by Lily Brett
‘There was a village where many people had troubles. They came to the rabbi and said, “Rabbi, why do I have to have so much trouble? My neighbour doesn’t have such troubles. Why was I chosen to have this trouble?” The rabbi heard these complaints many times. One day the rabbi said that everyone who had troubles should put their troubles in a bag, and bring the bag to the market place. The people of the village did this. Then the rabbi said that everyone should choose someone else’s bag to take home. When the people got home and saw what was in the bag of troubles that they had chosen, they said, “Oh God, please give me my own troubles back. My own troubles were not so bad.” The next day everyone returned to the market place to get back his own bag of troubles.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Singer. ‘I know that you are telling this story, Mrs Kopper, but it is important to tell it right. I don’t think that Sholem Aleichem said that many people in the village had troubles, just a few people.’
‘All right, all right, Mrs Singer,’ said Mrs Kopper. ‘What does it matter? That is not so important. What is important is what I was trying to tell Lola. And that is that things can always be worse.’
‘I can tell you straight away about two sisters who are worse,’ said Mrs Singer. ‘My neighbour has got three nieces. The two younger girls hate the oldest girl. I hear that she is not such a nice person but that is another story. My neighbour’s brother, the girls’ father, died last month. The younger girls told their older sister, who lives in Canberra, that the funeral was at eleven o’clock. When the older girl arrived at the cemetery, the funeral was finished, because the funeral was really at ten o’clock. And of course, everybody was talking about how shocking it was that the older daughter didn’t come to her father’s funeral.’
Lola knew that things could always be worse. It was something that she had always been sure of. Mr Polonsky gave Lola her minced veal and beef.
‘Well, Lola,’ he said, ‘you are a big star now. A famous person. I see your photograph in the Jewish News every week. When you left here last time, Mrs Leber asked me if that was Lola Bensky the writer. “Yes, Mrs Leber,” I said. “Lola Bensky always buys her meat and chickens here.” ’ Lola drove home. At home she prepared the klops mixture. This was her mother’s recipe. Two eggs, two chopped onions, two grated cloves of garlic, two tablespoons of breadcrumbs, two teaspoons of salt and half a teaspoon of pepper for every kilo of meat. It made a delicious meatloaf.
Lola kneaded and kneaded, listening to the soft sound of the meat on her fingers. The meat and onions and eggs and garlic and breadcrumbs blended into a smooth universe.
Maybe one day she would be able to patch things up with her sister, Lola thought. Although it wasn’t really a patching job, more like a total overhaul. She put the klops into the oven.
Technical Trouble
The Prime Minister had finished his speech. Everybody was clapping. There were five hundred people here, in the forecourt of Parliament House. The Prime Minister had planted a tree in honour of Raoul Wallenberg, the Swedish diplomat who had saved tens of thousands of Jews from the Nazis.
Lola Bensky stepped up onto the podium to read her poem about Raoul Wallenberg. Lola was nervous. She was so nervous that her hands and legs shook almost as though they had been choreographed.
Lola cleared her throat away from the microphone. She began to read. The words came out of her mouth and dissolved in the hovering humidity. The microphone was not working.
There were mutterings and stirrings from the crowd.
‘The microphone has broken,’ said Mr Rosen.
‘Oy, it’s broken,’ said Mr Berg.
‘The microphone has broken down,’ said Mrs Roth.
‘It’s not working,’ said Mrs Fink.
‘That microphone is not working,’ said Mr Mendelson.
No-one moved.
The Prime Minister got back up onto the podium. He tried to fix the microphone. He turned and twisted the knob at the base of the microphone.
‘It’s broken,’ said Abe Rothberg.
‘Yes, it’s broken,’ said Sadie Levin.
The Prime Minister tried again. He found a switch at the side of the microphone and switched it on and off. But nothing happened.
‘It’s definitely broken,’ said Mrs Dunov.
‘It’s broken,’ said Mr Fishman.
‘You’ll have to shout,’ the Prime Minister said to Lola.
How could Jews be so clever, and so inept? thought Lola. Jews could feed three thousand people without a hitch, but it was beyond them to find one microphone in working order for a special occasion.
