by Alan Collins
'This is the Venerable Day of the Sun,' the pastor began, his voice in capital letters. 'From sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday, this is the Sabbath established by God's law.'
So far, the pastor and I were on the same tram; our rabbi would make common ground with the pastor. But from here on, these two parted ways.
'The personal, visible coming of Christ is near at hand. At the close of the millennium, Christ and all His people will return to earth, Satan and his sinners will be ousted forever . . .'
I squirmed around in my seat. I needed a friend ever so badly. I searched out Mrs Heide Levin. She stared forward, stony-faced. I stared back, willing my gaze to meet hers. June grabbed my arm; I pushed it away. The pastor, with rising intensity, both hands clenched on the back of the carver chair, declared, 'Today, this is the Sabbath of our quarterly meeting, it is the Sabbath of the washing of the feet.'
There was a low murmur of 'Amen'. The pastor's voice rose above it.
'Today we are blessed to have among us a descendant of the people who received the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai, a son of David and...' his voice almost breaking with emotion, 'and the embodiment of the risen Jesus Christ!'
Merle shot to her feet, covered the gap left vacant by Jack, stretched out her long thin arm, hauled me upright by the collar of my Paddy's Market coat and presented me like an agricultural show prizewinner. All around, congregants rose to the combined accompaniment of the harmonium's blaring chord and the slap of cinema seats flipping up. Some winner, me! I came horribly close to shitting myself just like when the Alsatian dog had leapt at me on my way home from school. Tightened buttock muscles, June's hand locked over mine . . . saved, if you understand me, saved, too, by the homely clunk of Jack's boots as he returned to once more take his place in the pew.
A bony finger now pierced my back. I shuddered - it was horribly like Ma Compton's prodding, only now I was Alan and not the brat. Merle, having broken the nexus between me and June, propelled me forward to the dais. The pastor reached down to me, hauling my shaking body towards the carver chair. But no, it was not for me to be seated on this handsome piece of furniture. He placed me right next to the tub of water, which was in front of the chair. His voice now echoed around the old cinema. Without preamble, he intoned: 'The historic faith of the church is our faith, Christ the divine one, Christ the miracle worker, Christ the sacrifice for sins, Christ dead, Christ risen, Christ ascended . . .' His voice rolled on.
Uncle Harry used to take the tram to the Great Synagogue every Saturday but only took me with him on the days when Sam had brought me some new clothes. Now that I was once more in my father's care the wonder of the Great Synagogue would be only a memory until, a couple of years later, I would become barmitzvah there. Until then, I would be parked on Saturday mornings at the Bondi Road School of Arts shul where a wizened, shrunken rabbi intoned the Hebrew liturgy which he mutilated in the accents of his East European forebears. In all of the many dreary Saturday mornings I had spent in that tatty synagogue, I never once heard the dried-up old rabbi mention death, sin, risen, Satan. Now I found myself peculiarly grateful for this and, at the same time, frightened by the pastor signposting sin, Satan and Christ coming again. For me? A skinny Jewboy in a dusty country town?
'We believe that it was Christ who created the world in six days and rested on the seventh day; that it was Christ who gave the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai . . .'
Ah now, here the pastor was getting nearer home. Mrs Whatsername who came to the Bondi Beach Public School for religious instruction had drilled us Jewish kids (and there were quite a few of us, some were 'reffos' straight off the boat who were frighteningly clever and eventually went to university) . . . anyhow, Mrs Whatsername had told us straight that Moses brought the Ten Commandments down from Mount Sinai and gave the stone tablets (at the time, that made me snigger; a tablet was for a headache!) to the Jews.
The pastor came to the edge of the dais, positioned me in front of the tub of water and began. He placed his hands on my shoulders. 'This Jewish boy who has come among us is the embodiment of Jesus, in the direct line from King David. As Jesus washed the feet of his disciples on the eve of the Passover, so shall this lad do likewise.' He bent his head to my ear, whispered to me to tell him my name. I don't know what came over me at that moment. From some dark recess I conjured up my Hebrew name, the name given me at my circumcision.
'Avraham ben Shimshon,' I whispered.
'What was that?'
