The Invisible Wall

by Harry Bernstein

  Lily broke off abruptly, as if she had gone too far in the letter, as indeed I think she had. My mother had caught it, though, and she asked, “What does he say about you and him?”

  “Nothing,” said Lily hastily, beginning to fold the letter, “It’s nothing important.” Then she rose.

  “Where are you going?” my mother asked in surprise, looking at her still-full plate.

  “I’m going over to Mrs. Forshaw’s to tell her I got the letter.”

  “But you haven’t even touched your supper. Besides, she got one herself. I saw the postman delivering it to her when yours came.”

  “Well, she’ll want to know about mine, anyway, and she’ll want to tell me about hers. I won’t be long. I’ll eat when I get back.”

  My mother could do nothing to stop her. We all went back to our books and magazines, and I doubt if there was much that Lily had read to us that meant very much to any of us. Except my mother. She looked troubled, very troubled as she went about her work.

  Chapter Eight

  WE KNEW THAT THE WAR WAS OVER LONG BEFORE THE NEWSBOY CAME into our street with his stack of papers clutched under an arm bawling, “Extra, extra, Germany surrenders. The war’s over!”

  That would have been Jimmy Lee, of course, a little ragged boy from Back Brook Street, as dismal and vile an area as Daw Bank. He was undersized for his age, which was about the same as mine, eight at the time, and he came every evening when the men and women were home from the mills.

  We already knew before he came that chill November day what had happened, and celebrations had begun on most of the streets, and on our street people had congregated in the middle of the street, with both sides mingling and talking joyously and excitedly.

  It was perhaps the last time the two sides would be drawn that close together. After the war was over, things went back pretty much to normal, the way they had been. But in that first flush of victory and happiness and relief, and God knows what other emotions were involved in this great moment, we were all very much one, and we were all in a state of euphoria, drunk with our happiness.

  Well, there was also a lot of real drinking going on. Bottles of stout, jugs of beer appeared on the scene, and they were being passed among the older people. There were bags of sweets for us, and bottles of ginger beer, and much carrying on among us, racing about, chasing one another, shouting, screaming.

  It was a regular party, and I remember Mrs. Humberstone organized us into a parade—all the kids, the Christian ones and the Jewish ones, all mixed and not in separate groups, marching together around and around the street with flags in our hands, shouting and singing “God save our noble King,” and “Rule, Britannia,” and “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag.”

  There was dancing among the older people. The Forshaws had brought their gramophone right out into the street. They were in especially good spirits, these two. Their son was alive and he would be coming home soon. Mr. Forshaw had obviously had too much to drink, and it was quite noticeable in the way he teetered a bit as he adjusted the gramophone, and the way Mrs. Forshaw, smiling, put her hand on his back to steady him.

  I saw Lily in the crowd. She was just as elated as Mrs. Forshaw, just as happy as everyone else, her eyes shining, a little flush on her ordinarily pale cheeks. She and Mrs. Forshaw talked a great deal. They liked each other. That had been obvious for some time, and I saw the troubled look on my mother’s face as she glanced at them from time to time.

  But this was no time to be worried about anything. I think my mother was just as happy as everyone else. People began to dance in the street to the music the gramophone was squawking out through its big green horn. It had been set up on an empty orange box supplied by my mother right in the center of the street between our house and the Forshaws’, and the record twirled around and around madly. Now it was giving out an Irish jig, and Mrs. Turnbull and Mrs. Humberstone went to it. Two heavies hoisting skirts daintily above ankles, feet stepping nimbly, while the crowd clapped in rhythm and laughed and cheered, and there were cries of “Aaah,” and “Eeeh,” as the skirts rose still higher. The laughter grew to a roar as suddenly none other than Mrs. Zarembar, the chicken woman, joined in, and hoisted her skirts too, exposing her thick, piano-leg ankles. A Jewish woman dancing an Irish jig. Nobody had ever seen this before, and the clapping grew louder, and there were more cries of “Eeeh,” and “Aaah.”

  Nobody was angry with anybody else that day. There were no enmities, no bitterness. It was as if the two sides of our street had been welded into one.

  SOON, TOO, the men began to come back, and when Cocky returned at St. Peter’s we all lined up in the school yard and gave three cheers. He stood before us, still in his uniform, the rimless glasses shining just like in the old days. But he was not the same as before. He couldn’t seem to speak. He chewed on his lower lip, and we noticed that his hands kept clenching and unclenching. The headmaster stood beside him, smiling. Well, he had done nothing but smile ever since news came that we had won the war. Nobody had been caned no matter what he did. He had gone from class to class wiggling his ears and asking how many threepenny doughnuts there were in a dozen. Now, with Cocky back, his cup was full.

  As for Cocky, whether he shared that happiness or not, it was hard to say. He said little except an abrupt “Glad to be back,” and then his eyes seemed to fill, and looking almost as if he was going to cry he turned on his heel and walked rapidly into the school.

  We all stood silent and uncertain. The headmaster himself seemed uncertain for a moment, then took command of the situation. “All right, everybody, quick march to your classes,” he shouted. He seemed a little upset.

