The Invisible Wall (8 page)

They all sensed it, and were looking at her curiously. Certainly, this had nothing to do with chickens.

“Come in,” my mother said. “Come to the fire and warm yourself.”

She walked slowly up to the fire, with all eyes on her. There was not much of the fire left, but embers still glowed, and she held out her hands toward them, and in the meantime, an impatient Mrs. Mittleman called out, “So how are the chickens today? Did you bring any good ones?”

“Yes, I have some very good ones. The best.” She threw this over her shoulder at Mrs. Mittleman, but absently, as if her mind was on something else.

The others had noticed it. They waited, their curiosity growing. The fat little woman did not seem in a hurry. She held out her hands toward the fire. Yet there was every indication that she held some sort of secret within her. After another moment, she turned her head and glanced around the room once more, and asked my mother:

“Mrs. Harris is not here?”

My mother looked at her in surprise. Couldn't she have seen for herself that she was not here? “Not unless she's hiding under the counter,” she said mischievously, and glanced under herself.

No one laughed, and my mother added, “You want to see her?”

“No,” said Mrs. Zarembar.

“Then why do you ask for her?”

The others wanted to know that, too. But now the fat little woman was glancing around yet again, and this time her eyes lit on me.

“He understands Yiddish?” she asked my mother in a low voice.

“My children speak only English,” my mother said, and there might have been a touch of regret in her voice, because it was not the way she had wanted it. But it was the way it had turned out.

However, her words seemed to reassure Mrs. Zarembar, and she turned around completely to face them, and began to speak, her voice so low at first that they had to come closer to listen, and soon they were all gathered around the counter in a tight little knot. I remained seated in my corner. The clouds outside had grown menacing and could be seen through the window, hanging low over the chimneys and rooftops of the row of houses opposite us in thick, black masses, and the room had darkened still more, and the embers in the fire were like tiny red eyes.

The voices whispered. They were all speaking now, and gasps of horror intermingled with little cries of incredulity. I did not understand then what it was about, but I had the feeling that something terrible had happened, a catastrophe worse than anything that had ever befallen our street.

I heard Mrs. Jacobs give a shout of triumph. “And my Rafael was not good enough for them!” she cried, lifting both arms up to heaven, to God in a gesture of gratitude.

“Are you sure?” my mother asked, her voice trembling with emotion. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“I swear!” cried Mrs. Zarembar. “On the graves of my father and mother, they should rest in peace, I swear.”

There was a hubbub of voices. Clearly, this was the most sensational bit of gossip ever to come out of my mother's shop. Mrs. Mittleman's voice rose, dominating all the others, demanding, “This I must hear once more. Tell me again. Start from the beginning. I want to know everything that happened.”

By this time they had forgotten my presence completely, and had begun to use English with their Yiddish, and as a result I was able to understand much of what Mrs. Zarembar repeated to them—repeated, I must say, with much relish.

         

MRS. ZAREMBAR'S FORAGES
into the country for chickens—good fat ones at low prices—usually followed the same route, taking her across the moor and past the peat bog where we sometimes dug for the chunks of peat that became our fuel when we could not afford coal, and then out into Cheadle, where the farms began in those days. The tram would have taken her out there much faster and more easily, but a tram cost money, and what else did she have to do with her time?

Besides, she enjoyed her walk, even though she had difficulty walking, with legs that were thick and short and old. But her awkward footsteps took her through woods and fields, and past trickling brooks that sparkled in the sun like jewels. In the summer, the fields would be covered with glowing buttercups and daisies and bluebells that gave off a rich, perfumed smell. Even in the winter, with harsh winds blowing like today, it was enjoyable, and her cheeks tingled with health. She had made her stop at the farm where she purchased her chickens, and after much haggling had concluded her business, and was on her way home, weighed down on either side by a squirming bag, refreshed by the cup of tea that the farmer's wife always gave her.

