Scraps of Heaven

by Arnold Zable

  The ball spins over the fence. Josh and Al grapple for it behind the seats. Al wrestles it from Josh’s hands, and wipes the mud on a sleeve. He holds the ball aloft and dances a war jig on the spot before hurling it back, egged on by the impatient crowd.

  At half-time the Magpies are three goals ahead, and further still at the three-quarter break. But in the final term the Bulldogs close in. A nervous ripple courses through the stands. The umpire’s decisions are closely scrutinised. Invective spouts from an aggrieved supporter’s mouth. ‘You fuck’n animal,’ he shrieks. ‘You poofter mongrel.’ All that he lives for during his working week is coming to naught. His team is going to lose. Passes are falling wide. The umpire’s decisions are flowing the other way. The gods are against his team, and against him, damn it.

  ‘You fuck’n pansy,’ he bellows at a player who has fluffed a mark. ‘You white maggot,’ he screams at the umpire, and flings a beer bottle over the fence. Two policemen leap into the crowd to quell a brawl. They drag the bloodied culprits onto the field, and escort them along the boundary line. Late afternoon shadows are creeping over the ground. The players’ fatigue is visible, the sun’s glare stings their eyes. Josh is nervous as the Bulldogs peg back to within two goals. Their fighting finish is terminated by the siren, and the crush to get out is on.

  Josh and Al are separated by the surging crowd. A glance in the wrong direction, at sullen faces, and Josh is singled out. This is the other side of the same coin that said, ‘Mate, you are one of us.’ The camaraderie is over. A group of drunken youths give chase.

  Josh zigzags from the ground towards Johnston Street. He is running from the wolf pack. He dodges between the post-match buses lined up in readiness for the crowd. He looks over his shoulder; one of the youths is still after him. Josh glimpses the madness in his bloodshot eyes, and is seized by panic. He is terrified his legs will give way. Run you skinny runt, he urges himself on. No one seems to notice his plight. He is isolated from the crowd. Run you skinny runt. He dashes past a row of shops towards busy Hoddle Street. He no longer looks back. Run you skinny runt. He is still running long after the pack has given up.

  It is dark when Josh steps off the Lygon Street tram. The lamps are benevolent sentries welcoming him home from alien lands. A group of bearded men from the back lane house of prayer flit by, as they do every Sabbath at this time. At the corner pub, closing-time drunks are staggering out. As he approaches the back gate Josh wonders what lies in store. But tonight, it seems, there is an unexpected truce between husband and wife.

  ‘We are going to the teatar,’ Romek announces with a triumphant smile. An hour later, the trio set out on the four-block walk to Lygon Street. It is as if they have always walked this same route, chaperoned by streetlamps. But Zofia is not quite with them. Only inches separate her from her husband and son, yet she seems much further apart.

  Theatregoers are emerging from their homes and lanes. Posner the hairdresser joins them as they cross Drummond Street. ‘How is the best boy in the market?’ he asks Josh as he draws alongside. They turn right at Lygon Street. Cars are drawing up by the cemetery fence. At the Kadimah hall, lights blaze from the arched windows and upstairs rooms.

  The foyer is choked with perfumed women and men in winter overcoats. Kalman the baker bends over and pinches Josh on the cheek. Zlaterinski pats him on the shoulder. ‘Tonight you get an education,’ he says. ‘Little do the Goyim know what wonders we possess. Little do they understand that our Yiddish theatre is world class! It can match the very best.’ Uncle Yossel and Aunt Liebe greet Josh, but Zofia turns her face as they approach. She does not wish to engage. Spielvogel the music teacher nods a stiff greeting. He would rather be at a Mahler recital. Ah well, this cheap entertainment will have to do.

  And backstage, Gershov is arranging the props, and Brustman the make-up artist is applying moustaches and beards in the dressing rooms. He talks non-stop as he works. And Meier Ceprow the tailor is pulling on an emperor’s coat, and Dobke, despite her small role, is nervous, rehearsing her ten lines; and in the wings Potashinski is decked out in the rags of a village fool.

  And below the stage, the musicians are tuning up, while in the foyer the warning bell is ringing, but no one is listening; they are too immersed in talk. Romek is engaged in an earnest discussion with Rosenberg the poet, and Zlaterinski is still singing the praises of Yiddish theatre. ‘Yes, it can match the world’s best. Chekhov, Stanislawski. Shakespeare, Meyerhold. Our directors and playwrights are equally great.’ Spielvogel grimaces at the boasts. Josh is talking to his friend Ariel Feinstein. He is describing last night’s fight. ‘Bracken was robbed,’ he concludes. ‘I saw it with my own eyes.’ And throughout Zofia stands quietly aside. She keeps to herself, and observes the crowd with a wary eye.

