The Invisible Wall (9 page)

“Then can you say it now?”

I nodded.

“Say it then.”

“Emmos Adonai.”

No sooner had I spoken these two words than Mrs. Harris let out an anguished cry, clapped her hands to her face, and instantly ran out of the shop, startling both of us. We remained as we were, my mother and I, not moving or saying anything, with the shop growing darker as still heavier clouds gathered outside. We heard the door close behind her, and we saw her pass the window, almost doubled over in her shawl and running. Then rain began to spatter lightly against the window.

My mother roused herself with a sigh, and said, “They'll be coming home from school soon. I'd better go out to meet them with an umbrella.”

This was not her usual practice, because we were accustomed to getting wet in the rain. But now there was a deeper anxiety than ever. She was afraid, terribly afraid. I watched her as she hurried to get an umbrella and went out. I was alone in the shop, and it was very dark, almost like night. The rain drove harder against the window, and there was a little whistling sound from the wind.

         

THE TRUTH WAS
, ever since that day of the attack, Arthur had been our escort a good part of the way to and from school. He would go as far as the Devil's Steps with us in the morning, and would be waiting for us there in the afternoon and walk us home, and my mother had not been able to do anything about that, nor had she tried, nor had she really wanted to because of the protection Arthur gave us.

I am sure, though, she must have had many doubts as the winter went on, and spent sleepless nights worrying about it, and when we came in from school she cast anxious looks at Lily, as if to see if there were any change in her.

All she saw was that Lily looked bright and animated, her cheeks flushed with elation. Arthur, who was fully aware of the situation and accepted it good-naturedly, tutored Lily as they went along the streets coming to and from school. They walked ahead of us, Arthur towering over Lily, and Lily's long hair bobbing at the back of her waist, her face turned eagerly up to him as they talked.

Sometimes they read from one of his books as they walked, and their heads would come close together. Rose would give a sarcastic laugh and say, “I'll bet they're going to start kissing soon. Won't she smart when I tell her about it.”

But my mother, to whom she was referring, never did get to hear about this part of it, because Rose hardly ever spoke to her, and once we came home it was all forgotten anyway. Except perhaps by Lily, who was in seventh heaven these days.

She was quite sure now that she was going to pass her exam and win a scholarship—and if she did, could her mother object to her walking to the grammar school with Arthur every day? One of my mother's fears when Lily had first broached the subject of a scholarship and going to the grammar school was her having to walk all that distance alone. Well, there would be nothing to fear now. I had never seen Lily so happy and confident as she was in those days. She studied most of the time, burying herself in her books at the kitchen table, oblivious of the noises we made; but when there were things to be done around the house for my mother, like washing the windows or polishing the brass candlesticks for Friday, she sang over her work. She had a lovely, sweet voice, and my mother would smile over her happiness.

One cloud hung over them both constantly. Almost every day, before she set out for school, Lily would ask, “Did you speak to him about it?”

My mother's forehead would crease, and the worried look would come on her face. “Not yet,” she'd murmur. “I didn't get the chance.”

“Oh, you never get the chance,” Lily would cry. “What am I to tell the headmaster? He keeps asking me for the slip.”

“I'll speak to him tonight,” my mother would promise.

But it was not tonight. Nor the night after. My mother simply lacked the courage. Could anyone blame her? During the day he came and went, swiftly. He ate his meal with his head bent low over the plate, shoveling the food into his mouth with noises and grunts, and no one dared speak to him then. As soon as he was done, he was up with a scraping sound from the chair, putting on his coat, and leaving. Then at night, while she was busy mending and darning under the gaslight, he came home, and who could tell what condition he was in, and what might result if she broached the matter?

So she kept putting it off, day after day, night after night, and the little white slip of paper the headmaster had given Lily remained tucked away under the oilcloth on the mantelpiece, where my mother kept her valuable things, still neatly folded, unsigned.

And time was slipping by. It was now December. God knows, there were other, more important matters to think about. The war was now well under way. Battles had been fought and men killed. Our street was emptying of its men. One after another they were being called up. My father's turn would soon come. Perhaps this was on his mind. Maybe this was another reason my mother hesitated to approach him about signing the slip of paper for the exam. Yet it could not be forgotten. The exam would take place early in the month of January, a week or so after Boxing Day.

