by Arnold Zable
She claws at her assailants. The darkness is a weight on her chest. She is fighting with all her strength. With great effort she wrenches free, and regains her breath. The clouds assume their separate shapes. But they remain in the room. They are biding their time, waiting for another chance to attack. She must remain vigilant. She must not allow them to breach her defence.
Night begets night and the house trembles with uneasy sleep. Romek and Zofia lie at the extremities, and Josh in between. The greying dawn greets a silent Sunday, so quiet the Nicholson Street tram can be heard from inside the house. The winds have died. The rains have ceased, but the streets remain damp. And for the first time Zofia does not rise from bed. She dreams of Bloomfield. He sits by the kitchen table and winks as he slurps his food. ‘Yes,’ he hums. ‘Yes. Yes.’ His hum fills the entire room.
‘The bodies are in the dining room cupboard,’ Zofia says when she awakes. She is feverish. Romek is by her side. He tries to cool her face with a moist towel. She pushes his hand away and turns her face to the wall. Romek leaves the room, defeated. Zofia adjusts her pillow. It is too soft, too damp. Her fever is rising, and she is singing:
Oh little goat, about a shepherd this song begins,
And how a girl wove her magic upon him.
‘Ah,’ she says, when Josh enters with a cup of tea. ‘I was waiting for you.’ Josh places the tea on the bedside table. Zofia pummels the pillow and tries to mould it to the right shape. She seeks its coolness and support.
‘I am one of the mysteries because I stayed alive. We had a big family, and I am the only one left, and that is a miracle. And that is the truth and nothing but the truth.’ She sips the tea, then pushes it away.
‘No one knows who I am. Except Zalmanowicz. “Mir shtammen foon felzen,” he used to say. “We come from rocks. And from the stars, and from the seas, and from the winds. And from an explosion that shattered into billions of fragments, each with its own soul, each with a life of its own.” He was my teacher in the Yiddish folk-school, but such teachers are rare to find.
‘Once Zalmanowicz announced, “Today I am going to re-enact Moses’ journey into the wilderness,” and he said: “Moses took his stick in hand and set out. And he walked and walked and walked.” Zalmanowicz walked as he talked. He circled the class. He strolled down the aisles and said: “Moses walked and walked and walked, out into the wilderness, with his stick in hand.” And Zalmanowicz walked out of the classroom, and he kept walking, and he did not return that day.’ She chuckles. Readjusts the pillow. And recites: ‘An oak has fallen, a fully-grown oak, / With a head higher than all those around it.
‘Zalmanowicz loved to talk about nature and evolution. He taught us geology and astronomy. Biology was my favourite subject. I wanted to know what made the world spin round. He told me: “You are an intelligent girl. You should continue your studies, and your family should support you.” He was a big man with a black moustache. He believed in yoisher. Justice was his God. He would stride through the streets of Kazimierz. He was strong. He was an oak.’
Zofia pounds the pillow, and turns it round. Josh leans over to help her. She dismisses him with a wave of her hand. She wants only to continue her tale. She veers between lucidity and confusion. Her fever goads her on.
‘Amol is geven. Once upon a time. That is the way to begin a story. Once upon a time there was a palace, and it contained the bodies of bishops and kings. The palace stood on a hill by the Wisla River. In winter the Wisla was covered in mist. I once came around a bend in the river, and took fright. The palace looked like a phantom. Its turrets vanished into the clouds. And it was full of dybbuks. You know what is a dybbuk? It is a spirit that can invade your body. It can make you say strange things. It can take away your voice, and replace it with the voice of someone else.
‘There are little dybbuks in this room. I can see them now. They look like clouds, but it is a trick. They are waiting for an opening. But I know how to hold them off. They are clouds, not rocks.’
Zofia looks up at Josh. She is startled by the clarity with which she sees her son. She is derailed by his concern, and afraid of the silence that has stolen back into the room. Now that she has started, she is terrified of having to stop. She resumes her mono- logue. Lest she be diverted, she speaks quickly. The words tumble out.
