Scraps of Heaven (8 page)

‘They come to me,' says Posner, ‘
di gantzer chalastre
, the whole gang, yes, to me, to my parlour, if they want a new song—the latest Mickey Katz, the latest hit from the Yiddish stage—and I do not let them down.'

Now that was klezmer, Matty Klein,
With a hey nonny-nonny, and a huck arein.
Now we're cookin', the hall's full with gas,
Come now Berel and play Yiddish jazz.

And Yossel is back on his feet to announce he has a special surprise. He is, after all, a man of culture, a supporter of the arts, he proclaims, and ‘Spielvogel, the renowned fiddler, who was once the toast of Vienna, will play for us a melody. What would a Yiddish wedding be without a solo on a violin?' Spielvogel rises to his feet, an ill-tempered man with a scowl, as if to say I was wondering when you'd ask. He stands by his seat, tightens the bow, adjusts his violin, shrugs his shoulders, adopts a proud stance, and launches into a czardas. There is a fury in his attack. The tempo lifts from its humble beginnings, and the bow is bouncing forwards and back, and Dobke is dancing, arms aloft, fingers clicking, she is a gypsy whirling on red pumps, and the guests are hissing, ‘Shhh! Don't get so carried away, sit down, let him play.'

And Efrem at the bridal table is beckoning to Josh. Efrem is ten years older than his bride, a man of thirty with a knowing smile. His hair is a thinning brown, his shoulders on the verge of a hunch, his smile on the cusp of a frown, he wears his suit with worldly ease, and makes his way with a lightness of touch, an easy charm, always calm, with that hint of a smile. It plays upon his pursed lips. It is reflected in his green eyes. It leavens each forehead crease. And the forehead smooths, the smile deepens, and Efrem comes out with a joke, a bit of nonsense, a sliver of childish wit.

‘So, Josh, I have been told you are learning to box. And what do boxers and astronomers have in common?' Josh has no idea. ‘They both see stars,' says Efrem. And the groom and bride laugh, and Josh is thinking of that blue scrawl of a number on Efrem's arm, that he has glimpsed on summer days. Now it hides beneath the shirtsleeves, the gold cufflinks and wedding suit. He is from ‘Over There', and the bride is locally born. She is the daughter of pre-war immigrants, but Efrem had arrived,
nokh der malkhumeh
, post-war, on boats crowded with the haunted and damned. This is how it is. Time has been ripped apart, torn in two, and this is the demarcation line. Pre-war. Post-war. And Gehenna in between.

Now the lights are down, and the groom and bride are moving onto the dance floor, and Rosner and his band are playing, and the tuxedo boys are singing: ‘Oh, how we danced, on the night we were wed.' And Efrem and Naomi are waltzing, and Efrem's bitter memories are left to the past, where they will remain dormant for years to come, for as long as it takes to raise four children and nurture a restaurant business, interspersed with an occasional night out, a rekindling of the romance at the Maison de Luxe, the dance hall not so far from the sea, where he had first met the girl who was to become his wife, and had danced her off her feet.

And he recalls his first glimpse of the teenage beauty with the open smile, a smile that had propelled him across the hall, and lured him on, between crowded tables. It had kept him determined on his path, until he stood before her. And she had hesitated, and finally said yes, when he had asked her to dance.

He recalls the scent of her auburn hair, the clarity of her hazel eyes. And when their tango was over he had joined her at her table, with her gaggle of girlfriends. And the band was playing ‘Caravan', à la Woody Herman, and the drummer had become inspired in the solo riff, a man obsessed, he had tossed up the drum sticks, mid-beat, and had caught them on the downward swing. And he had trapped them all, the entire audience, mid-sentence, mid-step, and held them rooted to their spots, and Efrem had watched Naomi watching the drummer, her eyes riveted, captivated by his controlled frenzy and
meshuggas.

And he had observed her wariness, her unease at his worldly presence, his streetwise smile. Yet she was still by his side when the dance had ended, and she had allowed him to drive her home in his red Austin, and three years later they are dancing the anniversary waltz under the gaze of the assembled guests. And for a moment he recalls his run across the snow, and his comrades dropping, one by one, as he had dropped, to save his life by holding his breath, playing dead, and he recalls the smell of his urine and terror as he had lain on the ice.

