by Jos
Flat 74 Rothschild Buildings,
Brick Lane,
Whitechapel,
London.
Saturday 14th November 1908
Dear Mama,
Mrs Haffner came for tea. She didn’t stop talking about the leaking herring barrel so I got my revenge! When no one was looking – guess what I did – I dropped an onion in the samovar!! You would have been so proud of Yossie. He remembered to tell me everything that happened when I went upstairs to see Mirrie’s mother. As soon as Mrs Haffner drank her tea, she made a terrible face and spat it all out! “Ugh!” she shuddered, “it tastes of onion!” Poor Bubbe made her another cup which tasted exactly the same! To make things worse the chimney started to smoke. That wasn’t my fault, though I bet I’ll get blamed for it. Yossie said he nearly got the giggles watching Mrs Haffner spluttering over her tea, coughing and choking on the smoke and frantically brushing bits of soot off her dress.
In the middle of all this someone came with an urgent message for Papa. Yossie didn’t know who he was, but I guess someone wanted Papa to read or translate a letter. Anyway, Papa excused himself and went off with the man. I bet he was glad of the chance to escape. Mrs Haffner left soon after – in a huff, Yossie said.
Now – for the Secrets Of My Heart. I hope Mrs H has got my message – she’s not, I repeat, not welcome here!
God bless.
Yours faithfully,
Rebecca Feldman.
Chapter 6
Bubbe grunted in her sleep. Becky opened her eyes and looked at the damp patches on the ceiling. Each one seemed to take on a different shape: a galloping horse, a huge elephant and a tall tree in the far corner. What was the one above the door? Was she imagining things or did it look just like Mrs Haffner’s hat? She shivered and looked away.
The room was so cold that her warm breath made little clouds of steam. During the night the inside of the window had iced over in a pretty snowflake pattern. She heard Papa making the fire in the living room. I’m in for it now, she thought, clutching her churning stomach. She slid quietly out of bed and dressed quickly, her teeth chattering with the cold.
Papa was angry. She could tell by the hunch of his shoulders and the way he rattled the poker in the grate.
“Thank goodness the wind has dropped and the chimney’s stopped smoking.” Becky tried to sound cheerful. “Don’t worry, Papa, I’ll clear up all the mess.”
Papa turned round quickly, still clutching the poker.
“What’s got into you lately, Becky?” he shouted. “I thought you were a responsible young girl. Yesterday you behaved like a very silly child. You upset our Shabbos guest and you made me feel ashamed.”
Becky felt her eyes sting and her lips trembled. Papa put the poker down and threw another lump of coal on the fire. He brushed the dirt off his hands and took his jacket off the hook.
“Becky, are you listening to me?”
She nodded without looking up.
“Let this be an end to your stupid, crazy pranks, d’you hear me?”
Becky nodded again.
“One thing’s for sure,” he said, as he opened the door, “you really do need a new mother. Someone who can talk a bit of sense into you,” he snapped, slamming the door behind him.
Becky sobbed until her head throbbed. Her father’s words ‘you made me feel ashamed,’ pierced her like a stab in the heart. Everything had gone terribly wrong. She thought the onion-flavoured tea might have put Mrs Haffner off and stopped the match. Instead it had done just the opposite. She had made her father angry and pushed him nearer than ever to getting married.
“Oy vey! Oy vey!” Bubbe winced, as she hobbled into the room. “The damp weather’s no good for my legs.”
Becky wiped her eyes quickly. She didn’t want Bubbe to see she’d been crying. She took the kettle off the iron ring above the fire and carefully poured the boiling water into the teapot. Then she cut a slice of bread, speared it on the long handled fork, and toasted it over the fire, first one side, then the other.
“Here, Bubbe, this’ll make you feel better,” she said.
“Thank you, dear,” Bubbe said, crunching her toast. “There was such a funny taste to the tea, yesterday. Your father had to wash out the samovar several times last night to get rid of it.”
Becky kept very quiet. Perhaps she doesn’t know that I did it – yet!
