by Alan Collins
'Tell me about the man on the other card, Uncle. Why has his face got blood all over it? Why has he got that wire thing on his head? Why is his heart so red and it's outside his shirt?'
'Don't you want to know first about the lady with the baby?'
'No, tell me about the bloody man.' Uncle Harry headed for a park bench but I was so happy to be outside and walking, even though it was at an old man's pace, that I tugged him along. 'Did the Jews do it?'
'Now we will have to talk seriously, Alan. Never mind who told you that. It's not important. I'm simply going to tell you that it is not so and if it's said to you again, say the Romans did it.'
My mouth framed a question, 'What are Romans?' but he cut in. 'Let us talk instead about Jews.' He found another park bench. He was very clever, Uncle Harry. He knew just how much talking I could handle at one go. No good compressing five thousand years of Jewish existence into one walk in a park with one small boy. He would speak in paragraphs, leaving a connecting thread for the next instalment while releasing me to run and jump and then call me back as one would when teaching a pup. In this way, on this afternoon and many others, we travelled from Ur to Egypt via the Flood, to Canaan via Jericho and to Moses who never quite made it. As Uncle Harry described it, 'Alan, see the water tower on the hill above the cricket oval? Well, Moses went to the top of the water tower and from there he could see the cricket match but no matter how hard he cheered, the players, like the Jews, could not hear him.'
I can still hear Uncle Harry's measured phrases more than seventy years later. Being a Jew was not going to be easy, he seemed to be telling me in his kindly avuncular way. Use your mind, not your fists; if the worst comes . . . run. If you get caught, roll yourself up into a tight little ball like the echidna. He showed it to me on one of our few city outings when he took me to the Natural History Museum in College Street. Another was when I accompanied him to the Great Synagogue. My father bought me a white shirt, a jumper with the maker's label snipped off and likewise a pair of navy serge pants - all metsiehs from Morry's Paddy's Market stall.
What a day that was! Not a whole day, really - it began at 9 o'clock with a ride on the tram sitting next to MY UNCLE who wore his pin-stripe suit, his bowler hat and held a silver- mounted walking stick. I carried his rubyred velvet bag with his tallit and prayer book. It was embroidered with Hebrew lettering in gold thread and seemed to me rich enough to contain the crown jewels. We alighted at the corner of College Street and walked across Hyde Park where the destitute were just rousing themselves from their newspaper-covered sleep. Once inside the synagogue, Uncle Harry nodded greetings with some and with others exchanged Gut Shabbes as we proceeded down the aisle to his seat. There, he wrapped himself in his prayer shawl, opened his prayer book and was soon oblivious to my company.
Which was just fine. First the vaulted ceiling transfixed me with its myriad painted stars. I stood up and sat down as the service required me to, but otherwise took no part in it. At the reading table on its raised dais before the richly curtained ark, the two rabbis bent over their praying until the high point, which from a seven-year-old's perspective was when the curtains parted and the scrolls of the Torah were taken out. Oh, the drama! Then began a parade of the scrolls led by the rabbis holding the Torahs and followed with aldermanic dignity by the president and treasurer, replete with top hats and striped pants. The ceremonial party walked a path which took them through the body of the synagogue, and the male congregants moved to the ends of their pews to greet the scrolls of the Law. Uncle Harry brushed the scrolls with the corner of his tallit then pressed it to his lips. I had never seen theatre or, for that matter, any staged entertainment, but I could not imagine that anything could be as wonderful as this procession which reached its apogee later when an open scroll was held high above the rabbi's head for all to see the sacred text. And to be sure, for me, it had absolutely nothing to do with religion.
Uncle Harry and I were silent on the tram ride home. He kept his hand inside his suit coat; he was gently massaging his heart, his head bent low as though he was listening for its tick. He walked at an undertaker's pace with me skipping ahead and doubling back to him. There were many questions milling about in my head but I stored them up. Uncle Harry climbed the few short steps to the flat and pushed open the unlatched door.
