A Promised Land?

by Alan Collins

  Towards the end of that summer, a sort of peace came to our household. Exhaustion of invective and the approaching end of Father’s savings forced him to take the last irrevocable step. He would go on Susso. Putting on his oldest clothes, he went down to the Council and applied for work or a handout. To his surprise they offered him a pick and shovel and told him to join a gang building a walkway around the Bondi cliff tops. Two days a week. The job would last as long as the Council had funds to spin it out. He joined the other defeated men and put in his ten hours a day. The beatings and quarrels stopped. Father had other enemies. The men to whom labouring had been an accepted way of earning a living resented this soft-handed middle-aged Jew who had no right to be taking a job from their mates. With that fear of tomorrow that binds desperate men together, they conspired to make Father’s work as hateful as possible. The gang foreman saw that he was positioned at the very edge of the cliff, picking away at the crumbling sandstone while the sea roared and crashed hundreds of feet below.

  Father would come home with his face grey with fatigue and fright. His relations with Carmel were distant, even old-fashioned formal. If he spoke to her it was in a stilted, clipped economic tone, not wasting a word and dealing only in topics needed to keep the household functioning. Toward us, he spoke more and more as in the past, referring distressingly often to happier days when our mother Alice was alive. We hadn’t the heart to tell Father that the door-to-door man had resumed his calls on those days when he was on relief work.

  For nearly a year the job went on, Father getting more maudlin, given to sudden outbursts of tears and constantly looking at his broken fingernails and calloused hands. When the job inevitably ended, his breakdown was nearly complete. One day Solly and I followed him on one of his walks. He would shuffle down to the beach promenade then turn up the cliff walk that he had helped build until he reached a rotunda of rock jutting out over the highest point of the cliff-top. There he sat and stared out over the grey sea while the wind tried to whisk the old panama hat from his head. No matter what the weather, he followed the same course every day of the week, returning to the flat at sunset like the wheeling seabirds to their cliff-top nooks.

  For my brother and me, had we known it, the end of a chapter was about to be written. One day in midwinter of the next year, we came home from school, thinking only of the thick slice of bread and plum jam we would cut for ourselves. Pushing open the door of number four The Balconies, we entered to see it as bare as the day we moved in. The weak sun showed us the emptiness of our home. My brother scuffed the carpet with his toe where the indentations of the dining table showed freshly. I rushed from cubicle to cubicle to find the same vista of nothingness. Our clothes lay in a heap on the floor. In the kitchen the loaf of bread was lying on the stove, an open tin of plum jam alongside it. But no knife, no plate. “No bloody nothin’,” I said softly to myself. Solly called plaintively, “Carmel, Carmel where are you?” His reedy voice bounced around the walls.

  I took his hand and we went outside The Balconies and sat on the step watching the sun go down and straining our eyes into its rays to be the first to catch sight of Father.

  The sun finally sank reluctantly behind the buildings down the road and we drew close together. Two men, big men with sharp blue eyes and dark hats came up to us. One bent down and said to me, “What’s your name, sonny?” I told him. “And is this your brother?” I nodded. He took a damp envelope out of another brown envelope and showed it to his mate. The other squatted down beside me and said softly, “We’re policemen sonny, our car is just up the street a bit, we’d like you to come with us, okay?” He put his arm under mine and the other man did the same to my brother. Together, unresisting, we shuffled to the car.

  Solly shook himself free as they opened the car door and screamed, “Where’s Daddy, we’ve got to wait for Daddy, he’s coming up the hill soon.” He sat down on the running-board of the car, a compact little parcel of misery. The two policemen talked softly a few feet off, then one said, “Sonny, is your mother’s name Alice?” My brother sprang up and shouted that her name was “Carmel, do you hear me, Carmel, Carmel, CARMEL!”

  “Oh, damn,” the policeman said to his mate, “what do we do now? Tell ’em Bob, for Christ’s sake, I want to get home for me tea.”

  “Look sonny, there’s been an accident. Your Dad’s fallen off the cliff and he’s … he’s … dead. But the part I can’t figure out is that in this letter we found on him, he’s put down his wife’s name as Alice.”