And now there was something else to contend with, this one coming on that dark, rainy day, a catastrophe that overshadowed everything else. For the time being, that day, all my mother could think of was to run out with an umbrella and meet us coming home from school.

         

WE ALL HEARD THE CRIES
, the slaps, the screams, one voice roaring, the other pleading for mercy. It was late evening. It was after supper. We sat around the fire reading, our heads buried in books or magazines, mine in a comic paper.

At first, we thought it was the Finklesteins, who often fought among themselves. They were our next-door neighbor, and almost every night the sounds of their fighting came through the wall. Once, I remember, Jane, the oldest one, came running into our house with her arm bleeding where her mother had stabbed her. My mother had cleaned the wound and bandaged it, and kept her there with us until she got up enough courage to go back.

But it was not the Finklesteins this time. We had lifted our heads from our books and magazines to listen. No, it came from farther up the street, from of all places the Harris house, the one place where there was always order and quiet, along with strict religious observance.

Others had also heard it. Up and down the street, on both sides, doors were opening, and people came out in the dark to listen. They did not exchange comments among themselves, as they sometimes did when the Finklesteins fought. They knew where it was coming from, and after standing out there for a few moments, everyone went inside and closed their doors quietly.

In our house we said nothing either. We knew by now what it was all about. So did everyone, for that matter. The news about Sarah and Freddy had spread like wildfire on both sides. Mr. Harris had come home late from his workshop with his son, Sam, and barely had the two entered the house than Mrs. Harris, still weeping, had told them. Mr. Harris had not even waited to remove his bowler, but in the wild rage that swept through him he went into swift, immediate action, his hat falling off as he finished the hiding he gave Sarah with his yarmulke bobbing on his feverish head.

Eventually, it was over, and the cries and shouts and screams subsided, and in our house we all drew in a deep breath of relief. But it was not quite over for us yet. My mother was trembling, as if she herself might have received the punishment. She stood facing us, with her hands clasped under her chin, and said, “You see what happens when a girl like Sarah goes out with a shaigets. Do you know what a shaigets is?”

“A goy,” mumbled Joe.

“Yes. And do you know what would happen if a Jewish girl married a goy?”

No one answered her question at first. We were all staring at her.

“What?” asked Joe.

Her eyes seemed to be fixed especially on Lily as she answered. “She dies,” she said, and then seeing the horror that came into our eyes she relented a little, and went on, “I don't mean she actually dies. But as far as the parents and all her family are concerned, she is dead, and they sit shivah for her.”

“What's shivah?” Joe asked.

“Shivah is mourning for the dead. The family has to sit for seven days in their stocking feet. That is what they have to do when a daughter or a son marries a Christian.”

She was still looking steadily at Lily as she spoke. Lily was pretending not to notice it, but after a moment she got up and said, “I think I'll go to bed.”

“Yes, I think you all should,” my mother said.

No one argued that night. We followed Lily up the stairs, quietly.

         

SOON AFTERWARD
, Sarah left us. All the street watched. People stood on their doorsteps on both sides and watched as Sarah walked down the street with her father on one side of her carrying a satchel and Sam on the other carrying a trunk on his shoulder. Sarah was smiling a little, and she looked very prettty and grown-up. Her dark coat did not completely cover the dress that encircled her ankles. She wore a large broad-brimmed hat with a bunch of cherries on one side.

They paused briefly at almost every doorstep on our side so that Sarah could say good-bye to the families gathered there. No one ever went away anywhere on our street without saying good-bye. Even when you went to Manchester, a distance of just about eight miles by tram, it was the custom to go from door to door to say good-bye. And Sarah was going much farther.

To Australia. My mother would rather she had gone to America, but the Harrises had relatives in Australia, so she was going there instead. As far as my mother was concerned, though Australia was not as good as America, it was better than nothing. She was satisfied, just as Mrs. Mittleman was satisfied that her advice had been carried out. A good hiding such as her father gave her that night would teach her a lesson she would never forget. She expressed herself clearly on that subject later in the shop, and all the others agreed.

That day, watching her go, I could almost see the envy on my mother's face. How she wished she and her family were going off to Liverpool to board a ship. Sarah came up to us finally. We were the last ones she would say good-bye to, because they had to turn on Brook Street to go to the railroad station.