  The warning bell continues to ring, and still they talk, everybody at once, it seems, in a Babel of tongues. The talk persists unabated as the audience files into the hall. A spotlight falls upon the four musicians, seated beneath the stage beside the red exit sign. The talking finally subsides as the music takes hold—piano, violin, clarinet and drums. Zofia is lulled into a reverie. She is humming the melodies under her breath. The curtain slowly parts to reveal an inner curtain, a transparent veil. Behind the veil can be seen the dimly lit room of the gravedigger’s hovel and, through the rear window, a jumble of tombstones leaning askew. A woman sits by a table dozing; her head rests upon her arms. A hidden narrator intones the prologue.

  ‘Many years ago, as he retreated from the Czarist armies through the river valleys of White Russia, Napoleon Bonaparte brought with him a treasure.’ And Napoleon steps out upon the stage, dressed in an emperor’s uniform, striped trousers, high leather boots, a blue jacket with a white sash. He walks in front of the curtain, followed by two aides hauling a trunk. The trio make their way to the wings, and moments later they reappear, backstage. They can be seen, in silhouette, lowering the trunk into the cemetery grounds.

  As the prologue ends Bloomfield enters the back of the hall. He is wearing his weathered overcoat, shabby trousers and an open-necked shirt. As always, Podem allows him into the hall without paying. He knows the pleasure Bloomfield gains from every gesture, each word, and knows he will return for every performance of the season’s play.

  Zofia glimpses Bloomfield as he tiptoes in, and shudders. She recalls his elongated ‘yes’, his affirming hum. She conjures his face with the clarity with which she had seen it months ago. She sees the kookaburra, perched on its twig on the enamelled door. The fissures are opening, the voices returning. She is stumbling with a group of women, across a field of corpses towards the SS stores. She is snatching boxes of lipsticks and powders, boots and perfumes. The applause of the audience at the end of a scene draws her back into the hall. She glances back at Bloomfield, who is leaning against the rear wall.

  His arms are folded, his head tilted. He follows the action with reverent attention. Zofia observes his rapture. His eyes are animated in a way she has never seen before. The Yiddish theatre is Bloomfield’s temple, the script is his sacred text, and he, an avid acolyte protected by the dark. He slips away as soon as the curtain falls at the end of the first act. He descends the fake marble steps before the audience files out, and slips back into the auditorium for the second act as soon as the lights have been turned down.

  Bloomfield knows the plot well. The villagers have come to believe that the gravedigger’s son, the village idiot, knows the whereabouts of the treasure. They beat a path to the hovel. They argue over who has a rightful claim to the potential spoils. Grasping a lantern, the idiot leads them in a procession around the darkening stage. They circle the hovel in single file, while the idiot chants: ‘Kumt alle lomir zukhen. Kumt alle lomir zukhen. Come everyone let us search. Come everyone let us search.’

  The villagers disappear and emerge moments later, in silhouette, behind the window upstage. They dig among the stones. They stumble from grave to grave. They call out to each other in the dark and are accosted by
amused ghosts. So frantic are they in their efforts to find the treasure, they desecrate the graves and withdraw, defeated, back to their impoverished lives.

  As the audience files out Zofia walks with unsteady steps. She shies away from Romek. She pushes her way through the foyer and ignores greetings. She glances at faces, and catches men grinning, women laughing. Surely they are laughing at her.

  Romek and Josh fear the worst. They hurry from the crowd. They do not want to be exposed. Zofia rushes forward, alone. Romek and Josh must jog to keep up. Around her she sees graveyards with unmarked tombs. She is dashing towards the back gate. She is reciting the names of Romek’s girlfriends long dead. ‘I am not good enough for you. Not clever enough,’ she shouts as she enters the house.

  ‘He saw her name on the Red Cross lists.’ She speaks of Romek in the third person, as if arguing her case in front of a jury. ‘“Rivke is looking for me,” he said. “Send her all our money, or I will hang myself.”’ She grips the kitchen table. ‘I was not good enough for him,’ she shouts. ‘“Send her all our money, or I will hang myself,” he said. And I refused, and that is when he threw it. The wood hit me on the shins. He promised me a palace and gave me an eternal wound.’

