by Rose Zwi
As Ruth jumped over the puddle the crayons and sandwiches gave a hollow thump in the otherwise empty school case. Discouraged by Raizel’s brief impatient replies, Ruth had fallen some distance behind her and worried in silence about the difficulties that lay ahead. When must she eat her sandwiches? Was there a lavatory at school? Would her teacher be cross because she couldn’t speak English properly? So far Raizel’s advice had been far from reassuring.
‘If the children call you Bolshie, take no notice. If they call you bloody Jew, tell the teacher.’
Ruth vowed that if they called her anything at all she would run away. She would creep quietly into the house, release Zutzke who had been locked up that morning, take food from the ice box and go and live in the plantation forever.
‘It doesn’t matter if she’s early,’ Raizel told Dovid when she called for Ruth. ‘She’s registered. All she has to do is to go into classroom number two when the bell rings. I can’t wait, I have to be at work by eight.’
Ruth had seen the school many times from the outside. It was a low, L-shaped red brick building with sash windows which stood at the southern-most part of the suburb near the houses of the mine officials. She had passed close by one morning with Gittel. The children sat in pairs at wooden desks and chanted in unison:
‘A is for Apple, B is for…’
She forgot what B was for but at least she knew one lesson, Ruth thought as she brushed the glittering raindrops off the grass.
Raizel opened the creaking iron gate and walked into the grounds of the school. There was not a soul in sight. Ruth sighed with relief at the unexpected reprieve.
‘There isn’t school today?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Of course there is. It’s still early and no one’s here yet. Come Ruth. Classroom number two is at the other end. Sit on this step and soon the other children will arrive. There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ she said impatiently as the tears welled up in Ruth’s eyes. ‘Everyone will be here soon. I can’t wait. Don’t be afraid,’ she added gently, giving Ruth her handkerchief. ‘I asked Hershl’s boys to look after you.’
Ruth sat down on the step with her case in her lap, restraining an impulse to run after Raizel as she disappeared down the corridor. She felt utterly desolate. Only the roar of the crushers, the crickets in the veld and the chirping of the sparrows in the wet grass provided continuity with her previous existence. Through the double row of bluegums which grew outside the school fence, she could see the veld and the long straight rows of houses at its edge. The dusty roads, the people, the dumps, all seemed dear to her, though lost forever. Bobbe Gittel was in the kitchen now, shouting at Dora; Zutzke was locked up in the bathroom, whining and scratching at the door. Her eyes filled with tears again. Perhaps she should return, tell Bobbe Gittel that school was only starting tomorrow…
It was no good. They’d only shout and bring her back to school; the teacher would be angry and the children would laugh. She dried her eyes with Raizel’s handkerchief and looked at her new surroundings. A square of asphalt led off from the school building and all around it was a dusty play area which had been levelled and cleared of grass. A black-spiked iron fence surrounded the school.
Several games of hopscotch were drawn on the asphalt. Did they teach hopscotch at school, she wondered? She had never been asked to play with the neighbourhood children but had watched them so often that she knew the game. She would practise before anyone arrived. Perhaps when they saw how well she played, they would not laugh at her English.
Near the fence she found a flat stone. Holding her case in one hand, she threw the goon into square one, then hopped on one foot, driving it forward from one compartment to another, careful to clear the lines. When she had successfully completed the first round, she bent down to pick up her goon.
‘She’s got blue broekies!’ She heard laughter at the gate, ‘Kom kyk maar! I saw her broekies when she picked up the goon!’
‘Baby’s got blue broekies! Yirreh! She’s gonna cry. Ag man, she’s just a big cry baby with blue broekies!’ The tallest of the four boys smirked as he passed by.
She did not raise her eyes from the ground.
‘Baby’s got blue broekies!’ His lieutenant echoed, coming towards her.
‘Go avay,’ she said, large-eyed with fear. ‘I’ll call a poleesman to chop arop your head.’
The boys began to laugh, clutching at their stomachs with exaggerated gestures of uncontrollable mirth.
‘A Bolshie, a Bolshie!’ they called to one another. ‘A Bolshie with blue broekies!’
Ruth felt the tears prickling her nose and she turned away her face.
