The Old Brown Suitcase

by Lillian Boraks-Nemetz

  After dinner, Joshua took me aside and said, “I want you to write to me, Liz. Promise?”

  “I promise. And you will write, too?” I asked.

  “Of course I will. I still want to hear more stories about that interesting life of yours,” he said jokingly.

  On my last day of school, I said good bye to all my classmates, but avoided Eva. I couldn’t bring myself to be friendly to her.

  Parting with Joshua was the saddest of all. He gave me a small menorah as a parting gift and kissed me on the cheek.

  On the bus to Montreal, hours later, I could still feel the touch of his lips.

  CHAPTER 11

  Makeup

  (MONTREAL, 1948)

  THE OLD BROWN SUITCASE was getting heavier. In addition to my precious mementos of Poland, it now contained the brass menorah from Joshua and a book about Chanukah. I carried it into our new apartment and took stock of my room.

  It resembled a furniture store. To cross it, I had to hop from foot to foot so as not to knock over the frail side tables, or trip against the mouldy edges of the velour couch. I made my way between two china dogs who sat on their hind legs as if waiting for something to happen. The room was stuffy. The air was trapped between the yellow walls and greasy windows, half-covered by heavy drapes grey with dust.

  The foul air, the condition of the furniture and a glaring red velvet chair in particular, somehow reminded me of the room in the Ghetto, on Electoralna street.

  Nevertheless it was my own room. I would dust it and rearrange the furniture.

  Father’s head popped in through the door.

  “We’ve got lots to do but our exploring mustn’t wait,” he said with a smile. “Let’s go to the street and see what’s out there. I am certain that this quarter is very different from Westmount.”

  I put on my jacket and followed Father out the door, forgetting the shabby furnishings of our new apartment. It was early afternoon. The chill of late November was in the air, but St. Laurence street was bustling with people, automobiles, wooden carts and streetcars. Everyone was rushing to and fro.

  Smells of herring, pickles, and sauerkraut drifted from barrels lodged in the side-street doorways of delicatessens. Some of the shops had the Star of David painted on the glass with the word “Kosher” in large letters. They sold salamis, meats and poultry. Other shops sold fish, eggs and cheese, and had them displayed in the windows or on the counters. Oranges, red and green apples, and onions were piled up on wooden carts, along with potatoes still covered in black earth.

  Everywhere the buyers and sellers haggled and jingled money. Polish could be heard, along with Russian, English, French and Yiddish. French-Canadian farmers sold produce to Jewish housewives.

  The bakeries were the best. I could have spent all my time breathing in the smell of freshly baked bread.

  There were shoemakers, tailors and cleaners, men selling pots and pans which dangled from their backs. Used furniture and clothing stores were displaying their wares in the wintry street. Old clothing hung on strings suspended between the doorways and the wooden posts. Rickety chairs and tables stood along the sidewalks. The merchants ignored the cold and congregated outside, warding off the chill by drinking glasses of hot tea and lemon, while sucking on sugar cubes — Russian style — just as I had done in Poland with Babushka.

  On the corner of the street stood a group of men dressed in black trousers, long coats and black hats. Underneath the hats, on each side of the head, hung long, thin locks of hair. The men also had thick beards and some wore glasses. Engaged in a heated discussion, they moved their hands energetically, while their heads and shoulders bowed up and down.

  “These are the Hasidim, a group of very religious Orthodox Jews. They look exactly like those who lived in the old Jewish quarter of Warsaw before the war,” explained Father. “I rarely went there, but some Polish Jews never ever ventured out of their quarter. I always thought them to be very rigid, but it does me good to see a Jewish quarter so alive, where people are free to come and go as they please.”

  Father’s comparison of the two quarters, one so alive and the other so totally destroyed, provoked a shocking thought. I stopped walking and clutched his hand.

  “Could it happen here, Papa?” I asked.

  “Could what happen here?”

  “The Ghetto, like in Warsaw …” My voice trailed off.