  TWO

  When the police car drove away from The Balconies, my brother and I sat in the back, a slab-sided, blue-suited policeman between us. I could feel the hard shape of his truncheon against my leg and once when he leaned forward was surprised to see that where his shirt gaped he wore no singlet and his chest was a mass of dark curling hair. He took off his hat and his head was almost bald. His mate steered the car in a stiff, formal regulation style so unlike the happy-go-lucky approach our father had used — weaving in and out of the traffic, waving to ladies and generally behaving like a lair of the thirties, which he was when the going was good before the Depression.

  My brother was still whimpering and once when his little body heaved with an enormous shudder of grief I tried to reach across the mountainous barrier of the policeman to comfort him. The policeman said, “He’ll settle down soon sonny, don’t worry. What’s his name?”

  “Solly,” I mumbled from the depth, “and he’s nine. And I’m thirteen and me name’s …” But the policeman interrupted me. “Jack, isn’t it?” I wondered how he knew but sat up a bit straighter and said defiantly, “No, it isn’t It’s Jacob.” I was astounded at what I had said because I really disliked being known as Jacob. I vowed to say no more. I looked out at the people on a passing tram with the superiority of a boy actually travelling in a police car.

  The driver lit a cigarette, let it droop from the corner of his mouth then half-turned to his mate, “Can’t remember ever having Yids in this situation before, Bob.” He scratched his chin and went on, “excepting that is, when Steeny the tailor was killed with his own shears.”

  Bob thumped him hard on the back with his fist. “Shut your mouth and just get us to the Shelter quick as you can.” He dug his hand deep in his side pocket and pulled out a tobacco-flecked packet of peppermints and offered one to each of us. Solly took one but I was frightened to open my mouth in case I either cried out loud or revealed a bit more about myself. With my eyes half-shut and peering through my lashes I could think back on all that had happened, and at the same time keep a sneaky watch on our progress as the car growled up the Sydney hills and skeltered down the steep inclines towards the harbour front.

  Except when a tram rattled past, it was quiet and dark in the car — just a glow of the driver’s cigarette and the pretty dashboard lights. Solly had flopped back like a broken doll, his mouth open, his sobs escaping through his sleep. The car skirted the quay and turned up beside the south pylon of the Harbour Bridge. It nosed its way through the sandstone cuttings where water dripped down the rock faces until it halted in front of a building with a blue light outside and a brass plate that read, simply and chillingly, Children’s Shelter.

  The stilted official voice Bob had used when he ordered us into the car was now softened. Leaning across me to open the car door, he said, “Righto Jack, here we are; you just go on in and I’ll wake whatsisname, Solly.’’ I shook myself alert and stepped into the road while Bob went to the other door and put his huge arms around my brother, depositing him gently on the pavement. I edged around to Solly and whispered to him, “Let’s run, Solly, okay?” He felt for my hand and together we took off down the hill towards the waterfront, the old cobblestones solid beneath our feet. Even as we ran like hares I wondered why, with years of childhood training to be obedient to authority, we did not stop or hesitate for one second to Bob’s bellows to “stop there, you little buggers!”

  Three pennies jingled like alarm bells in my pocket
as our downhill flight gathered momentum. I took them out and threw them behind me, catching a glimpse of Bob as he pounded after us. The oily harbour front loomed up in front of us. The cold night air bit into my lungs and as we got nearer the water I could smell the diesel fumes of the ferry boats. Solly no longer held my hand but ran pace for pace alongside me, his fine hair streaming out behind him; the tears had dried in streaks on his face, his eyes fairly danced and I knew I loved him deeply.

  As we reached the water’s edge a ferry sounded its horn. I heard the rattle of the gang plank being withdrawn. Now it was Solly who took the lead. Grabbing my hand he dragged us to the ferryside. The ferryman put his arm across the gangplank but we crashed through, sprawling full-length on the deck, watching with childish happiness the ever widening gap as the boat with a great churning of water set us on a new course. The heavy figure of Bob with his hand raised in a suggestion of a half-wave was the last thing I saw before going below to stand shivering beside the beautiful, steaming brass boilers of the ferry, their massive shafts and rods pounding renewed life into Solly and me.

