Beryl looked up, her bloodshot eyes wide with alarm. ‘Don’t say nothink. It’s not the first time, see. If you tell her, I’ll lose me job. I’ll be okay in a minute.’
A moment later she vomited. Curds of undigested food lay in her apron, and threads of yellowish liquid hung down her chin.
‘Sorry, love. Just bring me a glass of water and I’ll be right as rain.’
Sala brought Beryl a glass of water, sponged her face and carefully removed her apron, surprised at her own lack of rancour. Ever since she’d started working there, she had seethed over Beryl’s nasty comments and had brooded about revenge, but suddenly the old dragon looked no more menacing than a deflated balloon.
‘You should go home,’ Sala repeated, looking at Beryl’s face, which was as sallow as candlewax. ‘I won’t say anything to Mrs Feldman, and I’ll do your rooms so she won’t know you weren’t here.’
Staggering to her feet, Beryl nodded gratefully. ‘Ta, love. Hooroo.’ She steadied herself against the wall and waddled out of the building.
Sala ran around whisking the feather duster over the furniture, emptying the ashtrays and sweeping and polishing the floors. She was putting on her coat when Franka Feldman put her head around the door and asked her to come into the office. None of the typists had arrived yet and they were alone.
After a brief chat, Mrs Feldman said, ‘Tell me, was your maiden name Preiss by any chance?’
Sala nodded, surprised by the question.
Mrs Feldman opened a copy of the previous week’s Jewish News and turned to the Personal Notices section at the back of the paper. ‘Someone is looking for you,’ she said.
Sala’s hands trembled as she took the paper. So many Jewish survivors had migrated to Australia after the war that it wasn’t unusual for family members to place advertisements in the local Jewish press in the hope of finding relatives. Perhaps an aunt or cousin had survived after all and was searching for her.
But the notice hadn’t been placed by a relative. There was to be a court hearing in Poland and they were looking for witnesses. Too agitated to read the notice word by word, she scanned it, and her heart pounded. One name leapt from the page.
Behind her large shiny glasses, Franka Feldman watched with her calm, sympathetic gaze.
When Sala finally looked up, her face was taut and pale. ‘How did you know it was about me?’ she said.
‘Well, you told me you came from Łód, so when I saw that someone was looking for Sala Preiss from Łód, I thought it might be you,’ Franka said. ‘I can see you’re upset. If you ever feel like talking about it, come and see me any time.’
Thoughts coiled and uncoiled themselves in Sala’s mind as she sat in the tram on her way home. In the seat in front of her two women were talking in loud staccato voices in what she recognised as Hungarian. In the quiet compartment their voices sounded shrill, and she heard an Australian saying, ‘Shuddup, you bloody reffos. Go back where you came from if you can’t speak English.’
Sala spent the rest of the day wandering around aimlessly, her mind in turmoil, and when Szymon came in she realised that she’d forgotten to buy meat for dinner. They’d parted on bad terms that morning and she braced herself for more recriminations about her job and her forgetfulness, but to her surprise he didn’t seem to mind that she’d forgotten the meat.
‘Don’t worry, Salcia, tonight we’ll be vegetarians. Too much meat isn’t healthy anyway.’
He was in an expansive and forgiving mood, and it didn’t take her long to find out why.
‘Fela wants us to come for dinner next week. It’s Rosh Hashana,’ he said eagerly.
Sala hadn’t seen Szymon’s cousin since they’d moved out after the episode of the spilled borsch. She was reluctant to go there but, remembering the notice in the newspaper, she decided to be conciliatory.
She found some cauliflower, a few potatoes and an onion in the cupboard and took them into the kitchen. She prepared the cauliflower the Polish way, sprinkled with buttered breadcrumbs, and she fried the grated potatoes and onions the Jewish way, into the flat pancakes called latkes which were Szymon’s favourite. This time she had the communal kitchen to herself, but for once she didn’t dwell on the state of the greasy Kooka stove, the rancid smell or the fly-spotted ceiling. She had something else to think about.