  Father didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “Why couldn’t it happen here? God forbid that it should. But if another Hitler became powerful and preached enough hatred against the Jewish race, it could happen anywhere, I suppose. Look at what happened in Rockville. But the Nazis lost the war, and there are many witnesses to what they did. If the world doesn’t forget, then it should never happen again … My, we’re morbid today.” He smiled at me, and arm in arm we continued our walk.

  Traffic grew, and darkness came early. It began to snow. The merchants hauled their wares into the shops, and the carts of produce were packed up. I was glad to return home. The delicious aroma of Mother’s cauliflower soup, greeted us on the rickety stairway.

  Chanukah was still upon us. I placed Joshua’s menorah on the dining room table, together with the candles, and wished that Joshua was here to recite the prayers.

  My parents discussed the possibility of inviting the Rosenbergs over for dinner, but Mother was concerned as to how they would react to our shabby lodgings. This was resolved when the Rosenbergs telephoned to invite us over to their place.

  As Mr. Rosenberg’s Cadillac pulled up in front of our old building to pick us up, the difference between St. Laurence street and Westmount became quite clear. But I wouldn’t have traded the colour of our street for the boring elegance of Westmount. When we arrived at the Rosenbergs’ house, I was even more struck by the difference.

  The dining table was set as usual with flowers, silver and china. A large and ornate silver menorah was placed in the centre. As expensively dressed as ever, Ina lighted the candles and said a prayer in Hebrew. That was the part I enjoyed most. Then she spoiled the moment.

  “Well, how is our country girl?” she asked condescendingly. “Did you work on the farm?” I wanted to spill cranberry sauce on her camel-coloured cashmere sweater and make it look like an accident, but didn’t dare. Instead, I asked her if she could teach me the prayer for the lighting of the menorah.

  “I could, I suppose, but I am really busy with school right now. Call me in January,” she said.

  But I knew I wouldn’t. I decided to write to Joshua instead and ask him. I could hardly wait to get home, to light my own candles, say a made-up prayer, and think of Joshua.

  December was long and dreary. I spent most of my time listening to the radio. I could understand more and more

  English. During the last weekend in December, my uncle Urek came up from New York to visit us. We dined in elegant restaurants several times, while my little sister Pyza stayed home with a neighbour. When my parents told uncle Urek that I would be starting school in January, he bought me a winter coat and gave me some money for school clothes. A very kind uncle.

  January came too soon. On the first morning of classes my stomach felt as queasy as it had been in Rockville.

  Once again Father and I found ourselves sitting in the waiting room of a new principal, Mr. Patterson.

  “What can I do for you, Mr….,” asked the principal after we finally sat down in his office.

  “Lenski, Stefan. My daughter, Elizabeth Lenski,” said Father, and explained my situation in pretty good English.

  Mr. Patterson didn’t drink coffee but concentrated a great deal on his pipe, which he was repeatedly lighting. While we sat there, he kept on receiving telephone calls during which he would coo and constantly smile. As soon as he hung up and turned towards us to discuss me, he would change completely and a stony look would appear on his face. It was like being in the presence of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  “Elizabeth is not the only one with an English problem,” said Mr. Pa
tterson stiffly. “Unfortunately, our school curriculum does not accommodate immigrant problems. I suggest that you get her an English tutor outside the school. Here she will be treated the same as everybody else, and expected to do her best.” He then sent me up to a grade nine class with a note for the teacher.

  This time I made it to class before it started. The teacher, Miss Bird, showed me which desk had not been taken. Before the lesson began, she introduced me very quickly as “our new classmate, Elizabeth Lenski.”

  The students briefly glanced in my direction, and the lesson began. This was different from Rockville. Big cities have no time to waste on individuals like me, I figured, whereas small town folk find someone new an object of curiosity. I was relieved, but I missed Joshua. All this time had gone by, and I still hadn’t written to him.

  “Elizabeth, would you kindly solve the next math problem,” said Miss Bird, whose voice seemed to have come from far away.