My mother clasped Sarah in her arms and wept a little, as all the other women had done. Sarah's father and brother stood waiting impatiently. Mr. Harris's bearded face glowered under his bowler hat. Sam perspired a little under the weight of the trunk on his shoulder.

“You must write to us,” my mother said. “You mustn't forget.”

“Yes, of course,” Sarah said. She was smiling, but she spoke absently. Her mind was on something else, and even then she was casting glances down the street, toward the Gordons' shop on the other side.

But when she kissed me her manner was less absent, and she hugged me for quite a while, and I caught the last scent of lavender from her. “Good-bye, 'arry,” she whispered. “I won't forget you, and you mustn't forget me. And thank you so much for fetching the ginger beer.”

Then she was done and ready to go. She straightened up and took a last look around her at the street, and once again, for the last time, her eyes strayed down toward the lower corner on the other side. And there was Freddy, come out of his shop in his long white apron, standing there looking up at her.

They looked at each other for a little while, then Sarah walked on in between her father and Sam. I watched them go along Brook Street. In the distance you could see the viaduct. Trains crossed it now. They were heading for the station in Edgeley, about two miles away. I watched until they had disappeared from sight, but remained standing there until a train ran across the viaduct. I pictured Sarah sitting on it, looking through a window watching the town disappear, with that sweet smile on her face.

It was all in vain. The Harrises might well have saved themselves all the trouble they went through with Sarah, not to speak of the dangers of the ship crossing to Australia with the German U-boats sinking ships. For it was not long afterward that Freddy joined the army and went off to France to fight in the war, and Florrie was left alone finally, which she had always dreaded, with less chance than ever of marrying that fellow in Birmingham.

Chapter Five

IT SNOWED ONCE THAT WINTER. THE FLAKES BEGAN TO FALL FROM A YELLOWISH
sky one afternoon, and the snow looked dark coming down, almost as if the flakes were soot rather than snow. But when it struck the rooftops and the ground and the windowsills it was white. We almost went mad with joy, running up and down the street trying to catch the flakes in our hands, tilting up our faces so that we could catch them in our wide-open mouths too, with our tongues sticking out.

The snow came down steadily all afternoon, covering the rooftops except for the chimneys, where the heat from the fires kept it from sticking. Then soon there was enough on the ground to make toboggan slides.

It was a Sunday afternoon and everybody was home, and the Christian men and boys were still wearing their best black Sunday suits that they went to church in. Most of them didn't bother to change. Stanley Jackson and Johnny Melrose and Willie Humberstone and the other Christian lads opposite us began to make a slide on their side. Zalmon Roseman and Philly Cohen, my brothers Joe and Saul, and all the other Jewish lads on our side began to make one for us too. Pretty soon we had a Jewish slide and a Christian slide, and all the men and women came out on the doorsteps to watch, or if it was too cold for them they watched from the windows.

I tried it myself, and I was scared at first. You started at the top, out on the street near the Harris's house, and the slide ran all the way down to Wood Street, at the very bottom. The farther down you went on the incline the faster and faster you went. I fell several times before I got the knack of it. Then I was like all the others, yelling and screaming as I raced down, and balancing myself with my arms spread out.

After a while the surface of the two slides became glassy, and warnings began to be shouted from doorsteps. Several accidents had taken place, and children had dropped out with bruised knees and cut faces, and I was one of them. I had taken a bad fall and scraped a hand. But still I refused to go inside the house, and stayed out watching.

Some of the men had joined in the activity. Johnny Melrose's father had taken a run down, surprising everyone with his agility and skill, and his ability to keep his pipe in his mouth all the time. A quiet, stocky man, who tramped to and from the mill daily with his head cast down a little, the pipe always in his mouth, he hardly looked the kind who'd be tobogganning down a slide. But he was a regular daredevil at it, racing swiftly, balancing himself with ease, and landing at the bottom on both feet.

Soon enough the women were sliding down with the men, clinging to their waists, screaming, and probably less frightened than they seemed. I saw Freddy Gordon come out of the shop, still with his long white apron on, and march up the street, obviously on his way to the top of the slide. He stopped halfway up the row. Mrs. Green was standing outside her door, and I could see Annie behind her in the doorway, holding the baby.

