Scraps of Heaven (7 page)

‘I was just ten years old. I did not utter a sound. I endured it.' She pauses, turns to the stove, adjusts the flames beneath the cooking pots; then returns to the table for a brief rest. ‘The dentist said I was the bravest girl he had ever known.'

Zofia sits at the table and talks of teeth and endurance, and of primitive operations conducted in a city of palaces and tombs. She has now had all her teeth removed. It is cheaper this way, the dentist had advised her. It had saved the cost of fillings, the repair of each tooth one by one. The effects of the injection are on the wane. ‘Yes, when I was a child, the dentist said I was the bravest girl he had ever known,' she repeats, as she clamps down on the pain.

And Josh is a little afraid of this dark-eyed woman with her stoic smile. He wonders when the eyes will move away, and when their focus will be fixed elsewhere, on that ‘other world'. And he wonders when the tempest will erupt and pour venom into the darkening rooms.

‘Heavenly shades of night are falling. It's twilight time.' Bloomfield hums the first bars of the popular song. Papou is back for his daily stroll. The hems of his trousers are again rolled. They reach the lower calf on one leg, the knee on the other. As he chases his toddler grandchild, he gasps for breath. His ample stomach bounces up and down. The three girls are also back by the Moreton Bays. They run to a park tap, and return with a bottle of water. They dip brushes into the bottle and apply the water to a lower trunk.

‘What are you doing?' asks Bloomfield, who sits on a park bench beneath the Moreton Bays. He is surprised at his words, at the way they have slipped out. The girls smile at the strange man in the worn flannel suit and overcoat. They are intrigued by his rasping voice and its singsong lilt. They have never heard him speak, but they know him. He is as much a part of the park as are the Moreton Bays and the possums that scoot about the elms. As much a part of it as the swing that conveys Papou's grandchild,
‘Oppa, oppa,'
to the skies, and back to earth where the three little Gretels are at work.

‘What are you doing?' repeats Bloomfield, warming to the task.

‘Washing the tree,' answers one of the girls, as if to say, isn't it obvious? What else would we be doing on a summer afternoon?

Bloomfield withdraws. The heels of his shoes are worn to the ground. The rotting figs squelch underfoot. The cuffs of his trousers are smudged with dust. The girls return to their work and, with one brushstroke, Bloomfield is gone from their minds.

It has been a day of searing heat. A ray of sun lights up the bald pate of a man descending the steps of a terrace house. Birdsong hangs in the air. Bloomfield can detect the approach of a storm. He sits on the bench beneath the Moreton Bays. Two teenage girls walk by, arm-in-arm. They do not see him. The breeze is lifting. A girl rides a scooter, and her father rides with her, leaning over as a guide. Everything is warm to the touch— the bench boards, the ground beneath his feet. Seagulls gather on the edge of evening picnics. They are far from the sea. Their shrieks seem out of place.

Bloomfield distinguishes between levels of breeze. He disentangles the varying drones. Each species of tree produces a different tone; their leaves are vanes that register the rising strength of the wind. The poplar leaves are higher pitched than those of the Moreton Bays. Bloomfield listens intently to a symphony of wind-driven chords. Heavenly shades of night are falling, and a storm is about to cut loose.

Zofia presses down upon the cotton wool and grimaces. Romek puts his arms around her. He is not confident of his movements. She holds up her arms to ward him off. He does not know how to approach her. She pushes him away. Romek pulls back, hesitates, steps forward and tries again. An awkward ballet is being performed in the kitchen, a
pas de deux
between two anguished souls.

When Josh enters, he is immediately aware of the strain. He looks past them at the plates and saucers behind the dresser's glass panes. The dresser is coated a thick beige. The brushstrokes are visible, and bristles lie trapped like severed veins swelling with paint.

Zofia brushes against the cupboard as she pulls away. The buckled linoleum shifts beneath her. Teacups tremble upon their hooks. Josh is mesmerised by the movement of the cups, but he remains aware of the clumsy movements between husband and wife. An uncertainty keeps them apart. Romek is trying to overcome it, to comfort her, and Zofia, in her way, is trying to respond. But the awkwardness between them is too strong. And Zofia is obstinate. She shies away from intimacy. She will serve, but is fierce in her determination not to be consoled.

Zofia moves her hand over the tablecloth and wipes away the crumbs. Romek is left standing, stranded. He does not know which way to move. He steps towards her, stops, and steps back. Zofia keeps her eyes averted. She looks, instead, at the kookaburra on the oven door.

