The Credit Draper

by J David Simons

  “You seem sad.”

  It took him some time to realise Nathan had spoken. Such a small, pale, frail child who possessed the same dark circles under his eyes as his Uncle Mendel, a mark of birth that seemed to absorb the pain of the world around him into their blackness. Nathan was three years younger than Avram, yet his face bore all the anxieties of an old man, his head full of adult questioning.

  “No, I’m not,” Avram countered a little too harshly, then felt guilty for startling the boy.

  Nathan continued staring at him, head dropped to one side, eyes watery with concern. “Yes, you are. I can feel it.”

  “Feel what?”

  “Your sadness.”

  Avram shrugged.

  “Why are you so unhappy?” Nathan persisted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Sometimes I think about my mother.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “In Riga. By the ship. She left me there.” He closed his eyes. He was back on the frozen streets of the Russian port listening to a sullen-faced fiddler play. The violin music pleaded at his ears while his mother held on tightly to his mittened hand, her face glowing red in the cold like a doll’s painted cheeks as she spoke to him of his father and the music and when she was young. He stamped his feet against the chill as his mother talked on, her words soaring in the crisp blue air to the swirl of the bow or dropping to an agitated staccato as she muttered into her scarf. When the violinist stopped, his mother stopped too, somehow angry at the loss of accompaniment to her rant. She scattered a few coins into the battered violin case then moved off in the direction of the docks, dragging him with her. He turned to Nathan. The boy was sobbing.

  “What’s wrong now?” Avram asked.

  “Mary.”

  “Mary?”

  “Listen.”

  Avram held his breath. He could hear Madame Kahn’s voice.

  “Stay here,” he told Nathan. He opened the lounge door, padded to the back of the hallway where Papa and Madame Kahn had their bedroom. The door was open slightly. From the reflection off the wardrobe mirror, he could see Madame Kahn. She was beating Mary with the back of a hairbrush. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Just like she might pound the dust out of a carpet. Mary was squirming on the floor trying to protect her head against the onslaught with her hands and her bare forearms. Madame Kahn, her face red, her hair hanging loose in a way Avram had never seen, knelt over the maid, swiping at her back and face.

  “Why?” Madame Kahn screamed. “Why? Why? Why? Why must you steal from me like this?”

  “A bit of soap,” Mary sobbed back in a respite between the blows. “It was only a bit of soap, ma’am. Just a bit of soap.”

  As her head tilted back, Madame Kahn caught a glimpse of Avram’s reflection in the mirror. She spun towards him. He stared motionless at her angry maw as she shouted at him. “Get out of here, boy. Get out.”

  Such was the venom in her voice he wasn’t sure if in that instant she meant get out of her bedroom, get out of her house, or even get out of Glasgow. He fled back into the hallway, found refuge among the various garments hanging from the coat-stand until his breathlessness subsided, consoling himself with the thought that God would never let such an angry woman into the Promised Land. He then returned to the lounge, eased down beside Nathan, watched in silence as the younger boy’s back juddered every few seconds in spasms of tears.

  “Is Mary all right?” Nathan asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Later, when Avram had an opportunity, he slipped into Papa and Madame Kahn’s bedroom with Celia. He picked up the hairbrush.

  “How do you say this?”

  Celia told him.

  “Hairbrush,” he repeated, slapping the silver-plated head against the cup of his palm. “Hairbrush.”

  He asked Celia if there was anything wrong with Nathan.

  “He’s just sensitive,” she replied.

  That evening, Madame Kahn was back to her usual self with her hair drawn up into a tight bun, hovering impatiently around the hallway in an evening gown and fox-stole wrap. Avram watched as she kissed her own children goodnight before possessively taking the arm of her dinner-suited husband who escorted her out of the door.

  “Where do they go?” Avram asked.

  Celia pulled the gilt-edged invitation off the mantelpiece. She read haughtily: “A charity concert by the Glasgow Jewish Choral Society in aid of the families of the victims of the Titanic disaster.”

  Avram knew about the Titanic. He even felt a connection with the doomed vessel. For he had seen the newspaper pictures of the ship setting off on its tragic voyage from the docks at Southampton. Southampton. The very port where he had first landed.