I repeated it, this time with a mite more assurance. Something within me, a warning, a caution, stopped me from adding the fact that I was a Cohen, of the priestly class created by Moses on God's orders, and Moses' brother Aaron being the first one - or so I had been told by our old rabbi. He said it was important to know which of the priestly classes I belonged to. A fat lot of good it had done me so far. I dwelt on that, as the next step in this Sabbath morning of the Seventh-day Adventists was about to commence.
The pastor proclaimed: 'Jesus rose from the supper and laid aside his garments, took a towel and girded himself.' Swiftly, he removed my coat. I stood stock still in that fetid room on an Aussie summer's morning while he dropped down my braces. My trousers slid to the floor. In a daze I stepped out of them while the pastor wound a white towel around me.
'After that he poured water in a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet.'
Even had I wished it, I no longer had the power to resist anything that would be asked of me. I knelt before the tub of water, unaware that around the room men were forming a queue. The first one climbed the little steps to the dais, his boots and socks in one hand, and seated himself in the grand carver chair. The pastor murmured, 'Jesus loves you, Ernie.' The man lowered both feet into the water, 'Could do with a bit more hot, Pastor.' As I bent over the tub the water immediately lost its clarity although I could still see Ernie's feet, already on the large side, now even bigger under water. Still, they were only there for a few seconds, the pastor tapped him on the shoulder, my very elementary washing and drying was hardly over, and then the next man came forward. I looked up into Jack's crinkled blue eyes which I reckoned actually winked at me. Just as he lowered his feet into the tub, a shrill voice rang through the hall.
'Stop it, stop it now, oh please Gott, no more of ziss on ziss Junge.'
I dropped the towel in the water. Jack stood up in the tub. I rose from my kneeling and grabbed his hand. Mrs Heide Levin, at the rear of the hall, her hands covering her face, was crying, but between her sobs, her voice now under control, went on, 'He iss not Jesu, he is not yours to do ziss mitt. He iss a poor Jewish boy. Pliss to let him go now.' And she ran from the hall.
Jack: what a man! The father I would have wished for. Jack bent down to me. 'I feel a bit of a drongo, Al, standing here with me feet in a bloody tub. What do you reckon?'
'Yeah.' I paused only to put on my pants. His hand over mine, he led me down the steps. The pastor started with a feeble objection but Jack said over his shoulder, 'Don't worry sport, I'll put a quid in the plate.' Together we walked as mates, back to our seats. Oh, the agonised look on the faces of Merle and Flo; June could hardly wait for me to sit down. Despite her father's growl, she grabbed my hand tightly. 'That'll be the end of going to Windsor to see Heide,'she murmured. 'Mum might have to take us to Sydney,' she put her hand on my knee, 'and I could nick off to Bondi.'
.... ....
Sunday came to me via a kick on my bedroom door and Jack calling me. I was still enjoying the sound of my name. 'Rise and shine, Alan.' Not, 'Get out of the bloody way, brat.' I pushed the covers back, opened the door and actually revelled in the blast of freezing air that rushed in. I watched with a new-found pleasure the mists rolling back from the potato fields, the steam rising from Mickey's flanks and the magpies already foraging in the furrows for their breakfast.
Down the yard a bit was a pump just like the one in The Land newspaper. I could have gone to the bathroom but the sight of that beautifully curved pump handle
was irresistible. And this morning, as Jack had warned me, we would be working. I put on my khaki shorts, same socks but a pair of sandshoes. Should I go to the dunny for a pee? Like my heroes in the bush yarns, I sneaked around the corner of the house behind a lantana bush and let the hot stream go. Now for the pump!
I jerked the handle up and down, up and down with nothing for my efforts but air being sucked into an empty lung.
'You've got to prime it, dummy.'
I dropped the handle. Flo called out again from the verandah. 'I'll get you a jug of water. You pour it down the barrel, then you pump,' she said with contempt for such a dill who didn't know something as simple as priming a pump. Before she reappeared with the jug I thought up a defence: bet she couldn't catch a wave from way out and ride it right to the beach.
Flo was not going to lower herself by coming down to the pump. Oh no, she held the jug out to me then, to emphasise her spirit or something, put it on the verandah and waited with hands on hips. Pretty enough, I reckoned, with the morning sun's rays streaming through her dress. I ambled up with something of a swagger and collected the jug.
