by Rose Zwi
‘Bobbe,’ Ruth appealed desperately, beginning to cry. ‘I took it. I took it last night when I went to bed and I tied it in my hanky like Bobbe Yenta does. I took it, I took it!’
‘Shah, shah! Everything upsets the child. You’ve got a good heart, mein kind, but Dora must go. She stole the money.’
‘I’m going to be sick!’ Ruth cried, rushing outside to the lavatory.
Dora stopped wailing. She came to the lavatory door and watched Ruth vomit into the bucket.
‘Shame. Po’ child,’ she said.
When she saw Gittel come out of the kitchen, she fled to her room.
Dovid found Ruth in bed when he came home. She looked flushed and feverish. Gittel told him in a whisper what had happened.
‘So I put her to bed and she dozed off for a while but she hasn’t stopped weeping all afternoon, repeating that she stole the shilling.’
‘Tatteh,’ Ruth said weakly getting up on her elbow. ‘I did take it. Here, smell my hands. They’re still full of chips and vinegar. Mavis didn’t have money.’
Dovid sat on the bed and drew her hand to his lips. There was a faint smell of vinegar on it.
‘Perhaps she did,’ he said to Gittel. ‘Perhaps you’re accusing Dora wrongly. Why, when anything is missing in a house, do people immediately assume that the shikshe took it?’
‘She did,’ Gittel insisted. ‘I didn’t trust her with anything. How many times did she mix up milk and meat dishes? Besides, she’s gone already. I didn’t want trouble so I borrowed money from Yenta and paid her for the month.’
‘If you did take the shilling,’ Dovid said quietly when Gittel left the room, ‘it was very naughty of you and you must never do such a thing again. But don’t worry about Dora. She’ll find a job and a better one too. I’d hate to work for your Bobbe if I were a black person. Go to sleep and you’ll feel better tomorrow. I’m going to visit your mother now. I’ll be back soon.’
‘Don’t tell her,’ Ruth clung to Dovid’s neck. ‘Don’t tell her I took the shilling.’
She cried a little, then asked him to put Zutzke at her feet. As she was falling asleep she remembered the drawing in her case. She gave another sob. That could wait until tomorrow. She would show it to Zeide Berchik before she went to school. Her father did not like mine dumps.
11
The queues at the terminus were long and straggling. It was Wednesday and the shops were shut in the afternoon. Joel pushed his way through the disorderly crowd, looking for the end of the Rand Mines queue which tailed off where the one for Mayfontein began. The first tram was full. On the second, Joel found a seat on the upper deck next to a young miner whose working clothes gave off an acrid smell of damp earth, cyanide and stale sweat. Joel averted his face. He hated public transport with its sweating, weary humanity, its noise and its slow rumbling pace. He glanced enviously at the cars which overtook the tram.
Most of the miners spoke Afrikaans. His father’s theory was that land speculation, bad inheritance laws and the resultant poverty on the farms had driven the Boers to the mines. Joel disagreed: These youngsters were simply bored with farm life and wanted the excitement of a city. Some excitement they found: blasting accidents, underground flooding, phthisis, constant competition from natives for the unskilled jobs. He listened to them as they shouted across the tram to one another in their thick uneducated accents. They were large, rawboned farm boys who could hardly read or write and they smelled of the dank underground in which they passed a large part of their lives. Joel was conscious of his own polished, pointed shoes, his immaculate white shirt and the well-cut suit which Dovid had made for him a few months ago.
The trouble with these chaps was that they lacked ambition. All they wanted from life was enough to keep their bellies full and their throats wet.
While Joel disliked the gutteral sound of Afrikaans, he could dissociate himself from it. On the Mayfontein tram, however, he sat in a sweat of embarrassment as the immigrants talked loudly to one another in Yiddish, above the clatter of the iron wheels. He would watch in acute discomfort as an Englishman lowered his newspaper and smirked at the foreign sounds emitted by Joel’s co-religionists, as unselfconsciously as though they were still in their shtetl. It was even worse when they trotted out their ridiculous version of English.
Afrikaans simply jarred on his ears. Yiddish, particularly when spoken in public, made him ashamed of being a Jew.
As the tram thundered through the dip, Joel looked into his father’s shop. He sat hunched over his workbench, hammering away at a shoe on the last. In the moment it took to pass the shop Joel realised with a pang that Berka had aged: His shoulders were rounded and his hair was grey.