She dreaded the prospect of broaching the subject in case Szymon started dragging up the old suspicions and accusations; she couldn’t face going over all that again. But apart from worrying about Szymon’s reaction, she felt confused. How should she respond to the notice? There were so many rights and wrongs, so many excuses and rationalisations, that it was impossible to disentangle one from the other. Perhaps she should wait. She needed to assess the situation with a calm mind before deciding what to do.
Relieved that she’d found a way of delaying the confrontation, she carried the vegetables to their room and forced herself to smile.
A week later they rang the bell on Fela’s door. Sala pulled nervously at the jacket of the outfit Szymon had bought her in Marseilles, wondering if she was overdressed. As soon as the door opened, Fela threw her arms around their necks and wished them ‘Shana Tova’ in her effusive manner, while behind her Lutek was fussing around, straightening the fringes of the Persian rugs.
Sala looked at the dining table with the silver candelabra and the round challa studded with raisins and wanted to cry. This was an empty ritual attempting to re-create a vanished world in a country where there was no room for imported nostalgia. Instead of clinging to old rituals, they should concentrate on adapting to their new environment.
Szymon, as usual, saw it differently. ‘Look, Salcia, isn’t this fantastic! Who would have thought during all those terrible years that one day we’d be celebrating Rosh Hashana again in a free country?’
She glanced at him, handsome in spite of his broken nose, his thick dark hair brushed back from his wide forehead and cresting into a wave, and his face glowing like a child who has just received a longed-for gift. It irritated her that, despite everything that had happened, he persisted in clinging to this optimistic view of the world. But at the same time she envied his childlike capacity for unquestioning faith.
They had just sat down when the doorbell rang and, with little shrieks of welcome, Fela ushered in another couple. The newcomers were Alex and Genia Engelman. Like their hosts, the Engelmans had also arrived in Sydney before the war. Alex had been a public prosecutor in Warsaw, but instead of repeating his law studies in a foreign language and learning a new legal system, he’d started a business manufacturing men’s shirts, and from what Fela had told them, he was doing very well.
Lutek wiped each delicate crystal glass and held it up to the light to make sure there were no smudges, then poured the Cherry Heering while Fela went into the kitchen to put the finishing touches to the festive meal. Szymon was drawn into the men’s conversation about Australia’s dependence on Britain, the crippling cost of imported textiles, the need for locally produced merchandise, and the escalating cost of flats and houses.
‘This is a very peculiar country,’ Alex was saying as he placed his empty glass on the walnut coffee table. ‘They think it’s bad manners to talk about sex, religion and politics. Doesn’t leave much!’
‘That’s why all they talk about is the weather,’ Lutek said as he whisked away the glass and placed it onto a tray. ‘It’s the only topic left.’
Szymon was shaking his head. ‘Well, I’ve had enough discussions about religion and politics to last the rest of my life. But as for sex …’
The men burst out laughing, and on the other side of the room Genia leaned towards Sala and giggled. ‘I bet they’re telling dirty jokes.’
Looking at Genia’s fashionably short hair, which was cropped around her animated face, and her crisp taffeta dress with its big portrait collar and full skirt, Sala was glad she’d worn her New Look suit, but when she caught a glimpse of her own hair in the gilt-framed mirror above the mantelp
iece, she wished she’d arranged it in a more sophisticated style. It had already worked loose from its roll and was hanging in a riot of curls around her face
Genia’s hands were weaving arabesques in the air for emphasis as she compared Sydney with prewar Warsaw. She extolled the latter’s cafés, nightclubs, boutiques and beauty salons, and sighed with nostalgia as she reminisced about Warsaw’s operettas, concerts and plays.
‘Sydney is a cultural wasteland,’ she said. ‘People here are quite backward and hardly anyone worth listening to ever gives concerts or recitals. What they do have is a wonderful climate, but it hasn’t occurred to them to have outdoor cafés and restaurants. All they do is fry at the beach.’
From the other side of the room Alex broke in good-naturedly. ‘Genia, what are you talking about? It’s not so bad. In June we saw Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh at the Tivoli, and last week we went to hear Elisabeth Schwarzkopf at the Town Hall. As a matter of fact, I’ve just bought tickets for Tosca at the Elizabethan Theatre.’