I heard Freddy say, “Come on and take the slide with me, Annie.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't,” said Annie, and you could see she was flustered by the invitation.

“Go on,” her mother urged. “Go on and give yourself a bit of fun.”

“No, I couldn't,” Annie repeated. “I'm afeard, and I've got to mind the baby.”

“I'll mind 'im for you,” Mrs. Green shouted. “Go on, you bloody fool. You might never get the chance again.”

She almost pulled the baby out of Annie's arms and pushed her straight at Freddy. He caught her and led her up the hill. Everybody was looking at them, and Annie knew it, and looked embarrassed. Freddy himself didn't seem to mind the eyes staring at them.

Later on it would be discussed in our shop, and there'd be much shaking of heads over what they had seen, with someone saying with a laugh, “Well, if things work out right Mrs. Green will get all the beer she wants for nothin'.” There was a lot of agreement on this, and a lot of unpleasant things were said about Freddy.

Someone muttered, “Please God, she shouldn't have another baby.” A long silence after that.

That day everyone watched as Freddy and Annie started down the incline, her arms around his waist, Annie obviously frightened and clinging tightly to him. Down they went. Freddy was expert at it. He waved the free arm cheerfully as they picked up speed, then raced past the houses and the staring people, past the grinning, cackling, delighted Mrs. Green, coming to a safe stop right in front of the Gordon shop, where Florrie stood, grim and tight-lipped, hands on hips, furious.

“You bloody fool,” she shouted, unable to contain herself any longer. “You're at it again.”

THE SLIDES MELTED
during the night. Most of the snow had disappeared when we got up and stared disappointed through the window. Here and there a patch of dirty white remained, but it was nothing. We went to school as usual. This time Arthur did not accompany us. It had been forbidden. He walked ahead of us with his long stride and his books under his arm, and Lily pretended not to see him. She walked with me in front, holding my hand, and her head bent a little, and her long, silken hair bobbing behind her, silent all the way. She was terribly unhappy about not being allowed to speak to Arthur anymore, and bitter as well. She hardly ever spoke to my mother. She studied harder than ever, however, poring over her books at night, and whenever there was an opportunity during the day.

At school she was busy with her monitor duties, rushing down to the basement to mix ink, rushing back up again to fill inkwells, taking notes from the headmaster to the teachers, always rushing, with her long hair swinging about. We were all being kept busy learning Christmas carols. The Christmas holidays were approaching, and a religious fervor had swept over the headmaster, and now at any time during the day it could be expected that classes would be interrupted, the partitions pushed back, and all of us ordered to stand on the benches to sing carols.

“Good King Wenceslas…looked out…”

I think this must have been his favorite, because it was sung over and over again, with Miss Penn thumping out the accompaniment on the piano, and the headmaster beating time with his stick and bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, his large red ears sticking out like two wings on either side of his head, a deeper red than ever as the religious passion flowed through his veins.

Outside, the skies remained gray and overcast, and the days were shorter than ever. By the time we left school, lights were on in the shops and on the trucks, and lanterns bobbed at the back of carts. Curiously, though Arthur was not allowed to walk with us or speak to Lily anymore, he always happened to be at the Devil's Steps as we came along, and he managed to keep in sight just a short distance ahead of us as we walked the rest of the way home. It was always a comfort to us to know that he was there.

Lily came home from school with us bitter and almost in tears one day. The headmaster had spoken to her again about the permit slip, and warned that if she did not get it in before the Christmas holidays, signed by her father, she would not be allowed to take the exam.

“I'll try to talk to him tonight,” my mother said nervously.

“You're always saying that,” Lily burst out. “It's always tonight, and you never do it. I don't think you want me to take the exam. You don't want me to go to the grammar school. You want me to go into the tailoring shop—with him, work with him, be with him all day. I'd rather die than do that,” she added, passionately, the tears starting to come to her eyes.

“You mustn't talk that way,” my mother said. “Of course I want you to take the exam. And of course I want you to go to the grammar school and become a teacher. I want nothing else. But you've got to be patient. If I ask your father at the wrong time that would be the end of it.”

“It's always the wrong time,” Lily said. “I don't think there's ever going to be a right time. If you don't ask him, then I will.”

“No!” my mother cried. “You mustn't do that.”

“Why? Why can't I ask him?”

