Mosaic

by Diane Armstrong

  Although the law of the Sabbath forbids any physical labour, its spirit requires Jews to abstain from even thinking about work. My father always marvelled that no matter what pressing personal or professional problems Daniel had, he would spend the Sabbath contemplating the gifts and pleasures of life with a tranquil mind.

  Lieba, on the other hand, found it difficult to sit still and do nothing, as her anxious thoughts jumped from Lunia’s poor marks at school to Rozia’s poor hearing, Izio’s bad report card, Andzia’s scarlet fever and Hesiu’s latest escapade. Would the washerwoman manage to wash and dry all the family’s laundry, would she have time to scour every single cupboard in time for Passover? Where would the money come from to pay for all the extra Hebrew, French, maths and piano lessons the children had?

  Smiling indulgently at his preoccupied wife while he crunched the cinnamon-spiced cookies, Daniel urged her not to worry. ‘You’ll see, everything will work out,’ he used to say. ‘You must trust the Almighty.’

  Lieba gave him her uncertain sidelong glance. ‘I try not to worry,’ she sighed. ‘But somehow my mind seems to worry all by itself.’

  Financially Lieba didn’t need to worry. By 1906 Daniel’s business was thriving. Gas had replaced coal and kerosine, and his team of labourers was busy installing gas and water pipes throughout Krakow. As Avner later put it, Daniel became a plumbing contractor before plumbing was invented. A masterbuilder had alerted him to the fact that water was going to be installed in people’s homes. ‘Soon everyone will want a bathroom of their own and if you can install those pipes, you’ll have the field almost to yourself,’ he pointed out. Daniel followed his advice and prospered.

  Even though at this stage they had no money problems, Lieba was always anxious in case there wouldn’t be enough. As a result she ran a frugal household in which nothing was wasted. Early each morning the baker’s boy delivered a fragrant basket of freshly baked rolls whose yeasty scent curled into every corner of their home. He brought snail-shaped rolls, round rolls sprinkled with poppy seed, horseshoe rolls encrusted with salt, and crusty kaiser rolls.

  Each child was allowed to take three buttered rolls to school or cheder, but if they wanted more, they had to do without butter. Lieba didn’t believe that any child could eat four rolls, so she saw no point in wasting butter. But if they were really hungry, then they wouldn’t mind an unbuttered roll. Daniel backed her up. He prized moderation in all things it seems, except procreation, and disapproved of gluttony. ‘You should always leave the table feeling as if you could eat more,’ he used to say. It was a healthy concept but not one that his growing sons appreciated.

  Hesiu, who was always hungry, used to take three rolls every day but one morning he asked for four. Lieba looked at him suspiciously. ‘Are you giving them away?’ she asked. He shook his head, hurt that she mistrusted him. When his lunch was ready, he saw that she’d left one roll unbuttered. ‘I’m not taking any of them then!’ he cried, and stomped off without his lunch. Mid-morning there was a loud knock on the classroom door. ‘Baldinger, someone has brought this for you,’ the melamed said, handing him a small package. Inside were four rolls. They were all buttered.

  There was always some commotion over food in the Baldinger house because keeping a strictly kosher home required constant vigilance. If there was the slightest risk that the food may have been contaminated, Lieba sent one of the children to the rabbi’s house to check if it was fit for consumption. If the cook accidentally spilled one drop of milk into the chicken soup, the rabbi had to pronounce whether it was still kosher. Often Lieba gave a chicken to the caretaker’s wife because she didn’t like the look of its innards or had found a suspicious spot on its liver.

  By 1911, when Hesiu was ten years old, there were ten Baldinger children. Karola, born in 1908, was followed by Matus in 1910. Although she had a cook and a servant, Lieba never stopped working. Every day Hesiu watched his mother darning socks, bathing babies and braiding the girls’ hair. Every four weeks, when the washerwoman arrived, Lieba worked side by side with her, sweat pouring down her face as she bent over to rub clothes and linen with yellow Ridler soap, drubbing it rhythmically on the washboard. Every evening she sat down beside her servant Anielcia, plucking feathers for down pillows, polishing the silver or mending the boys’ torn trousers.

  Reflecting on his mother’s life much later, my father used to wonder what she got out of her life of unremitting toil. My grandmother Lieba has always been a shadowy figure in a family so dominated by Daniel. Whenever his children reminisced about their childhood in later years, it was invariably their godlike father they discussed. Where their mother was concerned, however, they only recalled how overworked and harassed she was, how well she looked after their physical needs and how efficiently she ran the household. Of her as an individual, they had only a hazy notion. As in so many families, the centre of everyone’s attention was the powerful, charismatic father, while the mother who spent her time looking after everybody’s needs and organising the household seemed far less interesting.