  “What is a Titanic?” Nathan asked.

  “The biggest ship in the world, my love,” Celia said. “Until it hit an iceberg.”

  “What is an iceberg?”

  Celia explained, then continued in an eerie voice. “In the darkness of the night, in the middle of the cold lonely ocean, the giant ship, the Titanic, sailed on its maiden voyage. On and on. On and on. The glittering city of New York waited for its arrival. The orchestra played, the passengers laughed and danced and drank champagne, unaware of the tragedy about to happen.”

  Avram watched Celia dance around the room to the sound of her own orchestra, her arms outstretched to some imaginary partner. He joined her, miming the playing of a violin and even Nathan stood up and began to clap out an awkward beat. Celia came to a halt.

  “Hush.”

  Avram dropped to the floor. Nathan stood frozen in silence.

  “Listen. The wind stilled. The music played, the lights blazed, the ship steamed on into the night. All was well, when … suddenly … a strong shudder in the darkness.” Nathan shuddered too as Celia slapped her hands together. “An iceberg. The ship had struck an iceberg. The side of the vessel tore open like a skin. Water flooded in. The passengers rushed for the lifeboats. But there weren’t enough for everyone. It was women and children first. Women and children first,” Celia called, imitating the cry of a crew member.

  Avram cupped his hands to his mouth, echoed her plea, a thin voice coming through the fog. “Women and children first. Women and children first.”

  Celia went on. “But everyone panicked. People scrambled for the boats. Others jumped screaming into the freezing sea. The band played on. More water poured in. The band still played on. Play on, Avram.”

  Avram jumped to his feet, scraped wildly at his extended forearm as he danced around the bewildered Nathan.

  “The band played until the ship tipped up and up and up before sliding into the ocean depths. Down and down and down into the seabed, the Titanic plunged. It didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, first class or steerage, everyone sank together. Hundreds of passengers were drowned.”

  “What is drowned?” Nathan asked.

  “It’s when people can’t breathe in the water, my love.” Celia placed a hand over her nose and mouth, sucked hard on the flesh of her palm. “Then they die.”

  Nathan’s legs gave way underneath him, his small body crumpled to the floor. Avram started to laugh but he noticed the expression of horror on Celia’s face as she looked down at the prostrate body of her brother. He watched in silence as Nathan remained sprawled motionless on the floor.

  “He’s not moving,” Celia howled. “He’s not moving. He’s dead. We’ve killed him.”

  Avram wasn’t so sure, but Nathan’s usually pallid expression had drained to an even sicklier grey.

  Celia knelt down, twisted her head to Nathan’s chest.

  “I can’t feel him breathing. Avram. Do something.”

  “Uncle Mendel. I’ll get Uncle Mendel.”

  “No, no. He isn’t at home. Go to Mrs Carnovsky. Hurry. Mrs Carnovsky.”

  He flew out of the Kahn’s flat, rang and rang the bell opposite until Mrs Carnovsky cracked open the door and peered out. Her cust
omary Balkan Sobranie cigarette hung in its bright pink paper from the shrivelled corner of her mouth.

  “Oh, it’s you. The meshugge orphan.”

  “Come. Please, you must come.”

  Mrs Carnovsky poked out her head, surveyed the corridor of the close from side to side.

  “What tricks are you playing?”

  He grabbed her hand, tried to pull her across the passageway.

  “What are you doing? Leave me. Leave me alone, child.”

  “Not a trick,” he said, jumping up and down in frustration. “Come. Please come. Nathan is … is … drowned.”

  “Nathan drowned? Don’t be silly. Calm down, child.”

  “It’s true,” he protested. “It’s true.”

  “The Kahns? Where are Mr and Mrs Kahn?”

  “They went to concert on the Titanic.”

  “Enough of your nonsense. Off with you, child.”

  Mrs Carnovsky was about to close the door when Celia appeared.

  “He’s breathing,” she said. “I think he’s only fainted.”

  “Feh!” Mrs Carnovsky scowled at Avram. “Fainted, stupid boy. Not drowned.”

  She went back into her flat and returned to the Kahns with a bottle of smelling salts. Avram watched fascinated as the old woman wafted the blue opaque bottle under Nathan’s nose, confirming his belief she was a witch, with various magic potions at her disposal.