There had been a time when Joel believed his father incapable of ageing or of dying like ordinary mortals. He had worshipped Berka, a tall strong man who told exciting tales about early Johannesburg and about the riotous life on the diamond diggings. He remembered how proud he had been when Berka had borrowed a horse from a mounted policeman and ridden across the veld. Joel and his friends had gaped after him with the same admiration they bestowed on their Saturday morning heroes at the Roxy cinema.
But just as he outgrew the celluloid cowboys, so he began to question his father’s values. Where had the exciting life and the fierce pride in his independence got Berka? Was he not, in fact, making a virtue out of his poverty and failure? For the rest of his life he would sit at his workbench, nails between pursed lips, hammering, stitching, patching and glueing. At the end of a day he would return to the dingy house with the smell of other people’s dirty shoes clinging to his skin.
Joel pushed aside the image of an ageing Berka. His father had always been more concerned with the Dignity of Labour, Justice and the horrors of Capitalism than with the welfare of his own family. Joel hated the very sound of those words as he grew older.
Life was far simpler than Berka supposed: If a man had children, he must provide for them. If he found society in a certain state, there was nothing he could do to change it. There had always been injustice, poverty and hardship. It was a tough materialistic world and in order to survive one had to fight it with its own weapons.
Berka could have been a rich man. But instead of buying property in the early days, he had messed about with trade unions and the Yiddish Workers’ Club; instead of sticking with Uncle Feldman, he became an itinerant cobbler.
Yet he made Joel feel the failure. What had Berka wanted from him? That he too should buy an ox wagon and trek across the ugly dry veld, dispensing medicine to the boers?
Joel wiped his forehead. The heat and the smell in the tram were stifling. Should he ask the young miner to open a window? He preferred discomfort to contact so he kept quiet.
He loosened his tie and glanced out of the window. Most of the shops were already shut and there were few people in Main Street. As he passed Dovid’s workshop he saw Raizel turn into it. An angry flush heightened his discomfort. His father, who was so critical of everything Joel did, did not see what was going on under his own nose. As far as his darling Raizel was concerned she could do no harm.
The tram turned slowly into Rand Mines Avenue. Where it intersected Tenth Street, he saw Sheinka walking along the dusty road, wheeling a pram with Ruth at her side. He felt a momentary stab of anxiety. Perhaps she too was going to Dovid’s workshop?
He pulled himself up sharply. From today he was cutting himself off from his family. How they lived and what they did no longer concerned him.
As the headgear of the mine came into view, Joel got up and walked downstairs, breathing in the hot thick air. At least it was not polluted by the smell of unwashed humanity, he thought, jumping off the tram as it clanged to a halt outside the miners’ compound.
The midday sun throbbed like a pulse in the pale blue sky. Joel took refuge under a clump of blue gums, wiping his face with a clean white handkerchief. A group of black miners, their naked torsos gleaming with sweat, stood under the trees talking loudly amongst themselves, pun
ctuating their speech with great bursts of amiable laughter.
Such healthy teeth, Joel thought enviously, sucking on a neglected cavity at the back of his mouth. How like animals they were with their shining black bodies and their long rippling muscles. They had no cares or ambitions. He wondered whether they could feel sorrow.
‘Middag, Baas,’ they greeted him politely, withdrawing to the outer edges of the shade and lowering their voices respectfully.
Joel kept his handkerchief to his nose: the smell of melting tar, sweat and burned meat from the eating house across the road was overwhelming.
He looked uncertainly about him. He had never been to this part of Rand Mines. The Concession Store was smaller than he imagined it to be. It was a square, rain-stained building with a corrugated iron roof and its windows were crammed with a variety of badly-displayed goods, dusty with age. A covered strip of veranda ran along the length of the store and above it hung a rusted sign:
CONCESSION STORE—Naturelle Winkel: Bicycles, clothes, cigarettes, blankets etc.
Adjoining it stood a longer, narrower building with ‘Kaffir Eating House’ painted in peeling lettering above the wooden lintel of the door.
The source of all Uncle Feldman’s wealth, Joel marvelled, wiping his forehead again.