He smiled across the room at Sala. ‘Genia always exaggerates. That’s part of her charm.’
Genia rolled her eyes and gave Sala a conspiratorial look. ‘And Alex always takes everything literally. Have you noticed how men do that?’
Alex looked at Sala’s hair and turned to his wife. ‘See, darling, not everyone has shorn their hair.’
He looked at Sala again, and she was aware that he held her gaze far longer than was socially acceptable. She blushed and looked down, but when she glanced up again he was still watching her.
She liked the direct gaze of his dark blue eyes and the shape of his full lips, which were accentuated by his neatly trimmed moustache. She blushed again and was relieved when Fela called them to the table.
When they were about to begin the traditional new year meal, Szymon said, ‘Mind if I say the brochas?’
Sala felt herself shrinking with embarrassment, but the men quickly took folded handkerchiefs from their pockets and covered their heads while he intoned the Hebrew blessings for the bread and wine.
After they’d dipped slices of apple in honey to symbolise a sweet year, Fela served chicken soup with matzo balls.
Genia closed her eyes in ecstasy. ‘I’ve been looking for matzo meal everywhere. Where on earth did you find it?’
This led to an animated exchange of information about the grocers who sold continental goods, the butchers who knew how to cut veal fillet into schnitzel, and the continued lack of unsalted butter.
While Lutek carved the roast chicken with the precision of a surgeon, Genia turned to Sala. ‘Fela said you spent the war in Poland.’ Her eyes were soft with sympathy. ‘You must have had a terrible time.’
Invisible ropes yanked Sala’s stomach so tight that her breath came in rapid gasps. She felt everyone’s eyes on her. Somehow she had to forestall the inevitable question.
‘Yes,’ she said, and turned to Lutek. ‘Could you pass me the salt, please?’
Fela and Lutek exchanged glances, and for a few awkward moments no one spoke.
Alex was looking at her with an expression that implied an unspoken collusion. ‘It’s Rosh Hashana,’ he said. ‘Why talk about the past? Let’s talk about the future.’
Sala agreed, grateful that he’d understood her reluctance to discuss the war.
Lutek opened a bottle of sparkling burgundy and poured the foaming liquid into their glasses. ‘Let’s drink a toast to the new year and to our new country,’ he said.
As they raised their glasses, Sala saw that Genia was leaning against Alex, her hair brushing against his cheek, and she was aware of a feeling that disturbed her.
‘I’ve got good news,’ Genia said. ‘We’re going to have a real New Australian!’
Before the news sank in, Fela was at her friend’s side, hugging her and uttering little screams of delight.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Szymon said, and gave Sala a meaningful glance, but she was studying her wine glass.
She couldn’t wait for the evening to end. As the night wore on, she realised that she felt more comfortable with her Australian neighbours, women like Verna Browning who never asked about the past. With them she could be whoever she wanted to be, but here she had to be on her guard because they were obsessed with a past she was determined to leave behind.
As they waited for the tram, Szymon reached into his coat pocket, and handed her something small and flat. ‘Go on, open it,’ he whispered.
It was a bankbook, and under the deposit column, in neat handwriting, the bank teller had written Twenty-five pounds.
‘I’ve saved that already,’ he said. ‘Mr Furstenberg said he’ll give me a raise soon, and when I’ve saved a hundred pounds we’ll get a loan from the bank and start looking for a place of our own.’
He squeezed her arm. ‘You didn’t look happy tonight, Salcia, but don’t envy them. You’ll see, one day you’ll have everything.’
She sighed. As usual, he had got it wrong.
Chapter 22
To add to Kath’s problems while Meggsie was in hospital, Alan, Ray and Pete were sent home from school in case they were infected as well. None of the children in the street were allowed to play with them and, as if she didn’t have enough to worry about, the Pitts, a stuck-up couple who lived at the Barton Street end of Wattle Street, pointedly crossed the road and placed handkerchiefs over their mouths whenever they saw her. The third time they did it, Kath sang out, ‘Meggsie’s got polio, for Christ’s sake, not the bloody plague!’
