Scraps of Heaven

by Arnold Zable

  They are kindred spirits, Zofia and Tallon. She recognises it in his fast-moving hands, his black leather apron, the pencil tucked over his ear, his steadfast gaze. He had learnt the trade apprenticed to a cobbler, in a village somewhere in the heel of a land shaped like a shoe, as she had learnt hers, dorten, dorten, iber yamen, ‘over there, over many seas’, in a seamstress workshop in Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter of Krakow.

  She knows Tallon’s story well, as do all the regular customers who have made their way here over the years to the shoe repairer’s on Rathdowne Street. It is a tale he loves to tell, in episodic bursts, signalled by a signature lift in the brows and his pensive smile and a familiar opening line. ‘I was the black sheep of the family, the youngest child. I could not wait to leave the village. Delianuova, it was called. In Reggio Calabria. You can look it up on the map. I arrived in Melbourne in 1923. I was just a boy of seventeen, and I was excited. It was an adventure. I was free to do as I pleased.’ He lowers his eyes back to his work, the machine resumes its drone, and he is back at the helm, but the story, once begun, must be told.

  ‘At first I worked as a farm labourer, but I soon found my way back to shoes. How could I live without the smell of leather? It is the sweetest of smells, and since I was young and healthy and free, and the black sheep of the family, I opened my own business on Rathdowne Street. Then I met my future wife at a dance in Carlton, in the Exhibition Buildings, such a wonderful setting for a romance, and we had four children, two sons, two daughters, my life was blessed. And this is where I have stayed put for almost a quarter of a century, and here I will stay until they carry me out.’ And his brows drop and he rummages about in search of Zofia’s shoes.

  There is method in this chaos of shoes piled on floor-to-ceiling shelves, and as he retrieves them he looks up and greets a passing friend in sign language. ‘He cannot hear,’ he informs Zofia. ‘I learnt sign language so I could speak to him. What is the use of knowing someone if you cannot converse?’

  He gives Zofia’s shoes a quick polish and hands them to her with a final lift of the brows, and, hauling her bags, ignoring their weight, she hastens back past the espresso bar, across Rathdowne Street, past the square where Bloomfield has resumed his seat on the park bench. She nods to him as she walks by, and he almost nods back. She hesitates, then quickens her steps over Curtain Street, past the Kent Hotel and Chris, the Cypriot greengrocer with the black moustache. She pauses by Basso the tailors’, where she discerns the outline of the tailor’s dummy through the thin fabric of the shopfront curtain, and catches the drone of sewing machines through the half-open doors.

  Giacomo and Gina—he the cutter, she the finisher—are a formidable team. Zofia admires their industry, the apparent harmony between husband and wife. After all, tailor’s dummies, measuring tapes and spools of thread are her concern. She conjures colour schemes, bolts of fabric, novel patterns, frock designs. She longs to run her hand over silks and satins, pure wools and brocades. She is back in Goldman’s workshop, Kazimierz, 1935, learning the seamstress’s trade. She conjures stylish blouses, à la mode dresses, and looks up to see that she has returned, full circle, past O’Rourke’s hardware, and Stellios the fishmonger’s, to Posner’s where Mickey Katz and his Kosher Jammers are singing ‘Don’t Let the Schmaltz Get in Your Eyes’, and where the talk has turned to an earnest discussion about the many Yiddish words for imbecile.

  ‘Only a nation of wanderers can have so many expressions for loser,’ says Zlaterinski. ‘Each one with a precise nuance, a subtle difference in meaning.’ He sets the ball rolling with schlemiel and schlimazel, shmugegge and schlump. And Potashinski chimes in with pisher, paskudnik, nudnik and no-goodnik. But Zlaterinski is disputing the inclusion of nudnik because it derives, he claims, from a Russian word meaning to bore. And Potashinski is saying, ‘Better a nudnik than a phudnik—a nudnik with a doctorate.’ And Gershov contributes schmendrik and schlepper, who is someone who drags his heels so often he would need to own an entire shoe shop to fulfil his needs. Dobke comes up with schnorrer and yold, while Zlaterinski, not to be outdone, asserts the first prize surely belongs to the word nebekh.

  ‘There can be no dispute,’ he insists, ‘A nebekh is a complete nonentity, a fool of the highest order. When a nebekh leaves a room,’ he adds, to drive home his point, ‘it is as if someone has entered.’

