The Singing Fire

by Lilian Nattel

  Goulston Street

  With winter came the slack season, and the washhouse in Goulston Street was full of women scrubbing their linen, sheltered from the cold. Tables, tubs, sinks, and mangles for wringing out the washing were on one side of the room. On the other were the kettles of laundry boiling on stoves with great black pipes sending the mother tongue up into the sky so the grandmothers of a hundred generations could hear it.

  The women’s faces were red from the steam and their arms red from harsh soap as they paddled their linen. Water went down through the drain in the cement floor, down to hidden pipes that carried away the angry sewage. There was always some sewage in the water they used to make tea, and from time to time, it was drunk with a bit of cholera for flavor.

  There were two women working the tub on the next table, like sisters pushing back strands of damp hair with the same knobbly fingers. In the dim winter light that came through the washhouse windows, all the women bent over their tubs looked similar. But Nehama could hear the difference in their voices. The one that whistled when she spoke, always out of breath. The one that talked very fast, trying to say everything before she was stopped. A woman whose voice was loud and long like a train coming into the station.

  “Be careful,” Emilia said as Nehama took the boiled sheets from the kettle to the tub. She’d come to the washhouse to get warm. “I heard of a woman in Minsk that was scalded to death doing that.”

  It had been four months since she’d arrived. Nehama didn’t know anything more about her, and it would be no one else’s business if only she wasn’t keeping Nehama awake at night with her sobs. “You know, I don’t believe in mixing in with other people’s business,” Nehama said as she pounded the sheets with a paddle.

  “Really?” Emilia asked. Nehama looked at her sharply. There was nothing but innocence in those wide eyes as gray as rocks. Of course, you can’t actually read a rock.

  “You should at least visit the pawnbroker. Everyone knows he’s looking for a wife to be a mother for his children, and he would provide well for you.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Emilia said.

  Nehama stirred the sheets with wooden tongs. “Thinking isn’t a living.” Whenever she had a minute here or there, she tried to read a bit on her own. To her surprise, in this way she’d finished several books.

  “I’m sure you know all about living.”

  “I know something,” Nehama said as she added blueing to the wash. “I know that when the baby comes you’re not going to be able to do anything on your own and you’ll have to go home if you don’t want to marry again.” Nehama pounded the sheets harder, ignoring the pain in her arms.

  “That’s impossible. Have you forgotten?” Emilia’s voice mixed with the sound of water and beaten laundry. “I’m a widow and an orphan.”

  “Yes, sure. Even a beggar can come up with a better story.” Nehama gave Emilia her favorite stare. And she stared right back. An eye for an eye. Her coat wouldn’t button over her belly, and she was holding it closed. Under the coat a small heart was beating, and it didn’t ask whether the mother was thinking of its arrival. “Tell me another old wives’ tale,” Nehama said bitterly.

  “If you like.” Emilia didn’t drop her eyes. Such gall; if it were gold, she’d be rich.

  Nehama crossed her arms, letting the pain ease away. “So?”

  “There was a princess. Everyone except the king exclaimed over her loveliness. For some reason he was offended by it. In fact, he used to say that she wasn’t really a princess at all. The king liked to throw things. Soup, wine, glasses, a letter opener. The queen couldn’t stand it, and she tried to take her own life. Is this a better story?”

  “I saw something like it in a play,” Nehama said, thinking of the sort of king that enjoys watching the queen’s frightened face. “Go on.”

  “The only thing to do was leave the palace.”

  “To get away from such a king, a person would have to leave the country,” Nehama said, recognizing a true story when she heard it.

  “Of course, but unfortunately our princess had a little accident first.”

  “With a prince?” Nehama asked. She leaned on the tub, forgetting the washhouse. The concrete walls were gone. She didn’t see the attendant sitting on her stool and taking pennies at the door.

  “Worse—with a messenger who had to travel about.”

  “That would make it hard to find him,” Nehama said.

  “Oh, the princess found him. No one thought she would, but she asked the old servant to help her. And you know how servants are. They all talk to each other.”

  “Well, you know how masters are. They forget that servants have ears and a brain in between them. Where was he?”

