The Invisible Wall (5 page)

As we went through the lobby she did a rather strange thing. She paused at the door to the front room that was supposed to be our parlor. The room was empty save for the boxes and cartons that Rose used as the furniture for her fancy drawing room. One of the larger boxes was the throne on which she sat like a queen and issued commands to her “servants.” I thought perhaps my mother was looking for her. I said, “Rose is next door at the Finklesteins playing with Doris.”

“That's all right,” she murmured. It was not Rose she was looking for. It was something else that she was thinking about. I would learn about it later.

We both went out. It was still drizzling slightly. My mother walked swiftly, and I had to trot to keep up with her. I had been to the market with her before, but I had never seen her in such a hurry to get there. By the time we reached the market it was already dark. Flares had been lit at the stalls, and their flickering light fell over the faces of the shoppers and the vendors as they bawled lustily through cupped hands. “Cheap, cheap, buy, buy.” There were all kind of goods displayed and all kind of foods and smells, cheeses, black puddings steaming in a huge pot, sausages dangling down in a long string, huge fish with blood dripping from their gills and big eyes staring, pink bloomers and dresses and coats and trousers, the smell of roasting peanuts and chestnuts, the sweet smell of chocolates, and vendors shouting in your ears. “Cheap, cheap, buy, buy. Come on, lady, buy, buy.”

I would have loved to dally among them, to stare more closely at the array of all kinds of chocolates, to pause to look at the snake charmer with the turban on his head. My mother usually did this, and she shopped slowly and carefully among the stalls, looking for the best bargains. This time she did none of that. She was still in a great hurry, as if she had some destination.

Well, she did. It was the big fruit and vegetable stand at the end of the market, where she often picked up some good bargains. There were several helpers here shouting their wares. “Pomegranates, bananas, apples, oranges, 'taters, cheap, cheap. What you 'ave, lady?” But she was not interested in buying from them. She was looking for the owner. He was over in a corner, wearing a long white coat. A large, red-bearded man, too important a person to be doing any shouting himself, he did a wholesale business as well, and had a bit of an office at the back of the stand.

My mother told me to stay where I was and not move until she came back. I watched as she went over to the red-bearded man, whose name I was to learn later was Mr. Pollit. She spoke to him for several moments, then turned away and to my utter amazement I saw her crawl under the stand.

The helpers were startled, too, and they looked inquiringly at the boss, but he did not satisfy their curiosity and told them roughly to get on with their work. They did so, resuming their shouting.

I stood there waiting for her to come out, petrified by what I had seen, and growing more and more fearful as time passed and she still did not emerge. I think I was about to burst into tears when finally, to my relief, she came crawling out. The two straw bags she had brought, one held in each hand, were bulging to capacity with fruit. She put them down to straighten out her hat, and to wipe mush off her face with a handkerchief.

I ran up to her and she laughed. “Were you afraid I wasn't coming back?” she asked.

“Yis.” I nodded, tears still in my eyes, and clung to her with both hands.

“Well, you didn't have to be. I'm back and I won't go away again.”

She seemed strangely excited and triumphant. Her cheeks were flushed. The owner approached us, hands clasped behind his back, and said, “Well, how'd you do?”

“Fine,” she said. “There's a lot of good stuff under there that shouldn't be thrown away. How much do you want for these two bags full?”

He shrugged. “Take 'em,” he said. “Go on, take 'em.”

“No.” She spoke firmly. “I don't want them for nothing. I want to pay a fair price.”

“You're an 'ard woman to deal with,” he said. “How's about sixpence?”

“That's cheap,” she said, and fumbled in her purse and gave him the sixpence.

We walked away hurriedly, my mother heavily burdened with the two bags. Just the same, she managed to keep up a fast pace, and I had a difficult time keeping up with her. Meanwhile, I was fairly consumed with curiosity. “Mam,” I said, “what are you going to do with all that fruit? Can I have an apple? Can I have one now?”

“No, not now,” she said. “You'll have to wait till we get home. Then you'll see what I'm going to do with it all.”

“What are you going to do, Mam?”

“You'll see.”