‘Amol is geven. Once upon a time there was a palace made of rocks. It stood on the top of a hill not far from where I lived. One day I climbed the stone steps. When I reached the top, the palace gates were open. I was small. The guards did not see me. Or perhaps they did not care. I crept past them and ran into the palace grounds. I was not afraid. The dentist said I was the bravest girl he had ever known.
‘In the grounds there stood a castle and a cathedral, and in the cathedral lay the bodies of bishops and kings. They lay in tombs under slabs of rocks. Zalmanowicz taught us that we come from rocks and we return to rocks. And he said that the palace was over seven hundred years old. He told us that forty-one of Poland’s forty-five kings were buried there.
‘And he told us the story of Krak, the founder of the city. Krak belonged to a past so distant no one could say how long ago he lived. Before Krak could found the city he had to kill a dragon, and he did this by feeding him animal skins stuffed with sulphur and tar.
‘Then Zalmanowicz told us this was a grandmother’s tale, and only scientists know the truth. The bones of the dragon were in fact a whale’s rib, a mammoth’s shinbone, and the skull of a hairy rhinoceros. He said these prehistoric bones were kept in a passage near the cathedral door.’
Zofia sits up higher, adjusts her nightgown and clutches it to her chest. Her eyes are feverish, and Josh is riveted. He cannot tear himself away.
‘That is why I climbed the hill. I wanted to see the bones of the dragon that Krak killed. I was not afraid of the cathedral, but I was afraid of the word prehistoric. It made me think of death. I would lie in bed at night and imagine how old the world is. I wanted to know what lay beyond the planets, and what lay beyond the beyond. I imagined travelling to the ends of the universe, but then I wondered what lay beyond the end. I thought if I could stay awake all night I would solve the mystery, but I would always fall asleep. So I decided to climb the hill and see the prehistoric bones for myself.
‘When I entered the cathedral I could not find the passage. I wandered from chapel to chapel and into the crypt. I stared at vaults that contained the bodies of bishops and kings. I discovered the vaults also contained the bodies of poets and queens. Then I realised dybbuks were watching me. I could sense their presence. Only then did I become frightened. I ran through the cathedral out into the palace grounds. I ran down the steps of the hill two at a time.
‘One day Zalmanowicz wrote down the names of the forty-five kings. He said that Kazimierz was named after the greatest king. He said King Kazimierz deserved to be called great because he founded a university in 1364. I can still remember the date. I have always had a good memory. Zalmanowicz told me, one day I would go to university. Then he turned to the board, and wiped all the names off with a flourish. “Pff. They are all gone,” he said. “Just like that!”
‘And he told us kingdoms come and go, and armies march in, but sooner or later, they are driven out. He told us that madmen rant and shout, but all storms pass. Then he said it is not insignificant that we come from rocks, because rocks are bound up with seas, and seas are blown by the winds, and winds can travel great distances, yet return to reshape the rocks. And he said, “Men vert geboiren un men vert farloiren.” One is born, and one becomes lost.’
Josh gazes at her dishevelled hair and the damp sheen that covers her face. ‘Bring me my handbag,’ she demands, as if she has intuited his thoughts. She wipes her face clean with a moist cloth, and retrieves a compact from the bag. She looks at the tiny mirror, powders her cheeks, combs her hair, adjusts the loose strands, and rejoins her tale with renewed urgency exactly where she had left off.
‘Yes, one is born and one becomes lost. I wante
d to study, but I had to work. We had rent to pay. Dirre gelt muz men tsolen. Yes, rent must be paid. That is a true song. I left school when I was twelve. Zalmanowicz was upset. He came to our place on Isaaka Street. We lived on the third floor of an apartment block. The corridors smelt of fried carrots and cholnt. Mother served him a slice of honey cake and a cup of tea. And I said, “Mother, give him three spoons of sugar.” I knew he loved sugar.