'Thank you,' she said tartly.
'You didn't give me a chance. I was going to . . .'
'Pour it in slowly, then pump easy.'
I did just what I was told. Once more to the pump, and out of the nozzle a strong flowing stream. I continued to pump with one hand while the other splashed the icy water over my face. Flo came down the yard and took the handle from me; I pulled off my shirt and singlet and, just to show her what a big man I was, splashed myself all over.
I don't think I had ever been so cold, not even when surfing at Bondi in winter when a bitter east wind made the spray feel like needles. Flo let the pump handle drop and silently handed me my clothes.
'Better get some brekky, Alan. Daddy's waiting for you.'
Together we went back to the house. I had a plate of Weet-Bix and hot milk, toast and Marmite and a banana. God, I thought, if I keep this up, I'll go home fat as a pig. And that was the first and only time I thought of 'home'. Shirley, Sam and even dear Gertie were way out of my life and only ' crumbs! ' only two days since I'd left 48 Francis Street.
Way in the distance I could see Mickey heading down towards the river. Jack's figure perched on what I almost thought of as my seat hastened my steps down the furrows, then I waited until Mickey's return. Jack called to me to hop up. Not easy as Mickey's loping stride was not that slow.
'What do you want to do, Al?' he asked. Oh boy, now I was just Al. Could it get any better? 'You can sit up here or you can drop the seed potatoes in the furrows.' Well, what a choice. Jack knew what the reply would be; he'd already let the reins go, jumped down and mounted the drawbar behind where the sacks of seed potatoes lay ready. 'Now, young shaver, don't let Mickey's head drop or he'll wander off the furrow.' I took the reins, not believing the benign draught horse would do any such thing. It was bliss. The sun's comforting rays warmed me through. The silence was overwhelming. The morning wore on and I was certain I would never again know such peace.
Thus the week passed and then the next and the next, marked off by the Friday-night bath, the Saturday trip to the church and the easing tension between June and me. No longer was it hindered by powerful unfulfilled feelings. We had come to an understanding, June and I, with my life as a Jewish boy and hers as a lonely girl. I think we knew that there was a bond but also that there was nothing we could do about it. Not kept apart but not bound together, a Jew and a Seventh-day Adventist. Something to think about, Alan, as the train was steaming back to Sydney's Central Station, and on the tram rattling down the hill of Bondi Road and finally the dragging steps back to 48 Francis Street.
...11...
I stretched out my arrival at 48 Francis Street for as long as I could by riding the tram to the end of the line at North Bondi, then walking all the way back along the beach promenade. Much as I had enjoyed the country, I sniffed the sea air like a pup out for a romp. It was the last day of the school holidays. Monday I would start at the Wellington Street High School. Should I mention that on the other side of the street a few doors down was the high wroughtiron fence of the Scarba Home? Was carbolic Matron McCechnie still there? What about scratchy Martha and Sunlight soap? Not much of a childhood grab-bag of memories to sift through, except that my odd ability to store up scents and what they dragged up never left me. So musk sweets and Grandma were inseparable, as was Bella from her Woolworths cologne and Sam from his Californian Poppy brilliantine.
The sun was still high in the sky as I pushed the gate open. I had no door key, never had. It was mercifully quiet, no response to my timid knock. I was glad to take off my coat and perch on the gas box. My two half-brothers came home soon after, followed minutes later by Shirley with a paper bag of Nestle's chocolates which she ostentatiously distributed to her two sons. For Chrissake, they were only a penny each, one more wouldn't have sent her broke. They sauntered up the garden path with barely a nod to me, opened the front door and . . . that was it. With the cheering picture of Jack Bayswaite to fall back on, I hopped down and knocked on the door. Shirley's voice screeched down the hall. 'Let the brat in.' One of the small boys opened it, flattened himself against the door to let me past and stuck out his chocolate-slagged tongue.
