She turns to Stephen. ‘Tell me about your troubles.’
‘The last time,’ he sighs, ‘it was a Kiwi lady whose name was Beryl. She told me how she admired my rich culture; she said she herself was a cultural blank page. I got her books and photographs to show the desolation and tragedy of my country. I was making bookings to take her to Queenstown. Then she said, “I’ve got enough trouble; I want to live a bit,” and left me.’
Krisztina is not listening. She is starting to cry.
‘We have something in common, you and I,’ says my father, giving her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. ‘We are both unlucky in something: you, in your husband; me, in my mother-in-law.’
The next day, our last, Tomi and I go swimming, then for a bush walk.
‘Don’t, Tomi.’ I shrug him away when he tries to kiss me.
By the time we return in the evening to Brents, the circle are in the lounge regretting the end of the holiday.
‘How good it has been to get away from Dr Steiner,’ my mother says.
‘He is getting more and more difficult,’ says Maria Ranki. ‘Whenever I tell him anything is wrong, he immediately explains he has the same trouble himself and it is nothing to worry about.’
‘And the food here has been up to standard this time,’ says Gábor Ranki. ‘I am told that one of the cooks has Central European forebears. The wiener schnitzel was more than passable, and they knew about not pouring gravy over it.’
‘But they still pile on the boiled potatoes, pumpkin and cabbage,’ says my grandmother.
‘I am not listening to grizzles from anyone tonight,’ Sándor Kunz says. ‘We live here in a paradise, you know, but very few people realise it.’
‘Here it is wonderful and free and nice to live in,’ Maria agrees.
‘What about anti-Semitism?’ Klára asks. ‘Jews are not loved, even in New Zealand.’
‘I do not need to be loved, only accepted…,’ Stephen starts to explain.
‘What anti-Semitism?’ says Gábor. ‘Nonsense to talk about that in this country.’
‘What was the name of that resort by the Danube? The one with the wonderful restaurant that served the best fish soup in the country?’ My mother is trying to distract them.
They ignore her. Gábor, Stephen and Klára are in a mood for argument, not for nostalgia.
‘Did you read in the Chronicle about the swastikas they painted on the graves? In Christchurch, was it?’ asks Klára.
‘Just a tiny lunatic fringe, it means nothing,’ says Stephen.
‘You can’t compare that type of incident with…’
‘Enough, enough,’ insists my father. ‘Let us have some jokes instead.’
‘Did you hear this one yet?’ asks Gábor: ‘“I saw some night life in Newtown last night.” “What, what did you see?”
“I saw a possum scrambling up a lamp post.’”
He pours the wine. By the second glass, they forget it tastes like vinegar. Klára and Maria begin to sing.
‘How about this one?’ asks Sándor.
‘Two Israeli spies, caught in Cairo, were put against the wall. The firing squad marched in. The Egyptian captain asked the first spy, “Do you have any last wish?”
‘“A cigarette,” he replies.
‘The captain gave him a cigarette, lit it, and asked the second spy, “Do you have a last request?”
‘Without a word, the second spy spat in the captain’s face.
‘“Harry!” cried the first spy. “Please! Don’t make trouble.”’
Tomi bursts out laughing. How different he looks when the worry leaves his soft brown eyes.
Before long, my mother is sitting on Gábor’s lap. My father has his arms around Krisztina. Maria is laughing at Paul’s stories. As for Stephen, he is leading a plump young woman who is clearly not foreign gracefully round the dance floor.
When Tomi and I decide to go to bed, the adults are getting noisier, the jokes becoming ruder. It is well after eleven, the Maori concert is long over. All the other guests have retired for the night. Stephen’s young woman also excuses herself.
‘Let me kiss you good night.’ Tomi stops outside my door.
‘Just as a friend.’
On the way back to Wellington, the Széps squeeze into our Hillman Minx and my grandmother goes in the Kunzes’ car. My mother is pulled over by a traffic officer for driving too fast. She has driven fast enough to overtake two cars at once. Such behaviour is out of character. Usually too nervous to pass even one car, she is either invigorated by her holiday or affected by the pressure of Paul Szép’s hand on her knee. Krisztina, seated in the back with Anna, my father and me, does not seem to care. My father has his eyes fixed on the sheep-covered hills.