‘He stirred the tea slowly, and as he stirred he told my mother I should go back to school. He said that something would become of me. He was looking at the tea as he stirred, and my mother told him I had to work.
‘“It would be a great shame,” he said. Then he left. The honey cake remained untouched. The tea was cold. The sugar lay at the bottom of the cup, and instead of returning to school I went to work in Goldman’s workshop.
‘We sewed day and night. The workshop stood on Mlodowa Street, not far from Szeroka Square. In the square there were synagogues as old as the palace. Talmudic scholars dressed in black would rush by on their way to prayers. Their side-locks fluttered in the wind. We saw carts driven by peasants to and from the market place. We saw squabbles and fights, and Yoshke the madman wandering by. He wore a turban and said he was a descendant of Messiahs. The streets of Kazimierz were full of madmen and sages, but here it is so quiet. We saw the whole world go by while we sewed, and here I stare at the walls.’
Zofia looks up with a start. ‘Who will do the sewing? I must get out of bed. The pile is growing. There is work to do. And the rent must be paid. Dirre gelt, ai, ai ai.’ She tries to sit up, but slips back. Josh wants to assist her, but again she waves him off. She is exhausted, but clings to her threads of thought.
‘Who knows what treasures our people possessed? What fighters we were? We were not afraid. We sought justice in the world. I joined the seamstress union. Everyone in our workshop was a member. We marched arm-in-arm on May Days, and sang. “Fathers, mothers, children, are building barricades / And in the streets are marching, worker’s brigades.”
‘Zalmanowicz was a Bundist and a revolutionary, and like many Bundists he had once sat in jail. He wanted to make a better world. “You have to tear through history with your teeth,” he said. “You must create justice out of the balagan, the mess.” Yes, the world is a balagan. I have seen this with my own eyes. Even children understand this:
Balagan, balagan, di glocken klingen.
What chaos, what chaos, the bells are ringing.
Whose children are travelling
The Kaiser’s! The Kaiser’s!
On the oven they sit,
Under the oven, they sweat,
Matches do they tear,
Chickens do they drive away,
Oi vei, give me tea,
Tea is bitter, give me sugar,
Sugar is sweet, give me nuts,
Nuts are fat, so lie in bed,
In bed it’s cool, so go to the mill,
The mill is turning,
And the witch is laughing.
‘Yes, everywhere there is a balagan and the witches are laughing, and the prehistoric bones are rotting, and not even Zalmanowicz could help. I had to leave school to help my family. My mother and father had a hard life, and what did they get for it? They were murdered, may Hitler’s name be wiped out.’
‘What happened to them over there?’ asks Josh.
Zofia is stung by his words. He has broken into her monologue. She seizes his question and hurls it back.
‘You want to know what happened? Evil people marched into the city. They took over the castle and prehistoric bones, and they descended on Kazimierz and herded us over the river. We were squashed behind brick walls. We were sealed off from the outside world, and all I had known vanished, pfff, just like that.
‘Then the bodies started piling up. You can find the corpses in many places. Perhaps one day someone will recover the remains. They should be stored in the castle alongside the whale’s rib and mammoth bones. That is all that needs to be said.
‘You are coughing,’ she tells Josh. ‘You must drink tea with sugar and honey, and I must get up. The sewing is becoming a mountain. There is work to be done.’ She gazes around the room. ‘And there are little white souls here,’ she observes. ‘They are dancing around me. What do they want from me?’ She lies back. She wipes her forehead, adjusts her nightgown, and that damn pillow.
‘What more need be said? I came to Australia and that was that. We had a big family and I am the only one left. I am one of the mysteries because I stayed alive. You grew in my belly as the ship sailed on. I shook hands with King Neptune as we crossed the equator. He reached over, patted my womb and told me I would give birth to a strong boy. We were sailing away from the corpses and prehistoric bones:
I have forgotten my loved ones,
I have left my only home.
I have given myself to the sea,
Take me sea, to my mother ’s lap.