‘Leave her alone,’ she heard a familiar voice. She turned around and saw Moshe, Joshua and Daniel approaching. Moshe was taller and sturdier than the largest of the blond boys.
‘Ag, you ous can’t take a joke. Man, we was only playing, we wasn’t doing nothing. We was just laughing because she can’t speak English,’ he said, walking away.
‘If they start with you again, tell me,’ Moshe said casually. ‘And if they tease you about broeks and things, just say “clean, washed and paid for”.’
‘Clean, washed and paid for,’ Ruth repeated softly to herself as she watched Daniel walk away between his two big brothers. Of what use was a baby brother in the nursing home? Nobody would tease Daniel today.
The playground began to fill rapidly. From a distance she saw Annatjie with her older sister. When Annatjie made a movement towards Ruth, her sister jerked her back roughly.
‘You can’t play with them,’ she said loudly. ‘They killed Jesus Christ.’
Ruth remained on the step while the children milled around, ignoring her. When the bell rang, they all hurried off towards the classrooms. She followed Daniel into classroom number two. There was a rush for desks and when everyone was seated, Ruth still stood near the platform, clutching her case.
‘There’s place here,’ a dark-haired girl called out from the back.
Ruth went over quickly and sat down.
‘My name’s Mavis. My father’s a foreman on the mine and I’ve got a big sister in Standard Five. What’s your name?’
‘Ruth,’ she replied.
She did not know the English word for her father’s trade and a baby brother in a nursing home seemed a poor offering compared to a sister in Standard Five.
A tall gaunt woman with glasses and short hair came into the classroom.
‘Good morning, children,’ she said in a booming voice. ‘You must all stand up when I come into the classroom and say “Good morning, Miss MacCarthy”.’
Amid shuffling of desks, cases and feet they stood up and repeated:
‘Good morning, Miss MacCarthy.’
‘Now leave your cases at your desks. All the Jewish children come over to this side and the Christian children go to the other side.’
A pogrom! Ruth panicked. She looked across the classroom at Daniel. When she saw no sign of fear from him, she calmed down and moved away from her desk with the other Jewish children.
‘Every morning before lessons, we have Bible classes,’ came the belated explanation. ‘The Jewish children will remain here for Old Testament with Miss Greenblatt and the Christian children will move into classroom three for New Testament with me. Onwards Christian soldiers! Single file! Quick march!’
The Jewish children from classroom three filed into the room, accompanied by Miss Greenblatt, a mild-mannered woman who crossed her legs carefully as she sat down behind the table. She began to tell them the story of Adam and Eve. Ruth listened intently; she had never heard it before. The description of Eden sounded like der heim; the world into which Adam and Eve were exiled, like the veld in winter. She shuddered at Miss Greenblatt’s description of the serpent: long, black, slimy, with an evil smile and a soft voice. All that trouble, just for eating an apple.
‘Any questions, children?’ Miss Greenblatt asked.
For a while there was silence. Then Daniel put up his hand. He b
lushed as he stood up.
‘If Adam and Eve were the first people in the world,’ he asked hesitantly, ‘who did their children marry?’
‘If I didn’t know your father, Daniel, I would think you were being cheeky,’ Miss Greenblatt said, looking flustered. ‘Don’t ask such silly questions in future. It is written like that in the Bible and we don’t question the Bible.’
Daniel looked thoroughly miserable as he sat down. He did not look up again until the Bible class was over.
‘Every morning,’ Miss MacCarthy said when she returned to the classroom, ‘I will take the register. When I call out your name you must answer “Present please”, and I will put a tick next to your name.’
‘Present please,’ Ruth practised silently with each child.
‘Anna Burger,’ Miss MacCarthy called, glancing up at each child in turn. Anna sat in the front row. Ruth looked sadly at her straggly blond plaits. They would never be friends now. Her sister thought that Ruth had killed Jesus Christ.
‘Present please,’ Ruth answered correctly when her name was called.
The time passed quickly. With a wooden stick Miss MacCarthy pointed to a drawing of a large red apple and said:
‘Repeat after me: A is for apple…’
She went from the yellow banana to the black cat, to the brown spotted dog, to the white egg, then returned to the apple.
