A nurse from the hospital, a hefty middle-aged woman called Lilly with a hank of red hair on the top of her head that flared like a beacon, came to the counter with a hardcover Bodley Head War and Peace. She plonked it down with a look of defiance that only a veteran of the wards can summon. ‘Been meaning to read this for years,’ she said. ‘Now’s me chance.’ As if she’d prescribed herself a hard-to-swallow medicine that would nonetheless do her the world of good.
At one point a shriek came from somewhere in the shop and a woman in a tartan beret hurried up to Hannah with a book held in both hands. ‘Swallows and Amazons! I read it thirty years ago when I was a littlie. Hell’s bells!’
Not all visitors to the shop had come to buy. Many were simply curious to see what a bookshop looked like. The town had a library financed offhandedly by the shire, so people knew what to expect when stacks of books were packed together on shelves, but the library had never had the lustre of Hannah’s shop. It sat next to the ES&A branch at the bottom of Veronica Street, above the overflow. Everything at that end of the street had filled with water in the flood, up to the lightbulbs. All the books went to the tip and Ern Murdoch, the librarian, aged and frail in a grey cardigan, retired to be cared for at a home in the city, as he might have ten years earlier. Even when there’d been books, it was nothing like the number kept by Hannah.
But did Hometown need anything this flash? Seven thousand five hundred titles? Nobody asked Hannah that question, but she could sense it. She could sense, too, that women were more at ease with the abundance than men. Perhaps women were happier by habit and temperament with the prospect of immersion. The men, all of them, shook their heads as they gazed at the shelves. So many books. It was like looking at the blocks of the Pyramids sitting on the Egyptian sand on day one of construction.
The curiosity of the visitors extended to Hannah herself. Those who knew Tom—quite a few about the shire—took a dim view of a middle-aged foreigner luring him into marriage. That Tom could be lured, had been lured, was taken for granted. It was conceded that Hannah Babel was a striking woman for her age, but the grey hair—oh, dear. Also, she was crazy. What saved Hannah from actual disdain was the story that had spread of her heroic efforts at the farm during the downpour. Tom had told Bev and Juicy; Bev and Juicy had let other people know. So, okay, good, she was ready to get her hands dirty, ready to roll up her sleeves. But well past forty. And Tom not much more than thirty?
Tom was on hand from ten-thirty to closing time at midday. He was pleased with the trade for Hannah’s sake. At the same time, he felt like a goon in the shop, ringing up sales, ushering customers round the shelves. He was a farmer; before that a boilermaker and electrician. And okay, he could turn his hand to another dozen trades, but no jack-of-all-trades added ‘bookshop proprietor’ to his list. Thanks to Hannah, he knew who Dostoyevsky was, also Turgenev (he was forty pages into Fathers and Sons), but really, clodhopping about this beautiful shop with its antique tapestry and lovely framed pictures and rugs from Kabul? He was a fraud. An hour before he appeared in the shop, he was covered in muck, rounding up the sheep, shouting at cows, putting his fingers to his teeth to whistle up Beau, and now he stood with a big smile telling farmers’ wives where to find the Georgette Heyers. In a shirt and tie. Polished shoes. Black slacks with a crease down each leg. If you loved a woman, this is how you might well end up. Dear God. At midday, he kissed Hannah goodbye and skittled back to the farm with a hundred things to attend to.
Hannah saw off the last two dawdling customers, turned the sign to Closed and was left alone with her gladness. The shop had sold thirty-seven titles, about half of one per cent of the stock. To break even, pay the rent, the bills, Hannah would need to sell fifty titles a day. Since her busiest trade would be restricted to Saturday mornings, this was most unlikely.
It didn’t matter. Happiness ran in her arteries and veins and reached every part of her body and being.
Do you see how things can turn out? Do you see that the world is big enough to make certain things possible? That thirty-six years ago the German Student Union could hold a rally in Opernplatz, Berlin, and burn twenty-five thousand books, many written by Jews, the students rejoicing in their festival of loathing, and now this, in Hometown. Hannah’s bookshop of the broken hearted, a thing of beauty.