There was something secretive and excited about her. A little smile played at the corners of her lips. She hurried, despite the weight she was carrying, and I trotted faster, just as eager as she was to get home. It began to rain, and this spurred us on still more. We were lucky. The downpour did not really begin until we had reached the house, and we were able to hurry in without getting too wet.

The house was dark and empty. My mother looked around and I think she was relieved to find my brothers and sisters still not home.

“They must be at their friends' houses,” she murmured, and began hurriedly taking off her hat and coat. She then carried the two bags into the scullery, and I followed her and watched with widening eyes as she poured the contents of the bags into the sink. I had never seen such an assortment of fruit, plums, apples, pears, oranges, peaches, fruit of all kinds, and most of it soft and spoiled, though there were some really good ones among them. She turned on the tap and began washing them. I kept on chattering and plying her with questions.

“What are you doing that for, Mam? Why are you washing them?”

“To get them clean.”

She found a plum that was in good condition and handed it to me. That stopped my chattering for a while. I was more amazed than ever, though, when I saw her take a knife and start to cut out the bad parts of the various different kinds of fruit.

“Why are you doing that, Mam? What are you cutting them for?” I asked.

“To make them look nice.”

But now, having finished this part of the job, she began putting the fruit back into the bags, and took several plates off the shelf and put these under her arm as she lugged the bags out of the room. She seemed more excited than ever now, and so was I. I followed her back through the kitchen and into the lobby, and then she entered the front room.

Now, for the first time in all the years that I could remember, she struck a match and lit the gas in the front room. It had never before been lit, and had been used only in the daytime as a playroom, and it seemed to me, as I looked around, bewildered, that I was seeing it for the first time. It was a square little room, and the walls were papered with some sort of green flowered pattern. It had a fireplace that I had scarcely noticed, and that had probably never been lit either. Under the revealing greenish gaslight from the mantel above, it seemed even barer and emptier than in the day, completely bereft of any kind of furniture, save for the packing boxes we used for our play.

My mother took these boxes now and put them at the window. They were tall enough to come up to the height of the sill. As I watched, mystified, she began to fill her plates with fruit from the bags, and set them on the top of the packing boxes. When she had filled all her plates, she drew back a little to examine her handiwork, much as an artist might his canvas. Then, apparently not satisfied, she began to rearrange some of the fruit, turning them around so that the bad parts she had cut out did not show at the window. Finally she was done, and she turned to me. Her eyes were shining. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She seemed almost intoxicated with joy.

“'arry,” she said, “we now have a shop.”

I was a bit incredulous. “A shop?” I cried.

“Yes, a shop. Just like the Levines, and the Turnbulls, and the Gordons. We have a shop too, only ours is a fruit and vegetable shop.”

“Why?” was all I could think of saying. “Why do we have a shop?”

“So we can make a lot of money,” she answered. “So I can buy your shoes and clothes for your brothers and sisters and pay all the money I owe and have lots of food in the house. A business of our own!” she added, echoing the words of Mr. Levine that had been spoken some time before this but that had clearly stuck in her mind.

Just then the front door crashed open, and in tumbled my brothers and sisters. The four of them had arrived together by coincidence, having been at different places, Lily at the library. She was carrying books as she came in first, the others behind her as they paused at the unexpected sight of the front room being lit.

They blinked in the light, taking in the strange sight at the window that met their eyes. They were all wet from the rain, their clothes soaked, their hair plastered against their foreheads and dripping.

“What's that for?” Lily asked, indicating the plates of fruit with a nod of her head.

“That's our shop,” my mother said proudly. “We have a shop now.” She was smiling, and she was probably anticipating their own joy.

There was nothing like it, though, on their faces. They were all silent for a moment, staring at the display of faded fruit in the window.

Then Joe spoke. “I thought we were going to have a parlor.”

“And a piano,” Saul squeaked.

“Well, you will,” my mother said, and she could sense their disappointment now, and it threw a damper on her own spirits. “Of course you'll have a parlor,” she reassured, “and a piano and everything. Only we'll have to have the shop for a while so we can get these things. That's what the shop's for, so we can make some money from it to buy all the things we need, and as soon as we do I promise you we'll give up the shop and turn it into a parlor.”