My father's hail-fellow-well-met voice boomed out from the dark interior. 'Stone the crows, Harry, I was about to send out a search party for you.' He tousled my hair, an unfamiliar gesture. 'Took the young'un for company, did you? Well, whaddya say to y' dad, son? Have a good time? Didja say a prayer for me, son?' He hooked his fingers in his waistcoat and gave a prodigious wink. 'Your Aunty Cissy's got something to tell you, haven't you, Ciss.' Harry moved to stand alongside his wife, who stretched her neck in the brace.
'Your father is getting married ' again.' She ground out the last word with undisguised contempt.
Well, whatever these adults expected of me, it did not eventuate. I was still enveloped in the wonders of this morning's Great Synagogue spectacular. The stars of the ceiling still danced before me, the scroll with its elegant Hebrew on parchment, whirled above my head. I could still feel the erotic smoothness of the wooden knobs at the ends of the pews; my palms tingled and my scrotum tightened at the recall.
My father shook me roughly. 'I'm takin' you with me, son, just as soon as I get things fixed up.'
The metamorphosis from Jewish boy to Jewboy was about to take place.
...3...
The smell of fried fish cooked the night before dominated my senses. Not the news that my father brought, not even his unfamiliar hand on my shoulder, nor the acrid smell of Aunt Cissy's newly lit Craven 'A' ignited from the bumper of her previous fag end. Without removing it from her lips, she took the little pieces of flaccid fish out of the wire sieve and plonked the plate on the table. Hunger came first at this moment. I had worked hard at accompanying Uncle Harry, I was loaded up with new sensations, eager as only a child can be to talk about all that I had seen. And now the table, more familiar to me with bridge-playing Sadie and her 'girl' friends seated around it, was set for four and my father was already pulling out his chair. 'Didja hear what I said, Alan?'
Oh ho, must be serious, called me Alan, not son, not young'un, not young shaver. Sounded foreign on his tongue. Bugger him, my only weapon to ignore.
Uncle Harry was seated opposite me. I had stored up a million questions that a sevenyearold needed to ask about the drama that had unfolded this morning: the tiny tinkly bells around the crowns that sat atop the handles of the Torah scroll, the shining silver breastplate resting on the plum-red Torah mantle. When it had been paraded past me I saw the engraving of a tree with, I think, twelve branches. Now I felt like I did when rubbing the knobs on the ends of the pews. I breathed in deeply, ignoring the smoke, and started, 'Please, Uncle Harry, what about -' My father's voice cut across.
'For Chrissake, son, listen to me, willya? What I'm tryin' to tell ya is, it won't be long before we're all together, you and me and . . . well, I'll tell you about that some other time.'
Cissy said, 'Sam, either you tell him or I shall. He's got a right to know even if he is only a child.' Uncle Harry put down his cutlery with a clatter. 'Would you mind telling me what is going on? You're talking about the boy as though he were a parcel to be picked up.' Cissy started to speak but Harry motioned her to be quiet. 'Out with it, Sam, and please be careful about what and how you say whatever it is you've got to say. Alan has feelings to be considered.'
My father pushed his chair back and stood up. I twigged that whenever he was about to boast or even lie, he would hook his thumbs into his waistcoat or braces, spread his legs apart preparatory to making some ex cathedra pronouncement. This was one of those times.
'Well, son, things have changed with me and you might say for the better.' He smirked and winked at Cissy. 'Wouldn't you say so, Ciss?' He leaned back on his heels. 'Yeah, definitely on the up and up, son and . . . and . . . you know w
hy? Well, I'll tell you. I'm walking out with a bonzer girl and I reckon we'll tie the knot pretty soon. Things are pretty crook in the hotelware business so I'm not exactly flush as things stand. Might have to go on the road doing a bit of gold buying - you know, doorto- door stuff. We Yids are pretty good at puttin' it over. That's kind of slowed up me plans a bit but Shirl and me will marry this side of Christmas and then we'll set up our little home in the west like the song says, but I reckon it's more likely to be in the east, down near the beach somewhere.'
Well, one thing was true. I certainly felt like a parcel, especially when Uncle Harry put out his arm and drew me to his side. 'Does this lady know about the boy? Is she prepared to, er, give him a home with you? Does she know what she is taking on? How old is she? For God's sake, Sam, Alan has had enough upheaval in his short life. Please be sure of what you are doing.'