Her father had listened to the news on the radio at the apartment in Pest near the Chain Bridge, Hannah and her sister Mitzi, a year older, beside him on the sofa. ‘They are burning books. Why this madness? The students are burning books.’ He’d wrung his hands and pushed his thumb against his wedding ring as he did at times of distress. Hannah had closed her own hands over his and calmed him. Silver showed in the stubble on his cheeks and chin and the round lenses of his spectacles had misted over. His lips moved silently. A prayer of forgiveness, as Hannah guessed; her father went through life dispensing forgiveness even when it was especially uncalled for.
He was by profession an accountant who employed a staff of ten, but his vital life was entirely devoted to literature. The apartment was filled with shelves in almost every room; they fitted around doorways, around windows—an exasperation to Hannah’s mother, Dafna, who spent half her life up a stepladder with a feather duster.
Each book, to George Babel, held its place in a worldwide narrative, a single story told by thousands of voices. He had favourites—Moses Mendelssohn, Tolstoy, Aristotle—but he never spoke of them as giants among the less accomplished; rather as leaders. In the same way as Hannah, he didn’t approve of colonies on the shelves and forced all authors to live together in a literary kibbutz.
Hannah closed her hands over her father’s and spoke words of comfort to him, but comfort didn’t save him. He died in a camp up north when his heart gave out. Hannah’s mother and two of her sisters, Mitzi and Pasqual, were hanged for theft in the same holding camp; Deate was beaten too badly to survive; Moshe was sent to a labour unit and was said to have died of hunger. None of them reached Auschwitz.
It was 1948 before Hannah learned the fate of each member of her family. Her father’s library was gone when she returned to the apartment in 1945. She might have thought: So what? Did books save my father? Did books save anyone? Or instead: He loved the books, I loved the books, one day there will be a shop and I will stand behind the counter and sell.
The bookshop might have opened in Budapest after the war, except that Stefan was too busy to pay attention and the Communists too nosy about titles. That she couldn’t abide. But even here in Hometown, Australia, the censors must be accommodated. Her solution was to display a block of wood where a banned title would have been shelved. On each block (Tom had made them to her specifications) she attached a label: Borstal Boy is banned in Australia. Apply at the counter for a summary of the story. Or Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Or Eros and Civilisation. The summaries were in Hannah’s head. She intended to rattle off the comings and goings recorded in the book for anyone with enough curiosity.
She came to Australia with the bookshop still in her imagination and thought: How much further can I go? This is where I stop. A very long way west of Budapest; of Auschwitz. She had read enough to know that we cannot speak of things that are ‘meant to be’. If her long journey from Europe to Hometown, to Tom Hope, to the bookshop of the broken hearted was meant to be, then Mein Kampf was meant to be, and the cleansing, the Säuberung of the students in Opernplatz was meant to be.
She said: ‘Too bad about that.’ Hannah’s happiness was great enough to embrace contradictions. It was without doubt meant to be, this bookshop that would bankrupt her, this love for a man who would one day notice her grey hair and her wrinkles more keenly than he did now. Too bad about that. For now, a little taste of paradise.
Chapter 15
THE ALL-IMPORTANT trifle. Tom said, ‘In the country, Han, at every wedding reception. And sausage rolls.’
‘Who can make it?’ said Hannah. She was baffled by the importance placed on the trifle. It sounded disgusting.
&
nbsp; ‘Bev’s going to make the trifle. She’s famous for trifles.’
Hannah said she would watch. If a trifle was like this, more important than God, she would have to make it herself for Tom sometimes.
Bev, in her immemorial pinny with a pocket at the front for her Turf filters and matches, pointed at the array of ingredients on the table.
‘Your sponge, your Swiss roll, okay? You’ll slice that up and layer the bottom of your bowl with it. Then you’ll pour in your sherry and let the sponge soak it up. You don’t want to be miserly with the sherry, Hannah my love. You want that sherry taste to go right through the trifle or you might’s well be eating something for a kids’ party. Big swig of sherry. On top of the sponge, your layer of sliced peaches. Then your jelly—port wine—layer of that. It’s all layers, Hannah—all layers. Next your custard, nice deep layer. Another layer of peaches, another layer of jelly, raspberry this time, another one of custard, good and deep. It’s a big bowl, you can see that, big bugger of a bowl, clear glass every time, a pottery bowl’s no good, you’ve got to see your layers, right? Right. And on top, my love, the cream. Now this is proper cream. This is thick, thick proper cream. You won’t need to whip it. Thick, proper cream. And how you’ll finish up is this. You’ll sprinkle some grated chocolate on top. It’ll be dark chocolate. Milk chocolate, don’t bother. It’ll be dark chocolate. That’s your trifle.’