Lola looked at the crowd. There was Sol Apelbaum, managing director of Consolidated Metal Industries. Consolidated Metal Industries had offices in Hong Kong and Singapore. Next to him were Wolf Nathanson of Proctor Properties and Sam Baume, head of the Sweet Evelyn chain of retail stores. How, wondered Lola, had they managed to build such successful businesses without knowing how to fix a microphone?
In the past year Lola had read her poetry at many Jewish functions. The microphone had not worked once. Josl had explained to her that microphones were not what Jews knew about.
‘It’s not their field,’ he had said.
The crowd was becoming more agitated. People shook their heads and said, ‘It’s not working.’ Lola looked feebly at the Prime Minister. ‘I think you’d better shout,’ he said again.
Lola shouted the sad poem about Raoul Wallenberg.
Four hours later, the dinner after the tree-planting ceremony was progressing well. The guests had already had hors d’oeuvres, soup and an entree. The waiters were serving the main course. The dessert, the cakes and the coffee were yet to come.
Lola was enjoying herself. There she was, sitting among five hundred Jews, and she was enjoying herself.
Lola looked around the room. The atmosphere was buoyant and celebratory. Most of the guests had come from Melbourne and Sydney. Lola could see the energy of the people, the vitality, the good humour, the warmth.
She could see what she had prevented herself from seeing for years: she could see that she was at home here. This was a familiar world. She understood the language, the mannerisms, the meanings and the intentions.
A woman in her sixties came up to Lola. ‘Lola, you don’t remember me, but I am Mrs Klineman. I used to know your parents when you were a young girl. I remember you well. What trouble you gave your parents, Lola! I remember when you were arrested for shoplifting. Your poor mother, it nearly killed her.’
Lola said that she would pass on Mrs Klineman’s regards. Mrs Klineman was sitting at a table with Mr and Mrs Beir, Mr and Mrs Pilsen and Mr and Mrs Dorovitch. Mrs Klineman and Mrs Beir had been in Auschwitz together. Mrs Pilsen had hidden in the forests in Poland for four years during the war. Mr Beir had been in Dachau, and Mr Dorovitch had fought with the partisans.
When Lola thought about their pasts, and the pasts of many of the Jewish people in the room, she felt full of admiration for them. Mr and Mrs Klineman had canvassed for the release of Russian Jews for years. Mrs Beir was at every commemoration, every seminar and every book launching in the community. Mrs Dorovitch was on the Jewish Heritage Committee. They were tireless. They made speeches, delivered lectures, collected petitions, baked cakes, raised money and raised children. They were exemplary grandparents and were devoted to their grandchildren.
Somebody tapped Lola on the shoulder. It was Jack Zelman.
‘I came up to Canberra for some business and heard you were in town, so I thought I’d drop by and say hello,’ said Jack Zelman.
Lola hadn’t seen Jack for at least ten years. She’d heard bits and pieces about him from her mother. Lola had also heard news of Jack from Morris Lubofsky. Morris knew what everybody was doing.
Lola knew that Jack was forty-four and unmarried. She knew that he had had plenty of short-term relationships.
‘Jack can only feel excited by women who are not his,’ Morris Lubofsky had told her. ‘It’s true,’ Morris ha
d said. ‘Jack always falls in love with someone else’s wife. He stays in love with them until they look as if they might leave their husband for him, and then he falls out of love. He once told me that as soon as he imagines the woman as his wife, he becomes impotent.’ Morris had felt that he should elaborate this point: ‘Jack can’t get an erection if he thinks that the woman might want to marry him. And this is a guy who is supposed to be one of the greatest shtoopers in town. Phew, what a problem.’
Lola hadn’t been sure whether Morris Lubofsky had been ironic or envious. She hadn’t had time to ask him, because Morris’s real area of interest was himself, and he had already been derailed for too long on the subject of Jack Zelman.