  As Nathan twitched into consciousness his right hand began to jerk spontaneously, hitting out a beat on the floor in rhythm to his mumbled words: “Hundreds drowned. Hundreds drowned. Hundreds drowned.”

  Mrs Carnovsky slapped her forehead. “What’s wrong with the children in this house?”

  “He’s just very sensitive,” Celia said.

  “Well, get him to his bed, the two of you. I’ll wait here until your parents come home.”

  Avram helped Celia pull Nathan to his feet, then together they half-dragged him into his bedroom to lie down. Nathan stayed there for a full week, speaking only occasionally to bemoan the tragedy that had befallen the victims of the Titanic.

  Seven

  AVRAM HUNG BACK IN THE SHADOW OF THE CLOSE watching the other boys play with a ball on the street. They called out to each other in names he’d never heard before. Not the names of the forefathers, the kings and the prophets he was used to. But Tam, Shuggie, Wullie and Billy, Wee Jimmy. Some played barefoot, their shoes left unscathed to one side. Others had no shoes at all. One boy’s legs were bent from rickets. Not far from where Avram stood, three girls squatted on the pavement watching after a group of toddlers. Every so often, they’d look up at the game, shout out some sarcastic comment with a laugh and a sneer. The boy with rickets they called ‘Bandy’.

  One of the girls got up, walked away from her friends, pulled down her knickers, showed her white arse to the world, urinated in the gutter. When she’d finished, she turned round to Avram, flashed him a grin. Realising he’d been staring, Avram felt his cheeks go hot, turned his attention back to the game.

  Suddenly, all the activity stopped and Bandy walked away. Another heavier, taller boy screwed up his mouth, shook his head, then spat forcefully to the ground. In his tattered yellow goalkeeping jersey, he stood out like a lighthouse above the ragged assortment who made up the rest of the street gang.

  “You’re always sneakin’ awa’ early for your tea, ya big Jessie,” he called after the departing Bandy.

  “Fuck off, Solly.”

  “Fuck off yersel, Mammy’s boy.”

  “Ah’m no a Mammy’s boy,” Bandy said, his voice turning whiny.

  “That’s ’cos ye’ve no got a Mammy. She’s gone off with the sailors.”

  “That’s a fuckin’ lie.”

  “All right then. She’s gone off with the soldiers.”

  The three girls looking after the bairns laughed. Solly seemed satisfied with this outcome, let Bandy slink off, folded his arms high on his chest, looked around. “Hey, you!”

  Avram pointed a finger at his own chest. “Me?”

  “Aye, you. D’ya wanna kick the leether aboot?”

  Avram knew who Solly was. Solomon Green. Only son of Morris Green the bookmaker, or ‘Lucky Mo the Bookie’ as Papa Kahn called his neighbour and fellow-congregant from the synagogue. Papa Kahn always pronounced Mr Green’s profession softly with a quick glance to either side. Avram’s mother had used the same gesture when she’d told him tales about the raids of the Cossack soldiers. He couldn’t understand why a similar fear and reverence should be attached to a man who made books. And why someone who did so should be considered lucky.

  Solly picked up the badly beat-up leather football, walked over. The rest of his gang shuffled after him.

  “The leether. D’ya wanna kick the leether aboot?” Solly said pointing to the battered object resting in the crook of his arm.

  Avram shrugged. Solly moved in closer, looked him up and down.

  “Ah know you.” Solly sniffed, then wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “You’re the orphan the Kahns took in. Celia told me.”

  Even in the darkness of the close, Avram could make out Solly’s eyes. They weren’t hard or cruel as he had expected. But they flickered impatiently.

  “D’ya wanna play footba’ then?”

  “Please speak slowly.”

  “He’s wan o’ those immigrants wha cannae speak English,” one of the boys shouted.

  “Shut yer gob,” Solly snapped. “Do-you-want-to-play-football?”

  “I not play before.”

  Solly grabbed Avram’s arm, swept him out of the confines of the close.

  “That disnae matter. We just need you to fill up the numbers. Just kick the leether in the direction I tell ye.” Solly mimed a kick as he brought him over to the rest of his gang. “Just-kick-the-ball. Ye don’t need to be Patsy fucking Gallacher.”