Josh can no longer bear to watch. His parents remind him of the boxers he had seen in the ring that morning, in their cautious approach, their hesitant retreat. He is unnerved by the palpable tension between them. He steps out of the ring, and slips away. He prefers the possibility of rain, the deepening shades of twilight time. A tempest is brewing, the north winds are charged. Night has fallen but in Curtain Square the boys are reluctant to let go. They inhale the scent of the approaching deluge. They play until the storm takes hold. It descends quickly, and even the most obstinate boys must scurry back to their homes.

The square is empty, the streets are deserted. Except for Bloomfield. He walks under an umbrella. He rejoices at the lightning. It tears open the sky. The earth is churning beneath his feet. The storm drains are flowing over. Bloomfield's shoes and the hems of his trousers are soaked. ‘Yes,' he hums. ‘Yes. Yes.' He spirals from street to street, back to the epicentre, Curtain Square. He spreads a plastic sheet on the park bench, sits back, glances up at the spitting skies, and laughs.

Everything is swaying: the swings, the cyclone fence, the trees, their sodden leaves. And Bloomfield. He rocks back and forth. And his father is standing above him, swaying at prayer. His shawl cracks in the wind. His hair is turning white. The synagogue is burning, and his father is running from the flames. But Bloomfield is further back, in the time before the deluge. A time when the wind did not taste of ash and blood.

The summer is drawing to an end, yet February is the hottest month. Seven weeks have flown by and Zofia's new false teeth are finally in place. She wears her evening best, a short-sleeved black dress. Romek is wearing his one and only suit, pinstriped, creased and pressed. Josh is imprisoned in grey trousers, a grey jacket, grey cap, with a grey tie over a white shirt. And they are seated in the Empire Ballroom at tables covered in white cloths, and the main course is being served—slabs of schnitzel, potato salad, kosher chicken and liverwurst, washed down with glasses of red. After all, Cousin Naomi has just been wed.

And the boys are standing at the mike, on the makeshift stage, in their tuxedos. Four big boys in a row, Schneider, Goodman, Aronson and Hirst, arms linked, they move as they croon, two black shoe steps left, two steps right, the boys are in full flight:

Another bride, another groom,
The countryside is all in bloom.
The flow'rs 'n trees is,
The birds and bees is,
Making whoopee.

And their eyes are rolling ever wider, and their shoes are glittering like mica, and the young men at the tables are laughing and winking, and Josh is thinking, what does it mean to be making whoopee?

Another year, or maybe less,
What's this I hear? Or can't you guess?
She feels neglected,
And he's suspected,
Of making whoopee.

And the song is over, the applause dying down, and Uncle Yossel, father of the bride, is exclaiming, ‘Nu? Doesn't anyone sing a Yiddish
liddele
anymore?' And Dobke is running to the podium, a rotund woman dressed in a hip-tight red satin dress, she flounces on red pumps as she runs, a string of pearls dangles from her neck, her lips and fingernails are painted red. Yet no matter how hard she tries, she looks like a
shtetl
woman, even as she steps up to the mike, and exclaims: ‘I once had what they call in English “sex appeal”.' And Uncle Yossel, at the head of the bridal table, shakes his head and quips, ‘I never noticed.'

But Dobke does not mind. She has a stage, a captive audience, a mike in her hand, and an army of guests at her command. ‘This is a
liddele
, a little song, for the groom and bride. For Naomele, whom I have known since was a little
meidele
, and what a beautiful girl she was, may she be protected from the evil eye. And it is for Efrem, such a handsome man, may he live long and be healthy and strong, but Naomi be warned, love is a fickle game and men are dangerous, and who should know better than I, because I once used to have what is called “sex appeal”.'

Black cherries are chosen,
And green ones are left on the bough.
Beautiful girls are courted,
And plain ones are left behind.

And she points to herself as she sings, Dobke the Yiddish theatre extra, forever consigned to be the eccentric aunt, the professional mourner, the market woman, an ageing
bubba
in attendance at circumcisions, marriages and deaths:

What is the use of dancing,
Since I am unable to dance?
What is the use of surrender,
Since between us there is no romance?

And she waltzes as she sings, and allows her hips to swing, side to side, left to right, her dress is far too tight; and with a thrust forward, a shake of the behind, she concludes with a grimace, more than a smile:

Oh, woe unto me, and to my dwindling few years,
A love affair did I enjoy, merely three-quarters of a year.