  “In town. He had a small room, the kind you’d expect of a messenger. Just a bed and a table. It smelled like dirt and vodka. After he poured her a cup of tea, she told him everything. And he said … He asked if she was sure it was his.”

  “Of course it was his.” In the young woman’s eyes, Nehama could see a stone breaking, and yet she didn’t look away. “Was he such a bargain she should go looking for him? He must be drunk all year and sober on Purim.”

  “So she said no.”

  “But it was a lie,” Nehama said. She didn’t let go of the girl’s eyes. A person’s story is more delicate than a prayer.

  “If he had to ask … Well, what was the use? He’d never believe anything else. Better to be a princess on her own than a queen putting a knife to her wrist. Men are too cruel. She already had the boat ticket.” Emilia’s fingers were trembling, and she clutched them tighter over her belly. “So what do you think of my old wives’ tale?” she asked. “It has a moral like all good stories. You still think I should go see the pawnbroker?”

  “It’s very interesting. But you know, there’s always two kinds of stories. Let me tell you one.” Nehama’s sisters used to say that to each other. She hadn’t known then what they meant. “There was a girl.”

  “A princess,” Emilia said.

  “No, just a girl. She was the youngest of six.”

  “In fairy tales the youngest is always the favorite,” Emilia said.

  “Well, you’re right. But being the favorite doesn’t mean that money grows on trees.” Nehama had yet another book in her pocket; was she really reading it, the youngest sister, careless and stupid? “Let me tell you. By the time it was the girl’s turn, there wasn’t anything to do for her but marry her off to someone she couldn’t bear.”

  “So she ran away.” Emilia wiped her fingers on a handkerchief, returning her attention to Nehama with a skeptical gaze. How can you surprise me? it seemed to ask. I’ve read a hundred books.

  But in the washhouse, Nehama was the older sister, and she had a story to tell. “Listen to me. Running away doesn’t come free. She had to steal what she needed. But never mind. In the end she married someone else. It was Guy Fawkes Day, and the firecrackers banged like guns.”

  “Did she love him?” Emilia asked. “It wouldn’t change anything, of course, but did she?”

  “A funny thing. Until then she didn’t know.” How nervous she’d been when Nathan entered her. She was afraid she was going to laugh and once she started she’d never stop. Nathan thought he was hurting her. Imagine! “When the groom went to sleep,” Nehama continued, “the bride cried to herself because she wanted him to go away.”

  “So she didn’t care for him,” Emilia said.

  “No—because she did.” Just like that, amid the shouts of “Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” the window lighting up with firelight, she knew she loved him.

  “But now they were married, and a man that wants nothing but you before the wedding wants something else entirely afterward,” Emilia said.

  “Shh. Let me tell you about it.”

  “So? I’m listening.”

  “There was something about her,” Nehama said slowly. “Well, if her husband knew, he’d leave. And she’d always be waiting for him
to find out, so scared that she couldn’t stand it. Better he should go right away.”

  The morning after the wedding, Minnie had come in to take away the sheets for washing, and what a production she’d made from the drop of blood she found there. Nehama herself hadn’t been surprised. She’d felt as if she’d been rubbed with sandpaper, and she was irritable with everyone, wishing she could wipe away Minnie’s smug little smile as she shooed her out.

  “So what did the girl do?” Emilia asked, as if it really mattered to her.

  “Well, she talked with her new husband. She said to him that she’d made a mistake. She hadn’t told him about the scar on her leg.” Nathan was sitting on the unclothed bed, cross-legged like a tailor in the heim. “So she leaned against the table and lifted her skirt to show him. On the table were their wedding presents. A kettle. A box of tea. Good tea. There weren’t any used leaves in it. And a frying pan.” Everything was fried in the East End. The faster you cooked, the less coal you needed, and coal cost money.

  “What did he think of it?” Emilia asked, meeting Nehama’s unfaltering gaze.

  “At first he stared at her like she was crazy, but looking at her bare leg, he didn’t seem to mind.” Nathan hopped off the edge of the bed to get a better look. His hand was on her leg. “Then the girl asked him if he wanted to know how it happened. And he said that there weren’t any secrets between a husband and a wife. Except when there were. He thought that was a good joke, and he laughed.”

  “He wouldn’t laugh if he knew.” Emilia fingered the cameo brooch on her coat. She wore it all the time, touching it with pink fingers that had gotten grayer over the months, an edge of dirt and grease under the fingernails.

  “The girl tried to explain how things used to be. Someone arrives from home, spoiled and knowing nothing. Who’s going to tell her what’s what? Nobody speaks the mama-loshen except for a few criminals that would sell you to anyone.” Nehama shook her head. “Well, she’s going to find out for herself how things are, and she won’t be spoiled anymore.”

  “And then?”

  “The girl couldn’t say another word. Her throat closed up. So he had to speak. And he asked, ‘Could you get a loaf of good rye bread in London back then?’ When the girl just shook her head, he said, ‘Ah, it was really an uncivilized country. But look, then I came—well, me and a few others. You don’t need to explain any more than that.’”

  “Tell me, how did she get the scar?” Emilia asked.

  “There are cruel kings here, too. The streets are full of them.” The young woman was looking at her as if she could see everything now.

  “I’m sorry,” Emilia said softly, but Nehama couldn’t endure the sympathy in her eyes.

  She turned back to her laundry. The water had cooled. “Not everyone is a king, and not everyone is cruel.”

  “You can be fooled,” Emilia said.

  “Only for a while. Listen to me. A husband can be all right. Better than all right.” Nehama lifted the sheets out of the tub.

  After she showed Nathan the scar, he’d held her in his arms, tenderly stroking her long hair. It wasn’t cut. He’d agreed that a woman in the free land didn’t need to wear a wig, and there on the table was his wedding present: a box full of hairpins and an ivory comb. And while his arms were around her, Nehama had decided that this was worth anything.

  Now she carried the sheets to the mangle, pushing them through the double rollers as she turned the handle. The mangle was green and gold and carved with angels. Who would think such a thing could be made for a washhouse in the middle of the meanest part of London? Next door in the costermongers’ stables, the donkeys were braying. When darkness fell, in a thousand dirty windows, eight candles would be lit to remember the miracle of light while in the street children playing kick the can would bring back the sun by booting it into the sky.

  1887

  Whitechapel Road

  Mr. Shmolnik was not merely a pawnbroker but also the proprietor of the coffee house next door. All the Jewish gambling establishments were “coffee” houses. After all, a person has to drink something warm and have a little bite between card games. Upstairs from the shop, he had a flat, where Emilia sat at the kitchen table while Mr. Shmolnik’s mother, who also happened to be the matchmaker, made tea. She was a small, dry figure of a person, her skirts swishing across the floor as she put more coal in the stove. It was the first of January, the year of the queen’s jubilee.

  For the occasion of examining a prospective daughter-in-law, Mrs. Shmolnik wore pearls, a High Holy Days kerchief made of silk, and what were surely her nicest earrings. Emilia was wearing her ghetto dress. Its ugliness suited her. If she was at home and married, she wouldn’t step outside the house with a shape like this.

  Dear Mother, she imagined writing, I have news. I am engaged. My trunk will provide the dowry, and I shall have as many ghetto dresses as a person might want.

  “In the heim, my son was an innkeeper,” Mrs. Shmolnik said. She seated herself opposite Emilia. “Even now, look what he has. Three rooms and not a single lodger!”

  There was fresh honey cake, cherry preserves, and tea with lemon served in glass cups. An insect crossed the table to share their meal, and Mrs. Shmolnik, with no reference at all to the virtue of hospitality, smashed it and flicked the remains to the floor. “Very nice,” Emilia murmured. The window was clean, and light waddled freely about, illuminating the iron stove, the dresser with a brass samovar and chipped plates on it, and, pinned to the wall, a lithograph of the Twelve Tribes of Israel.

  Mrs. Shmolnik followed her gaze. “Only sixpence,” she said proudly.

  “A bargain.” Emilia shifted her weight, but it is impossible to get comfortable if you are eight months pregnant and seated on a shallow wooden chair. Her ankles were swollen, and her feet simply could not bear to carry her back downstairs. She would have to stay forever in this room with the hideous lithograph for company.

