The Old Brown Suitcase (9 page)

(ROCKVILLE, 1947)

I HEARD THE STUDENTS
running around the side of the house. It didn’t take them long to find my hiding place. A face flashed above me, and one of the boys yelled, “There she is, the little Jew-girl!”

In a moment I was surrounded by them. They stood in a circle above my head, jeering, calling me names. I looked up at their spiteful faces, and all of a sudden I wasn’t afraid anymore. What did they really know about me to criticize me? What right did they have to persecute me here in Canada?

I began to shout at them in Polish.

“You Nazis! You spoiled little brats!” I stood up in the pit, my blouse bloody from the cuts on my arm. With all the strength I could muster I yelled in English, “I am a Jew! I am a Jew! I am a Jew!”

They stood silent. Then my father came out of the house, and they all ran away.

Later, Father phoned the principal, and told him what had happened. Mr. Dunshill was outraged and asked to speak to me. After apologizing on behalf of the school, he said, “You rest up at home during the weekend and come back to school on Monday.”

On Monday morning it was as if nothing had happened. I sat at the desk with my arm bandaged up. The class avoided looking at me. Joshua was still away with his basketball team, and I felt lonelier than ever before. But when the bell rang for recess, the teacher made us all sit quietly and wait. Wait for what? I thought. Then Mr. Dunshill walked into the classroom with his cup of coffee.

“Something ugly and cruel has happened in this classroom,” he began. “You have been cruel to your classmate. You acted on prejudice and hate.”

He put down his coffee cup, and his voice rose. “This is a free land. Remember your anthem, and remember who you stand for when you sing it. In Canada, people have the right to be whoever they choose or happen to be.” He paused. There was a complete silence in the classroom. Then he resumed: “I am leaving it up to each one of you to question your own conscience. Why you acted as you did. And what you can do to make sure that such discrimination doesn’t happen again. I am leaving each and every one of you to do the right thing, to make the right decision about yourself and your actions.”

Mr. Dunshill spoke with the teacher for a moment, then picked up his coffee cup and left.

There was silence in the class, and then the students began to leave the room slowly and quietly. They still avoided eye-contact with me. I wished again that Joshua were back.

I had permission to go home for lunch. When I returned, I found an envelope lying on my desk with my name written on it. Inside was a letter:

When the students began filing into the classroom, the atmosphere was better. Not that I could feel terrific right away, and forget what had happened. But they tried to make amends. A girl came up to talk. Two boys asked if I would have lunch with them in the cafeteria tomorrow.

Back at home I had one of those deep discussions with my father. I asked him if people were basically good, and only the Germans bad.

Father thought for a moment, then replied, “It is a difficult question you ask, my darling daughter. The Germans have been among the most civilized and cultured people of Europe. Some of the greatest musical composers were German, like Beethoven. And there were great philosophers, writers and poets.”

He shook his head sorrowfully. “It is hard to believe that the German people could have brought themselves to commit such crimes as they did under the Nazis. Yet they did. Sometimes people do terrible things, but we must believe that goodness in man will prevail over evil, and that your classmates can learn the difference between the two. The letter certainly proves that they can learn.”

I felt a lot better after our talk, and that finally I was able to tell the truth about being Jewish. But as I was helping Mother with dinner, she told me that Father needed medical treatment. A lump had grown in the place where he had been injured during the war. It meant we had to leave for Montreal very soon.

I was frightened both for Father and for us. What would happen to us if Father became sick?

The next day Joshua returned to school. His team had come second at the Cornwall tournament, the best Rockville had ever done. At lunchtime I told him what had happened. He stared at me with disbelief.

“It wouldn’t have happened if I had been here,” he said angrily. “They probably knew that and did it while I was out of town. These kids do not know that much about the world,” he said, chewing reflectively on his sandwich.

“Eva is wrong to have done what she did, no question,” he said. “I don’t like her, but I try to understand her. Kids with German names like hers were given a hard time at school during the war. They were picked on pretty constantly.”

“I can’t feel sorry for her, Joshua,” I replied heatedly. “What about us Jewish kids and our feelings during the war?”

Joshua grew silent for a moment, then said, “Maybe someday you can bring yourself to forgive Eva.”

I thought of Irka. She had been German, like Eva.

“Maybe someday,” I said.

