The Invisible Wall

by Harry Bernstein

  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.”

  “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 w
ith 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.