by Rose Zwi
‘The People’s flag, is deepest red…’ they sang while the Greyshirts broke in with ‘Die Stem’.
The crowd was swelling with people who were still streaming in from all sides. Dovid was no longer on the periphery, but trapped in the centre as it swayed and quivered like a wave about to break.
‘Slay the Christ killers!’ a voice screamed.
Dovid lashed out wildly in an effort to move out of the centre of the swirling mob. A heavy face with puffy eyes and dark wavy hair thrust itself to within inches of Dovid’s face. On the breath of tobacco and liquor the words ‘Jood! Bangbroek!’ were spat into his face. Two short vicious punches landed below Dovid’s ribs, winding him and replacing fear with uncontrollable rage. He lifted both his fists above his assailant’s head and rained down blow after blow.
‘Kill the redhead! Die rooikop!’ he heard behind him.
As he turned a sharp heavy object hit him on the temple. The post office clock chimed and flashed across his vision and the flag above the steps fluttered briefly before his eyes as he fell underfoot, amid the screaming, the singing and the blowing of police whistles.
‘Strap him down. Put up the sides. He’s threshing about so wildly, he’ll fall off.’
Dovid struggled to get out of their grasp but firm hands held him down. His knees felt weak as he looked over the edge of the headgear. Cyanide tanks, tube mills, the sun like an evil eye. The dam smelled of chloroform and the stone crushers pounded and beat in his brain until he was breathing in unison with them.
‘Help, help!’ he called to the black men below the headgear, far, far away, but they did not move. He was lashed to the great wheel and the ropes cut into his flesh. A warm trickle of blood ran down his face. Slowly the wheel began to turn. The ground, the tanks, the dumps rose towards him. Around and around it spun until he lost consciousness.
‘You’re all right, you’re all right,’ a soft voice said at his side. He put his head against the sofa to smell the perfume of her hair. He coughed and drew back. Disinfectant. He struggled to rise, to open his eyes but fell back, exhausted. A sharp pain shot through his head and he saw Sheinka lying on the sofa, crying. Berka, distraught and pale, stood beside Raizel.
‘Betrayer!’ he shouted. Dovid stood in the middle of the room while his soul, a little golden bird from the song, escaped from his body and flew away, high above the headgear.
Wie ken ich in finstern wald,
Fargessen die liebe zu dir,
Dermon ich mir dein gestalt,
Ervekt zich a veitik in mir…
‘Say something,’ Raizel pleaded with her eyes. ‘Don’t deny me. Tell them, Dovid. Tell them we love each other.’
He looked beyond her eyes to the grey grass that was growing along the river. His mother and father walked beside a loaded cart, casting fearful glances at the burning village behind them. His brother Meishke called to him from the other side of the river.
‘Be brave, the fire will purge us of all our narrowness. We will emerge stronger than ever,’ he said.
‘I’m not a coward, I’m not a coward!’ Dovid called out to Raizel. ‘Don’t go away. Life turns to dust without you. Raizel, Raizel, I love you!’
Dovid opened his eyes painfully. A high white ceiling arched over his head. He turned his head and saw a strange woman in white sitting beside him.
‘This is a hospital?’ he asked. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He raised himself painfully onto his elbow. His right hand was encased in plaster and he felt the tightness of a bandage on his head.
‘Yes,’ the nurse replied crisply. ‘And if you’re to recover quickly, stop threshing about like a lunatic. We had to strap you down in case you injured yourself. You’ll be all right. A few broken ribs, a crushed hand and a cut on the head. You get what you deserve when you make riots.’
Dovid looked around him, dazed. He was in a long ward in which there were at least twenty beds.
‘Hurwitz from the Workers’ Club,’ a cheerful voice introduced itself as the nurse walked away stiffly.
‘Of course,’ Dovid turned around painfully. ‘What happened?’
‘We gave as good as we got. They’re in another ward in case fighting breaks out again,’ Hurwitz smiled. He had his arm in a sling. ‘Broke it on a poyerse kop. And I got a knife wound in my side.’
‘I remember very little. I must have been knocked out at the beginning.’