  ‘Gevalt,’ she cries, ‘woe is me’, the ancient lament. She is pointing to her ulcer, a bitter bruise beneath the hem of her dress. Josh has seen it many times. It flares an incandescent blue. It burns like an accusation. ‘It happened when you were in my womb,’ she says, turning to Josh. Her face is flushed. The redness spreads down her neck, the blood swells in her veins. Strands of hair fall over her forehead. ‘“Send her all my money,” he said. ‘“Send her everything or I’ll hang myself.” ’

  Romek rushes towards her. He wraps his arms around her shoulders. Perhaps his desperation will subdue her. He can no longer withstand her tirade. He wants to force his way back. They are trapped in a kitchen, trapped in history’s tight embrace. Romek is gripping her shoulders. Zofia is pushing him back. Josh is trying to prise them apart. The dresser is shaking. Cups are breaking free of their moorings. Zofia wrenches herself free. ‘“Send her all our money or I’ll hang myself,” he said.’

  Romek spins around the kitchen. He sees armies on the march. He glimpses corpses, piling up. Zofia is walking among them. Her lips are rouged, her cheeks powdered. He sees her as he had seen her, in that first instant, surrounded by the stench of death. He sees her hair reaching towards her shoulders, months later, strands of black against pillow-white. He cannot bear the hatred that now flares in her eyes. He beats his fists against the walls. He sinks to the floor, cradles his head, lowers his face to the linoleum. He feels its coolness upon his cheeks.

  He is seeking a way back to the damp earth. He seeks forgiveness. He seeks to take back his words. He wants to regain what he has lost. He makes his way from the kitchen. His face is lowered, his body tight. Romek is a small man growing smaller, vanishing through the passage into the front room.

  He beats the bedroom walls, runs his finger over the mantelpiece. He opens the drawers, the cupboard doors, and presses his face to Zofia’s clothes. He runs his hands over her jackets and dresses, singles out individual items, remembers where she had worn them, when she had made them. ‘Zofia. Zofia.’ He kisses their hems and bodices, breathes in their odours and perfumes. ‘Zofia. Zofia.’ He seeks her warmth, the aftermath of her presence. ‘Zofia. Zofia.’ And that weeping. He has not wept for so long.

  He lifts the curtains and looks through the window at the streetlamp outside. The lawn on the median strip is a field of dark emeralds. The poplars and palms are ragged ghosts. Romek grips the window frame and draws it up. He allows the breeze to cool his face. His brief storm is over. He is calm. And empty. He is beyond hope.

  And in the kitchen Zofia is silent. She tenses her body and draws back. The vortex is opening and Josh is spiralling down. He puts his arms around her to steady his fall. The son has become the father and she recoils from his touch. ‘Loz op,’ she screams. ‘Let go of me.’

  She stares at him with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Who are you?’ she asks. ‘I do not know who you are.’ She pushes him back. ‘You are one of them. I do not know who you are.’ The voices are returning. They descend from the ceiling, they rise from the floors. She glances at her son and sees he is frightened. She wants to embrace him; but then she sees his desperation as laughter. He is a stranger. His face is grotesque. He is one of them. Surely he is one of them.

  Josh glimpses a pair of shoes beside the bathroom door. He lifts one up. The heel is worn, the black leather cracked. The silver clasps flash. Scraps of bitumen fleck the sole. The graze of many pavements are imprinted on the nail heads. The shoe is perfectly moulded to Zofia’s feet. It contains her presence. Josh rubs it against his cheeks. He is soothed by its smoothness. He raises it to his lips, and kisses it. Zofia springs towards him and wrenches the shoe from his grip.

  ‘Loz op!’

  The blows from the shoe rain down on his shoulders and back, but Josh holds his ground. Zofia stops, and is stunned to realise she is holding the shoe in her hand. She realises what she has done. She hurls the shoe to the floor and steps back.

  Josh sees a flicker of recognition.

  She sees her son, a twelve-year-old boy.

  He sees her black hair falling free of its combs.

  He wants to console her, but is stranded mid-step.

  She glances about her in confusion.

  He wants to reach out and touch her.

  But she is shivering. Shrinking back.

  She sits down by the kitchen table.

  And quietly, she weeps.