When we stop for a break, the others pull over too. Sipping coffee (dishwater, my grandmother calls it) at the Taihape tearooms, the weighing-up resumes.
‘One of the good points about New Zealand is that here you can live well even if you are not in business and making a lot of money,’ Klára says.
‘New Zealand does not have the loveliness of Europe but it has some beautiful scenery,’ Krisztina agrees.
‘For me this country is a grave.’ Paul does not bother to lower his voice though there are other people in the tearoom.
‘Perhaps, God willing, it is a good country for Jews…’ My father’s voice is very quiet. He puts down his cup and ambles over to where Paul is sitting. He flexes his right arm – for his age he still has good muscles – pauses a moment, then punches Paul on the nose with such a whack that Paul nearly falls over. ‘Close your trap,’ he says, shaking his arm. ‘If you don’t stop pestering my wife, next time I will smash in your skull.’
The speed of the blow has taken Paul so much by surprise that he looks puzzled to see his cup of coffee lying shattered on the ground.
‘…although I wonder if this can be said of anywhere in the world.’ My father finishes what he was saying earlier before sitting down to stop his knees knocking.
‘Gyuri, Gyuri.’ My mother looks upset and delighted at the same time. She strokes his sore hand.
‘Don’t stare, Teddy,’ says a woman’s voice from the next table. ‘Did you hear me say don’t stare at those people? Do you want a smack, Teddy?’
We hear Teddy wailing loudly while his parents drink their tea as though nothing has happened.
‘More coffee, Gyuri?’ asks my grandmother in a respectful tone I have not heard her use before when talking to my father.
‘This is certainly a good country for children to grow up in, away from the troubles of Europe,’ Klára Kunz says as we watch the drops of blood from Paul’s nose landing with a phlop on the green plastic tablecloth.
‘Ah, the children,’ Maria says sadly. ‘Even they bring us troubles.’
‘It will have to be Brents Hotel again next year,’ says my beaming mother. ‘It has a certain atmosphere.’
I too am thinking of next year. Will things be different with William? Will they ever be different? Will he ever ask me out? Next year I will find convincing excuses to avoid Brents Hotel. By then I will be sixteen, old enough to make my own decisions and to make my escape.
WELLINGTON, 1970
‘I am glad you married Douglas,’ my mother said eventually. ‘It means your children will not be Jewish.’
My father looked shocked.
‘No, no, Kati, what are you saying? But if he makes you happy, Eva, we are satisfied. That is all we have ever wanted, your happiness.’
Several weeks after my marriage, they gave a party. The circle hurled themselves into the room in their eagerness to meet my husband.
‘So where is the professor?’ Gábor Ranki asked.
Maria Ranki pounced on the startled Douglas. ‘He’s just a baby, isn’t he?’
Surely she wasn’t going to pinch his cheeks?
‘What do you do with yourself for half the year? Do you get yourself another job?’ Gábor wanted to know. He was dressed, as were the other
men in the room, in smart suit and tie, and looked puzzled by Douglas’s faded corduroy trousers, which were several sizes too big, topped by a pullover that was a size or two too small and emphasised his slightly rounded shoulders.
Maria had a walletful of photographs to show. Zsuzsi was well married. Her Ted was a wealthy Sydney Jew and the couple lived in a mansion in Bellevue Hill.
Vera Farkas kissed Douglas on both cheeks leaving behind a trace of her bright orange lipstick, which I quickly wiped off. She wore a mournful look. Joe was still not settled, in spite of being such a good catch now that he had a PhD. All the expense she and Rudi had gone to sending him to Melbourne regularly every summer to meet nice Jewish girls seemed to have been wasted. Joe was making their life a misery right now by running around with a shikseh from Khandallah.
‘How do you do, Vera,’ said Douglas.