“Yossie dear,” Bubbe said when the boy appeared. “I forgot to tell you I had a message from your Uncle Joe. He’s just finished a tailoring job and he’s got enough cloth left over to make you a pair of trousers. God knows, you need them,” she sighed, looking at his shabby pair. “He wants you to go round there after cheder. Becky’ll go with you.”
Later, Becky walked with Yossie as far as the entrance to Auntie Essie’s building. “I haven’t got time to come up with you, Yossie. Tell them I’ve got to help Bubbe.” It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it saved her from having to face the family. They’ll hear all about the onion tea soon enough, and I know whose side Auntie Essie’ll be on, she thought bitterly.
The flat was empty when she got back. There was such a strong smell of damp soot it made her nostrils curl. She stood in the middle of the room and shouted defiantly at the four walls.
“I’ll show you, Papa, I’ll show you that I AM RESPONSIBLE!” With that, she rolled up her sleeves and set to work. She put more coal on the fire, swept up the soot from the hearth, washed the floor, scrubbed the table, and was dusting the furniture when Yossie returned.
“Get your shoes off!” Becky ordered. “Don’t you dare dirty my nice clean floor! Just look at you! Have you been playing in the yard?”
“So what?”
“Papa told you not to, that’s what. It’s like a sheet of ice down there. Where’s your new trousers?”
“They’re not finished. Hester’ll bring them when we meet her in the market tonight. Anything to eat, Becky? I’m starving.”
“There’s some challah left,” Becky called out from the kitchen. “I’ll heat up the soup when Bubbe gets back.”
“Where’s she gone?”
“To see Mrs Sokolov, I think.”
“What you doing?” Yossie asked, chewing a crust.
“What does it look like?” Becky replied, sorting dirty clothes into piles.
“You’re not doing the washing now, are you? I hate it when the whole place gets full of steam. It makes me choke. Can’t you leave it till tomorrow?”
“I don’t have much time to help on a Monday,” Becky said, tossing some shirts into the copper boiler, “and it’s a lot of work for Bubbe to do on her own. This’ll be a nice surprise for her.” Papa too, I hope, she said to herself.
“Damn! The tap’s got stuck again,” Becky growled, gritting her teeth with the effort. “It’s got so rusty, it just won’t turn.”
“Papa said we need a new one,” Yossie mumbled with his mouth full.
“Well that’s not much help to me now, is it?” Becky shouted angrily. She tried again. “Come on, come on, move, move, you damn stupid thing!” This time she wrenched it so hard it broke off with a loud snap. She stood there, horrified, still clutching the tap as water poured down the wall behind the sink.
“Oh, God! Quick, Yossie, grab some towels, cloths, anything! Here, hold this over the pipe, else we’ll be flooded!” Becky shouted, trying desperately to stop the flow of water.
“What we going to do? Oy vey! My feet are getting wet.”
A loud hammering on the door made them both jump. It was Mr Harris from the flat below.
“What the hell’s going on in here? There’s water coming through our ceiling!”
“The tap broke off in my hand,” Becky cried.
“Alright, calm down, Becky. I know where the stopcock is. Out of my way!” He bent down and fumbled behind the boiler.
“That’s it – all done! I’ve turned the water off. Look! See? It’s stopped. You’ll soon get dried out.”
“Thanks very much, Mr Har
ris,” Becky snivelled.
He turned the tap over in his hands.
“I’m afraid it’s too far gone to repair.” He looked up.
“Oh, there you are, Jacob. I was just telling Becky you’ll have to buy a new tap. Look here. D’you see? The thread has worn quite thin.”
Papa was speechless! The little kitchen was in chaos: dirty washing strewn everywhere, dripping cloths wrapped around the broken pipe, the children on their hands and knees mopping the wet floor.
“It was an accident, Jacob,” Mr Harris explained. “I’ve turned the water off, so there’s no need to panic.”
Papa managed to find his voice.
“Thanks Oscar, is your ceiling damaged?” he asked.
“Nothing that a coat of whitewash won’t put right. It’ll have to wait for warmer weather. By the way, I saw Abe Klein in the building yesterday. Did he come and see you?”
Papa looked embarrassed. He nodded.