  “Stand up,” whispered a freckle-faced neighbour at the desk next to mine.

  I stood up. There was complete silence in the room. The hodge-podge of numbers on the blackboard meant nothing to me. I was sure that everyone, including the teacher, thought that I was trying to figure out the problem. But frankly, I didn’t have a clue.

  Just then the bell rang.

  “Well, you may go now, but I’ll ask you next time, Elizabeth,” said Miss Bird kindly.

  I was delighted. My introduction to the class could have been disastrous. As it was, I overheard girls whispering at the back of the class.

  “She looks foreign.”

  “Yeah, look at her prissy clothes.”

  At lunchtime the students streamed out of their classrooms and opened their lockers. The corridors began smelling of tuna fish, egg salad, green onions and cheese. There didn’t seem to be a definite place for lunch, so I sat down on a book next to the wall and quickly ate my chicken sandwich. Afterwards I fled to the washroom.

  The washroom reeked of nicotine as cigarettes were being lit here and there. The girls stood in front of the mirrors, pasting flaming red lipstick onto their puckered lips. Some of them posed, thrusting forward their full chests, their brassieres outlined inside tight wool sweaters.

  I was not certain whether I admired or envied them. Standing against the wall, in my navy skirt and white blouse, I felt like a nun next to these sexy creatures.

  “Aren’t you the new girl?” asked one of the lipstick wearers. “You must be from the old country. I heard that they don’t believe in modern clothes over there.”

  “Lay off, Esther,” said a voice from the back of the room. I turned around and saw my freckle-faced neighbour.

  The girl called Esther did as she was told, and returned to her cigarette, blowing circles of smoke in my direction.

  The freckle-faced girl came up to me. “My name is Miriam. Yours is Elizabeth, right?”

  I nodded.

  Miriam was of medium height and a bit plump. Her flaming red hair gave her a look of exuberance. She was smiling, not laughing at me, and I liked her.

  Miriam was also smoking. Several times she had to pause her frantic puffing in order to cough.

  “Sorry, I am not that good at inhaling yet,” she apologized. “Would you like to try a Players? They’re the latest rage.”

  I declined politely, and offered her a chocolate wafer with mocha filling.

  “No thanks, Liz. Got to watch the figure, you know. They say that big busts are fashionable, but I find them vulgar. I wouldn’t mind having one like yours, tiny. You should most definitely accent it with a bra,” said Miriam good naturedly.

  “Are you wearing one?” I asked timidly.

  “Of course. If I didn’t, they would be hanging down to my belly button, like an old lady’s.” We both laughed.

  “You have an accent. Where are you from?”

  “Poland.”

  “Must have been hard for you during the war, huh?”

  “Very,” I replied.

  “My parents are from Poland, too, but they also speak Russian. They came here a long time ago, but many of their relatives — my uncles, aunts and cousins — died in concentration camps.”

  I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to tell her about my lost sister, but my throat felt dry and my eyes were on the verge of tears. So were Miriam’s.

  “I felt you were a kindred spirit when I saw you, Liz. We’ll probably end up being good friends. I must protect you from vultures, like Esther. A rich girl like her can have the moon if she asks her daddy. You’d think that kids who have everything could afford kindness to those who haven’t much. Unfortunately, sometimes it works the other way around.”

  I thought of Ina.

  Through the remainder of classes, I tried to make a real effort to understand the lessons. Problems with English grammar were insurmountable, but I felt that I was learning. This was not nearly as bad as Rockville.

  After school I followed Miriam to her locker.

  “I need my purse, she said, and smiled widely at a boy who had stationed himself right next to her locker. He gazed at her with curiosity, and then briefly glanced at me. I knew that I didn’t impress him one little bit.

  “Here, look at these.” Miriam had turned so that no one could see. She took out of her purse a comb, a lipstick and something wrapped in tissue paper.

  “Come with me,” she urged, brushing close by the boy whose face went red. “We’ve got work to do on you!”