With a self-righteous air, the Pitts repeated what she’d said, and soon embellished versions of her retort went around the neighbourhood. By the time the story reached Verna Browning, their encounter had turned into a screaming match, with Kath about to throw a punch at the defenceless Mrs Pitt.
‘You’d think people would have more sense, to say nothing of Christian charity, gossiping like that,’ Verna Browning said indignantly as she put junket and tinned peaches into Ted’s dessert bowl.
Ted nodded absentmindedly. He was brooding about an upsetting encounter with Lilija three days before. When his article about Bonegilla had been published, Gus had given him a small raise, and he’d decided to splurge it on a romantic candlelit dinner in a swanky restaurant like Prince’s or Romano’s. She would gaze at him adoringly while waiters in dinner suits and haughty expressions filled their glasses and flamed crepes suzette at their table. But this time he resolved he wouldn’t wait until he met her in secret on the tram. He would go to her house to ask her out.
His heart had pounded when he’d rung her doorbell and he’d rehearsed what he would say to convince Mr Olmanis that he loved his daughter and would bring her back at whatever time he stipulated. Lilija’s mother answered the door; her nervous expression and stiff movements reminded him of a marionette whose strings were being pulled offstage. The skin on her face was taut, and she fiddled with the collar of her dress. Her eyes darted sideways and she muttered something he couldn’t understand, fluttered her hands, and said, ‘Wait a moment please,’ and left him standing on the doorstep.
Peering into the hallway, he saw that it was decorated with intricately hand-embroidered pictures depicting women in folk dress, snow-capped gingerbread houses and verses he supposed were in Latvian. From inside the house he heard a man and woman arguing in loud, angry voices.
A few moments later Lilija appeared and he felt that shock of delighted incredulity he experienced each time he saw her.
Her face was paler than usual, and her arms were tightly folded as though she was trying to hold herself together. She didn’t invite him inside. Not meeting his gaze, she said in a tremulous voice, ‘I’m sorry, you cannot come here. I can’t see you any more.’
‘But I came to ask you out,’ he began, but she shook her head and quickly closed the door.
Since then he’d gone over every conversation they’d ever had, but he was still baffled by her odd behaviour. Why had she closed the door on him and said she couldn’t see
him any more? She’d defied her father before to meet him, she’d let him hold her hand and kiss her, so why had she suddenly brushed him off like that? And what did her father have against him anyway?
Too restless to stay inside, Ted went out onto the verandah and lit a Capstan. It was one of those delicious spring evenings when the air was warm with the promise of summer, and the light breeze carried the scent of wood smoke. The sun was starting to set and the horizon was the colour of ripe strawberries. As he inhaled, he felt the nicotine relaxing him. Next door, the Polish girl was sitting on the doorstep, her face in her hands, and he wondered what was wrong. Probably another fight with her mother. Across the road Kath was shouting at the boys to sit down for dinner before she took the wooden spoon to them.
A clinking sound made him look around, and there was Pop Wilson placing another empty bottle onto the pile on his verandah. Without the jovial mask he put on for others, his bloated face sagged and seemed to collapse into itself. Ted suddenly remembered that after returning the tool bag he’d promised to drop in for a chat, but he still hadn’t got round to it. Feeling guilty, he hurriedly tamped out his cigarette and went inside before Pop saw him.
He threw himself dejectedly into an armchair and pulled at the loose threads of the crocheted throwover.
His mother cast him a sympathetic look over her knitting. ‘She might change her mind one of these days. You never know.’
‘Not with that tyrant of a father, she won’t. What he says goes.’
‘Then you’re well out of it,’ Verna said. ‘You know, it’s hard enough to understand someone from the same background as yourself, let alone a foreigner.’
Settling down to listen to the latest episode of When a Girl Marries, she clicked away with her knitting needles without dropping a stitch as she watched Ted pacing around the room. ‘You’re like a caged tiger tonight,’ she said, looking up from her knitting. ‘Why don’t you go out and see some of your mates?’
Empire Day Page 15