  There was brass everywhere. It shone and distorted our reflections, reflected back the dancing harbour lights and vibrated minutely to the throb of the engines. Solly, watching me gaping, said, “Remember Jack, how we used to look at ourselves in the backs of the watch cases?” I was jolted, not by the innocent remark in itself but by the realisation that Solly at nine years was already reminiscing like a man halfway through his life. Tonight was surely a cut-off point for both of us; forever more the demarcation would always be ‘‘the night we ran away’’. I nodded in reply and a crazy elongated head in a flue pipe did likewise.

  As we cleared the docks a cool breeze blew away the diesel fumes and to our right we could see the giant’s teeth of Luna Park framed in the span of the Harbour Bridge. I stole a side look at Solly, half-expecting him to exclaim “… remember when we …” But he said nothing, his chin was on his chest and he swayed gently to the motion of the boat. I was angry at his silence. One of the few personal treasures we had managed to hide from Carmel’s destructive swathe was a picture of Father and Mother photographed at Luna Park on a mock rear platform of the Melbourne Express. Solly was in her arms, I stood beside Father waving … not at a farewelling crowd, only a seedy photographer with his black hood and billy can of developer. The picture lay in a shoebox in our cubicle back at The Balconies. In my pocket, wrapped in tissue paper was something else I knew to be important if only for the stealthy manner I came by it.

  When we were about to leave our Bellevue Hill house, while Carmel scolded Solly endlessly, Father took me to the front door. From under his coat he produced a screwdriver and very carefully prised off the little metal cylinder that was fixed to the top right-hand corner of the door-frame.

  “I know it says in the books that you shouldn’t take a mezuzah down from the house, Jacob, but supposing a Goy moved in, eh? What would he know of it? Probably think it was an ornament or some Jew junk.” He worked carefully until it came away, then showed it to me. It had always been too high up for me to see and frankly I had been a bit frightened of it. Uncle Siddy was to blame for my fear. Smelling strongly of tobacco, he would grab me and lift me up to it, bellowing sarcastically, “Kiss the mezuzah, Jack, like a good little Jewish boy.” And despite my struggles, on occasions my lips would be forced up against the little tube with its one opening like an eye through which I could see the Hebrew letter ‘Shin’, the first letter of the unspeakable name of God. Father gave me the mezuzah having first wrapped it reverently in the fine tissue paper he kept for gold. “For when you have your own home, Jacob.” He had stuffed it quickly into my pocket as Carmel’s voice drew near.

  The ferry slid under the bridge and I gripped Solly’s shoulder so hard his head came up, his eyes widening in an effort to orientate himself.

  “Where are we, Jack? Where are we going?” he asked softly.

  “Stay here and I’ll find out.”

  I surveyed the few passengers, trying to evaluate which face would give an answer and not be too inquisitive as to why two boys in thin clothing and sand-shoes would be crossing the harbour late at night. There was some sort of voluntary segregation, the way the women all sat inside the saloon, their skirts tucked primly under their legs defying the playful tug of the breeze. As I made my way forward to the outer deck, some of them pursed their lips in disapproval. Staring stonily ahead I went out on to the deck where pipes and cigarettes glowed.

  The ferry rolled unexpectedly in the wash of a passing tug. Caught off-balance, I grabbed for the stanchion, missed and fell heavily and untidily into a hard, dark serge shape that did not yield under me, not even when my flailing hands, seeking a grip, fastened onto cold, hard shiny buttons. A pipe clattered to the deck, its glowing dottle flared for a moment then disappeared over the side. Its owner growled, threw me down and bent to retrieve the pipe. When he straightened up I saw the chrome numbers on his high stiff collar and the badge of the New South Wales Police on the cap beside him.