My eyes swept around the room, searching the faces of the grown-ups. Hard to tell what Cissy was thinking - her head was held by her surgical collar at a strange angle so that her eyes swivelled but her face stared straight ahead. Harry was sunk in some deep recess, the sort of look he used when listening to a sombre slow movement -Brahms maybe. Only my father showed any animation. He snapped his braces to show he was master of the situation, that anyone about to marry for the fourth time had his wits about him.
'Now, you two must be pleased that I'm takin' the boy off your hands. Don't think I'm not grateful, but I reckon this is the beginning of a good time for him. After all,' and his voice choked, 'the poor little bugger hasn't had much of a start in life.'
Uncle Harry repeated his question.
'She's 24.'
Harry raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth, but no words issued.
'Lovely girl, Shirl. Known her for a few months. Ran the switchboard at the Travellers' Club.'
Harry cut in. 'I presume she's not -'
'No she's not,' Sam snapped. 'I dunno what she is and frankly I don't care. Look Harry, you know what it's like - the Yiddisher mums all reckon I've got a mozz on me so what with my record in the old marriage stakes, I'd never get me foot in the bloody door.
'I was thinking of bringing her down here to meet you both - I mean, it's got to happen sooner or later. I'll get a cake and stuff and we'll make an afternoon of it. What do you think about that, Harry? Cissy?' Before they could answer, he swept me up in his arms like a prize. 'Ah, she'll be right for the boy, y' know, make a home for us an' all that.' He attempted to kiss me, an action as foreign to me as his arms around me. Apart from that unfamiliar act, I felt a small shiver of anticipation at this unexpected turn of events. I got my feet on the thin carpet, looked up at him and asked, 'Is she pretty like Bella was? Does she smell nice too?'
Harry said, 'Out of the mouths of babes. You had better answer him, Sam.'
From behind her veil of smoke, Cissy said angrily, 'You've got it all sewn up, haven't you, Sam. I'm not so sure meself. You take a young girl half your age, give her a sevenyearold child to care for, you go off for days, sometimes longer and . . . I don't know, it's a gamble. I'd be more sure of winning every pot at cards than of your chances of making a go of this.'
I was working myself up at the thought of snuggling up to another pretty lady with soft yielding breasts and a delicious olfactory aura. I pulled at my father's coat. 'Is she? Is she?'
He grinned at Harry and Cissy with what I took to be pride. 'No bloody doubt about this fella, takes after me, he does.' He laughed. 'Is she pretty? Does she smell nice? Struth, son, she certainly does. She's a little trimmer. Well, won't be long and you'll meet her so you'd better practise sayin' 'mum'. He fished in his pocket and found a shilling. With an apologetic look towards Uncle Harry, he said, 'It's for spending after Shabbes, Alan.'
Twice in one day - calling me by my name - I could get used to it and even like it.
A new-found confidence was welling within me, so much so that I took my father's hand, as much to his surprise as my own. 'Will she come tomorrow, will she?'
'Now, young'un, don't rush your hurdles.' He looked across at Uncle Harry. 'Dunno if I should bring her here. Alright with you, Harry?' They played this game for a while, my father surmising that the old man could maintain his dignity under his own roof and also that Cissy hated to go out with her neck in its perpetual brace. Harry shrugged and nodded.
Quick as a flash, my father said enthusiastically, 'Righto, how about tomorrow. It's Sunday, Shirl's not working. I'll get a cake from that Yiddisher shop at the Junction. How about half past three?' So far, so good. He stuck his thumbs in his braces. 'She might want to bring her ma with her. Is that OK with you?' he rushed on. 'The old girl's widowed like, well, y' know how it is, on her own an' all that. Name's Agnes - Agnes Compton. Her old man had a baker's delivery cart.' He leered and gave a lugubrious wink like his stage hero, Mo. 'Used to leave it too long outside some of the houses, I'm told.'
Cissy lit another cigarette. 'We've grown quite fond of little Alan. Can't seem to put any weight on him, though.' She exhaled a continuous stream. Not surprising that I looked as skinny as a matchstick. The tucker was so poor that at times I longed for the twice-warmed-over food of the Ashfield Infants' Home. Right enough for a couple of oldies who ate like sparrows, but for a sprouting lad? When poor Aunt Cissy put your plate in front of you, the food on it was in small dollops like some odd animal droppings, each little pile separate from its neighbour. No wonder that at school I sat next to plump Nathan whose brown paper bag contained enough grub for both of us.