“You're a liar!” It was Rose who spoke, her voice choked and trembling. She had been standing at the very back of the group, but had pushed her way forward, and was now right in front of my mother, half crouched in front of her, eyes blazing. It had been a crushing blow to her, much worse than for the others. It had taken away her duchy, her drawing room, her butler, and her retinue of servants. We were all staring at her petrified, and my mother's face had gone white. Rose was beside herself with rage. “You're a liar,” she repeated. “You're never going to turn this into a parlor. It's always going to be a shop, because you're the shopkeeper type, a common Polish peasant woman. It was our room and you stole it from us. You're a thief, and a witch, and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

Then, before my mother could stop her, she dashed forward and with both hands swept all the plates off the cartons. They went crashing to the floor, spilling their contents all over, the plums, the apples, the oranges, and they rolled into corners, around our feet, everywhere. Having done this Rose ran out of the room, weeping.

In the shocked silence that followed, I saw my mother glance around her, bewildered, at the ruins of her shop on the floor. Then she put her face in her hands and wept, brokenly.

Chapter Three

THE REST OF THE SUMMER SLIPPED BY RAPIDLY
,
AND THE AUTUMN WEATHER
began, chill and rainy for the most part, with an occasional good day when the sun broke through the clouds and shone with a hard brilliance. But it was a gray, cloudy day when school started.

I awoke early, tense and excited. It was far too early to get up yet. It was barely daylight, and people were going to work. I could hear the sound of their clogs marching rhythmically down the street, and the very sound increased my excitement because it made me think of my clogs that I was going to wear for the first time that day.

I lay back in bed, chafing with impatience. School was less important to me than wearing these clogs. I had been up half the night thinking of them, and it had been that way ever since my mother had taken me back to Hamer's to be fitted for a pair. She'd given up the idea of shoes; she'd had to. Mr. Hamer had been tactful; he hadn't mentioned them, as if she'd come in for the first time, and he'd gone about fitting me with a pair swiftly and efficiently. But he'd stuck up for me when I wanted to go out of the shop wearing them.

“You don't want 'im to put these things on again, do you?” he said, holding up my torn shoes between two fingers with something like disgust.

“He'll have to,” my mother said firmly. “I want him to keep the clogs for school. At least, they'll be new when he goes into school.”

There was no talking her out of it, and I had to content myself with just stealing glimpses of them in the box between then and now. I couldn't wait. I felt imprisoned lying there in bed. Yet there was nothing I could do but wait. I listened for other sounds once the march of the clogs had died down, and the whistles had given their final blast.

It was still dark; I would have to wait what would seem endless hours before the awakening began in our house. Actually, it would only be an hour or so before the Jewish tailoring workers began their tramp to the workshops, and it would be dawn. I watched it come. Then I pricked up my ears at a faint stirring in the room next to ours. It was my mother, always the first to rise; it had to be her…. Yes, it was, for next I heard her tiptoeing softly out of the room and along the landing. She paused, and I heard a faint clanking sound as she picked up the bucket. It would be full to the brim, and she would carry it carefully down the stairs. I listened. I heard her walking through the kitchen and opening the back door and going into the yard to the water closet. The door of the closet creaked as it opened, and there was a splashing sound, followed by a snorting and flushing as the chain was pulled.

She was returning into the house, and was cracking wood over her knee for the fire. I had seen her do this often, and had always marveled at the strength she showed. It would not take her long to get the fire going, to put the kettle on, and to prepare breakfast. Now, with all this done, I heard him come out of the bedroom. Unlike my mother, he did not walk on tiptoe, but clumped heavily down the stairs.

I did not have to worry about his voice in the morning. He hardly ever spoke in the morning. He ate and left, the door banging shut after him.

Now, it was our turn. My mother's voice called up the stairs, waking us, and I answered first, jumping out of bed and shouting, “I'm coming, Mam.”

“Not you, 'arry,” she called back. “I want you to stay in bed until I'm ready for you.”

I was terribly disappointed. “Can't I come down, Mam?” I begged. “Can't I?” I wanted so much to rush downstairs to my clogs. If she was not ready yet to help me put them on I could at least hold them in my hands. “I'll not be in the way,” I promised.

But it was no use. “Stay where you are,” she commanded.