And as she runs from the stage she repeats her plaintive refrain: ‘You may not believe it, but it is true, I once used to have what they call in English “sex appeal”.' And the guests are quick to reply, ‘We never noticed.' And before the laughter has died down, Leo Rosner and his band are playing,
‘
Tea for Two', cha-cha-cha, with Leo on accordion, backed by clarinet, piano and drums. And the tables are emptying, the dance floor is filling, and couples are gyrating, the chandeliers are glinting, perfumes are swirling, the perspiration is rising, and the dancers are singing, breathless, at the end of each verse: ‘One, two, cha-cha-cha.'

The bulky couples have a lightness in their steps, and the older ones are light years younger, and the younger ones are unleashing their hips, cha-cha-cha. And the men are sending messages to their partners, a Morse code of raised brows, enigmatic winks, wiggling bottoms, pouting lips, perhaps they are making whoopee, thinks Josh, cha-cha-cha. He observes young men's fingers held tight against bare backs, and their hands straying over their partners' bums, but the rabbi at the head table is beckoning, and he must answer his call, cha-cha-cha.

‘Nu? And what is your name?'

‘Joshua.'

‘And can you sing something for me, Joshua?'

And he must sing, because the rabbi has asked him. He has no option but to fumble towards a song, one of the hits of recent times, and he recalls the day he had first heard it on the upright radio in the dining room; and it had sent chills down his spine, both the lyrics and the way the Kingston Trio sang them:

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,
Hang down your head and cry.
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,
Poor boy, you goin' to die.

And Rosner's band is still playing ‘Tea for Two' cha-cha-cha, and on the floor they are making whoopee, cha-cha-cha, and the younger children are under the tables, behind the heavy curtains, under the empty chairs, between the dancers' feet, playing hide-and-seek, cha-cha-cha. And there is a baby being bottle-fed, while another is crying in his aunt's lap, another is sucking at his mother's breast. And the dance floor is shaking, and the tables are rattling, and Josh is at the head table, blocking out the tumult, and the high-pitched conversations that try to rise above the music, as he does the rabbi's bidding, cha-cha-cha.

‘Bravo,' says the rabbi as Josh completes his song, and the rabbi reaches his hands into his jacket pocket to retrieve a silver coin. And the four boys are back with their tuxedos and cheeky smiles, and they wipe the damp from their brows before they launch into a much-loved song, an audience favourite; the boys are responding to popular demand. ‘When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore.'

And Rosner chases the melody until his band is in sync with the would-be Dean Martins, smooth and relaxed, they click their fingers and sway as they perform. And the young men at the tables are smoothing their brylcreemed hair. They too are thinking of Dino and of amorous nights with their glittering partners, and of perfumed romances and languid cruises on the Bay of Napoli, where love is king and a boy loves to sing, ah, ‘That's amore.'

And in response to the shouts of ‘encore', the tuxedo boys remain at their posts, and they whisper and chuckle, and emerge from their consultation to sing Mickey Katz, the comedian from the borscht belt, upstate New York, the Catskill circuit, the man who can make a song veer, mid-verse, from its original English to Yiddish, and back, mid-sentence, to English again:

Rag mops, go break di kopf,
Hoo-ha and a razza-ma-chazz.
Have some lox with cream cheese,
Here comes Mendel with the bagel call rag.

And Rosner's clarinettist takes up the call with a solo,
klezmer
style. And Posner the hairdresser is sitting with Kalman the baker, and Weintraub the grocer, a trio of Rathdowne Street traders, and Posner is boasting: ‘If you want to hear the latest Mickey Katz hits, come to my parlour, I have every record of his, the complete collection, the whole bag of tricks, the entire
megillah
, his complete shtick, imported from
Amarica.
I have not spared any expense.'

He gestures towards the ‘actor's table', at Zygmund Brustman the make-up artist, Potashinski the cabaret specialist, Yankev Waislitz the Vilna Theatre maestro, and Rokhl Holzer the Ingrid Bergman lookalike in her elegant ankle-length evening gown. And he swings his arm in an expansive arc to include Podem the theatre caretaker, Gershov the props manager, Giligich the white-haired patriarch, the Yiddish school principal, and Zlaterinski the grade six teacher who, as usual, is holding forth, waving his arms, gesticulating as he talks.