Morris had wanted to tell Lola about his new shoes. ‘I had to get these new sports shoes,’ he had said earnestly. ‘I was falling over, walking in ordinary shoes. I can’t wear ordinary shoes anyway. After three hours of wearing ordinary shoes, I’m so exhausted I have to go to bed. These new ones that I’m wearing have got three soles. The first sole hits the pavement, the second sole slides in along and absorbs the shock, and the third sole throws you into the next step.’
Lola thought that it must be a great help in life to have shoes that gave you a lift into the next step.
What a trio they made, Lola had thought. There she was, a former bad girl, a reformed anti-Semite. And there was Morris Lubofsky, divorced from his third wife, and still buying himself toys. Cars, furniture, shoes. And Jack Zelman, a property developer who could only fuck other people’s wives.
‘You look very good. You look fabulous, actually, Lola,’ said Jack Zelman.
Lola started to laugh. One of her strongest memories of her adolescence was of Jack Zelman.
‘Lola,’ he had said to her, ‘if you went on a diet and lost weight I’d take you out.’ He had then gone on to explain to Lola just how much weight he would like her to lose. He wanted her to get down to the same size as Louise Samuels.
Louise Samuels was five foot nine and weighed eight stone. Lola was told this by Jack’s sister Mary. Lola was the same height as Louise Samuels. Lola had often thought that they must be the two tallest Jewish girls in Melbourne. Unfortunately, Lola had calculated she was fifty per cent heavier than Louise. She would have had to lose the equivalent of half of Louise’s body. Lola decided to give up on Jack Zelman after that.
Jack looked embarrassed when she laughed. She wondered whether he was remembering too. They had a few memories in common, she and Jack Zelman. She thought of one of the many holidays they had had in Surfers Paradise. The Benskys had been there with the whole company of friends. Lola and Jack were sitting on the lawns of the Chevron Hilton. It was early evening. They had known each other since they were small children. They were talking. Jack had stopped talking, and Lola was listening to the quiet of the night. Lola loved silence. A cicada sent out a long shriek, and suddenly Jack Zelman was kissing her. He lay on top of her and pushed himself against her. She could feel his hardness. It felt wonderful. Lola had an orgasm.
‘Oh God, what a mess,’ was what Jack had said when he spoke again. Lola had thought that the mess that he was talking about must have been the intimacy they had shared. She thought that he had regretted the closeness. That he felt sullied.
Lola felt flushed, remembering that summer in Surfers Paradise. Jack was smiling at her. Lola introduced Jack to Garth. ‘Garth, I’m so pleased to meet you. I hear from my mother all the time that you are the perfect son-in-law. Renia Bensky always said to my Mum that she wouldn’t swap you for one hundred Jewish sons-in-law.’ Garth laughed.
‘Sit down and join us, Jack,’ said Lola. She suddenly felt sorry for Jack Zelman. He didn’t have a wife. He didn’t have any children. Lola wondered why. Other people also wondered why. Jack Zelman was the bane of every Jewish matchmaker in Melbourne. He was their dream match. He was good-looking, educated and rich. He wasn’t a faigele – on the contrary, he had a reputation for being a lion in bed. So why didn’t he get married?
Lola knew that Jack had had a hard time at home as a kid. His parents, Mina and Joseph, had each been married to other people before the war. Mina’s first husband, Tadek, Lola’s mother had told her, had been the great love of Mina Zelman’s life. Mina and Tadek had lived in the same street in Warsaw. Tadek was several years older than Mina. He used to take her on outings from the time that she was two and he was seven. At ten, Tadek had announced to his mother that he was going to marry Mina. When Mina was sixteen they were married. Their son, Henryk, was born the following year. Tadek and three-year-old Henryk died in Bergen-Belsen. When the British troops liberated Bergen-Belsen, they found Mina half-dead, on top of a pile of corpses.
Renia Bensky had once told Lola that she thought that Mina Zelman worked so tirelessly for charities in order to store up credit with the Almighty, so that when she died she would be reunited with Tadek and Henryk. This thought had given Lola the creeps.
Once her mother had said to her, ‘Lola, Mina Zelman is giving away all of Joseph’s money. She gives to this charity. She gives to that charity. The more Joseph earns, the more Mina gives. Joseph doesn’t understand why Mina does so much giving, but he doesn’t say anything. It keeps Mina happy, he thinks, and she doesn’t ask him any questions about Pola Ganz. And, for the moment, he has still got plenty of money left.’