‘The apple,’ she said with a smile, ‘is the beginning of all knowledge. Now repeat after me: A is for…’
When the bell rang for the play break, the children began to rummage in their cases for sandwiches. Ruth drew out her brown paper bag and followed Mavis outside.
‘Let’s sit at the fence, under the trees,’ Mavis said unwrapping a neat packet of sandwiches. Ruth opened her paper bag and took out a thick bread and butter sandwich that had come unstuck. She pressed it together and opening her mouth wide, took a bite. Mavis drew out a thinly-sliced sandwich, covered with bits of lettuce.
‘What a funny sandwich,’ she said watching Ruth take another bite. ‘So thick! That’s the way my mother cuts bread for our native servant.’
Ruth flushed and while Mavis dusted off a large rock next to the fence, Ruth returned the sandwich to the paper bag. She sat down on the rock next to Mavis.
‘Aren’t you eating any more?’ Mavis asked.
‘I not hungaray,’ Ruth flushed. Her pronunciation had betrayed her at last.
‘You speak funny,’ Mavis said.
At the expected rejection, Ruth got up and started to walk away.
‘Hey, don’t go!’ Mavis called out. ‘I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter how you speak. You can be my friend.’
Ruth looked at her gratefully and returned to the rock.
‘Shame, look at that stray dog at the dustbin,’ Mavis said in dismay. ‘He’s starving. His ribs stick out. Poor thing.’
Ruth got up and walked over to the dog. He snarled as she approached him. Remaining at a safe distance, she threw him a piece of her bread and butter. He moved hesitantly towards it, his streaming eyes blinking suspiciously. He snapped it up, then stood still, waiting for more. By the time she had fed him all her sandwiches, he allowed Ruth to pat him. Mavis stood behind her, watching with approval.
Suddenly Ruth saw a foot shoot out in front of her. It landed with a dull thud against the dog’s ribs. He gave a loud yelp of pain and with his tail between his legs, dashed out of the school grounds, whining all the while. Ruth looked up and saw Paul Stern standing over her, smiling.
‘Serves him right, the dirty dog. You’re just a stupid Gingy to feed him. He’ll die all the same. Cry baby!’ he said as Ruth’s pent-up emotions burst through. With his shirt tails flying, he ran away to join the boys in a game of bok-bok.
‘You…snake!’ she screamed after him, crying uncontrollably. ‘I hate you! I hate you!’
Mavis put her arm around Ruth’s shoulders and led her back to their rock.
‘Do you know him?’ she asked, shaken but dry-eyed.
‘Yes, his fader is Avremala der hinner Yid. Sells chickens,’ she explained. It was a long story. When she could speak English she would tell Mavis how Paul always travelled on the cart with his father, holding the reins of the horses, whipping them to go faster and shouting ‘Whoooooaaa!’ when he wanted them to stop. Although he was only a year or two older than Ruth, she always thought of him as a big boy, especially when he was perched high up on his father’s chicken cart. ‘Gingy!’ he would mouth when she stood next to the cart while Bobbe Gittel chose a squawking chicken from the netted cages. A wild boy, Gittel would console Ruth. His father should give him a taste of the whip. Poor horses.
In Mavis’s company, Ruth gradually regained her composure and put the unfortunate dog out of her mind. Until the end of break they sat in the shade, breathing in the smell of damp grass, bluegums and bread and butter. She had a friend. It didn’t matter that Annatjie wasn’t allowed to play with her; Mavis Jackson was her friend. She didn’t care if others laughed at her English; Mavis understood her.
When she returned to the classroom it was almost like coming home. The drawings of the apple, the banana, the cat and the dog looked down benignly at her. The children looked more familiar, Miss MacCarthy less frightening. She was glad to be at school.
‘I live in that house, the one with the mosquito netting,’ Mavis said when they parted at the gate. ‘Rand Mines isn’t far, just over the veld. Will your mother let you come and play? Do you like chips? The ones from Davis?’
‘Yes,’ Ruth lied. She had never tasted them. Sheinka said they were fried in dirty oil.
‘Then bring a sixpence tomorrow and we’ll go up to Main Street after school to buy some. Goodbye.’