  Another one who came back very soon after the armistice was signed was Mr. Finklestein. I saw him striding along Brook Street. He was in uniform and had his kit bag slung over one shoulder, and a rifle over the other. How he had managed to bring his rifle home was a matter of much speculation among us. But he had managed it somehow, and as I watched him he seemed to be marching in a military parade, body erect, shoulders squared, feet going left right, left right. As he came to the corner of our street, he halted, saluted, and made a left turn, and went right into our house.

  I followed him quickly. My mother was standing in the lobby staring at him, thoroughly startled. But she recovered in a moment to welcome him back, though I’ve no doubt she was wondering as I was why he had not gone into his own house first.

  He seemed to have loosened up considerably. His body had slackened, and he had lifted his kit bag from his shoulder and placed it on the floor. He said cheerfully, “I couldn’t wait to get here. I’ve come for my favorite dish—you know what.”

  Yes, my mother knew what—his sponge cake and herring sandwich—and she was able to make one for him. Just like old times he sat in the shop on an upturned orange crate and ate his sandwich, the juice dripping down into his sleeve, licking it off the back of his hand, munching and sighing and saying, “Ah, this is the life! I thought of this all through the war. It was a dream I always had. I’d be sitting here just like this in your shop eating me sponge cake and ’erring sandwich, and licking the juice off me ’and, and saying what I’m saying now, Ah, this is the life!”

  In the midst of his joy, his wife came running into the shop. She halted a short distance away from him and stood staring at him, as if she could not believe her eyes.

  Then, without a word of welcome, there came pouring out of her in her high, shrill voice a stream of complaint and bitterness about her troubles.

  “Jane spat at me. Yes, she did. And Doris threw a cup of hot tea in my face. And Louis stole a penny from my purse. And Becky is turning into a thief too. She threatened me with a knife the other day. There hasn’t been a minute’s peace in my life. I have no pleasure in my children, and it all comes from your family, not mine. You have no idea what the butcher charges for meat these days. We haven’t had a decent meal for years, and we’ve been without shoes, and the sink in the scullery keeps gettin
g stopped up.”

  On and on she went in the same thin, high, screaming voice that came through the wall. Only this time I could see her face, all tight with passion and with her eyes staring wildly, and her little body crouched forward a little, as if she were going to spring at the poor man she was addressing.

  A look of pain had come on his face, and he seemed to have lost his appetite. He put down the remainder of his half-eaten sandwich on the counter, and passed a hand across his face, and groaned.

  “My God,” he said, “I’ve just come home from the war, I haven’t seen you in four years, four years of hell for me, and this is all you can say to me? Couldn’t you wait at least until I’d finished my sandwich, and washed up a bit and gone to the closet and moved my bowels on a real closet for the first time in four years?”

  “You’ve gone through hell?” she shrieked back at him. “What about me? I’ve gone through worse hell with those mad children of yours. Yes, yours. They all take after your side. There isn’t one in your family wasn’t put in a madhouse, and that’s what’ll happen to your children. But all you can think of is to sit in this dirty little shop and eat herring sandwiches just like all the other dirty Russian Jews. I’m English born, and don’t you ever forget that.”

  He got up and put his kit bag back on his shoulder, and adjusted the rifle on the other shoulder, and left the shop, and she followed, still shrieking at him. A crowd had gathered outside, and watched as the Finklesteins went into their own house. The noise of their fighting went on for some time afterward, the sounds drifting out into the street.

  THE LIBRARY WAS ON St. Petersgate, a white marble building that always looked so clean among the blackened, soot-stained ones. It was only a short distance from the school and the public baths where we all went once a year on the day before Passover. A flight of marble steps led up to the entrance. When Lily first took me there I used to hold her hand going up them, because they seemed so steep.

  I didn’t hold her hand anymore. I was eight going on nine when the war ended, and pretty big for my age. I still went to the library with her every Saturday afternoon, though. My brothers and Rose went to the picture show on Saturday, but Lily and I preferred the library. We both read a lot, and our arms were full as we came out of the library that afternoon. It was a raw day in early March, with gray clouds scudding across the sky and a wind blowing. It was cold, but we scarcely noticed it in our excitement over the new books we were bringing home and the anticipation of reading them. We walked down those steps, hugging our books tightly for fear of dropping them.

  The library was on the opposite side of the square from the school. We walked along that side, past the blackened statue of St. Peter, and the ancient, turreted building of the public baths, designed almost like a castle, and then down the hill to Mersey Square. Traffic was heavy with horse and carts and trucks and trams, more trucks than horses and carts now, and even a few motorcars.

  A tram drew up just ahead of us, and several soldiers got off carrying kit bags over their shoulders. It was not an unusual sight these days to see them coming in from Manchester, where they had been discharged. Every day brought a new flock. Suddenly, Lily gave a little gasp and stood stock-still, staring.

  I followed the direction of her eyes, puzzled. She was looking at the last soldier who had got off the tram, and at first I didn’t recognize him. Then Lily said, almost in a whisper, “It’s Arthur.”

  Perhaps he had grown taller, certainly older. I still hardly recognized him. At that same moment he saw us a short distance away, and stared too, and then I heard him shout, “Lily!”