  ‘No,’ retorts Potashinski. ‘You’ve got it wrong. When a nebekh enters the room, it is as if someone has left.’

  ‘But perhaps,’ suggests the philosophical Waislitz, who is now clean-shaven, freshly shorn, ‘perhaps a nebekh is a lammed vovnik, one of the thirty-six hidden saints that, legend has it, uphold justice in the world. After all, a nebekh does no one any harm.’

  Their voices wane as Zofia moves beyond this gathering of nudniks, back past Kalman’s bakery, where the orthodox women are delivering their Sabbath stews so that they can simmer overnight in spacious ovens, and spare them the need, as the scriptures command, to cook on their day of rest. And at the corner milk bar, Doukakaris steps out to wave as he had waved one hour earlier, and in Fenwick Street the two women continue to gossip, but the woman on the pavement has moved back, several paces, and her weight rests on the back foot, as if she has been leaving for a while now, but cannot quite tear herself away.

  Zofia jaywalks across Fenwick Street to the horse trough outside the Union Hotel, where the girls are still playing. Two of them stand face to face, hands clasped; their arms form a bridge that lifts up and down, in a chopping movement, while the others file beneath it, chanting:

  Oranges and lemons

  The bells of St Clements

  You owe me a penny

  When will you pay me?

  Today or tomorrow?

  Chip chop the last man’s head head, head, head OFF!

  She can still hear their voices as she turns into the back lane. The chant fades as she approaches the gate: ‘Chip chop the last man’s head, head, head, head, head…’ and those accursed voices return in their stead. They seep through the brick walls, the back gates, and the cracks in the timber fence upon which she leans for momentary support, and she unlatches her gate, and hastens over the brick path to the circular drain. Her haven is in sight. She lowers her bags, fits the key in the back door, and enters the kitchen where she unpacks her goods.

  She rests awhile by the kitchen table, hunched within herself, then moves along her well-worn routes: from the refrigerator to the table with lamb chops for the evening meal; from the dresser back to the table with knives and chopping boards; from the sink, cooking pot in hand, to the Kooka stove. A spider hurries across the wall, a cockroach scrambles over the floor, the dust settles, and the stillness returns, broken by the sound of the white pigeon tapping at the window, demanding his meal.

  Zofia allows him in and fills a bowl with water, and a second bowl with sesame seeds. The pigeon hops in circles, bobs its head, and swoops on the seeds as Zofia walks to the dining room, to the upright wireless. She switches it on to her favourite program, the community singalong on radio station 3DB, with John Stuart and Dick Cranbourne and their singalong choir. She joins in, and sings with them, ‘Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling’, then returns to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal.

  The pigeon has made itself at home, feathers rustling, expanding, as it preens, pink beak pecking, eyes alert, intelligent eyes that scan the room. And the pipes, the pipes are still calling, ‘From glen to glen and down the mountainside’, as it flies towards the light globe. The cord sways as it momentarily perches, before swooping down to the mantelpiece, and up to the top of the kitchen door. Zofia follows its flight; then allows it to settle on her shoulders, and accompany her as she completes her chores.

  And four blocks distant, Josh is walking home from school. He cuts through the back lane, from O’Grady Street to Curtain Square, where the Terrier and his gang are on their beat and, before he can run, they are upon him, pushing and elbowing and wrestling him to the ground. Josh
smells the damp earth and crushed grass. He watches ants lugging booty to their queen. One ant is struggling with its heavy load, and Josh is absorbed by its capacity to work, while the three boys are holding his head to the dirt. ‘Kiss the ground and say “I killed Jesus”,’ they chant.

  Josh punches and kicks, but his elementary boxing skills are of no use. All he can do is hold his breath as the boys rub his face into the dirt. ‘Kiss the ground and say “I killed Jesus”.’ He gazes at minute grains of disturbed earth. He keeps his eyes on the ants that have been sent scurrying in all directions by this rude interruption to their work. He squirms and bucks, and when he finally twists himself onto his back he looks up at trees, through their bare branches, and desolate twigs, at an infinity of skies.

  ‘Kiss the ground and say “I killed Jesus”…’ The chant fades, and even though his body is pinned to the ground, for a moment, Josh’s mind takes flight, and he returns to the fray with restored vigour and claws and elbows his way to his knees, onto his feet, and wrenches himself free. The sun disappears, the skies vanish beneath a veil of greys, and as he runs he rejoices in his speed.