  A couple of boys laughed but a look from Solly made them stop. Avram stood off at the periphery of the game, watching the other dozen or so boys scramble after the ball. He didn’t know what to do, yet he was happy to be with boys his own age, to be a part of something that wasn’t just Celia and Nathan. He remembered the games back in his hometown. There was no ball then, just sticks for swords, poles for Cossack horses, the streets for their battlefield. The play was rough, rougher than the game he was part of now. He still had a small scar above his left eye to show where his friend Baruch had caught him once with a stick. The gash had spouted then, but he had played on until the blood had stopped running to congeal in a proud crust down his cheek. He wondered if Baruch was in the army now using real swords.

  “Hey, orphan,” Solly shouted. “Stop dreamin’ and get stuck in.”

  He looked back at Solly’s frantic waving. Solly was in position guarding a goal scratched in chalk on a tenement wall. The rest of his team aimed for the space between two piles of satchels further along the road. When the ball was with his team-mates, Avram ran with them in a swoop on the opposite goal, but feared shouting for the final pass. Then he was back on the defensive, doing no more than getting in an attacking player’s way, being pushed roughly aside. He was therefore surprised when a rebound placed the ball at his feet.

  “Pass it over here, orphan.”

  “Just fuckin’ kick it.”

  “Get it out to Billy, ye daft bampot.”

  “Pass it to me,” screamed someone from the other team.

  The blood pounded in Avram’s head, blocking his ears until all had gone silent around him. The initial heft of the rough leather on his instep felt comfortable, his foot responding naturally to the weight and shape of the ball. His legs loosened, relaxed, adjusting their balance, preparing for their task. He felt he knew instinctively how to play this game – how to execute a dribble, weight a pass, curl a shot. Some of the other boys had started to move in on him, but they seemed to move slowly, mouthing words he could not hear, giving him time to act. He could see Solly behind them, arms signalling instructions from between his chalked goalposts.
r />   With one swift movement, he dragged the ball back behind a clumsy tackle, rounded the prostrate body and continued forward.

  “Pass it, pass it,” his team-mates screamed. He could hear their voices now, guessed their meaning but he drove on exhilarated. He weaved between two players, lost his balance on the road’s uneven surface, stumbled, regained his footing, honed in on the piles of satchels. His shirt had come loose to a clawing hand and flapped behind him. An elbow aimed high tried to knock him off the ball but he managed to take one last desperate kick to squeeze the ball past the advancing keeper. He fell forward on the momentum, rolling over on the pavement, cutting a scrape along his thigh.

  A cluster of boys gathered around him. A breathless Solly pushed his way through.

  “I thought ye said ye hadnae played before.”

  Avram rubbed his leg where the skin had come up red and raw. He looked up. Solly’s yellow jersey gleamed in a burst of sunlight that had appeared suddenly from behind clouds. He noticed a bloody gash on Solly’s shin, a faint scar that seemed to tug at his upper lip.

  “Thank you,” Avram said. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” Solly laughed, held out a hand. “Thanks for what?”

  Avram shrugged, took the offered arm, let himself be hauled to his feet.

  “Ye cut through these eejits like Patsy Gallacher,” Solly said, surveying his gang, grinning to the thought. “That’s what we’ll call you. Patsy. Patsy Gallacher. The greatest dribbler Celtic’s ever had. Aye, Patsy.”

  Avram repeated the word to himself, savouring its softness in his mouth. He didn’t know what it meant but it carried the sound of friendship.

  From then on, it made no difference whether it was with a battered piece of leather, a bundle of tied-up rags and newspapers, a ha’penny rubber ball or with the much sought-after genuine article, Avram just loved to play football. It made no difference either whether the playing surface was cobbled street, sandy gravel or muddied grass. He discovered he had almost complete control of the object at his feet. With one movement, he could bring the ball under his direction, with another he could fly past an opponent, and with yet another he could direct the ball accurately on its way to its destination. He practised hard until he could catch and control the ball on his forehead, the back of his neck, his thigh or on the top of his foot. His record at keepie-uppie was close to one hundred, at least twice as many as anyone else in the neighbourhood.