Ruth joined the long row of children who were walking over the veld towards Mayfontein. Annatjie’s brothers, Dirk and Uys ran ahead, tying trip knots in the long supple grass. They were followed by Moshe and Joshua who pretended not to see the knots and ran through them, falling over into the damp grass. Then they ran ahead, tying knots for Dirk and Uys to trip over. Daniel walked along the path with the smaller boys and girls. Trip knots was a game for big boys. The game would end at the edge of the veld when Moshe and his brothers and the Burger boys would part. Mr. Burger had forbidden them to play with Jewish children.
Ruth remained at the tail end of the row. As she jumped over the puddle which had almost dried up since that morning, she heard the hollow thud of crayons in her case. Tomorrow she would leave them at home. Miss MacCarthy had promised them pastels and coloured clay if they remembered their lesson.
‘A is for Epple,’ she practised as she walked along.
How small the houses looked, how distant the suburb was. Even the mine dumps had shrunk since that morning. She looked back at the school, then again at the dumps: They had lost their splendour, their air of sanctuary.
Jones the iceman stood outside Leib Schwartzman’s house and all the children rushed across the street towards his cart, catching the chips of ice as he sawed a portion off the main block for Chaya. Ruth loved the taste of sacking and sand in Jones’s ice but she did not run up to the cart as usual. Gittel and Zutzke were waiting for her at the gate. Zutzke sped joyously towards her, licking her hands and face as she bent down to embrace him. She waited with Gittel for the postman, who brought only accounts. Ruth put her arms around her grandmother’s hips and said softly:
‘Maybe it’ll come tomorrow. When I’m big and I go away from home, I’ll write to you very often.’
‘Such consolation she gives me,’ Gittel smiled. ‘Come. Lunchtime.’
Gittel took out the remains of the sabbath chicken from the ice chest. As she cut it into portions she sang softly:
A brivale die mamen,
Zolst du mein kind nisht varzamen…
She always sang that song when the postman had no letters for her.
‘Oy vey,’ she sighed, bringing the chicken to the table. ‘Which part do you prefer, child?’
Ruth flushed wi
th pleasure; she’d never been asked before.
‘The wing,’ she said casually.
‘Funny,’ Gittel said. ‘You always eat the drumstick. Tell me, how was school?’
‘Nice. And I’ve got a friend. Mavis Jackson.’
‘Jackson. Is she Jewish?’
‘No. She’s asked me to come and play with her after school tomorrow. She’s going to teach me to speak English properly,’ Ruth added with newly-found guile.
‘Good, good. But don’t eat in their house. It’s not kosher. I’ll give you extra semitches with schmaltz tomorrow. Say you’re not hungry if they offer you food. God forbid, they can noch give you pork to eat. Ugggh.’
‘Bobbe,’ Ruth said hesitantly. ‘Can you make my semitches a little thinner tomorrow? The children laugh at me and say only kaffirs eat such thick slices of bread. Please make them thin.’
‘New fashions,’ Gittel sniffed. ‘If it’s thin you might as well eat paper. All right, all right, don’t cry. Straight away there are tears. I don’t know who you take after. I’ll cut them thinner. New fashions,’ she grumbled walking into the backyard. ‘These kaffertes have to be watched,’ she told Ruth. ‘In no time at all they can stuff some washing into their bosoms and you wouldn’t even know the difference.’
After lunch Ruth sat on the back steps and watched the large white sheets and towels flapping in the afternoon breeze. Mondays smell of fried fish and soap and wet clothes, she noted. And tomorrow will smell of chips and vinegar. On the way back from Davis’s she would show Mavis her secret place in the plantation where she and Zutzke hid away during pogroms.
But perhaps Mavis didn’t understand about pogroms. Besides, Berka said there would never be pogroms again. A heavy load lifted from her heart at the thought.
‘Peachies! Peachies!’ she heard a call from the street.
‘Bobbe, they’re selling peachies,’ she called.
‘Ask the wagoner to wait,’ Gittel said taking a final count of the washing on the line. ‘And in my chestadraw where I keep my underwear you’ll find my purse. Please fetch it for me.’