After fifteen years in New Zealand, Vera was not yet fully conversant with the more subtle gradations of the English language. She did not seem to realise that Douglas did not in the least wish to know about the current state of her health, and embarked on a detailed description of the latest symptoms of her rheumatoid arthritis.
Douglas was edging away when Stephen Lucas sauntered in, arm in arm with a beaming Alison.
‘So, tell me, Professor,’ he shouted at Douglas, ‘what is the point of your research? What good will it do this country?’
Douglas looked startled. He opened his mouth to reply just as Stephen swooped again:
‘I bet you’re one of those pure scientists who doesn’t care a fig about the applications of their work.’
The Kunzes arrived next. Sándor’s face was puffy and red.
‘I have high blood pressure, Dr Steiner says.’
Sándor and Klára stayed in a corner, saying little, eating the cakes. I wanted to say something to them about Tomi but could not.
Raised voices came from the kitchen. My mother and Maria Ranki were arguing about the making of tea. This was required for Mr and Mrs Webb, who had just arrived.
‘You can’t use hot water from the tap,’ my mother said.
‘So what makes you such an expert?’ asked Maria.
‘No, not yet, the kettle hasn’t quite boiled, insisted my mother. ‘Warm the teapot, Maria, if you want to do something useful.’
Maria, offended, left the kitchen to talk to Douglas, who had his mouth full of egg nokedli.
‘…So he got suddenly the cold feet and took all the money out.’
The subject was Stephen’s latest business deal. When he got the chance, Douglas ventured the opinion that Stephen’s rather penetrating voice might be an asset in the business world.
‘What’s the matter, Stan?’ My mother noticed that Mr Webb was limping badly.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he told her. ‘Just a rusty hip.’
Gábor’s expression, as he listened to Mr Webb starting to explain the problems he had run into changing the wiring of the family toaster, was one of strained interest. For his part, Mr Webb was concentrating hard on catching Gábor’s response and failed to notice the precise contents of the savoury offered him. He took one bite and a strange expression crossed his face.
When I returned to his side, Douglas was smoking his pipe. I could not tell what he was thinking and did not dare to ask.
What did the circle make of him?
‘He is a very clever man,’ my mother told Rudi Farkas. ‘Well respected.’
‘Yes, he has a high position at the university,’ said my mother to Paul Szép, when he arrived late with Krisztina.
‘And from a good family; he is so well connected.’ My grandmother raised her voice to ensure Maria Ranki did not miss what was being said.
‘But he has the English mentality,’ said Maria to Gábor.
‘And what would you find to say to him over the washing up?’ Vera Farkas asked Rudi.
‘Stiff and inhibited, like all the Kiwis,’ Maria said, shrugging.
My grandmother was sure I had chosen the right man. When I called round to see her not long after the party, she served up thick, strong coffee with firm advice.
‘This man, your husband, is a hard man; it will not be easy to keep a man like that happy, but you have to try because he is a good man. He will look after you; you can have a good life with him. But I warn you. Be careful. He is not reliable, you can’t depend on a man like that. Also, another thing, he will not forgive you if you hurt him.’
‘Hurt him? How would I hurt him?’
‘That is for you to find out, ‘my grandmother said.
I liked my new name. I enjoyed being a Simpson.
Before my marriage, I had often found it difficult to fall asleep. Now Douglas’s heavy breathing was comforting and I was rapidly lulled to sleep by the sound and feel of him close to me. In the morning if I woke first, I lay looking at the bits of Douglas visible above the covers: tufts of his reddish-brown hair, his bare shoulders, his arm covered with pale freckles, his smooth white buttock.
‘A cup of tea?’ he asked on waking.
‘Yes, yes please,’ I replied, turning towards him, filled with a soaring happiness.
One of our first visitors was Joe Farkas, Dr Joe Farkas now, lecturer in psychology at the university. We had seen little of each other since he went to Dunedin to study.
‘Libby is fabulous, just right for me.’ His voice was full of enthusiasm. ‘We spend all weekend in bed. She says I’m the best lover.’
I didn’t know what to say. Douglas left the room.
‘A little Yid, your hubby looks like a little Yid,’ said Joe.