  And at the Kadimah, in the upstairs banquet room, they are laughing. The cast party is in full swing. Bloomfield is loitering outside. Podem invites him in. He is ushered to a seat at the table. He glances around with a childish grin. He feels warmed by the company. Podem pours him a glass of wine, and Potashinski is singing a theatre song:

  We are all hotzmakhs, some older and some younger.

  We are all peddlers, all dying of hunger.

  We wheel and deal as the years steal by

  Perhaps, just perhaps, my trinkets you will buy.

  When he concludes, Waislitz, the elder statesman, rises to his feet. He lifts a glass of wine and proposes a toast. ‘We have wandered to God knows where. We will always wander, and we will always perform. If only to spite our enemies. May they burn in hell.’

  ‘Amen,’ the cast replies. And Zlaterinski, how can he resist it, is on his feet, glass in hand, and he recites:

  Quiet evening, dark gold

  I sit by my glass of wine

  What has become of my day

  A shadow and a shine.

  ‘Now tell me,’ he asks, ‘who has written such fine poetry? Ah? A rose is a rose is a rose! Bah! Give me Itsik Manger. He captures our sorrows and our luminous moments, equally, both. He understands who we are. He is the true poet of our godforsaken people.’

  ‘Listen to the genius!’ says Potashinski. ‘Again he is lecturing, flying in the clouds. And where did all this flying get us? Even a nonsense song contains more wisdom than Zlaterinski’s lectures.’ Potashinski spreads his arms and sings:

  I ask you, my wise men,

  How does the Czar eat spuds?

  You build a barrel of butter,

  And place the Czar on the other side,

  And a battalion of soldiers with cannons,

  Shoot the spuds through the butter,

  Straight into the Czar’s mouth.

  Oh, that is how, oh that is how,

  That is how the Czar eats spuds.

  Waislitz is back on his feet. He turns to Bloomfield and raises his glass. ‘To our colleague,’ he says. ‘I saw him perform at the Novosci, the best theatre in Warsaw. It contained two balconies and an ample stage. It could seat an audience of two thousand, and even then there was room enough for everyone to yawn and stretch their legs. And it staged the plays of the best Yiddish Art Theatre in Poland, with our great
est actors. Zygmund Turkow! Ida Kaminska! David Herman! Avram Morewski! They all performed on the Novosci stage. And Bloomfield was one of the company. He was still an apprentice, but we could see he was talented. Even in a chorus his voice stood out.

  ‘He was at the Novosci for the final performance. The city was on fire. People were fleeing, trying to escape. They were boarding overcrowded trains. Loading their belongings, taking to the roads by foot or wagons that creaked over muddied paths. Ah, my friends, we know this scene so well. But I was not there. I had already left. I was here, in the golden land. I have had more than my measure of good luck, while my former colleagues were stranded in hell.

  ‘Every other theatre in Warsaw was closed, but at the Novosci the queues for tickets were getting longer. Every day members of the cast vanished, but Turkow and his dwindling band of actors stayed on. As long as there was an audience they would not forsake their sacred craft. They kept performing until the theatre was bombed. They remained until the Novosci was razed.’

  Bloomfield maintains his childish smile. They know him, those present, and they know that September 1939 is as far as they dare go. They know that no one could emerge from what he had endured and remain sane. Bloomfield inhales the lingering scent of greasepaint. He recalls his excitement and fear as he would await his entrance in the wings. This is all he wants, to live one step removed from the stage, in the semi-darkness, suspended in that moment before a performance, in the time before time, when his daughters were still alive.

  Bloomfield is trembling. He glances left and right. He hunches back into his seat, and sinks into his overcoat. The guards are pointing left, right, death or slave labour. Khannele. Sorrele. The names ring out. He is being held back by camp guards. And he cannot help them. His shoulders sag. His smile is a grimace. The glass of wine falls from his hand. He stumbles from his chair. ‘Yes,’ he hums. He closes his eyes; cuffs his hands over his ears. He quickens his steps. ‘Yes. Yes.’ But he cannot contain his trembling. Podem guides him towards the balcony. Only then does he re-open his eyes. Bloomfield glances back at the assembled company as he steps out, and fixed on his face is his childish smile. Zofia remains seated by the kitchen table long after Josh has withdrawn. She glances at the discarded shoes as she makes her way to the back room. She undresses, pulls on her nightgown, and slips into bed. Through the window she sees the outline of the wash-house and the barbed branches of a neighbour’s tree. And inside the clouds are reassembling. They are floating above her, sinister energies suspended in space. Without warning they descend, and pin Zofia to the bed.