She was walking through a huge grove of old oak and beech trees, whose bare branches swayed in the wind and gave off a soughing sound that was like a deep sigh. Her feet trod softly on the carpet of dead, rotted leaves that lay on the ground, and a loamy smell rose up from the earth. She was alone, it seemed, with peace and quiet all around her, when suddenly she saw two people walking some distance ahead of her, moving very slowly and in dream-like fashion, a young man and a girl, with their arms linked around each other's waists. They were lovers evidently, and every so often they paused to kiss.

“They kissed?” Mrs. Mittleman interrupted, breathlessly.

“Yes.” Mrs. Zarembar frowned, obviously annoyed at the interruption.

Yes, they kissed several times, long, passionate kisses, enfolded tightly in each other's arms. Then they would walk on. Mrs. Zarembar, following them slowly, smiled to herself. How well she remembered her own romantic days. Perhaps she would have deviated from her story and gone into an account of those days if there hadn't been mutters of complaint from the other women.

She continued. They were walking very slowly ahead of her, and she deliberately slowed down so that she would not catch up with them, because it was such pleasure watching them. She did not want to spoil it with her presence and the clucking of her chickens. Then, gradually, something began to dawn on her. She saw them only from behind, but was beginning to realize there was something familiar about them. They stopped for another kiss, and now it came to her. Of course! How could she have been mistaken?

The heads drew closer as she came to this part, because her voice had lowered. I was not able to catch the words she spoke, but again came the same gasps of horror, and once again Mrs. Jacobs triumphantly cast her one good eye and both arms upward to heaven and shouted, “And my Rafael was not good enough for them!” Only this time adding, “Now it becomes a question, is she good enough for my son?”

No one paid any attention to her. Mrs. Mittleman was demanding to know what she did then and Mrs. Zarembar was shrugging and saying, “What could I do? What should I do? I nearly fainted from the shock. But after all, I am not the girl's mother. It was not for me to say or do anything. I turned around and went home another way. I couldn't bear to look at them any longer.”

“If it was me,” declared Mrs. Mittleman viciously, “I would have struck her. I would have pulled her hair out. I don't care if she was my daughter or not. She's a Jewish girl, and she has no right to be going out with a goy, and kissing him, no less, and God knows what else she might have been doing.”

“No, no,” my mother intervened. “She did the right thing. It's for the mother to decide what to do, and the mother has to be told.”

“Who will tell her?” murmured Fanny Cohen. Her baby, quiet for a while, had begun to cry again, and she was jouncing it up and down.

“What the mother should do,” said my mother, not answering the question, “is send her off to America.” It was her panacea for all our ills, America, the answer to everyone's problems, including her own, and if she could not go it would have given her satisfaction to see someone else go, at least.

But Mrs. Mittleman shook her head stubbornly. “No, a good hiding would be the best thing, a beating that she'd never forget.”

And then, suddenly, someone said, “Sshh!”

All the heads turned, and there standing in the doorway was Mrs. Harris. She had come in so softly, no one had heard, and it was hard to say how long she had been standing there, or how much she had heard. She was huddled in her shawl, her little hen's eyes peering suspiciously at them from beneath the wig.

I had been so immersed in the talk going on, aware that it was about Sarah and Freddy, that I had not noticed her come in either, and I felt the same shock as they did. A long, awkward silence followed, broken finally by my mother, who spoke nervously.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harris,” she said. “Why don't you come in and warm yourself by the fire?”

The fire had long since gone out, and there was only gray ash left in the grate. But Mrs. Harris had ignored her invitation, and without a word had begun to examine the bushels and boxes of vegetables, feeling and pinching and sniffing. Mrs. Zarembar was the first among them to decide that it was time for her to leave. She said her good-byes with invitations to all of them to come see her chickens, invitations that were accepted with alacrity, for they began instantly pulling their shawls over their heads, and hurrying out. Fanny, whose baby was bawling lustily by now, followed suit. She was the last to go.