I pretended I hadn’t heard.
‘And she has a great job, well paid. I bet Libby ends up the managing director of the company.’
‘Libby has replaced the shikseh from Khandallah then?’ I observed.
‘My mother told you about her, did she?’
‘How is your mother?’ I asked.
Vera, having spent the last months of the German occupation hiding in a small cupboard, had problems with her neck, her back, her legs, her vision.
‘My parents are panicking about Libby.’
‘Are you going to get married this time?’ I asked.
‘She’s pregnant,’ he sighed.
Not again.
‘My mother wants me to go on a holiday, to Israel, to relax a bit. I’ve been under pressure with the new job. They’ll pay for the trip,’ he added.
‘And Libby?’ I asked.
‘What about her?’ he replied.
Just as he was about to leave, Joe said: ‘What about lunch in town with me one day to talk over old times?’
‘Old times?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’d love to,’ I said, hearing Douglas’s footsteps in the hall. ‘Give me a ring.’
I felt slightly hysterical. Wasn’t it perfectly obvious, even to Joe, that one of the best things about being with Douglas was that I was free at last, freed of those ‘old times’?
Douglas parked the VW by the side of the road near the Mt Victoria lookout. He carried the saw, I the rope. We scrambled down a gravel slope, pushed our way gingerly through the gorse and walked along the meandering track until the end.
‘Here will do,’ Douglas said. Pine trees of all shapes and sizes enclosed us. Bright sunshine lay just beyond, but it was so shady and cool where we lay down together. I buried my face in his chest, smelling the sweat and the pungent scent of the pine needles.
‘Choose,’ he said afterwards, his words muffled by the raucous sound of the cicadas.
What if someone sees us?’
‘They won’t.’
‘That one,’ I said pointing to a medium-sized tree.
The scent of pine was overwhelming as Douglas sawed off a bushy branch. We carried it back to the car and Douglas tied it onto the roof.
‘Hark the Herald Angels sing,’ sang the car radio on our way home. Back at the house, I watched Douglas as he filled a bucket with water, added t
wo aspirin and placed the branch carefully in the bucket. Next he wedged bricks in the bucket to keep our tree upright. Boxes containing silver and gold balls, angels and bells then appeared from the top of the kitchen cupboard. Bit by bit, the balls and bells were hung on the tree, and the angel was attached on top. Little silver candles were clipped on next. Finally he sprayed on snow. When Douglas had finished and we stood on the other side of the room admiring his work, I couldn’t stop my tears.
‘Why on earth are you crying, Eva? he said, looking upset.
‘Because I’m happy, Douglas. I’m happy to be having Christmas with you. And I’m relieved I didn’t end up marrying someone I used to know called William.’
‘Don’t you know that Christmas is sitting round with your family, eating food you don’t want to eat? It’s the embarrassment of opening presents you don’t want to receive. Christmas is just something to be got through,’ said Douglas.
After that, I made him take off his shirt and covered him with kisses to make up for all the bad past Christmases. When I was finished, he said, ‘So, tell me about William. Who is he?’
‘You think too much and talk even more,’ says William, cupping his hands around my breasts and kissing me on the back of the neck. Pushing me on to the bed, he draws the red curtains, making a warm, darkish glow in the room, shutting out the world.
Once or twice a week we almost do ‘it’ in his bed in the new flat. I’m at varsity; William is working on the wharves.
‘Why?’ I finally force myself to ask, ‘why don’t you ever ask me out? Why don’t we have a life outside this room?’
‘I like you, Eva,’ he says with an embarrassed look, ‘but you’re different from the other girls I know. You and I are on different wavelengths.’
In a panic, I say: ‘What do you mean; give me an example. Tell me what I can do to be on your wave-length.’
‘You can’t help it,’ he says patiently. ‘There’s nothing you can do. It’s your background.’
When I get home, I look in the mirror at myself. For years I have been proud of my blue eyes, fairish hair, accent-free English. Now someone with foreign eyes and mouth, a strange nose and darkish skin stares sadly back at me.
Replacement Girl Page 11