‘Who knows what treasures we possessed? Zalmanowicz knew. When he saw I could not return to school he was very upset. That sort of teacher brings light into people’s lives. He taught us Peretz’s poem, “Two Brothers”. Peretz was a great writer, the father of Yiddish literature.
‘Ah, yes, once upon a time there lived two brothers. And they lived peacefully. By day the house was gilded by the sun, and at night it was lit up by the moon. They had everything they needed, but one day a snake came to their door and tempted them with riches. From that day their peaceful life was turned upside down. The brothers fought over their wealth. And the sun and moon looked on, and wondered why one brother laughed as the other wept.
‘And once upon a time there lived a brother and five sisters. Four sisters died, and my brother Yossel was waiting for us when we arrived. He stood on the wharf with his wife Liebe. I had not seen him since I was a girl. Even now, thirty years later, I can see his face as it was on the day he left. The carriage sprang over the cobblestones. Our bodies bounced, our suitcases leapt, and Yossel laughed. “You are my little princess,” he said, “and I am taking you for a magic ride.”
‘The driver cracked his whip and away we flew. We skirted the hill beneath the palace grounds and Yossel said, “The palace smells of corpses and rotting bones, and that is why I am leaving this black hole.”
‘I hugged him at the station, and he said, “Princess, I am going out into the world. I will make a fortune. I will build our own palace and I will bring you over. Just wait.” And he stepped onto the train, and waved as the train drew out. I saw his face getting smaller and smaller, until it was just a dot. Then it was gone. Pff. Just like that.
‘For many years I dreamt of his face, bobbing up and down. It is such a strange thing to see someone leaving. When Yossel sent his first letter, we all read it one hundred times. I read every letter he sent many times. I swallowed each word. The stamps had pictures of English kings. I thought Australia must have palaces with prehistoric bones.
‘Then one day I stepped off the boat into a land owned by a king. You were swimming inside me. I could feel your kicks. Even then you had a strong will. For years I had dreamt of the day I would see Yossel again. As the boat drew near the wharf I saw his face coming closer. First, it was a dot, then a round ball. I felt giddy. My head whirled. The sea was flowing backwards. Then he was in front of me and, in an instant, twenty years vanished. Pff. Just like that.
‘Yossel embraced me, but his body was stiff. I see things quickly. Zalmanowicz once told me perhaps I see too much. I saw that the dybbuks were there when I stepped off the boat. I looked around me and saw that the land was flat. There were no palaces or hills. And I saw that my brother was afraid of me. He stared at me as if I was a ghost. He no longer knew who I was.’
Zofia looks up with a start. ‘Enough. Who is doing the sewing?’ She slips back onto the pillow. Adjusts it length-wise. Width-wise. It is too soft, too hard, too hot, but never quite right.
‘The world is not right,’ she says. ‘Everywhere there is a balagan.
Only they who went through gehennim understand. Yossel could not understand. Liebe did not understand. Their friends did not understand. How could they? They did not smell the corpses. They did not see them piling up.
‘But Zalmanowicz understood. He was a saintly man, a lammed-vovnik, one of the thirty-six righteous people who uphold the world. Zalmanowicz did not bring any trouble on the world, but in his life he had many troubles. And now he is lying peacefully, and my mother is lying peacefully. And my father and my sisters are lying peacefully, and their troubles are over. And the bodies are lying in the dining room cupboard, and there are dybbuks in this room. Can you see them? They are ready to pounce. But I am not afraid. The dentist said I was the bravest girl he had ever known. Look at my ulcer. It is burning. And it will always burn. “Send her everything,” Romek said. And I said, No. No. No. And he threw it. The wound will never heal.’
Zofia slumps back and closes her eyes. Josh leaves the room. Romek is in the kitchen, cooking a broth. He knows he must remain outside. He waits on her, but keeps out of sight. He ladles the broth into a bowl and hands it to Josh.
Josh returns and places it on the bedside table. Zofia eats quickly. She turns over and lies curled on her left side, and she awakes, two hours later, with a start.