  She looked at me for a second as an artist eyes his model.

  “I am going to nickname you ‘Polachka.’ That’s Russian for ‘little Polish girl,’ O.K.?”

  Back in the washroom, I stood like a mannequin in front of the mirror, while Miriam did her “work.” Several girls watched as she brushed my hair so that it hung over one eye. Then she smeared lipstick thickly over my lips, and raised my eyebrows half an inch with an ordinary school pencil.

  “Now let’s go into one of the stalls,” she suggested.

  “Can we come, too?” asked several of the other girls.

  “No, my dears, please control your nosey selves for just another moment,” said Miriam, shooing them away. She took me by the hand and led me into one of the stalls.

  “Take this off,” she commanded, pointing at my blouse. Then she took a bra out of the tissue. I took off my blouse and put on the bra, with Miriam officiating at the clasps. This was far beyond anything I could have imagined for a first day at school.

  “How does it feel?” queried Miriam, while the girls who crowded around our stall were peeping from below, and chorusing, “Hurry up.”

  The bra was a little too big.

  “I thought so. Since it was too small for me, I was going to return it to the store for a size larger, but if it fits you, you can have it. Or would your mother prefer you to have one that really fits?”

  “You don’t know my parents,” I replied. “They would have a fit if they saw me like this.”

  “Jailers eh? Don’t worry, mine are like that too. We’ll break out.” Miriam stuffed the cups of my bra with toilet paper.

  When we came out of the stall, I looked in the mirror. Although my blouse was looser than a sweater, I could see two small bulges emerging from behind the pockets. Breasts at last! I exalted, feeling the toilet paper rub against my skin. The other girls gathered around. “You look so much more sophisticated now,” said one girl.

  I looked at myself not knowing how I really felt about this sudden change. After Rockville I didn’t trust girl classmates very much. The word “sophisticated” brought Ina to mind again. I didn’t want to be like her. How could I be sure that Miriam was really trying to help me, and not make a fool of me?

  I ventured to ask her something that I would never have dared to ask before Rockville.

  “Are you Jewish?” After all, Poles were also sent to concentration camps.

  “She wants to know if I am Jewish! Girls, am I Jewish? Is a Rabbi Jewish? Elizabeth, I want you to meet your classmates, R
eva Krantz, Maria Stern, Esther Goldberg, and me, Yenta Miriam Silverman.”

  With a name like Silverman, she had to be Jewish. “But what’s Yenta?” I asked.

  They laughed. “It’s Yiddish for someone who talks all the time,” they explained.

  “Now tell us, pretty young blond maiden,” said Miriam, “Are you Jewish? You don’t look it.”

  “Of course I am,” I answered with a certain amount of pride.

  “This school is ninety-five percent Jewish. Didn’t you know that?” asked the girl called Reva. How amazing that it seemed to be an almost all-Jewish school.

  On the way home, Miriam informed me about the school dances and other social events. The sooner I entered the contemporary ways of fashion and hair style, she said, the sooner my immigrant image will fade.

  “Don’t worry,” she grinned, “we’ll have you looking and talking like a Canadian in no time.”

  As I neared home, I saw Father standing in the window. He saw me and must have gone to open the door as I climbed the stairs. A look of surprise came over his face.

  “What on earth have you done to yourself!” he exclaimed.

  I remembered that I had gobs of lipstick on, eyebrow pencil, and a hairdo that made me look five years older.

  “Papa, I am fifteen years old already. The girls in my class thought I was twelve …” Tears began to fill my eyes.

  He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to my lips. “Look at this!” he said angrily, showing me the red outline of my lips on the white handkerchief. “Is this your claim to maturity?”

  “The next thing you’ll do is sneak out with boys, and that will lead to God-knows-what.”

  Now I felt angry. Didn’t he trust me? I brushed the tears from my eyes with the handkerchief I still held in my hand.

  “Why does my wearing lipstick make you say things like that? Girls here are already going on dates. This isn’t Poland!” I said.