Then I explained the situation at home, and told Joshua I was sorry to be leaving him.

“I’ll miss you very much, Liz,” he said. “Before you go, I want to invite you and your parents to our house for Chanukah.”

I asked my parents, and they accepted. The Chanukah dinner was two days before we were scheduled to leave for Montreal.

It was a wonderful dinner. Joshua’s parents were from Odessa. Father spoke with them in Russian, and Mother in English. Because I knew nothing about it, Joshua explained the Chanukah story to me. “Chanukah is the Festival of

Lights,” he said. “It celebrates the triumph of the Jewish people over oppressors, the Greeks, who defaced our synagogues and forced us Jews to worship their idols.” He told me that, the ritual of this celebration is the lighting of the menorah, the eight-branched candelabra. A new candle is lit every day for eight days, and placed in one of the eight holders. The ninth candle in the holder of the Menorah, acts as a servant who lights the other candles.

After dinner, Joshua took me aside and said, “I want you to write to me, Liz. Promise?”

“I promise. And you will write, too?” I asked.

“Of course I will. I still want to hear more stories about that interesting life of yours,” he said jokingly.

On my last day of school, I said good bye to all my classmates, but avoided Eva. I couldn’t bring myself to be friendly to her.

Parting with Joshua was the saddest of all. He gave me a small menorah as a parting gift and kissed me on the cheek.

On the bus to Montreal, hours later, I could still feel the touch of his lips.

(MONTREAL, 1948)

THE OLD BROWN SUITCASE
was getting heavier. In addition to my precious mementos of Poland, it now contained the brass menorah from Joshua and a book about Chanukah. I carried it into our new apartment and took stock of my room.

It resembled a furniture store. To cross it, I had to hop from foot to foot so as not to knock over the frail side tables, or trip against the mouldy edges of the velour couch. I made my way between two china dogs who sat on their hind legs as if waiting for something to happen. The room was stuffy. The air was trapped between the yellow walls and greasy windows, half-covered by heavy drapes grey with dust.

The foul air, the condition of the furniture and a glaring red velvet chair in particular, somehow reminded me of the room in the Ghetto, on Electoralna street.

Nevertheless it was my own room. I would dust it and rearrange the furniture.

Father’s head popped in through the door.

“We’ve got lots to do but our exploring mustn’t wait,” he said with a smile. “Let’s go to the street and see what’s out there. I am certain that this quarter is very different from Westmount.”

I put on my jacket and followed Father out the door, forgetting the shabby furnishings of our new apartment. It was early afternoon. The chill of late November was in the air, but St. Laurence street was bustling with people, automobiles, wooden carts and streetcars. Everyone was rushing to and fro.

Smells of herring, pickles, and sauerkraut drifted from barrels lodged in the side-street doorways of delicatessens. Some of the shops had the Star of David painted on the glass with the word “Kosher” in large letters. They sold salamis, meats and poultry. Other shops sold fish, eggs and cheese, and had them displayed in the windows or on the counters. Oranges, red and green apples, and onions were piled up on wooden carts, along with potatoes still covered in black earth.

Everywhere the buyers and sellers haggled and jingled money. Polish could be heard, along with Russian, English, French and Yiddish. French-Canadian farmers sold produce to Jewish housewives.

The bakeries were the best. I could have spent all my time breathing in the smell of freshly baked bread.

There were shoemakers, tailors and cleaners, men selling pots and pans which dangled from their backs. Used furniture and clothing stores were displaying their wares in the wintry street. Old clothing hung on strings suspended between the doorways and the wooden posts. Rickety chairs and tables stood along the sidewalks. The merchants ignored the cold and congregated outside, warding off the chill by drinking glasses of hot tea and lemon, while sucking on sugar cubes — Russian style — just as I had done in Poland with Babushka.

On the corner of the street stood a group of men dressed in black trousers, long coats and black hats. Underneath the hats, on each side of the head, hung long, thin locks of hair. The men also had thick beards and some wore glasses. Engaged in a heated discussion, they moved their hands energetically, while their heads and shoulders bowed up and down.

“These are the Hasidim, a group of very religious Orthodox Jews. They look exactly like those who lived in the old Jewish quarter of Warsaw before the war,” explained Father. “I rarely went there, but some Polish Jews never ever ventured out of their quarter. I always thought them to be very rigid, but it does me good to see a Jewish quarter so alive, where people are free to come and go as they please.”