  Lily dropped her books and ran toward him, and he ran toward her, and when they both came together he put his arms around her and kissed her, and drew her up toward him so tightly that her feet came off the ground.

  I stood there watching them, not knowing whether to pick up Lily’s books, or to take in the scene. It was all very strange. Then Arthur released her, and waved to me, and ran up to where I was standing and gave me a hug and said, “You’ve grown, ’arry. My God, you’re a regular big lad.”

  He helped me pick up Lily’s books, and insisted on carrying them for her as we walked along, the two of them in front of me chatting away, and I behind, just like—well, Arthur thought of that too, because once he threw some words at me over his shoulder, laughing.

  “Just like old times, eh, ’arry?”

  Yes, it was very much like those times when we all walked home from school, when Lily was preparing for her scholarship exam and Arthur was tutoring her. He was intensely happy. That much was clear to me, and so was Lily. They both laughed a great deal, and talked and talked, and seemed excited.

  “It’s just incredible, you know,” I heard Arthur say once, “my meeting you like this, you being the first one. Dammit, I don’t know if I’m dreaming or not. Here you are walking beside me, and there’s ’arry behind us, and this is Daw Bank, and look, by God, here are the Devil’s Steps.”

  We had just come to them, as dark and odorous as ever, still frightening to me, though I’d gone up them several times when wandering about with my friends, and had walked on Wellington Road above. The sight of them made Arthur pause a little and laugh almost with affection in his tone.

  “Our old trysting spot,” he said. “Here’s where I’d wait for you to come along. I wish it could have been a bit more picturesque so that I could write a poem about it. Did I tell you that I have begun to write poetry? Well, I have, and someday I’ll write one about you, and, yes, maybe about this ugly, smelly town. It looks beautiful to me today, though, and you—well, you always were beautiful but you look even more beautiful than ever. God, but I’m so glad to have met you first off. I still can’t believe it.”

  He rattled on, drunk with joy, and Lily looked up at him, smiling, her eyes adoring. She had grown a little since leaving school, but was still much shorter than he, and had to look up to see his face. Watching them from behind I knew the secret that Lily had been trying to keep from us. She was in love with him, and he with her. If they had managed to hide it before, they couldn’t now. It was just a lucky thing that I was the only one there with them.

  For the entire walk they were so wrapped up in each other that I doubt if they were even conscious of my presence, but as soon as our street came into sight, Lily halted abruptly coming out of her dream swiftly, and stood hesitating. Arthur looked at her inquiringly.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Arthur, would you mind if ’arry and I walked on and you followed a bit later? Or, better still, because you must be anxious to see your parents, you go first and we’ll follow.”

  He reacted angrily. “Yes, I do mind. I thought we were all done with that sort of bosh. I fought in a bloody war to get rid of it, and I’ll not go back to it. No, we’re going together, all three of us. Come on, now.”

  He had taken command of the situation a bit roughly and forcefully, and perhaps it was a good thing he did; otherwise I doubt if Lily would have had the courage to go along with him. She was doubtless thinking of our mother, who fortunately was not outside when we arrived at the corner. Others were, though, and all they could think of at that moment was that another one of the boys had come home from the war. A flurry of excitement passed through the street, and voices shouted out to Arthur and people came running up to him.

  The Forshaws came out of their house to see what all the noise was about, Mr. Forshaw holding a jug of beer in his hand. They stared, then saw Arthur. Mrs. Forshaw, usually so calm and undemonstrative, gave a loud cry and ran up to him, pushed other people away, flung her arms about his neck, kissed him, and wept. Mr. Forshaw stood by grinning awkwardly, stroking his mustache with one hand, holding the jug of beer in the other.

  My mother had come out of the house by now, and all she saw was this scene. She also went up to welcome Arthur back and shake his hand, as everybody was doing. It never occurred to her that we had been walking home with him, I suppose, but Lily wanted t
o be sure that she did not find out. About that and something else.

  Just before we entered the house she whispered to me, “’arry, don’t tell Mam that we met Arthur in the square and,” her voice growing almost fierce, “don’t tell her that he kissed me. Do you promise?”

  I nodded.

  She thrust a penny into my hand, not much less than what she got from her week’s pay. “You can buy yourself some sweets,” she said.

  She didn’t have to do that. I wouldn’t have told. I had not forgotten that other thing. It was still deeply implanted in my mind—Sarah and Freddy, the ginger beer, the notes inside the bottles, the terrible discovery in my mother’s shop that day, Mrs. Harris’s anguished cry, Sarah’s screams as she was being beaten, and then her being shipped off to Australia.

  It was still there, along with the frightening consequences that my mother had warned about, the awful thing that could have happened to Sarah if the discovery had not been made in time. Or to any Jewish girl or boy.

  I had forgotten nothing. Yet a penny was a penny, and history may have been repeating itself as I dashed off immediately to Mrs. Turnbull’s sweets shop. How little things had changed. Poor Mr. Turnbull still sat in his chair outside the shop, shivering in the cold this day, giving me a silent, imploring look as I went past him into the shop.