Lola didn’t like Joseph Zelman. She thought that he was crude. She could understand Mina Zelman not being upset at the thought of Joseph having an affair with Pola Ganz. Lola thought that there was not a lot of tenderness or sensitivity in Joseph Zelman, so what difference would it make whether he was faithful or not? Pola Ganz probably wasn’t getting anything that Mina Zelman needed, thought Lola.
Lola sometimes saw Joseph Zelman at her parents’ place. He always wanted to tell her about his daughters, Mary and Susan. Lola hadn’t seen the Zelman girls since they left Melbourne to live in Israel sixteen years ago. She had, however, seen endless photographs of them, their husbands and their children. Joseph always carried a walletful of photographs on him.
Joseph Zelman boasted about the sacrifices that his two daughters had made by choosing to live in Israel.
‘It’s not so easy to live in Israel,’ he used to say. ‘Susan and Mary could have a much more comfortable life in Melbourne, but they are committed to Israel, and Mina and I are very proud of their commitment.’
Lola thought that Susan and Mary were probably most committed to living away from their father. That way they all got on well together.
‘It’s a blessing to have such a close family,’ Joseph would tell Lola.
The Zelmans always seemed to have just returned from another wonderful holiday with their daughters. ‘We just had a marvellous holiday in Monte Carlo with the girls and their husbands and the children. We all get on so well together. We share the same interests. We went out every night. We had the most wonderful holiday. Yes, it’s a blessing to have such a close family,’ Joseph would say.
During the years when Lola was having trouble just being civil to her parents, let alone entertaining the thought of romping in Monte Carlo with them, Joseph Zelman’s speeches used to make her hair stand on end.
Before the war, Joseph had been married to Mina’s eldest sister, Malka. Malka and Mina were distantly related to Renia Bensky.
‘Malka was a different sort of woman,’ Renia used to say, mysteriously. ‘She was a perfect match for Joseph. She was as hungry as him in every department. My aunty used to tell me that Malka could never keep her hands off Joseph.’
Mina was Malka’s quiet, younger, taller, more awkward sister. Mina had met Joseph in Germany, hours after he had heard that Malka had perished in Dachau. Mina already knew that Tadek and Henryk were dead. She had watched them die.
Two months after they were married, Mina and Joseph arrived in Australia. They spent their first month in Australia at Bonegilla.
The air at Bonegilla was thick with the smell of boiling mutton. The smell lingered in people’s clothe
s and in their hair. Mina felt as though her skin had absorbed the stench of the mutton. Mina avoided going to the huge pit that was used as a toilet as much as she could. She would wait until her bladder ached or she felt ill before she went to the toilet at Bonegilla.
Jack had been conceived at Bonegilla. The barracks at Bonegilla were segregated. Mina slept in the middle of a large, crowded women’s dormitory. One afternoon, Joseph had wound two sheets around four chairs to create an area of privacy around the camp stretcher that was Mina’s bed. He had then made love to Mina. Mina had wept with humiliation. When they had both emerged, Mrs Lovic and Mrs Platt and Mrs Antman, who slept in adjoining beds, were grinning.
One morning in Bonegilla, Mina thought that she could hardly remember what it was like to live in a normal home. For almost ten years she had gone from one set of barracks to another. From labour camp to concentration camp to displaced persons camp, and now to this ‘Reception and Training Centre’.
Mina tried to remember the small apartment in Warsaw where she and Tadek had lived. Just as the memory was beginning to warm her, Mrs Lovic called her to come to what was called an English class. Very few people in Bonegilla spoke English. It was unnecessary. Living in the camp you could have picked up German, Polish, Italian, Latvian, Russian or Yiddish, but not English. The English class, that day in Bonegilla, was learning to sing ‘Roaming In The Gloaming’. Mina still knew the words.
Joseph Zelman had had a good head for business. He had worked very hard, and now the Zelmans were very wealthy. Joseph had built large blocks of apartments all over Melbourne.