  “You want to be a bit more careful, young fella-me-lad.” In one smooth flowing action, he removed his cap from the seat and raised me up to sit beside him. “Going somewhere special … Ikey?” The saloon door opened and in the sudden shaft of light I looked up into the pale blue eyes and fair, close-cropped hair. Ikey? In the velvety darkness was I identifiably an Ikey? Did I appear to the whole world like that coarse comedian, ‘Mo’, who did the Jews no favour during his thirty years on stage perpetuating an archetypal Jew which, in pre-war Australia was the yardstick by which all Jews would be measured. I rubbed my hand over my smooth face; there was not the slightest trace of the charcoal that was Mo’s trademark. I licked my lips too, afraid that without my noticing, they had grown thick and slobbery like his. But no, I was still Jacob, thirteen years of age, brown hair, brown eyes, a bit on the thin side and running away from the police.

  The police! Here I was, bold as brass, sitting right alongside one who was smart enough to be able to identify me instantly as a Jewish kid, here on a ferry in the middle of Sydney Harbour in the winter of 1939. What hope would Solly and I have of escaping to God knows where if every policeman could take one look at us and say to himself, “There go that pair of Yid kids we’re supposed to be on the lookout for.”

  The ferry threaded its way up Middle Harbour and started to edge into a landing. Some passengers headed for the gang plank; the policeman never moved, his solid body transmitting warmth to me. As the boat neared the wharf I could see the sign illuminated by the hazy blue light.

  “I’m going to Gladesville to visit my aunty,” I said and looked up into those clear blue eyes. It was not altogether a lie; Father had spoken in whispers about his Aunt Bertha, who shortly after her arrival in Sydney from London suffered a stroke and was admitted to the Gladesville Asylum. I was actually quite pleased to have a barmy aunt and as he never took me or Solly to visit her, we could imagine what we liked about her. The policeman had relit his pipe. He demonstrated his great strength by lifting me down from the seat and giving me a gentle push.

  “Well, go along then, young Ikey,” he said. “Straight there, mind and don’t talk to strangers.”

  The ferry bumped the wharf and I was thrown off-balance again but recovered quickly and shot down the stairs to find Solly where I had left him, with his back to the warm flue pipe.

  “We’re getting off here, Solly,” I shouted to him above the roar of the engines as they went into a shuddering reverse thrust. I had to lever him away from his flue pipe. The engineer had given him a packet of potato chips and he offered them to me. I brushed them aside and grabbed his hand, spilling the chips on the deck. Solly started to whinge about it but I lugged him down the gangplank and through the unmanned turnstile not knowing where I was going but suspecting that the young constable was hanging over the ferry’s side watching us. The path rose steeply from the wharf; by the time we reached the road Solly and I were winded, the cold night air cutting
into our lungs and robbing us of speech, which was probably all to the good, for neither of us had a clear thought in our heads.

  I had lost all track of time — day, date, month. It seemed to me that there never had been a time when a clearly defined schedule of living existed, the sort of time that is marked by routine: you get up in the morning, wash, have breakfast, go to school, come home, go out to play until tea-time, have an evening meal, chatter, then go to bed Right now, as Solly and I huddled in a tram shelter, I would have given anything for one of Father’s watches, to be able to hold it to my ear and listen to its reassuring tick. Like our family life, those watches were broken and discarded; Father was gone (I recoiled from believing he was dead); Carmel was gone too, but such was the depth of my misery at this moment, had she reappeared I might have run to her, not for comfort but as our last remaining link with the past.

  A dog loped into the tram shed, sniffed at my feet then put its head on Solly’s lap. He pushed it away but it persisted, nuzzling into his crotch determinedly. Finally Solly stood up and only then did I see that his thin pants were wet.

  “You’ve wee’d yourself Solly,” I said critically.

  He didn’t reply but walked over to a rubbish-bin, took a newspaper, returned to the seat and spread it over his lap. He had seen the derelicts in the park covering themselves with newspaper. I too went to the bin and foraged among the rubbish until I had a pile of newspapers. With them spread over us, the dog at our feet, we fell asleep. How long I slept, I do not know; it must have been years when measured by my dream — a dream that had me locked in Mrs Stone’s arms, her breast in my mouth. Warm milk flowed over me and I grew to adulthood. She changed to look like the half-naked bathing beauty on the calendar in the barber’s shop; my penis was resting on her bosom and she was struggling to throw me off. Then I came in a jerky stream that seemed unending.