  But the fear is greater, and he races from the square to Fenwick Street where he dodges Waislitz, the walking windmill, who is returning home from Posner’s. And he continues his run past the corner pub where the girls are chanting ‘You owe me a penny, when will you pay me’. And he veers into the back lane, flings open the back gate, and enters breathless into the kitchen where Cranbourne and Stuart are singing ‘Farewell to old England forever’.

  Zofia observes the bruise on his forehead, the tear in his trousers, the whiteness of his face; and understands.

  She turns off the stove, switches off the radio, grabs his hand, and stalks out to do battle. ‘Ikh bin a kempfer, I am a fighter,’ she says. A pre-war youth delegate to the Seamstress Union, a veteran of May Day processions through the streets of Krakow, she strides along Canning Street, shoulders erect, head held high, two blocks west to the Terrier’s house, with Josh reluctantly in tow. She flings the gate open, climbs the steps, clasps the doorknocker and brings it down with a resounding crash.

  The door shudders. Josh cringes. ‘I can take care of myself,’ he says. But Zofia brings the knocker down again and again until the door is cautiously opened and a wary face peers out.

  ‘Your boy called my boy a killer of Christ.’ Zofia comes straight to the point.

  ‘What are you talkin’ about?’ says Mrs Lewis.

  ‘Your boy shouldn’t do this.’

  ‘How d’you know my boy did it?’

  ‘He shouldn’t do it,’ Zofia repeats.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re bloody talkin’ about,’ says Mrs Lewis.

  Josh tries to pull Zofia away, but she stands her ground.

  ‘We had enough of this in Poland.’

  ‘What’s Poland got to do with me?’

  ‘Your boy and his friends are hoodlums,’ says Zofia.

  ‘Mind your own bloody business,’ snaps Mrs Lewis.

  ‘Tell your boy to stay away from mine,’ says Zofia.

  ‘Your boy should take bloody care of himself,’ retorts Mrs Lewis, and she slams the door.

  Zofia lifts the knocker; her lips are pursed, her teeth gritted. Again Josh tugs at her arm. ‘Next time, fight back,’ she tells him as she lets go. ‘Azoi iz es umetum. That is how it is everywhere. Even here, in all our black years.’ Her eyes are angry, mistrustful, and Josh breaks away. He runs to Sutton Street, cuts through the vacant lot, over a muddy path between sodden grass, and glances up at the palm. Its fronds are billowing in the rising winds and, as he pushes open the gate to the gym, the rain that has been threatening all day breaks out.

  The drops gather speed, and soon they are hurtling down. They fill the drains and the potholes. They wipe away the stain of bird dung, the chalked boundaries of hopscotch courts. The drains are overflowing, the gutter procession is well under way: a froth of cigarette butts and twigs, shreds of newspaper, poplar leaves, and the dislodged refuse of choked eaves, conveyed upon a foaming stream.

  And Bloomfield slinks through the streets with his rainwalk gait. His body is low, bent at the knees. His shoulders are pulled in tight. He unfurls an umbrella, but his socks remain damp. The rain is slanted by a westerly wind. It spatters his face, but Bloomfield does not care. He is intent on listening. He knows the symphony well. He discerns the individual tones of rain upon tin, timber and tiles, slate and galvanised iron. He knows the slap of rain against roof and lawn, bitumen and stone, and he detects an unfamiliar tone. He follows the sound to its source, and sees a sheet of glass leaning beside a front door. The rain is a staccato rattle against the pane, and Bloomfield continues his circling through familiar streets and lanes.

  He pauses to watch passengers alight from the Lygon Street tram. Among them is Romek, who steps off where he had stepped on twelve hours earlier, clutching his tchemodan. The rain is a spray of gold in the reflected light of streetlamps. The gutter streams continue to rise, the Rathdowne Street bus swishes by, and the spray splashes his tchemodan. The six o’clock crowds are spilling out of the pub. Romek forges a path through the stumbling drinkers and turns into the back lane. Even now, another couplet is forming: From back lane, back to back lane / The water lies stagnant against a blocked drain.

  Romek cannot help but allow his nagging Muses full rein.