Berka had not exaggerated when he had described the foul smells surrounding the store. On the whole, Joel had discounted his father’s tales about his years as an apprentice kafferitnik. He had regarded them as fables designed to teach his children the virtues of self-reliance. For the first time since his talk with Benjamin a few weeks ago, Joel experienced a mixture of doubt and remorse as he looked at the Store, the eating house and the tiny rooms at the back of the store where his father had lived.
It had all sounded so simple, so right while Benjamin was speaking: Uncle Feldman was on the brink of death. He wanted a reconciliation with Berka but this was prevented by his nephew’s pride. A man was entitled to decide his own fate, Benjamin conceded to Joel, but did he also have the right to ruin the prospects of his children? Here Benjamin wiped away a tear. If Berka had been more pliant, he continued, Joel and Raizel would have been living in a mansion today and Yenta would not have had to pickle and ferment.
It was diplomacy not deception, he concluded, dispelling the last of Joel’s scruples, to visit Uncle Feldman without telling his father. Afterwards Berka would realise that Uncle Feldman meant well by his family and Berka himself would become reconciled with his uncle.
Joel had responded coolly to Benjamin, but as soon as the old man left his room, he flung himself onto his bed in a state of febrile excitement. This was his chance to get rich. Since he’d been working at Hellman’s Pharmacy, he had been introduced to the world of the rich. He had been to their palatial homes, sat on their fragrant lawns, dated their beautiful daughters. After a day out it became increasingly difficult to return to Mayfontein, to the narrow life of the immigrant Jewish community. They all seemed coarse and uneducated. He was ashamed of their dress, their speech, their humour and their interminable discussions about Zionism, socialism and petty business problems. With the sophisticated repartee of a tennis party still ringing in his ears, he would greet his parents’ guests in a surly manner, in English, then retire to his tiny room to brood over his future.
Now, magically, the future seemed open to him. After his talk with Benjamin, Hellman’s Pharmacy suddenly looked small and shabby. More than ever he resented the scraping and bowing to customers. To his mother a pharmacist might seem the source of all medical knowledge in the world. To him Mr. Hellman now appeared as little more than a glorified shopkeeper. He remembered also the indignities he had suffered at the hands of his patronising rich friends. Soon he would meet them on equal ground.
Several weeks passed, however, before he phoned Uncle Feldman. He knew perfectly well that by doing so he was cutting himself off from his father forever. Berka would never forgive him, despite Benjamin’s assurances to the contrary.
When he finally phoned Uncle Feldman, the dry rasping voice on the other end had not sounded as welcoming as Benjamin had persuaded him it would. After he had hung up, Joel felt less like a nephew effecting a family reconciliation than a poor relation asking for charity.
Joel adjusted his tie, combed back his sleek oiled hair and crossed the road resolutely. He would make it clear to the old man that he had come at his request and that he wanted nothing from him. His uneasiness, however, increased with every step. By the time he walked into the dark dusty interior of the Concession Store, he felt more lost and uncertain of himself than ever.
And the picture of Berka hunched over his last seemed to have lodged itself indelibly in his brain.
Sheinka walked rapidly up Tenth Avenue, coughing occasionally as the dust thrown up by the pram settled in her tense throat. Her eyes were burning from the hot dry air and every now and again she let out a deep sigh, ending on a drawn out whimper: ‘Oy vey iz mir!’ Ruth walked beside her silently, kicking a loose stone in front of her.
‘Stop it!’ Sheinka said angrily, smacking Ruth on the back of her arm. ‘As it is I’m suffering from the dust.’
Ruth fell back a few paces.
‘Come here!’ Sheinka commanded. ‘Do you know what you have to do? Knock on his door. If he doesn’t answer at first keep on knocking and say loudly: “It’s me, tatteh.” He’ll let you in. When you enter look around to see if anyone is hiding there. If there is, run out and tell me. If there isn’t, start to cry, you know how to do that all right. Tell him how unhappy you are because you never see him on half-days any more.’
They turned into Rand Mines Avenue and walked under the plane trees which gave some relief from the burning sun. Ruth peeped into the pram. The baby was fast asleep. It was unfair. He slept through all this and she would have to do the nasty things.
‘I’ll wait for you here,’ Sheinka said sitting down on a bench at the tram stop. ‘And don’t be long.’