Don't get me wrong. It was not because Harry and Cissy were mean. Old people, I discovered ruefully, ate a lot less but at the same time swallowed a marvellous selection of brightly coloured pills. (My father, I was to discover later, scorned the 'pill-rollers' but had a lifetime habit of starting the day with a cup of hot water into which he threw a full soupspoon of Epsom salts. To occupy the dunny after his visit was to risk asphyxiation as surely as when we used to hurry past a ladies' hairdresser with its nose-holding smell of sulphur.)
I watched Uncle Harry to see if he would make the blessing over the bread as he always did for the midday Sabbath meal. He hesitated for a moment and then proceeded in Hebrew, 'Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.' My father's hand was poised over the little pieces of fried flathead, then he loaded his plate, unaware that he depleted the serving dish by nearly half of its contents. He ate with gusto, his dentures clicking noisily when he masticated the crusty end of the Sabbath loaf, the challah. In between mouthfuls he said to Cissy, 'You'll put the young'un into that new clobber I bought, won't you? He'll never be as good-lookin' as his old man but we'll try, won't we, Ciss?'
Good looking? Him? Me? Alike? Go on! I put down my forkload of boring fried flathead and for the first time, through fresh eyes, inspected my father, Sampson Collins, this man I was supposed to resemble. I started by peering under the table. His feet, with a small bunion showing on one of them, were encased in a pair of the shiniest black leather shoes. The cuffs of his striped, knife-creased pants were hoisted high enough to show gaudy socks and even gaudier suspenders. His crotch bulged although it could have been aided by a large silk handkerchief, the end of which hung out of his pocket like a rabbit's ear. Now I could see his waistcoat. The bottom two buttons were undone, and the end of his crocheted plum-coloured silk tie showed like a flickering tongue. At that moment one hand, the one with the starset diamond ring, reached down and rearranged his privates then rejoined the other in cleaning up whatever Harry, Cissy and I had foolishly left on the table.
There was not much of interest to me from the waist to the neck. But now my inspection became more intense. Sam's white celluloid collar sat atop his crisp white shirt. He must have been one of the last men of his age who still wore them. Maybe bachelors who had no wifey to starch and iron for them still used them; you could wipe them over with a damp cloth - good as new then! By the standards of the pictures of the men on the showcards in the barber shop -
the ones demonstrating different cuts - my father had the looks of those same dashers plus ten years. His hair, now that I inspected it with a view to comparison with my own, had a discreet tonsure of grey which was brushed back from a forehead mapped with veins. He had well-shaped ears and eyes that told you nothing. It was his mouth that was his defining feature. No man should have been given such a Cupid's bow for lips, lips that could frame a cloying sentiment, a salesman's song of success, lips that could kiss and woo and, as I found later to my cost, could and did mouth vile and violent threats.
But not today. Today he was the salesman, out to sell the virtues of Shirley Compton, a bob-haired pretty enough young thing from one of Sydney's dullest tracts of suburbia to whom the rakish, muchtravelled (at least within the borders of New South Wales) Sampson Collins was the answer to her prayers and that of her girlfriends languishing in Tempe, Arncliffe and Marrickville, for whom a day out in the purlieus of Bondi was something to be remembered. And that was where my father took her, hanging on his arm as he sauntered along the beachfront, one hand ever ready to tip his Panama straw hat cheekily to the mothers of the young Jewish women who had been warned off him. For now he had a shikse, a palpably obvious gentile girl half his age and, by anybody's reckoning, a goodlooker.
Shirley Compton, for her part, must have enjoyed his company, his maturity when compared with the yobbos of her suburban territory, the young blokes who left home at seven in the morning with their Gladstone bags, who had thermoses of black tea and dined out on a pie and sausage roll from Sargent's at lunch-break. They sat on the pavement outside the factories and ogled her when she left for work at the Commercial Travellers' Club at noon. She would not miss coming home strap-hanging on the tram, being rubbed up against by old men (not her Sam - Sam would pick her up in his tourer and give her a vicarious thrill as he manipulated the long gear-stick up against her leg).