of a hearing device against his bare chest. “Yes, sir. That was the name. Southampton.”
“And you spoke to an immigration officer?”
“Dmitry. Dmitry did everything.” Dmitry knew one of the officials. They were taken to one side.
“Who is this Dmitry?” Madame Kahn asked.
“My mother paid him to bring me.”
Papa Kahn shrugged, looked at his wife. “Perhaps there were papers. Perhaps there was a bribe.”
“This Dmitry brought you here to the Gorbals?” Madame Kahn persisted.
“Only to the docks in Glasgow.”
“And the rest of the way?”
“I walked.”
She gave a short laugh. “You walked from Clydebank? There is a tram.”
“Now, Martha. What does it matter? He is here now.”
She sniffed hard, then turned away from her husband to address Avram directly. “Go on. Give Herr Kahn the gift.”
“My mother sends you this in memory of times past.” His mother’s words. He held out the bottle.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Madame Kahn said to her husband.
“How am I supposed to know?”
“You’re the one who knew her.”
Avram searched his jacket pocket for the letter. “And this will explain the circumstances of my departure.” Again his mother’s words. Among the last she had spoken to him on the Riga quayside. Give this letter to the Kahns. To the father. Not the mother.
“Let me see that.” Madame Kahn made a grab for the envelope but her husband held up the flat of his hand.
“No,” he said firmly. Then with his fingers, he beckoned quickly at Avram to hand it over.
Just as Avram passed over the envelope, the door opened and a pale, red-haired girl entered with a tray. She stepped awkwardly and Avram could smell her sweat as she passed him, her tray a nervous tinkle of tea things. She placed a glass of black tea and a bowl of sugar cubes conveniently on the table and retreated quickly from the room.
With his thumb and forefinger, Papa Kahn plucked a single cube from the sugar bowl, fixed it delicately in a wedge between his teeth, slurped a mouthful of tea through the dissolving sugar. He then replaced the glass, took a knife from his plate, slit open the envelope and spread two sheets of writing paper before him.
“Now, what do we have here?”
Avram saw t
he familiar cramped handwriting and bit his lip so hard slithers of flesh came away with his teeth. Papa Kahn kept reading and nodding with an occasional glance to his wife.
“What does this Rachel say?” she asked.
“She says she is sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For sending the boy.”
“She has a chutzpah.”
“She had no choice. He was to be conscripted on his twelfth birthday.”
“What shall we do with him?”
“We must keep him.”
“What are you saying? We haven’t enough room.”
“I must do what she asks.”
“But why? What do you owe her? This Rachel woman.”
“She is from der heim.”
“Der heim? Are we responsible for every stray waif drifting into Glasgow from your homeland?”
“He will stay with us. That is final. We can make up a cot for him in Nathan’s room.”
“Did she say anything about money?”
“There is nothing written.”
Madame Kahn turned to Avram. “Did you bring any money, boy?” she snapped.
He opened the front flap of his jacket to display the sewn-up pocket. Madame Kahn snatched the knife off the table and the tears just seemed to come as he watched her skillfully slit open the stitches of his only jacket. She pulled out a small pouch, spilled the coins and the small wad of notes into her palm.
“Almost worthless.”
Avram sensed the reproach, but Papa Kahn looked sternly at his wife. “As I said. He will stay here. As family. As a brother to Celia and Nathan.” Papa Kahn turned to him, his voice kinder now. “I agree to your mother’s request. This shall be your home. Until we hear from your mother that you can return.”
Again, he felt a hand at his back as Madame Kahn guided him quickly out of the room.
“Mary,” Madame Kahn shouted.
Avram heard footsteps. The servant girl who had brought the tray scurried into the hallway.
“Make a bath for the boy. He is filthy.”
The girl glared at him. “But Madame. It’s ma evening off. I’m on ma way out.”
The Credit Draper Page 1