Ruth crossed Main Street and went into the dark entrance of her father’s workshop. She walked slowly up the steps and stood quietly at the door. She heard muffled sounds from within. Perhaps she should run back to her mother and say her father was not in the workshop. Sheinka would not believe her.
She stood with her hand clenched a few inches away from the door, then knocked quickly, once. Silence. She sighed with relief. There really was no one there. With a feeling of confidence she knocked as loudly as she could, several times, then turned the door knob. It was locked. Again there was silence.
‘Tatteh!’ she called as she knocked again. ‘It’s only me.’
After a brief interval she heard a key turn in the lock and Dovid opened it slightly, looking down at Ruth from a seemingly great height.
‘What do you want, child?’ he asked angrily. ‘Am I to have no peace even at work? Has your mother sent you?’
Ruth looked at him tearfully and shook her head.
‘Then go home. I have a jacket to finish off. I’ll come home later. Here’s a sixpence. Go buy yourself a pink ice cream from Schumacher’s.’
Ruth looked at the sixpence which Dovid held through the slit in the door and with a sudden outburst of tears, she hurled herself against the door and stumbled into the room.
Raizel stood against the rail on which Dovid’s unfinished suits hung. The top buttons of her blouse were undone and her hair flowed loosely about her face. Her hand flew to her bare throat and she gasped as Ruth landed on her knees, a few feet away from her. Dovid stood at the open door, unable to move.
Ruth looked from one to the other. She got up, walked unsteadily towards Dovid and began to pull at his shirt.
‘You lie, you lie, you lie!’ she cried out in English.
She ran blindly from the room, stumbling down the dark staircase. She did not stop running until she reached her mother who was sitting on the bench, rocking the pram impatiently. She threw her head into her mother’s lap, gasping for breath and crying loudly. Sheinka looked down at her pal
e tear-streaked face.
‘What happened? Was he there? Was somebody with him? Did he speak to you?’
Ruth felt herself go cold all over and she began to shiver. She pulled away from her mother and sat back on the bench.
‘He was there,’ she answered dully, watching the melting tar trickle heavily from the iron rails towards the gutter. ‘He was finishing off a jacket. He’s coming home later. There was no one with him.’
‘Dad,’ Joel said coming onto the veranda where Berka sat with Hershl and Yenta. ‘Dad, I want to speak to you.’
‘So speak,’ Berka said, lighting up his pipe.
‘Privately.’
‘Privately,’ Berka echoed. ‘The time has come at last when my son not only wants to speak to me but he wants to speak privately. Such an invitation I can’t refuse. Don’t go away,’ he said to Hershl. ‘I’m sure I won’t be long.’
He followed Joel into the lounge. Joel threw himself into an armchair opposite his father and coughed fastidiously when a cloud of dust rose from the cushions. Only a slight tremble in his hands betrayed his unease.
‘I saw Uncle Feldman this afternoon, Dad.’
Berka felt his heart contract uncomfortably.
‘Dad, did you hear me? I went to Uncle Feldman’s Concession Store this afternoon.’
‘On business?’ Berka asked eventually, his mouth suddenly dry. He cleared his throat. ‘Has the old devil started to stock Pharmaceuticals in his kafferita?’
‘No, Dad. He sent a message to me to come and see him. About a job,’ Joel added quickly as his father’s face paled.
‘He’s bought out a dry goods firm and offered me the job of managing it. It’s a marvellous opportunity and he wants to make up for the shoddy way he treated you. He admits it. He wants to make peace with you before he dies. He’ll give me a share of the profits plus a partnership. On condition that I start immediately, next week in fact. I don’t mind giving up my studies…’
‘Paskudniak! Fool!’ Berka shouted as he leaped out of the chair, scattering his pipe and matches. ‘Traitor! Your legs should have withered before you crossed his threshhold! You…went…to his store…about a job?’ he bellowed incredulously. ‘You took a job from that old swine? You filthied your feet by walking into his business? To become his slave? No, it’s not true. You’re making a cruel joke, Joel, and that’s unkind,’ he said reproachfully. ‘To stab where it hurts most. Too much study has blunted your sensitivities. That’s it. In a few months’ time you’ll be qualified. We, your mother’s got money to set you up in business. I’m the fool. Of course you wouldn’t throw away five years study. That was a cruel joke, Joel,’ Berka repeated as he bent down to pick up his pipe and matches.