‘Things got rowdy and the police, as usual, showed restraint until the anti-fascists got the upper hand. About fifty people were injured, theirs and ours. Young Kofsky from Springs was shot in the chest. He’ll be all right though. Our Yiddish boys gave them a good go. When the police dropped tear gas bombs, the crowd moved off along Eloff Street. They say the fighting continued until eleven at night. At least we fight back now, not like in the pogroms when we bared our throats.’
Dovid sank back wearily onto his pillows. He sat up suddenly and asked:
‘Leib Schwartzman! What happened to him? We went to the demonstration together.’
‘He’s all right. He came to visit you yesterday with your wife,’ Hurwitz replied, ‘but you were delirious. You sang love songs and you shouted and asked why the grass was grey. Then you cried a little—it’s not a disgrace—and took your wife’s hand like Robert Taylor does in bioscope, and said “I love you, Raizel.” You’d think a woman would appreciate a romantic gesture even if it was made in a delirium. But no. Up she jumps and flies out of the ward. Women,’ he sighed. ‘There’s no pleasing them.’
16
‘Dovid! Russia has invaded Lithuania!’
Gittel hurried into the lounge with the ‘Yiddisher Americaner’ in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed and her glasses quivered at the tip of her nose.
Dovid put down his book and smiled indulgently at her. Since his mishap on the Town Hall steps fifteen months ago, they had grown closer. It was Gittel who had nursed him when he came out of hospital. Sheinka withdrew from him completely, and Phillip became the pivot of her existence. She clung jealously to the child and would allow neither Dovid nor Gittel to draw near him.
‘Shvieger,’ he said patiently, ‘that happened in June 1940, the news is seven months old. In addition, it is incorrect. Russia was asked by the Lithuanians to protect them from the Nazis, they did not invade the country. It’s time you changed from the “Americaner” to the “Afrikaner”. At least the local Yiddish press is topical, if biased. If you carry on reading the American paper not only will you get the wrong information but you won’t even know when the war is over.’
Gittel opened up the paper.
‘Here, let me read it to you: “This is all part of the Nazi-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact, a true misnomer if ever there was one. Aggression Pact it should be called, for the two totalitarian giants have cut up Europe between them. Stalin guards the back door while Hitler invades Poland, and now Russia, with Hitler’s blessing, takes over Lithuania. What will be the fate of the Jews in these two countries?”’
‘All lies,’ Dovid said. ‘The “Americaner” is a reactionary anti-Soviet paper. Russia had to sign a non-aggression pact with Hitler because the Western Powers would not come to an understanding with her. She had to survive. But that doesn’t mean that Russia is really Hitler’s ally. It’s just political strategy.’
‘I don’t understand politics but I’m worried about the Jews,’ she said. ‘In the First World War the Russians sent us into exile because we were too near the frontier with Germany and they said that Jews were traitors. Onto cattle trucks they loaded us and deep into Russia we travelled…’
‘Don’t worry, shvieger,’ Dovid interrupted. She forgot that he too had been part of the exodus from Ragaza. Gittel was growing old. ‘Don’t worry, the Jews will be all right. In fact,’ he said wistfully rubbing his right hand which had not completely healed, ‘Lithuania will now enter a golden age. Jews, Christians, workers and peasants will live together like brothers; the wealth of the country will be redistributed and a new era wil
l begin. More than ever I long to be there. A bloodless revolution! My brother Meishke has realised the dream of a lifetime.’
‘Well,’ Gittel said doubtfully, ‘it doesn’t say all that in the “Americaner”. And a wise woman like Miss Breen would not write for a paper that told lies. By the way, have you heard from your family lately?’
‘No. But I’m sure they’ll be all right now. I envy them. To be living in a true socialist state!’
‘And your hand, Dovid,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve seen you in pain, often. Why don’t you give up your workshop? I hear Yaakov Koren has offered you a job as works manager in his factory. You wouldn’t have to use your hand…’
‘I’d rather starve than work in that sweatshop,’ Dovid said brusquely, turning back to his book.
Thus dismissed Gittel walked out of the room. Berka would explain the Russian invasion. He had cleared a wall of Yenta’s pictures and pinned on it a large map of the world. Every night he listened on the wireless to a man from London—the miracle of it—and then made marks on his map. He knew what was happening all over the world.