The next half hour or so was agony for me. There was a great tumult of shouting and rushing about going on downstairs. I listened to it, chafing. My mother's voice rose constantly, ordering them to hurry. Lily was the only one of them, really, who was anxious to get to school quickly. The other three were delaying as long as possible, fearful of St. Peter's, fearful even of the long walk there, and Lily, thinking only of her scholarship exam, and preparing for it, shrieked at them too. They all had to walk together; this was something my mother insisted on.

At last, they were going. My mother was shepherding them to the door. She would stand there and watch them go, clinging close to one another, joining the noisy throng of children going from our street and others. At last the door closed shut, and my mother's voice came up the stairs, softly, “All right, 'arry, you can come downstairs now.”

I flew. I was down in a second, and there was a little smile on my mother's lips. She knew how I felt. But she herself was excited. I could sense that as she served me my breakfast. Her hands were trembling a little, and there was that telltale flush on her cheeks. It was an important day for her too, the first big step upward for her children. We wasted little time on breakfast, and the dressing began. The clogs would come last, after I had put on my new suit.

Her hands trembled even more as she took the suit out of the drawer. She had spent weeks making it. At first, she had thought of using one of my brothers' old suits and cutting it down a bit, but then had decided on something very special, something that would really make the headmaster's eyes light up with interest. She had taken her best purple velvet dress, the only good dress she really had, and had cut it up into a suit for me. It was a great sacrifice on her part—she would never have another dress like it—and it had entailed a lot of work on top of all the work she already had with us and with her shop.

But the sacrifice was nothing at all to her. She was tremulous with excitement now as she put it on me. It was a Lord Fauntleroy suit, with short pants and a jacket, complete with a large white lace collar.

“Oh, you look beautiful, so beautiful,” she exclaimed, standing a little distance away from me, and viewing her handiwork with hands clasped under her chin, her eyes shining.

But I was scarcely interested in the suit. “Can I put me clogs on now?” I pleaded.

“Yes.”

She was ready at last, and now it was I who was trembling as she went to the cupboard, took out the white box stored there, and brought out the clogs. She let me touch them first before she fitted them onto my feet, smiling a little as she saw me fondle them. Perhaps there was a touch of regret in her smile. How she had resisted until the very last, hoping still there would be enough money for shoes. But her new shop, resurrected from that terrible first day, had disappointed her, bringing in enough for clogs, but not for shoes.

But they were better than nothing, because my old shoes, Mr.Hamer had told her, were falling off my feet, fit for nothing but throwing in the midden. My mother had agreed with him.

Still, I think, my happiness made up for a great deal in her mind, and her smile also contained a little of my feelings. “You'll just have to walk very quiet and respectful when you go in the school,” she said, as she put the clogs onto my feet, kneeling in front of me on the floor. “If you don't draw attention to your clogs, maybe the headmaster won't notice them.”

I wasn't listening. I was fairly quivering with impatience to try out the clogs. As soon as she had snapped the buckles on tight, I sprang off the chair and began to stamp about like a young colt, but the real test would come when we were outside. Again I chafed while my mother got herself ready. She had put on her own best clothes, had brushed her coat carefully before putting it on, and finally had donned the hat with the feather. She also took an umbrella in case it rained.

As soon as we got outside I began scraping my feet against the pavement. Nothing happened, and I broke free from my mother's hand and ran out into the street and tried it against the cobbles. This time sparks shot up, and I screamed, “Look, Mam, look!”

“Yes, I see,” she said, smiling, “but we've got to go, and I don't want you to wear your clogs out before you get there.”

We went up the street, but our progress was slowed by my trying to raise sparks every few feet. Then there were further delays as women came to their doors, curious about my outfit, and my mother had to explain to them what it was about. At the top of the street we crossed over to the other side. Mrs. Turnbull was just bringing her husband outside, and seating him in his chair. She turned at the sight of us, and exclaimed, “Well, look at him! A regular bloody little toff! And where's he going all dressed up like that? To the King's ball?”

“No, I'm taking him to school, the one up the park,” my mother said.

“St. Peter's isn't good enough for him,” Mrs. Turnbull said. “I can't say it surprises me, though. He's been acting like a rich gentleman's son all summer long, buying sweets nearly every day.”

“Has he?” said my mother.