But now it is
nokh der malkhumeh
, post-war, and he inhales her perfume and her body warmth, and is cushioned by the softness of her breasts. And the wedding-hall floor is full of couples waltzing, and short Romek is standing tall, in his dark-grey suit with wide lapels, he is a man transformed, a man without a
tchemodan
, and he moves with a certain grace. And Zofia is radiant, regal almost, in her elegant black dress and rouged lips, and Josh watches, transfixed. He has never seen them like this. And the waltzes become tangos become sambas and rumbas that give way to mambos, sung by the tuxedo boys who are now back at the mike: ‘Hey mambo! Mambo Italiano. Hey mambo! Mambo Italiano.'

The older couples are leaving the floor, and the younger ones are dancing the mambo, and they look like long-legged insects jumping on coals, with a flailing of arms and a jiggling of feet, ‘Hey mambo, don't wanna tarantella. Hey mambo, no more a-mozzarella,' they sing as they leap, until they slump exhausted, back in their seats. And the tumult is subsiding, and the guests are eating dessert: black forest cake, almond rings, apple compote, washed down with a glass of tea, a nip of vodka, or a tumbler of schnapps, take your pick. And the band has been reduced to Leo Rosner and his accordion, and a medley of Yiddish songs. He strolls from table to table, and the guests are singing with him, in
mamme loschen
, the mother tongue, eyes closed, bodies swaying:

Where is that village, where is that town
Where is the path we once strolled, you and I

And Potashinski the cabaret specialist cannot contain himself any longer. His thick eyebrows are knitted, his forehead creased, his face set in a frown as he leaps up. ‘Enough!' he exclaims. ‘Why cry in our cups? Why wander around like farts in a barrel? The old world is gone. This is where we now belong, whether right or wrong.' And, before anyone can object, he propels himself into an unaccompanied song:

Matchmaker, what have you done?
The husband you chose is no fun,
Useless in business and bed,
I rue the day we were wed.
Matchmaker, I have been misled
He is ugly and coarse,
So I have no recourse,
But to seek a divorce.
Matchmaker, what have you done?

And lest someone else jumps up with yet another impromptu performance, or a caustic aside, Uncle Yossel quickly rises for his speech to the groom and bride.

‘Now who would have believed it possible, that we would find such a country, a
goldene medineh
, a golden land,
ek velt
, at the ends of the earth, where the streets are paved with brisket and herring, the gutters flowing with brandy and borscht?' He fills his glass, holds it aloft, and wishes the groom and bride yet another mazel tov. ‘Who would have thought it possible? Who would have imagined it when I stepped off the boat, a
gornisht
, a nothing, a greenhorn, thirty years ago to the day, more or less, with just one suitcase and one address!'

‘Ah, spare me the story,' groans Weintraub, under his breath. ‘Again the
alter maise
, the old tale about empty streets and that one address.' And he turns to his Rathdowne Street colleagues. ‘Again the story of his first day in the golden land. I have heard it one thousand times.'

‘Who would have predicted it?' continues Yossel, ‘as I walked through those empty streets, fresh off the boat, on a Saturday afternoon, 1928. Where in all my black years had I landed? I made my way to that one address, Lipski's Cafe, on Faraday Street, in Carlton, where else? And there I slept that first night in an upstairs room, while below me the world played cards, and I awoke mid-morning, looked out the window, and again I saw empty streets, a wilderness where nothing moved, except for a stray dog, a lost cat. I had come to a city of the dead. And as I looked I wondered, where do I start? Where should I go? What sort of life is possible in this city of corpses for a
nebekh
, an empty-handed nobody like me? Who would have believed it would come to this?'

‘Yes. I believe. I believe. Believe me, I believe,' mutters Weintraub.

Yossel runs his hand over his ample belly and sings the praises of the golden land where a man could rise from gutters to palaces, from
shmuttes
to undreamed-of wealth. ‘Yes, the streets were empty, but I could pack a suitcase with
tchatskes
and
gatkes
, toys and underpants, and push open gates, knock on doors, do business, make deals, make a life.'

And he announces that he is donating five hundred pounds, no less, to the welfare society, because: ‘Still there are newcomers, and those that are running from Hitler's
gehennim
, may his name be blotted out, or is it Stalin's, may he burn in hell. Whatever, from both tyrants our compatriots have been forced to run, and they too need their share of brisket and chicken, their full measure of blintzes and borscht, and their place in the sun.' His largesse is growing with each successive boast. He is now donating one thousand pounds to the Jewish Welfare home: ‘After all, what is money for? Isn't that what the sages have taught? To give
tzedokah
, to give to the poor, to those who need more?'