Gittel dragged her swollen feet heavily along the pavement. I’m growing old, she muttered to herself. Her eyes were worn out with watching for the postman; her gallstones bothered her; the buzzing in her ears had worsened and lately her feet had swelled badly. See a doctor, everyone urged. She, however, had confidence in Brown the Chemist. Your swollen feet are from your heart, he told her, and he should know. It was a good profession, a chemist. Brown was loved and respected by everyone. Joel too might have been respected had he become a chemist. Instead people were saying that he was even meaner than Uncle Feldman. Not to have asked Yenta to his wedding. A heart of stone the boy’s got.
As for Raizel, she always knew she would come to a bad end. Not that anything had happened since she ran away with that goy (a terrible fate in itself), but Gittel was expecting to hear bad news at any time. Miss Breen insisted that mixed marriages ended in tragedy.
In the meantime Raizel was writing cheerful letters to Berka and Yenta. They had had to forgive her; what could they do? How she could be cheerful on that farm in Rhodesia, living with a raw boy, surrounded by black people, Gittel could not imagine. And to think of all the rabbis in their family. They would turn in their graves if they knew that Yenta would be the grandmother of a little chatas. That was nachas for you.
Count your blessings Gittel, she counselled herself. At least your daughter married a good Jewish man. So he isn’t such a marvellous provider. If Sheinka had married a goy, God forbid, he would have beaten her to death long ago. As for her son Chaim Leib, at least he was healthy, even if he didn’t write from America.
She hurried past the Burgers’ house. No need to run past, she remembered as she looked into the garden which was choked with weeds. Only the honeysuckle had survived, perfuming the whole street. The Burgers had moved out soon after Raizel and Jan fled to Rhodesia. They had opposed the marriage as strongly as Berka had, even though Raizel had converted and probably wore a large cross over her heart. Opgeschmat, converted. Bitter, bitter.
There were more goyim than Jews in First Avenue these days. As the Jews moved out, they moved in. Mrs. Zaidman and her daughter were in Yeoville; the Zlotniks, the Pearlmans and the Weinbrins (it was so hard to get the ‘Americaner’ these days), had moved to Greenside, and even Leib Schwartzman and his family were leaving Mayfontein. He had bought a little motor spares business in Germiston.
‘From horses to horseless carriages,’ he said. ‘So long I remain in the transport business.’
Had her family moved out of Mayfontein earlier… What was the use of speculating? The damage was done. With Raizel’s departure the tension had eased. Even Mrs. Pinn was quiet. Berka claimed she had no time for local politics because she was working for the Gestapo. The ideas that man had.
Gittel waved to Faigel Singer who was standing on her veranda, all dressed up, ready to go collecting. After Hershl built the new bakery she had stopped work and was elected chairlady of the women Zionists. The Singers now mixed in the highest circles. Why people in their position still lived in this dusty mining suburb, Gittel could not imagine.
‘Good morning, Gittel,’ Berka said cheerfully as she walked into the house. ‘What brings you here so early on a Sunday morning?’
‘I’ve forgotten. I’m growing old, Berrala. Where’s Yenta?’
‘Since she became Manageress of the new shop she’s a changed person. I hardly see her. And with her new false teeth and her blue-grey hair I wouldn’t recognise her if I did. But at last I’ve got my slippers back, holes and all. Do you know Gittel, she looks better now than she did as a young woman. Some people are born middle-aged and gradually grow into it.’
Gittel dismissed his remarks with a wave of the hand. It was shameful though the way Yenta neglected her home and Berka. He lived on smoked meat and polony from the shop. She hadn’t cooked a meal in months.
‘So early in the morning,’ she looked disapprovingly at the glass of beer in Berka’s hand.
‘My medicine,’ he said, ‘without which I could not conduct the war. It’s good for despairing hearts, desolate souls and foul tempers. Just as you hug to yourself your hot water bottles when you get a gallstone attack, so I pour down a couple of these and everything is cured at once. You should try it.’
‘Russia has invaded Lithuania,’ Gittel said, remembering why she had come. ‘I know you know. Dovid said it’s old news. But I want to know why. Dovid says one thing and the “Americaner” says another.’
‘Greed, madness,’ Berka answered promptly. ‘A crazy need for power. Here,’ he said digging into a file which he kept near the map. ‘Look at this picture I cut out of the paper. Molotov, Von Ribbontrop (zol arop zein kop) and Stalin signing an agreement on the partition of Poland. Bandits, the lot of them. Look at Stalin. Like a cat who’s had a saucer of cream. Dovid believes everything they say in Moscow. He’s remained a slave to his old ideas. I, my dear shvegerin, think independently.’
‘And the Jews? What will happen to the Jews? The “Americaner” says there are three million Jews in Poland and 200000 in Lithuania. God alone knows what will happen to them.’
‘Then leave Him to care for them. There’s nothing we can do,’ Berka said casually but a pained look passed over his face. ‘Come, shvegerin, let’s bring you up to date. Have a look at my map here…’
When Ruth came into the lounge she saw Gittel seated in an armchair and Berka standing in front of the map, like a school teacher.
‘…and so you see how black the situation is. Not only have Czechoslovakia, Poland, Denmark and Norway fallen to the Nazis, zollen zei varbrendt veren, but they’ve overrun Holland, Belgium and Luxemburg as well. France has fallen and now they’re getting stuck into the Balkans. There’s fighting in Yugoslavia and in Greece. Hello, Ruthie. Come in, my sweetie. Join my class on global warfare.’
‘Daddy’s also got a map but not such a big one. And Mommy won’t let him put it onto a wall. Bobbe, I’ve reached the heel but I don’t know how to turn it,’ she said handing over a half-finished khaki sock to Gittel.
‘Cripples the soldiers must be to wear your socks,’ Gittel said looking critically at Ruth’s knitting. ‘Long in the leg, short in the foot, one foot bigger than the other. But she tries,’ she told Berka. ‘At school the children are all knitting for the soldiers up north.’
‘And of course there’s the war in North Africa,’ Berka added. ‘Well Gittel, nothing they write in the “Americaner” will surprise you again. You’re up to date. Ruthie,’ he said kissing her on the forehead. ‘I always said you’d be as straight as a bluegum and as pretty as kosmos. Like Greer Garson you’ll look with your auburn hair and green eyes.’
‘Stop already with such silly ideas.’ Gittel frowned over the sock. ‘She’ll noch want to be an actress. It’s enough she reads all those books. Small wonder she talks in her sleep. At least if she’d speak in Yiddish I’d understand.’
> Ruth smiled shyly at Berka over Gittel’s head.
‘The other night,’ Gittel told the story for the tenth time, ‘she got out of bed and put on her shoes. “Where are you going?” I asked her. “To school”, our student replied. “To night school?” I asked.’ Here Gittel smiled, pleased with her little joke. ‘Go back to bed immediately,’ I said and back to bed she went, grumbling. The day’s not long enough for her. And where are you going now?’ she asked as Ruth moved to the door.
‘To Mavis. We’re collecting silver paper from the streets and the veld. When we’ve made a big ball, we give it to the government to make bullets for the soldiers.’
‘She’s fighting the war single-handed,’ Berka said. ‘Clothing the soldiers, producing ammunition. Hitler won’t last long with such an enemy.’
‘I’d rather go to the Zionist meeting,’ Ruth said wistfully. ‘All the Jewish children go on Sunday mornings. They learn Hebrew songs and play games and get books to read. But Mommy won’t let me go. She says there isn’t money for uniforms and she doesn’t like Zionists. Goodbye Zeide Berchik, I’ll bring my silver paper ball to show you after school tomorrow.’
‘Sweet child,’ Berka said. ‘You should see the walls in my workshop. Every inch of them is covered with her drawings. I still have the first one she did at school. Gittel, Sheinka should let her go to Zionist meetings. Ruth should mix with Jewish children.’
‘Sheinka doesn’t let her live,’ Gittel said angrily. ‘She must have someone to devour. With Dovid it doesn’t work any more, so she takes it out on Ruth. And you should see the child hanging around her, waiting for a little love. Kadoches she gets.’
‘Is she reconciled to the loss of Zutzke? She really loved that dog.’
‘She still dreams about him,’ Gittel said biting her lip. ‘She wonders what she did that made Zutzke run away from her.’