Not one but two giant trifles were produced. With everyone in Hometown invited to the wedding and reception, two trifles would be barely enough. The sandwiches were left in the hands of Juicy’s long-suffering wife, Kay, and a team of offsiders. Shy though she was, Kay wished to be involved, and wished to dress up, and wished to watch Hannah take her vows, and wished to cry without restraint. Huge platters of sandwiches would be required. Tomato and cheddar; tomato and ham; tomato and lettuce; tomato and sliced egg; tomato and curried egg; curried egg by itself; pickles; pickles and ham; gherkin and egg. Other helpful women of the town baked ginger fluffs, passionfruit sponges, vanilla sponges, apple turnovers. The sausage rolls were left to Tom’s sisters, who were staying with Tom at the farm. Bev’s advice: ‘Don’t hold back on the sausage rolls. An acre of ’em’d be about right.’ The salads, of course. Patty and Claudie would also take care of the salads.
Hannah offered a couple of recipes that included things like roasted aubergine and were accepted graciously, and ignored. She was insanely busy in her own kitchen the night before the wedding, fashioning traditional Hungarian dishes sufficient to feed the Red Army. Tom called in to offer his assistance and was told to go away and stay away. First one glass of an expensive shiraz then another and three more kept Hannah willing until after midnight, when she fell asleep on the kitchen floor. She woke at four and telephoned Tom.
‘Tom, my darling, I am a drunkard. Don’t marry me.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘You’re too good for me. There, I’ve said it! You should marry who is she? The girl with the bosom? Sharon? Who works in the grocer’s? She is crazy about you.’
‘Sharon? Darling, what are you talking about? Go back to sleep.’
‘I’ve seen her, the way she looks at you. Is her name Sharon?’
‘Darling, Sharon is sixteen. Go back to sleep.’
‘But Tom, love me, please. I’m a mad Jewish woman. But love me.’
‘Hannah darling, I love you forever. Go back to sleep.’
‘All this Hungarian food! Who will eat it?’
‘Everyone. You have to get some sleep, Han. Go to sleep.’
The toothbrush? In God’s name, where was the toothbrush? She cleaned her teeth with toothpaste smeared on her fingers and slept in her bed until nine in the morning.
Who could have asked for better weather? A bluer sky? Bev had helped Hannah get herself ready: a gown from Budapest, originally purchased for Stefan’s sister’s wedding ten years earlier. Maybe a little too close to crimson for a wedding, maybe a lower neckline than was polite, but gorgeous. A bouquet of violets, tied with a purple ribbon that Hannah’s sister Mitzi had once worn, found in the Pest apartment in 1945.
And Tom in a new suit, dark blue; new blue shirt; horrible fawn tie with yellow diagonal stripes—what in God’s name? This was not the tie he’d said he would wear. She led him into a room off the area set aside for the ceremony and gestured for Juicy Collins, in a plain red tie, to follow them. ‘Change ties,’ she said. ‘Be quick.’
Horry in a plaid sports coat enquired quietly when bride and groom had finally taken up their positions before him: ‘Good to go?’ And now it got fancy. ‘Mrs Babel has requested that we start out with a poem,’ said Horry.
The crush inside the building was near enough to hazardous. The people of Hometown and its region had taken all you can eat and drink on the sign pinned to the public noticeboard as an inviolable promise. But there was a feeling that it might apply more fairly to those who’d taken the trouble to view the service. Pretty warm outside; warmer inside. The news that a poem would be read was greeted with groans, just a few.
‘This poem,’ said Horry, with an eyebrow raised to warn against any further dissent, ‘is by—by Sappo. That’s “Sappo”, is it Hannah? Your handwriting’s a bit tricky.’
‘Sappho,’ said Hannah.
‘Sappho. Just the one name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s short. Not quite sure what it’s called. Hannah?’
‘The title is the first line.’
‘Is that right? Same as the first line?’
‘Yes.’