And he proposes a final toast to the groom and bride, careful to bring his speech to an end lest he give away his entire wealth. ‘May they be happy and blessed, and know how to invest; and may they live to be one hundred and twenty and have as much pride from their children, as I have had from mine, my son Joel, and my daughter Naomi. Such a beautiful bride.'

‘Thank the Lord it is over,' exclaims Weintraub the atheist, as the guests rise, glasses in hand, to sing backed by Rosner's band:

Let us all, and all as one, toast the groom and bride
Let us all, and all as one, drink a
glezele
wine

As the guests down their toasts, Yossel makes his way to the adjoining table, and stops by his sister's side. He places a hand upon her shoulders, he is a man full of charm and a broad smile, lubricated by wine, ‘Zofia! You must sing! Please, a
nigun
, a Yiddish song. Nu?' he says. ‘Why be so shy?'

Zofia resists. Yossel persists. He turns to the guests, lifts his arms, and they join him in urging Zofia on, and she rises to her feet. Her voice falters, but slowly the mist clears, the veil lifts, and her voice regains its strength, finds its rhythm, its resonant depth. She is singing as she had sung in
yenner velt
, the other world, in ‘the time before', at bar mitzvahs and weddings, community
simkhes
, celebrations:

Stands a young man, deep in thought,
Thinks and thinks, the whole night long,
Who to take, or reject, without shaming.
Tumbala-tumbala-tumbalalaika

Zofia's voice is now full-throated, she is no longer self-conscious, and Josh sees that she can move an audience, that she is in command, and he glimpses her as she once was,
far der malkhumeh
, pre-war in that other land:

Maiden, maiden, what can you tell me?
What can grow, without raining?
What can burn and not be extinguished?
What can yearn, without tears flowing?

And Rosner, the seasoned bandleader, sensor of mood swings, reader of crowds, motions to his band, and Zofia's tumbalalaika becomes a waltz, and the waltz a tango, and the guests are back on the dance floor, and the tango becomes a foxtrot that gives way to a faster beat; and the older dancers are retreating, and the tuxedo boys are back on their feet. ‘One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock rock'; and the younger dancers are jiggling, moving back-to-back, front-to-front, round full circle, and back again, ‘We're going to rock, rock, rock till broad daylight.'

The clock is now approaching midnight, and it is time for the newlyweds to depart, and time for the band to pack up, and for the guests to mill in the foyer, where the air reeks of aftershave seasoned with sweat. And the women emerge from the toilets one last time, with powdered cheeks and moist red lips, they lean over to kiss Josh, and he shies away from the taste of their breath, and the tightness of their embrace, yet lingers for a glimpse of their breasts.

They step out into the mild night, and there, in the shadows, on the footpath, against the wall, leans Bloomfield, who had made his way here by tram, to the Empire Ballroom, on the south side of the river, in distant Prahran. And he had resumed his circling, interrupted by an occasional pause at the door, where he had loitered, and listened to snatches of laughter and song, and when he was invited in he had declined and resumed his circling. He clings to the fringes, to the community's hem, content to warm himself in their reflected heat.

It has been a late summer wedding, and it will be autumn as quick as a wink, but there remains a tan on the guests' arms, and a flush on their cheeks. And Uncle Yossel, father of the bride, with Aunt Liebe seated by his side, is driving Zofia, Romek and Josh home in his Ford Customline, two-toned blue with silver chrome. And the car is crowded, and the occupants are a little drunk, and more than a little tired, and happier than Josh has seen them, and singing louder than he has ever heard them:

Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think
Enjoy yourself, while you're still in the pink

Across the bridge that spans the river from the south side to the north, the car moves through the city core via Swanston Street past the town hall doors, and Josh glances at the town clock whose hands are moving past twelve o'clock. And they are gliding past the domed library and the smaller domes of the City Baths, and the neon-lit billboard of Carlton & United Breweries, past the ivy-clad university and its hallowed halls, and the neatly trimmed hedges that open out into university colleges at the end of darkened drives. And they continue to sing as they curve into Cemetery Road, past the iron fence, shadowed by cypress and pine, past the last tram, with its three late-night passengers, and its one conductor, who hangs onto a leather strap, eyes closed, body swaying. He is dozing on his feet: