A Sunday Market Seller
Page 2
even those who did not want to, she chatted away about being the only member of her large Polish family to survive, firstly the German occupation of Poland in World War 2, then the Russian invasion, when the few survivors in her family were shipped away to concentration camps behind the Iron Curtain. Reminding listeners that back then she had been a young teenager, she spoke of how difficult it was to survive.
Somehow, the affects of all those tragedies reflected in her eyes as the stories of hardship came out.
By early afternoon the effects of the heat, or perhaps the recalled memories of those terrible days, seemed to make her small body shrink. Her shoulders had dropped and her back was now bent.
Two ‘hoodies’, from out of town, began to inspect the items on her tables. They laughed at each other as they held the replica medals to their chest and called out “Seig Heil” to each other. Dora shuffled to the front of her tables.
“Don’t you boys know that vearing those hoods in dis hot days fries your brain cells. Dey die much quicklier and make you even dumber.”
“You some sort of quack eh?” asked one.
“Nie, just a old lady vorried about today’s kids.”
“Let’s have a look at the real ones,” said the taller of the two, and snatched a box off the table giving his friend one.
“Shit, you don’t really expect me to believe they’re worth that much?”
“Dey are vorth much more to a proper collector. Irreplaceable.”
“My arse,” said the taller youth, while behind Dora’s back the shorter had quickly substituted a palmed replica in the place of the authentic medal. He repeated the action after picking up the third box.
“So,” said the shorter youth, attracting Dora’s attention. “Do you give a discount if we take all three?”
“Vell,” replied Dora, as she turned to face the shorter youth, “It vould depend on how much you ver offerink. You see, my Poppa and my uncle von them in Vorld Vor Von.”
The taller youth swapped his palmed replica with the one enclosed in the authentic box, and replaced the box on the table.
“You see, my Dad’s a real big collector of official medals and stuff. If we could get these three for a thousand dollars, he’d be chuffed.”
“Oh, vould he really?” replied Dora. Oh my God, it vould really help me out. Just too many bills to pay at the moment. A thousand dollars is vunderfull, even though they’re vorth lots more.”
Dora threw her skinny arms around each, saying, “tank you, tank you.”
The youths grinned and winked at each other over Dora’s head.
“Yeah, but first I’ve gotta check with Dad that he definitely wants them. I’ll phone him and slip to the bank machine to draw the cash. Give us three quarters of an hour and we’ll be back to get them.”
“Dziekuje, tank you, tank you,” repeated Dora, and she gave each of the youths another cuddle.
The two “hoodies” walked toward the road, crossed it quickly, and entered the parking area of the supermarket clearly marked “for supermarket customers only.” They were quickly lost to sight, probably exiting by car via the alternate exit.
Dora returned to her tail-gate seat, opening her suit-case handbag.
“Manage a good sale did you?” asked the stall-holder opposite her site.
“Vell, I think I’ll make a good gain out of it anyvay.”
“Hell. Good luck. I wouldn’t trust those creeps. They’ve been wandering around here today for an hour. I’ve seen them around before, though they’re not locals. They’re always trying to rip off one stall-holder or another. Anyway, you should take it easy. That sun is getting a bit hot.”
“Tak, yah. I suppose I should. I’m feelink quite tired.”
“Those guys won’t be back I’m sure. They’re just young thieves and con-men. We’ll help you pack up and clear a space for you to get out and head home if you want.”
A man in his mid-sixties stepped in front of the helpful stall-holder.
“Mum. You’ve had us worried as Hell.”
Dora looked at the new arrival with a hint of scorn. “Dis is my interfering son. Alvays bossing me about. Just like concentration camp guards. Saying I can’t do dis, and I can’t do dat. My God boy, I survived. It vould’ve killed you.”
“Yes Mum, I know, we’re all too soft nowadays. But I’m closing you down and driving your car home. Mary dropped me off.”
“Oh vey. Dat interfering daughter-in law. Vatever did you see in her I’ll never know. She vas not good enough for my son.”
The new arrival turned to the helpful stall-holder. “I’m sorry to interrupt and all that, but Mum’s 92 and not meant to be out here, let alone be driving. She hasn’t had a driver’s licence for years.”
“Yeah? We wondered about that. I’ve been saying that it’s been a long day for her; but she’s been very successful,” said the stall-holder.
A couple of other vendors arrived.
“Is everything all right here Dora?” asked one.
“No. Dis stupid son of mine vants to keep me prisoner in the village with the senile old cripples.”
“Oh, you’re Dora’s son.”
The first vendor nodded.
“Well, your Mum’s been like a breath of fresh air in the markets today,” said the second new arrival. “And what a cook. Kept everyone happy with her lollies and cookies. Some great stories too.”
The son was nodding his head in disbelief. “You didn’t did you Mum?”
“Vy not? I can still cook vith the best of them. Anyway how did you know vat I was doink?”
“Your neighbour, at the village, said you had been cooking all week, and saw you packing your grandson’s car yesterday. She was worried when you left early this morning so she phoned us and we’ve been hunting all the markets since.”
“Der interfering old bitch. I’ll fix her cookies.”
“And, when your grandson finds out you’ve been driving his precious jalopy he’s gonna be miffed. He only leaves it at your place because you’ve got an empty garage. He doesn’t expect you to drive it.”
The three by-standers were all grinning at the family squabble.
“Get into the car now Mum, your day here is ended. I’m packing it all away.”
Dora shuffled toward the driver’s door.
“Oh no you don’t Mum. The passengers side for you. Just in case you try to run me over. I’ll take the keys please.”
“Keys, smeys. Who needs keys. Your son never left any keys so I had to hot-wire it, you dumb schmuck.”
The watching trio burst out laughing, no doubt thinking maybe she had driven tanks as she claimed.
Dora shuffled toward the passenger door protesting loudly in a language none other than the son understood.
“Stop swearing Mum. I’ll wash your mouth with soap when we get home.”
While one stall-holder helped stack the, by now, much smaller load into the car, the other two cleared a path to enable the station wagon to reverse safely out of the grassed area, back onto the road.
“Don’t worry about those two buying the special medals, they won’t be back,” called out one of the vendors. “Come back and see us all anytime Dora, you’re always welcome.”
This time, there was no metal scraping on the curb as the old Holden crept back onto the road. With a spontaneous outburst of clapping, cheering and waving, and a bit of smoke trailing out the exhaust pipe, Mother and son departed.
“What’s this about special medals Mum; you didn’t try and sell Granddad’s medals did you?”
“Nie, do you tink I’m stupid like you? Dey’re safe at home. Those schmucks thought they did a switcheroo on me and that I didn’t know. They only got away with replicas.”
“Did they pay?”
“Oh ya, and some.”
“So, you chose Dora as a name for the markets?”
“And you tell me vy not? It’s a good name?”
“Why did you do your cookies and sweets thing? You nearly got into trou
ble last time. Now we won’t be able to go to these markets again either.”
“I know you’re a good boy and let me grow my own marijuana. I just don’t smoke as much as I used to. I just had so much of the good heads left and I didn’t vant to vaste it. It’s always a good base, especially in the cookies. I still hold back on the lollies, not too much for the kiddies.”
“From the way they were talking, you made a fair bit of money then.”
“Those two thieving schmucks paid plenty for the stolen medals.” Dora reached inside her oversize handbag and pulled out two wallets. “You see.” She started to pull out the large denomination notes neatly enclosed.”
“Hell Mum. You didn’t.”
“Of course I did. See. Even at my age I can still do it. All those years ago, all that practice picking pockets just to survive. So they paid for the medals, tak?”
“Oh Mum, if they’d noticed, they might have hurt you.”
“Nobody noticed.”
Dora inverted her purse. Another 12 or so wallets and change purses fell into her lap.
**********
About The Author
John Muir was born in Hamilton, New Zealand. Attended Palmerston North Boys High School and graduated in accounting from Massey University. He spent 25 years in Sydney, Australia, and time in Asia.
-Short Shorts & Longer Tales
-My Other Shorts & Formal Tales
-The Siege of Apuao Grande
-Just Cause, Wrong Target
-An Artist’s Freedom (A sample story from “Short Shorts & Longer Tales”)
-Patch (A short story for 8-14 year olds)
John Muir-Visit my website at www.