“You mustn't, that's why.”

That was the end of the discussion, and I really think my mother was determined to speak to him when he came home that night. She was in a highly nervous state when she said goodnight to us. Lily gave her a long look before we went upstairs, and my mother nodded, as if to let her know that she understood its meaning. Yes, there was every indication that she was going to do it, no matter what. She even had the permit slip on top of the mantelpiece ready to show him, and that in itself showed how determined she was.

Yet, in spite of that, she failed once again, but it was hardly her fault. Nobody could have predicted that for the first time my father would not come home alone.

         

WE SAW HIM
fast asleep on the torn black leather sofa in the kitchen that was also the living room when we came downstairs the next morning. A strange man stretched out on the only comfortable place there was to sit in the entire house, occupying the room where we ate and read our books in front of the fire, and which we lived in. His face showed on the pillow, a rather pale, flabby face, his feet were sticking out of the blankets, he was snoring heavily, and he frequently coughed in his sleep.

My mother put a finger to her lips, and said, “Sshh,” as we entered.

Who was he? we all wanted to know in whispers. She explained in whispers too: he was our boarder. A friend of our father's, or at least an acquaintance he had struck up in the pub, a Jewish man from Leeds who had just come into our town, and was looking for lodgings.

There was an immediate outcry from all of us. From Rose especially. This was even more shocking than the shop, a boarder, and to make matters worse a pal of his, and another one like him, undoubtedly. Rose burst into a torrent of abuse.

“Oh, isn't it like her, to do this to us. She doesn't care about us. All she cares about is herself, and the money she can make. Money, money, money. That's all she can think of. It's a wonder she doesn't turn us out of our own beds to put this tramp up.”

Little did she know that that was more or less what would have to be done. But my mother wisely refrained from saying anything about it then. She answered Rose gently, saying, “You'll get used to it, and it won't be as bad as you think. He's not a tramp. He's a hardworking Jewish man, who doesn't have a home of his own, and yes, I can use the money. There's nothing terrible about that.”

“Nothing' s terrible for you,” Rose sneered.

My mother did not say anything to this. Nor did she mention that taking care of a boarder would add more work to all the other things she had to do. Her shop in itself was enough to keep her busy, and then all the other chores of the household. Although she may have been thinking of it. Nor did Lily speak. She had been silent through the whole thing. Her mind was on one thing only. The moment she had come downstairs her eyes had gone to the mantelpiece. The permit slip was still there unsigned.

“You did nothing about it,” she burst out suddenly.

Attacked from this other side, my mother drew in a deep breath. “No, I couldn't,” she said. “I was going to but then he came home with this man and I couldn't speak in front of him.”

“You wouldn't have anyway,” said Lily bitterly, beginning to cry. “You're just finding excuses.”

She sounded now like Rose, and my mother must have had difficulty holding back her temper. But just then our attention was drawn to the man on the sofa. He had awakened and was half sitting up listening to the quarrel.

“Good morning,” he said, cheerfully.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” my mother said, embarrassed. “We didn't mean to wake you up.”

“That's all right,” he said, and coughed, and looked about for some place to spit, and finding none must have swallowed what he had in his mouth. “That's all right,” he repeated. “I'm the one should say sorry. I shouldn't be lying here in your kitchen. Where's Jack?”

“He's at work,” my mother said.

“It's that late?” He sat up fully, and smiled at us and said, “Hello, kiddies.”

We said nothing. My mother put in hastily, “They're off to school. Go on,” she said to us, “you'd better hurry.”

We left, and Rose, thinking she had found a new ally in Lily, walked beside her at the front, still spitting venom at Mam. “Oh, it's nothing more than spite,” she said. “All she wants to do is drag us down to her level. She's real low class. I don't know about you, but one of these days I'm going to pack my things and just leave. That tramp is just about the last straw for me. After this I don't know how I can face the neighbors.”

Lily said nothing. Nor did we. Our hearts were pretty heavy that day, thinking of the unwanted stranger who'd been brought into our midst. With Rose chattering her spite, we walked to school in silence. Lily was perhaps the unhappiest of all of us. She tried to avoid talking to the headmaster that day, and he, probably sensing the hopelessness of it, said nothing to her. He knew about my father—everybody, in fact, did—and must have guessed the situation.