A deep silence settled over the shop. My mother sat watching Mrs. Harris as she went silently among the vegetables still huddled in her shawl, still poking and sniffing here and there. My mother looked troubled, and I knew what was going through her mind. She was wondering how to tell her the dreadful bit of news that had been passed to her over the counter.

She waited. Mrs. Harris didn't seem satisfied with any of the things she saw; she found fault with everything, this too soft, this no good, the tomatoes too ripe. My mother didn't argue with her. It was becoming clear that the woman had come in less to buy than to talk. She herself looked troubled and unhappy, and there was no telling how much she may have heard standing in the doorway.

But regardless of that, there was much for her to be troubled about, with four daughters and a son unmarried. Yet there was one bright spot in all this, and my mother ventured to say, “I hear that Leah is going out with a boy from Manchester. Is it time yet to say mazel tov?”

Mrs. Harris gave a bitter little laugh, and a shrug. “What is he? A presser in a shop. He hardly makes a living for himself, let alone a wife.”

“But he goes to shul?” said my mother.

Again she shrugged. “He goes to shul, yes, but he smokes on Shabbos, so what kind of Jew can he be?”

My mother sighed. There was no bright spot, after all. Any boy who smoked on Shabbos would automatically be disqualified from marrying one of the Harris girls. But there was much worse for them to discover, my mother must have reflected. She edged closer to what she had to do, saying, “And Sarah? I hear she is much better now and goes for walks.”

“Yes, walks,” replied Mrs. Harris, not looking at her, still examining the baskets of vegetables and fruits. There had been something bitter in her tone, and it could have meant that she knew something.

My mother watched her closely, and I saw how her hands were clenched together. How difficult all this must have been for her, whether Mrs. Harris knew or not. But she couldn't have known. Such a monstrous thing couldn't have been kept within her so quietly. No, my mother must have decided she had to get it over with quickly before it destroyed her too. “Mrs. Harris,” she said in a low voice, “I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me?” She looked up at her from a basket, her little eyes inquisitive.

“Yes, I must tell you. It is very important.” She glanced at me, and Mrs. Harris saw the glance and realized that it was something confidential that I should not hear, even though they were talking in Yiddish.

She shuffled up to the counter, and my mother leaned across to her and began to whisper, and I saw what seemed like an electric shock go through the old woman's body. I saw her clutch the shawl at her neck, and heard her own hoarse whisper, “No, no, no. It is not true. It is a lie. The Zarembar woman lies.”

“I wish that she did,” said my mother, her voice trembling. “But she has sworn on the graves of her mother and father, and she has told the story twice, and we have questioned her, and she does not change a word.”

“No, it can't be true,” insisted Mrs. Harris, and it was clear now that she had known nothing until now, and was in a terrible state of shock. “How could she have even known the shaigets? She has been in bed all summer.”

There was more whispering between them, with their heads close together, both of them leaning over the counter. I saw my mother glance toward me several times, and Mrs. Harris also looked back at me, and then my mother said, “You will see. He knows.” She called, “'arry, come here.”

I got up off the floor, and walked over to the counter. I felt a little afraid. I did not know why I was being brought into all this.

“'arry,” my mother said, “has Sarah been sending you to Gordons' for ginger beer?”

“Yis,” I replied.

“And does she always ask you to give the empty bottle to Freddy, and to make sure he waits on you?”

“Yis.”

“And, 'arry,” said my mother, “did Sarah give you a note to give to Freddy also?”

“No,” I said, “she put the note in the ginger beer bottle, and Freddy put his in the bottle too.”

“You see?” said my mother, turning to Mrs. Harris triumphantly. “That's how it was done.”

But Mrs. Harris was still shaking her head vigorously, and saying, “No, no, no.” Then she demanded, “Can he say emmos to all this?”

“'arry,” my mother asked, “has the rabbi taught you what emmos is?”

“Yis,” I answered. “Emmos Adonai.”

“It means truth to God, and if you say it and are telling a lie, you can die. Do you know that?”

“Yis. The rabbi told us.”