‘So that’d be It’s no use?’
‘Down to the comma.’
‘What, It’s no use Mother dear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doesn’t leave a lot. But right you are. Right you are. The poem’s called, It’s no use Mother dear. Presumably about weddings and the like. Here we go. It’s no use Mother dear, I can’t finish my weaving. You may blame Aphrodite, soft as she is, she has almost killed me with love for that boy.’
Horry read the poem with the same hushed and singing cadence he employed when quoting odds in the shopping centre. When he’d finished, he continued to study with a puzzled expression the sheet of paper on which Hannah had written the lines. The crowd couldn’t tell if it was over or not.
‘Yeah, well that’s it, apparently,’ Horry finally allowed. ‘“You may blame Aphrodite, soft as she is…” That’ll be the goddess, presumably. Aphrodite. One of your favourites, is it, Hannah?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Sappho. Not familiar with the lass. But there you go. Now, we’re here for something else, and that’s the marriage of Tom and beautiful Hannah. Not the first time for either one. Third time for you, Hannah? Third time. Second time for Tom. An old saying, “Hope springs eternal.” Anyway, let’s push on.’
Vows were taken; promises were made. Tom stood straight and tall and said that he would love Hannah no matter what, and care for her and comfort her until his life was over. Hannah said the same, but in a whisper, her eyes averted until at last she looked up at Tom, took his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. She let out a cry more of anguish than joy—‘Tom! Dear God!’—and kissed him again.
If Tom had studied for a year, he could not have made a more stoic figure—stoic, stern, sober. Yet at the end, pronounced husband to his new wife, he permitted himself to smile. First to Hannah, then he turned his head to the crowd and shared his—relief, would it be?—his relief with the people of Hometown. They responded.
‘Good on yer, Tom!’
‘Good for you, mate!’
‘Well done, Tommy!’
And intended for Hannah: ‘Happy times, dear!’
Outside, at the top of the steps, Hannah was commanded to throw the bouquet.
‘You must give me back the ribbon. It’s from my sister.’
She turned and tossed the bouquet high over her shoulder. It was caught by Sharon with a leap that would have done credit to a fielder bringing down a hook to fi
ne leg.
‘The ribbon!’ shrieked Hannah.
Sharon picked the bow and brought the purple ribbon to Hannah. A few minutes earlier, she had murmured to her mother with sincere loathing, ‘She’s too old for him.’ But now she was lit by the festive glow of the day and found she could forgive Hannah. By way of contrition, she whispered, ‘Your dress is nice,’ as she returned the ribbon.
The CWA had declined official involvement in the wedding reception since it was a private rather than a community affair, but that was just Marg Barrister with a stick up her backside. Most of the women from the association knew Tom and were ready to help. Tom’s choice of wife? A problem; overlook that.
Bev and Kay and a number of offsiders sped from the mechanics’ institute down the highway to have everything ready at the farm before the hordes descended. Vern Viney, hired from his studio in Healesville, had snapped any number of pictures at the service and would want a hundred more outside, so the ladies could enjoy a full half-hour to warm the food and set the tables. Four nine-gallons up from the pub, a dozen bottles of bubbly, sherry, brandy, advocaat, Pimms, whisky—and wine at Hannah’s insistence, but a waste of money, only the pisspots would drink it. Lemonade and raspberry and lime soft drink for the kids.
Three refrigerators on loan were plugged into double-adaptors on the back verandah and Kay had hooked up in Tom’s kitchen an old electric stove from the shed for the sake of four extra hotplates and the oven. The food would be served on benches and tables indoors: the idea was you filled your plate with chicken and lamb and T-bones and vegies, carried the whole heap outside and sat yourself in one of the chairs hired from the Masons and the RSL. Six kids from Hometown High—fourteen and older, arguably legal—had been given five dollars each to pour drinks throughout the afternoon and evening.
Goodwill towards Hannah mounted hour by hour, since it was accepted that the happy abundance of food and drink was the expression of an exotic European sensibility. And what do you think? Do Jews eat pigs? Look at this: two sucklings roasting over the coals in cut-away 44-gallon drums. A Jew who wouldn’t let being a Jew get in the way of serving a suckling pig was a wonderful person.
The Bookshop of the Broken Hearted Page 12