Father’s comparison of the two quarters, one so alive and the other so totally destroyed, provoked a shocking thought. I stopped walking and clutched his hand.

“Could it happen here, Papa?” I asked.

“Could what happen here?”

“The Ghetto, like in Warsaw …” My voice trailed off.

Father didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “Why couldn’t it happen here? God forbid that it should. But if another Hitler became powerful and preached enough hatred against the Jewish race, it could happen anywhere, I suppose. Look at what happened in Rockville. But the Nazis lost the war, and there are many witnesses to what they did. If the world doesn’t forget, then it should never happen again … My, we’re morbid today.” He smiled at me, and arm in arm we continued our walk.

Traffic grew, and darkness came early. It began to snow. The merchants hauled their wares into the shops, and the carts of produce were packed up. I was glad to return home. The delicious aroma of Mother’s cauliflower soup, greeted us on the rickety stairway.

Chanukah was still upon us. I placed Joshua’s menorah on the dining room table, together with the candles, and wished that Joshua was here to recite the prayers.

My parents discussed the possibility of inviting the Rosenbergs over for dinner, but Mother was concerned as to how they would react to our shabby lodgings. This was resolved when the Rosenbergs telephoned to invite us over to their place.

As Mr. Rosenberg’s Cadillac pulled up in front of our old building to pick us up, the difference between St. Laurence street and Westmount became quite clear. But I wouldn’t have traded the colour of our street for the boring elegance of Westmount. When we arrived at the Rosenbergs’ house, I was even more struck by the difference.

The dining table was set as usual with flowers, silver and china. A large and ornate silver menorah was placed in the centre. As expensively dressed as ever, Ina lighted the candles and said a prayer in Hebrew. That was the part I enjoyed most. Then she spoiled the moment.

“Well, how is our country girl?” she asked condescendingly. “Did you work on the farm?” I wanted to spill cranberry sauce on her camel-coloured cashmere sweater and make it look like an accident, but didn’t dare. Instead, I asked her if she could teach me the prayer for the lighting of the menorah.

“I could, I suppose, but I am really busy with school right now. Call me in January,” she said.

But I knew I wouldn’t. I decided to write to Joshua instead and ask him. I could hardly wait to get home, to light my own candles, say a made-up prayer, and think of Joshua.

December was long and dreary. I spent most of my time listening to the radio. I could understand more and more

English. During the last weekend in December, my uncle Urek came up from New York to visit us. We dined in elegant restaurants several times, while my little sister Pyza stayed home with a neighbour. When my parents told uncle Urek that I would be starting school in January, he bought me a winter coat and gave me some money for school clothes. A very kind uncle.

January came too soon. On the first morning of classes my stomach felt as queasy as it had been in Rockville.

Once again Father and I found ourselves sitting in the waiting room of a new principal, Mr. Patterson.

“What can I do for you, Mr….,” asked the principal after we finally sat down in his office.

“Lenski, Stefan. My daughter, Elizabeth Lenski,” said Father, and explained my situation in pretty good English.

Mr. Patterson didn’t drink coffee but concentrated a great deal on his pipe, which he was repeatedly lighting. While we sat there, he kept on receiving telephone calls during which he would coo and constantly smile. As soon as he hung up and turned towards us to discuss me, he would change completely and a stony look would appear on his face. It was like being in the presence of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

“Elizabeth is not the only one with an English problem,” said Mr. Patterson stiffly. “Unfortunately, our school curriculum does not accommodate immigrant problems. I suggest that you get her an English tutor outside the school. Here she will be treated the same as everybody else, and expected to do her best.” He then sent me up to a grade nine class with a note for the teacher.

This time I made it to class before it started. The teacher, Miss Bird, showed me which desk had not been taken. Before the lesson began, she introduced me very quickly as “our new classmate, Elizabeth Lenski.”

The students briefly glanced in my direction, and the lesson began. This was different from Rockville. Big cities have no time to waste on individuals like me, I figured, whereas small town folk find someone new an object of curiosity. I was relieved, but I missed Joshua. All this time had gone by, and I still hadn’t written to him.

“Elizabeth, would you kindly solve the next math problem,” said Miss Bird, whose voice seemed to have come from far away.