Today though, that minute, I felt so much stronger. As I rushed down the hall to the back porch where my stretcher stood folded up, I pictured Jack perched on my seat on the plough as Mickey plodded the furrow. At the bottom of my bag I had a seed potato I was going to plant. Jack had said, 'Plant it with the eye upwards, Alan,' but I reckoned he was having me on. I thought I'd do it tomorrow but right then I was hungry. The whiff of chocolate did that to you.
I recognised the sound of someone dragging a stick along a fence - our back fence. It stopped, then Frank Bayswaite's gap-toothed grin showed over the palings. 'Fuckin' 'ard work plantin' spuds, ain't it? Break yer bloody back. Y'orl right, young'un?'
'...Course he's alright, aren't you, Alan.'
I ran up the yard to the fence in time to see Frank's mum climb onto her upturned bucket. Frank laughed and called out as his mum elbowed him aside, 'If the work didn't kill him the fuckin' nutmeat would.'
Ma Bayswaite questioned me closely about the doings at the farm and finally got around to asking me if they had sent anything down for her. I shook my head, keeping shtum about the one seed potato. Conversation petered out. The pair of them went, leaving me to my thoughts which, I must admit, centred on something to eat. A boy gets bloody hungry, even though I had put away the farm's usual brekky, but that was, oh - at least . . . I don't know how many hours ago. I waited in the wash-house reading Tarzan comics and wondering what would happen if Tarzan and Boy (that'd be me) met Mandrake and Narda in the jungle. I didn't fancy my chances if Lothar, Mandrake's giant Nubian slave, took me on. Maybe, like in Uncle Harry's David and Goliath yarn, I could knock him out with my catapult made from a fork off the loquat tree and a bicycle inner tube.
My tea came, as usual, on an enamel plate plonked down on the washtub cover. I had my own knife, fork and spoon that I washed after each meal and kept on my shelf with my toothbrush. Those meals at the farm, though eaten mainly in silence except for the prayers, now seemed almost joyous compared to the loneliness that overcame me as I stood up and ate the food so grudgingly given me.
My father was now permanently on night shift at the munitions factory, leaving the house about 10 o'clock at night and coming home about the time I left for school in the morning. Our meetings were haphazard and when we did meet it was wordless - just a ruffling of my hair with his once well- manicured hand now calloused and a sixpence or a shilling that I would find in my school-pants pocket.
.... ....
The war moved closer to Bondi. My school days varied mostly by being more difficult to wag. Now we had old men and older women teachers; they were awake to all the tricks and excuses. The one I liked but couldn't use was: 'Dad's away at the war and I have to stay hom
e and mind the baby while mum's at work.'
Once more I took refuge in reading, upgrading my choice of books borrowed from the penny library (for me the fee never went up) to a never-ending stream of Agatha Christie. Next in line was the pompous, debonair English crime-fighter who foiled the crooks with his bumptious upper-class style, abetted by a sub-human American named Hoppy Uniatz and his cannon-sized revolver, his 'Betsy'. Who else would get me out of the back porch/laundry/dunny as wonderfully as Simon Templar, even outdoing Mandrake. Not in all my life in Bondi or elsewhere for that matter did I ever set eyes on a Hirondel like the one Templar tooled around in. The flashest car I had ever set eyes on, and actually sat in, was Gertie's dad's Buick.
There were nights when I would hear Abe Feldstein's van pull up outside. When he had finished his huffing and puffing over Shirley's body he would step over me on the back porch as he went for a pee. As Abe left he also left me his usual bribe, 'Here's a deener, son, take your girlfriend out,' and poked me in the ribs. There was another small benefit for me in all this marital deceit. Shirley's attitude towards me was one of heightened disdain and, perhaps too, caution in case I dobbed her in to my father. He was surely aware of her goingson - what he didn't know was the cheeky frequency of the visits of his 'old friend'. And my pocket-money sources were also enhanced by my father's revengeful insistence on my 'visiting' Aunt Enid at around nine every Sunday morning. A bleary-eyed Uncle Bert would open the door a few inches, enough to get his hand through and wordlessly proffer me a sixpence. Equally silently, I took the money and made the round trip to Watsons Bay. When I got back to 48 Francis Street, Sam would ask, 'How's your Aunt Enid?' Considering I was only young and had no knowledge of family life, I concocted my reports from the stories in my reading and from what I gleaned in the schoolyard.