  And one block south, as the crow flies, up one flight of stairs, through a trapdoor, and into an upper room, Josh jabs and hooks, rips and uppercuts, and daydreams epic battles in which he takes on the Terrier’s gang. He dispatches them, one by one. They sprawl on the ground gripping their heads, clutching their jaws. The rain is pouring, and droplets are dripping through chinks in the slate. They slide along the ceiling beams, as Josh punches to the rhythm of the drip-drip-drip upon the canvas floor.

  Logan moves to his side. ‘Slow down. Take it easy. You’re punching blind.’ He senses Josh’s anger, as he senses it in many of his boys. ‘You have to be willing to work,’ he says. ‘Boxing is ninety per cent conditioning. It’s no good knowing anything unless you’re fit. Yeah. If you don’t run an’ skip you may as well give up. It takes a lot to get up there,’ he says, pointing to the ring. ‘You need dedication to be a fighter, an’ a lot of nerve.

  ‘Copy me an’ I’ll take you through the basic moves. The legs are as important as the hands. Footwork an’ handwork, in tandem, that’s the key to success. Get in the right position, only then you are ready to punch. Yeah. Now move in close, throw a straight left, a right cross. Move back, then come in close for body rips, a right hook. Now try these moves out on the punching bag, but before you begin, get your feet in position. Get the foundation right.’

  Josh adjusts his stance, and boxes with greater thought. He names each punch as it lands. ‘Uppercut. Right cross. Right hook. Straight left.’ The bag shudders with each blow, its leather is cool when he clutches it to his chest. His body feels light and loose. He glances at Logan, who keeps an eye on him as he prepares to lock up. All is reduced to the thwack, thwack of Josh’s fists, the squeak of his runners on the boards, the clatter of rain upon the roof.

  ‘That’s it for tonight,’ says Logan, interrupting Josh, mid-flight. ‘We’re finishing early. I’ve got tickets for the Bracken– Carlos title fight. It’s a full fifteen-rounder. You’ll learn more about boxing in an hour than in many weeks of useless pounding. I have a pass to the dressing rooms. We can call in on Kid Young an’ see Bracken before the fight.’

  The stadium stands on the city’s western flanks, where night is a shade darker, and the streets a shade more in disrepair. It sprawls an entire block, bound by red brick warehouses, low-slung buildings, railyards and bridges. Logan and Josh are trotting towards it, along with the excited crowd. They hurry from trains and trams, taxis and limousines, or foot-slog it from parked cars. There are big shots in fedoras and working men in shabby suits, celebrities and jockeys, politicians and undertakers, old-timers in step with migran
ts, the creme de la creme alongside back lane punters, descending on the cavernous barn.

  The tickets booths are closed, all 7000 seats have been sold, and scalpers are preying upon those who had missed out. They are besieged by desperate patrons waving bundles of notes. Logan ushers Josh into the hall. Punters are climbing up to the bleachers, others are settling back in the stalls, or positioning themselves against far walls. Josh is impressed by the vastness, the vaulting girders and raw wood floors. His gaze is drawn to the ceiling lights that pour down upon a raised platform, enclosed by steel posts and ropes. The preliminary fights are on. The boxers’ faces are a ghostly white. Even from a distance Josh can see the dry blood under the eye of a fighter in the glare of ring-lights. He follows Logan down a flight of stairs into a warren of brick tunnels to the dressing rooms.

  Bracken’s hands are being taped. Reporters are sniffing out seconds, scavenging pre-fight gossip, last-minute tips. Kid Young greets Logan with a familiar nod, but Young is too preoccupied to stop and chat. Bracken is now up and jogging, weaving and feinting, jabbing taped fists at mirrors, shadow-boxing. Josh is overwhelmed by the heat and excited talk, by men who jostle and joke. The talk is spiralling louder, cigarette smoke curling higher, and Kid Young abruptly orders all hangers-on out.

  Logan and Josh take their privileged seats, half a dozen rows back from the ring, among a fraternity of boxers and trainers, and those with a passport to ringside by virtue of their wealth. Money has got them a seat by the bullpit, alongside comperes at their radio mikes, reporters at their notepads, and a sprinkling of perfumed women squired by celebrity mates. Logan is shaking hands with long-time companions, catching up on the latest news, the illness of a colleague, a hot tip about a future champ. Josh catches snippets of heated exchanges, predictions, a discordant chorus of claims and counterclaims, accompanied by the incessant patter of rain.