“I thought so. I’m glad you’ve come to your senses at last, Jacob. I hope Abe finds you a good match. It’s hard enough for your mother, I know, and Becky’s a great help, but she’s only a child. You need to marry again, Jacob, and the sooner the better.”
“Hester told me she’s going to buy us a toffee apple,” Yossie chatted on their way to the market.
No reply.
“Are you in a bad mood, Becky?”
“What’s it look like?”
“It wasn’t your fault, y’know.”
“Oh yeah? Who says so?”
“Bubbe.”
“How d’you know?”
Yossie cleared his throat and mimicked Bubbe’s voice: “Jacob, how many times have I asked you to fix that tap? You mustn’t blame Becky, she was only trying to help me.”
Becky smiled. “Bubbe really said that, honestly?”
“Honestly,” Yossie grinned. “And…”
“And what?”
“From now on, no more steamy kitchen!”
“What d’you mean?”
“Mrs Harris has got us a washerwoman who’s going to collect our dirty clothes every week. I can’t remember how much it’ll cost. Cheer up, Becky, I hate it when you’ve got a long face on you.”
“Thanks Yossie. You’re a good kid – sometimes!”
Becky loved the market on a dark, winter’s afternoon. Hissing naphtha torches lit up the stalls and the strange light seemed to give everyone a yellow-greenish complexion. They stopped to watch a couple of buskers. One of them played a tin whistle whilst the other sang and danced.
“Look, she’s over there!”
Hester, clutching her parcels and two toffee apples, waved to them from the china stall.
“Come on, now, ladies!” the man shouted, tossing china plates in the air and catching them. “Only six pennies! You won’t get a better bargain anywhere else. Why, I’m almost giving them away!”
“How does he manage to throw all those plates in the air and catch them without breaking any?” Becky stood watching, fascinated.
“Practice, I think,” Hester said. “It must be good for business ‘cause there’s always a big crowd here. Yossie, can you see the organ grinder over there? Here’s some peanuts for his little monkey. Watch out he doesn’t snatch your toffee apple! We’ll wait here for you.” She gave Becky two parcels. “Here’s Yossie’s trousers, and this one is for you.”
“For me? Really? Thank you very much,” Becky said, grinning with excitement as she unwrapped the paper and held up a dark blue wool dress.
“Oh, Hester it’s lovely and the collar’s so pretty.”
“Round collars are all the fashion now. I made it out of a bit of shiny coat lining which I pinched from the factory,” she grinned. “The dress is only a hand-me-down y’know, but there’s plenty of wear left in it. I’ve put three tucks in the skirt. Let’s see,” she said, measuring it up against Becky. “That’s good, it’s just the right length.”
“I’m going to keep it for best and wear it for shul.”
Hester put her arm round Becky’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Becky love. I know things are hard for you right now, but if your father decides to marry Mrs Haffner, there’s no use fighting against it. You’ll just have to make the best of it.”
“Well, I’m not going to make the best of it. If he marries that awful woman, I’m going to run away!”
“Oh yeah! Where to, us? We’re already three in a bed! Don’t talk like a silly kid. Whatever happens in a family, you just have to put up with it. You’re not the only one, you know,” Hester sighed.
“What d’you mean?”
“I hate working in the factory making buttonholes all day long, it’s back aching and boring. I want to work in the West End of London and sew smart clothes for rich ladies. I’d give anything to get some training in fashion design.”
“Why can’t you? You’re so clever with the needle.”
“Training costs a lot of money and my wages are needed at home. It’s as simple as that. One day I hope we might be able to afford it, but we can’t now. I just have to make the best of it – see what I mean? Here’s Yossie.” Hester gave Becky a hug and a kiss. “You’re a brave kid Becky. Things’ll work out, you’ll see.”
Flat 74 Rothschild Buildings,
Brick Lane,
Whitechapel,
London.
Sunday 15th November 1908
Dear Mama,
Mrs Reitzner has just had another baby – number six! Where’s she going to put it? The last one slept in a drawer! I know Bubbe will send me up there with some cake or something and Mrs R will beg me to stay and look after the others. I absolutely HATE that. They’re dirty and smelly and they all have runny noses. It makes me want to throw up. I don’t want to go, but I know you would tell me it would be a mitzvah – my good deed, so I guess I’ll go after I’ve done my homework. That’ll please you.