  “A young woman like you has lots of strength, thank God. Looking after the shop and children, you’ll need it.” Mrs. Shmolnik was evidently enjoying the cake, her lack of front teeth hardly any hindrance at all. “Of course a woman wants to be busy.”

  “How many children?” Emilia asked faintly. Her hands were folded on the table. Perhaps it was all a dream. Her head seemed to be on the mildewed ceiling, and she couldn’t feel her belly at all.

  “Five children from the first wife and three from the second. I won’t mince words with you, Mrs. Levy. My son is a good prospect. The best. If I had another choice, I wouldn’t look at you twice—a pregnant widow from God knows where. But a third wife isn’t so easy to find. Still, I won’t say yes if it makes my son’s life harder. Troubles he already has enough in this world. He needs a wife for his children.”

  Emilia looked at the immense shadow she cast. Such a shadow, she supposed, could be the mother of countless children. “What are they like?” she asked.

  “A blessing, every one of them,” Mrs. Shmolnik said. She put a piece of sugar in her mouth. “The eldest is fourteen, apprenticed to a printer. The middle children are in the Jews’ Free School, and the babies are downstairs. I’m an honest person, Mrs. Levy. There’s no tricks with me. I would like my son to see you, and you can see the shop.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Emilia said, wondering how on earth Mrs. Shmolnik would maneuver her back down the narrow staircase. But a strong hand gripped her arm, and when they reached the bottom, Mrs. Shmolnik pushed open the door to the shop.

  “Avram,” Mrs. Shmolnik called. “I have someone for you to meet.”

  The shop was tiny and smelled of feet, for it was customary among the gentiles to bring a man’s Sunday boots to pawn on Monday, redeeming them at the week’s end. You could find anything on the shelves of Mr. Shmolnik’s small shop, and by a miracle he always found a place for one more item. A sewing machine. Sheets. A wedding band. An artificial foot. Everything. On the door there was a sign that said “Closed for an hour,” and outside a line of tir
ed women carrying bundles waited for their salvation.

  Mr. Shmolnik was an unremarkable, brownish-looking man. His hair, eyes, beard were the color of mud-smeared cobblestones with a round cobblestone in the middle of his face for a nose. He stood behind the counter, sorting linens.

  “This is Mrs. Levy,” his mother said.

  “Sholom akichem.” His voice was raspy, his fingers stained yellow.

  “Aleichem sholom,” Emilia replied in the customary manner.

  “The coffee house is just through that door.” He pointed. “But my best goods are right here.” He bent down to pick up first one child, then another, seating them on the counter. “You see?” The girls looked to be around two years old, black-haired and black-eyed, cheeks too red, dresses too big, a sour smell coming from them. “This is Sureleh, and this is Malkeleh. Twins were too much for my second wife, alleva sholom. She never laid eyes on them.”

  “Avram, what a thing to say! Thpoo, thpoo, thpoo.” Mrs. Shmolnik blew away the evil eye; it shouldn’t get any ideas from her son standing awkwardly, looking and not looking at Emilia. It wasn’t his fault that his breath smelled of bad teeth.

  One of the twins was playing with a large object, banging it on the counter, while the other cried, “Mine! Mine!” pushing her sister. The grandmother gave them each a slap, and Mr. Shmolnik shook a finger. “Malkeleh, enough,” he said. “I have one for you, too.” From a shelf behind the counter, he took the prosthetic foot. “Here, take it, my pretty.”

  “You see what lovely children?” Mrs. Shmolnik asked loudly. “From my son, you’ll have children as good as these.”

  “Sha, Mama,” her son said. “Mrs. Levy, I’m grateful you’d consider. Believe me, I know how it is to lose your beloved.”

  “Two of them,” Emilia couldn’t help saying.

  “My luck hasn’t been good.” He turned away and wiped his muddy eyes.

  “Never mind,” Mrs. Shmolnik said. “A person can’t mourn forever. Well, children, the shop has to reopen. You send us a reply soon, Mrs. Levy. Don’t wait too long.” She looked at Emilia’s expansive middle. “I’ll make you a nice betrothal.”