by Arnold Zable
Josh runs long after the magpie has abandoned the chase. He rejoins the median strip beneath the poplars, and runs past Rose and Tulip cottage, past Limerick and Boucher’s corner store; he darts under the hem of the verandah, and circles the block. He cuts through Sutton Street to the vacant lot. He is running towards the future, towards intimations of freedom, running on empty, running fast.
There is an apparent symmetry in this chaos. It can be seen in the spiralling galaxy of the Milky Way, and the amber pools cast by streetlamps. It has something to do with dustbins and overflowing drains; with men and women making whoopee, and couples embracing in the hidden recesses of back lanes. And with flywire doors creaking in a breeze, and bras flapping in erratic winds. With gamblers scanning their cards for that elusive red ace, and the awkward grace of a mother and father on their daily walk with a deformed son.
And with the resistance of a punching bag, and broken slates tumbling down pitched roofs, with cups of tea steaming vapour, and a lost ship-brother circling the streets. And with the opening siren in a football match, and the scent of damp carpet in a vacant lot; and a school assembly singing ‘God Save the Queen’ while dogs root in weed-strewn lanes; and with the Swedish Girl’s knowing smile, her perfumed embrace. And with a lone palm that rises tall and slim from a backyard above the lanes.
He is that palm, bound to a mother’s fragility and a father’s crippling doubt. And he knows he cannot set them free, and he knows their regret and sorrow will never cease. And he knows they are servants to duty, and prisoners of a chilling fate. And he knows that they love him, as he loves them, and loves these streets; and he knows also, that one day he will get out.
Romek is bent over his books, reading his beloved Yiddish poets. Their poems add lustre to the mundane. They keep him company in his silence. They accompany him through restless nights. They herald the steps of the milkman’s horse in the pre-dawn dark. He copies them out, learns them by heart. Then recites them in a dying night:
Though I have much to tell you
I shall hold my tongue
You are the doer of deeds.
And I, the man of song.
Bloomfield dozes on his bench with the stars for candles, and the moon as his Sabbath bride. He dreams of Sabbath nights in that country far removed. A train is hurtling across the flatlands to the Gates of Death. He is crushed against the sides. His comrades are scaling each other, reaching for air, a slim crack in the boxcar roof. And beside him, his daughters. And he cannot help. He is gasping for breath. Why do men murder and maim? It will remain his eternal shout. And beside him his daughters. He whispers their names as he awakes to a clear spring night.
Zofia sits by the kitchen table. The walls enclose her, threaten her, yet also protect her. The voices are returning, the dybbuks are gathering for their eternal wake. They will always return. It cannot be otherwise. But she has endured the journey. She has made it to the other shore.
And she sings, inaudibly almost.
Enjoy yourselves
Enjoy yourselves
It’s later than you think.
Author Note
Scraps of Heaven is a work of fiction. The characters owe as much to the imagination as they do to research, childhood impressions, and the experiences of refugees and displaced people I have come to know over the years. They include asylum seekers from Afghanistan and the Middle East whose recent journeys have highlighted the universality of the immigrant experience.
The scenes in the Displaced Persons camp are based on conversations with survivors, and on references such as Patrick Gordon-Walker’s ‘Belsen: 24 April, 1945’, in The Faber Book of Reportage, J. Carey ed, Faber & Faber, London, 1987; and Martin Gilbert’s monumental work, The Holocaust, Collins, London, 1986. Gilbert asserts that when the first British tanks entered Belsen on 15 April 1945, the survivors could not believe they were free. For the next forty-eight hours the camp remained only nominally under British control. When the British troops reentered Belsen in force, they discovered 10,000 unburied corpses. Most had died of starvation. Of the many thousands of remaining inmates, up to 300 died each day in the ensuing week from typhus, starvation and other diseases.
Other sources include Ian Polanski’s We Were the 46th, Queensland, 1999; Sender Burstin’s Yiddish memoirs, Nahma Sandrow’s, Vagabond Stars, Harper & Row, NY, 1977; and Ruth R. Wisse’s, A Little Love in Big Manhattan, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1988, for Zishe Landau’s poem, ‘I Am the Man of Song’. I drew also on the archives of the State Library of Victoria, and the generous guidance of Laura Mecca and Lorenzo Iozzi at the Italian Historical Society.
I owe much to Peter Re whose father was a fruiterer in Rathdowne Street. In a memorable conversation in a Carlton cafe in 2001, Peter reminded me of the ‘strips of heaven’ he consumed as a child. I coined a variation of this expression for the novel’s title. A lifelong friend, Peter passed away on 29 May 2004, just as I was completing the manuscript.
I received valuable feedback from Richard Freadman, Tony Knight, Kevin Brophy, Angela O’Brien and Kavisha Mazzella. Many people shared their stories, anecdotes and knowledge including Harry Zable, Benny Zable, Theo Doukakaris, Pino Luzzo, Kathy Koronakis, Bernard Halperin, Sonia Lizaron, Morris Gradman, Romek Mokotow, Dorothea Tallon, Tony Birch, Billy Andriopoulos, Sol Gotlib, Ida Caplan, Paris Aristotle, Mohammed Arif Fayazi, Amal Hassan Basry, Usama Aboujandi and boxing twins extraordinaire, Leon and Henry Nissen.
Michael Heyward of Text supported the novel from its inception, both as an editor and enthusiastic publisher. Melanie Ostell was a generous editor with a sharp eye. Chong Wengho produced the striking cover design. The Literature Board of the Australia Council and the School of Creative Studies, University of Melbourne, offered material support. I am also indebted to the Victorian Foundation for Survivors of Torture.
My wife Dora supported me in many ways, and my ten-year-old son Alexander is a constant reminder that life is a gift.