It’s very cold and damp here. Bubbe says at least we should be thankful that the milk doesn’t go sour like it does in the hot summer. The bed bugs must feel the cold too, they don’t bite so hard in the winter time!
Now – for the Secrets Of My Heart. Mr Harris saw Abe Klein when he came to see Papa. He’s told Mrs Harris and, well – like you used to say: “Whoosh! Rumour spreads through this building as fast as a forest fire!” Nothing’s happened yet, but I’m going to fight against the marriage with the last ounce of breath in my body. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s how I feel.
All my love, God bless.
Yours faithfully,
Rebecca Feldman
Chapter 7
Bubbe’s face was all crumpled with pain.
“I’m not going to the public baths this afternoon,” she said, sucking in her breath with each attack. “I’ll have a good wash in front of the fire.”
“You’ll be all on your own,” Becky said anxiously. “Mrs K’s gone to Liverpool. Shall I ask Mrs Sokolov to pop in?”
“Don’t worry, child, I can manage. The pain comes and goes, first in my legs, then in my knees,” she sighed. “Now what was I going to ask you? Oh, yes. Take that to your father,” she said, pointing to a basket on the table. “That’ll tide him over ‘till he gets home. He’s got a rush job on and he’ll be late tonight. Have you got your towel and clean underwear ready? And soap?”
“I’ll get some.” Becky dashed into the kitchen.
“Becky dear,” Bubbe called out to her.
“Here it comes,” Becky muttered under her breath. “She’s going to tell me not to waste the soap!” She put her hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling.
“Did you hear me Becky? Don’t leave the soap in the bath water, it’s so wasteful and expensive.”
The foreman of the carpenter’s workshop was covered from head to foot in sawdust. His cap, his apron, his beard, his moustache, and even his eyebrows. He looks just as if he’s been caught in a snowstorm, Becky thought.
“You Jacob’s girl?”
Becky nodded.
“I bet the
re’s something good to eat in that basket, lucky man. You’d best take it to him, then,” he said. “You know where he is?”
Becky nodded again and stepped into the warm workshop. The air was filled with strong odours of wood, resin, sawdust and sweat. She passed rows of newly finished chairs, tables and cupboards. Some had been made from oak, the rest mahogany and walnut, all waiting for a coat of varnish.
The screeching of the great cutting machines was deafening. A short flight of steps in the far corner led up to another quieter workshop. The cabinet makers were busy sawing, planing, and sandpapering. A pot of horse-hoof glue bubbled away on a small gas ring and the stench made Becky want to throw up. Papa was bent over his workbench, pushing his jackplane forwards and backwards along a thick plank of wood. She stood fascinated, watching the smooth wood shavings fly up in perfect curls and cascade on to the floor. Just then he looked up and smiled. A good sign, Becky thought.
“Bubbe sent some soup and sandwiches,” she said, holding up the basket. Papa carefully placed his tools in a rack on the wall, then he wiped his hands on his apron, releasing a cloud of sawdust.
“Come over here,” he said, pointing to a rough bench against the wall. He peered into the basket and lifted out an enamel can with a cup-shaped lid. It was filled with cold beetroot soup.
“Want some borscht?” Papa asked, pouring the soup into the cup. “There’s plenty here.”
“No thanks.”
He broke off a chunk of his pickled beef sandwich for Becky and took a large bite for himself. She hated seeing his knuckles all swollen with corns, they looked so painful. ‘A cabinet maker’s trademark,’ Papa always called them. When he had finished eating, he took out a packet of cigarette papers and a tin of tobacco. He sprinkled the tobacco on to one of the cigarette papers. Slowly and carefully he rolled it up, licked the glued edge and stuck it down and lit it. Becky was waiting. If he blew smoke rings for her, it would mean he wasn’t angry any more. He inhaled deeply, threw back his head, and opened his mouth wide in the shape of an ‘O’. One by one, he blew perfect smoke rings into the air.