“Been in and out, in and out, nearly every day, bothering the life out of me, tapping on that glass counter with his penny. Hasn't given me a minute's rest. It'll be a good thing for him to be off at school. Wish I could do the same thing with me 'usband. Between those two I'm a wreck. Well, at least I'll be done with one of 'em.”

“I'm sorry about 'arry bothering you,” my mother said. “Maybe he won't now that he's going to be at school all day.”

“We can only live in 'ope,” said Mrs. Turnbull.

My mother pulled me by the hand and we went on. After we had gone a distance, she said, “Does Sarah send you every day for ginger beer?”

“Yis,” I said.

“And do you always spend your penny on sweets in Mrs. Turnbull's shop?”

I nodded.

“I think it's time you stopped buying so many sweets,” she said. “Perhaps you should start saving up your pennies for something you need, like shoes. If I'd had just a few more pennies I could have bought you shoes.”

“I like clogs,” I said.

“Well, it isn't good to eat so many sweets,” she said. “And I don't think it's good for Sarah to be drinking so much ginger beer. I'll have to talk to her mother about it.”

We didn't say any more about it, and I was glad, because for some reason the subject always made me feel uncomfortable. There was still something secretive about it when Sarah sent me on the errand, and if Florrie was in the shop she always gave me a glowering look. Mrs. Green, too, started muttering when I passed her house going to or from the grocery.

We began to climb the steep hill that ran alongside the park. In the winter it was used as a toboggan run during the few times that it snowed. In the summer courting couples holding hands made their way up the hill to the entrance of the park. The trees, I recall, had just begun to turn yellow and red, and some of the leaves had already fallen off and had filtered through the iron rail fence onto the ground. When we reached the top of the hill, we paused, both of us out of breath. We turned to look back. There was a view of the whole town beneath us, the streets slanting downward to the mills and the river behind them, the rows of houses staggered one below the other, with slate roofs shining from the damp, and curls of smoke coming out of the short, stubby chimneys. A yellowish pall hung over the scene, and the tall, slender stacks of the mills were half buried in its density.

I tried to make out our street and our house, but they were all so much alike it was impossible to do so. At last, rested, we continued on our way. The ground had flattened out and it was easier walking. Soon we had entered into a new world. There were no more rows of houses, but individual ones with little fenced-in gardens around them, and each one different from the other. I looked at them in awe, as did my mother.

“Someday,” she said, “we'll have a home like these. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yis,” I said. “When will we have one?”

“Soon, I hope. Very soon if the shop is a success.”

She still believed in her shop, despite the fact that she was struggling with it. That day her hopes were high. A slight drizzle had begun, and she opened the umbrella, and we both walked under it, briskly. Once again I became conscious of my clogs and exulted in the sound they made as the iron rims on the soles struck the paving. I would look back at the sparks that shot up from them occasionally, and laugh with joy, and sometimes my mother would laugh with me, and her hand holding mine would squeeze tightly.

“There it is,” she said, suddenly. “There's your school.”

It was a redbrick building with a rhododendron garden in front, and a large play yard at the side, with goal posts. We both became silent, and a little frightened too, I think. The entrance door was big and wide and imposing, with large black hinges, and an arch over it. It must have been very heavy, because my mother had some difficulty pulling it open, and then we stepped into a wide hall with a shiny wood floor.

My mother had been here once before, and knew where to go. The headmaster's office was at the very end of this hall. Classrooms were on either side of us, and through the glass panes in the doors we could see children seated at their desks, and teachers standing up in front of blackboards. Except for the faint murmur of voices that came through the doors, it was very quiet. As soon as we began to walk down this hall, though, the quiet was shattered by the clumping of my clogs. My mother had forgotten her own warning, and quickly put a finger to her lips. But it was too late. The faces of teachers stared at us through the glass of the classroom doors. Then suddenly a door at the end of the hall flew open, and out burst a short, potbellied man with a shiny bald head. The head was bent down slightly, and he came charging toward us like a mad bull.

“What's this?” he shouted, as he came closer to us. “What's all this noise about? Clogs?” His eyes had caught my feet. They lifted with fury in them. “Clogs in my school, scratching my floors? Never! Out with you. Out, this minute!”