“Stand up,” whispered a freckle-faced neighbour at the desk next to mine.

I stood up. There was complete silence in the room. The hodge-podge of numbers on the blackboard meant nothing to me. I was sure that everyone, including the teacher, thought that I was trying to figure out the problem. But frankly, I didn’t have a clue.

Just then the bell rang.

“Well, you may go now, but I’ll ask you next time, Elizabeth,” said Miss Bird kindly.

I was delighted. My introduction to the class could have been disastrous. As it was, I overheard girls whispering at the back of the class.

“She looks foreign.”

“Yeah, look at her prissy clothes.”

At lunchtime the students streamed out of their classrooms and opened their lockers. The corridors began smelling of tuna fish, egg salad, green onions and cheese. There didn’t seem to be a definite place for lunch, so I sat down on a book next to the wall and quickly ate my chicken sandwich. Afterwards I fled to the washroom.

The washroom reeked of nicotine as cigarettes were being lit here and there. The girls stood in front of the mirrors, pasting flaming red lipstick onto their puckered lips. Some of them posed, thrusting forward their full chests, their brassieres outlined inside tight wool sweaters.

I was not certain whether I admired or envied them. Standing against the wall, in my navy skirt and white blouse, I felt like a nun next to these sexy creatures.

“Aren’t you the new girl?” asked one of the lipstick wearers. “You must be from the old country. I heard that they don’t believe in modern clothes over there.”

“Lay off, Esther,” said a voice from the back of the room. I turned around and saw my freckle-faced neighbour.

The girl called Esther did as she was told, and returned to her cigarette, blowing circles of smoke in my direction.

The freckle-faced girl came up to me. “My name is Miriam. Yours is Elizabeth, right?”

I nodded.

Miriam was of medium height and a bit plump. Her flaming red hair gave her a look of exuberance. She was smiling, not laughing at me, and I liked her.

Miriam was also smoking. Several times she had to pause her frantic puffing in order to cough.

“Sorry, I am not that good at inhaling yet,” she apologized. “Would you like to try a Players? They’re the latest rage.”

I declined politely, and offered her a chocolate wafer with mocha filling.

“No thanks, Liz. Got to watch the figure, you know. They say that big busts are fashionable, but I find them vulgar. I wouldn’t mind having one like yours, tiny. You should most definitely accent it with a bra,” said Miriam good naturedly.

“Are you wearing one?” I asked timidly.

“Of course. If I didn’t, they would be hanging down to my belly button, like an old lady’s.” We both laughed.

“You have an accent. Where are you from?”

“Poland.”

“Must have been hard for you during the war, huh?”

“Very,” I replied.

“My parents are from Poland, too, but they also speak Russian. They came here a long time ago, but many of their relatives — my uncles, aunts and cousins — died in concentration camps.”

I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to tell her about my lost sister, but my throat felt dry and my eyes were on the verge of tears. So were Miriam’s.

“I felt you were a kindred spirit when I saw you, Liz. We’ll probably end up being good friends. I must protect you from vultures, like Esther. A rich girl like her can have the moon if she asks her daddy. You’d think that kids who have everything could afford kindness to those who haven’t much. Unfortunately, sometimes it works the other way around.”

I thought of Ina.

Through the remainder of classes, I tried to make a real effort to understand the lessons. Problems with English grammar were insurmountable, but I felt that I was learning. This was not nearly as bad as Rockville.

After school I followed Miriam to her locker.

“I need my purse, she said, and smiled widely at a boy who had stationed himself right next to her locker. He gazed at her with curiosity, and then briefly glanced at me. I knew that I didn’t impress him one little bit.

“Here, look at these.” Miriam had turned so that no one could see. She took out of her purse a comb, a lipstick and something wrapped in tissue paper.

“Come with me,” she urged, brushing close by the boy whose face went red. “We’ve got work to do on you!”

She looked at me for a second as an artist eyes his model.

“I am going to nickname you ‘Polachka.’ That’s Russian for ‘little Polish girl,’ O.K.?”

Back in the washroom, I stood like a mannequin in front of the mirror, while Miriam did her “work.” Several girls watched as she brushed my hair so that it hung over one eye. Then she smeared lipstick thickly over my lips, and raised my eyebrows half an inch with an ordinary school pencil.