  Hesiu loved Friday nights. From the moment his father came home singing traditional songs to welcome the Sabbath, a festive atmosphere pervaded the household. Lieba made sure that the children scrubbed their hands and faces, brushed their hair and changed into their best clothes. The table was always set with a snowy damask cloth which was smooth to the touch. Like a priestess presiding over an ancient rite, Lieba held her white shawl over her head and covered her face as she lit the candles in the heavy silver candlesticks. Then she broke up the fluffy braided challahs which she had baked herself, a plain one for the men and a braided one for the women.

  Each one lay beneath a royal blue velvet cover with a lion and the tablet with the ten commandments embroidered in thick gold thread. Lifting the chased silver kiddush cup to his lips, Daniel made the blessing over the fragrant raisin wine which he used to make himself, and thanked the Almighty for the gift of the Sabbath. Then looking fondly at Lieba, he said the special thanksgiving prayer for the mother of the family. ‘She looks after her household and eats not the bread of idleness,’ the prayer says. It might have been written with Lieba in mind.

  Finally the meal began. While he savoured his mother’s satin-smooth goose broth thickened with fine semolina, Hesiu’s attention was drawn to the candles which sputtered more than usual. He knew that it was forbidden to blow out Sabbath candles because his father had impressed on them that no matter what happened, Jews must never touch fire on the Sabbath.

  Hesiu saw the burning wick break off onto the tablecloth. It sparked and almost at once a tiny tongue of flame licked the air. Lunia grabbed her mother’s arm. ‘Mamuncia! Look!’ she gasped. Unperturbed, Daniel held up his hands to make sure that no-one tried to blow it out. The children stole petrified glances at each other as the flame grew higher, but Hesiu saw that his father’s expression was as calm as ever. Even if the whole house was going up in flames, his father would never break God’s law.

  Rising to her feet, Lieba cried: ‘Oy gewalt! Quickly, Luniu, call Anielcia, and the rest of you, come away from the table, run!’ Soon the plump maid came running, her ruddy face flushed. ‘Oyey, Jesus Maria, Mrs Baldinger, the whole house could end up a pile of ashes!’ She clucked her tongue as she smothered the flames. Anielcia was a good-hearted country woman with a husband who begrudged a piece of lard for her black bread. No-one had ever fed her as generously or treated her as well as Mrs Baldinger, but there were times when she could only shake her head at the strange ways of these Jews.

  After Anielcia had extinguished the flames and opened all the windows, and the last wisp of smoke had vanished, they settled down to continue their interrupted dinner. Lieba served the carp. She always gave Daniel the head. Hesiu used to watch as his father sucked, picked and teased out every fragment of moist, sweet fish. Daniel always sliced off part of the head to share with Lieba, saying with an affectionate smile, ‘One sweet little mouth deserves another!’ It was one of the rare expression
s of affection that the Baldinger children ever witnessed between their parents.

  While Lieba carved the chicken with deft movements, Hesiu watched her place the largest piece on his father’s plate as usual. Sometimes Daniel brought home a stranger from synagogue to share their Sabbath meal, but no matter how many sat at the table, Lieba always managed to make the food go around, and each child always received their favourite part of the chicken. Hesiu sighed when she placed a piece of the leg on his plate and wondered whether God knew how often he wished that there were fewer children so he could have the leg all to himself. Chewing the crisply roasted chicken rubbed with garlic, he studied the tiny stitches on his slice of stuffed neck and tried to take small bites to make it last longer.

  He glanced up at his father at the head of the table. His face usually so stern and serious, now looked relaxed, and his deep-set eyes glowed with a softer light. Only a few moments earlier their home could have been reduced to ashes, but his father’s trust in the Almighty hadn’t wavered. What if God hadn’t noticed the flame, or had decided to let their house burn down? His father’s absolute faith reminded him of the story of Abraham being ready to sacrifice his son just because God told him to do so. Hesiu already knew that he didn’t share his father’s faith in the Almighty: he preferred to trust in himself.

  Every year my father rebelled more against Daniel’s regime. When cheder was over for the day, he ran wild. He played in the street, ran around barefoot with a gang of neighbourhood boys, and joined in their scrapes. He learned to grab shiny red apples from the market stalls and bolt while Salcia the blousy fruitseller waddled after him, fist raised. ‘Wait till I catch you, you little ganev!’ she panted at his retreating back, ‘You’ll be sorry you were born!’

  Once he amused himself by standing still on the tram lines on Dietla Street while the pug-nosed red tram clanged towards him. He didn’t budge even though he could see the choleric face of the driver shaking his fist at him. Only when the tram was so close that he could feel its metallic breath brush his face did he leap aside. On one occasion he felt a stinging blow on his ear. ‘Have you gone crazy? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Just wait till I tell your father!’ Unfortunately for him, one of his older cousins had caught him playing chicken with the tram.

  Daniel didn’t seem to understand that children needed toys or that boys had to let off steam, and it seemed to Hesiu that whenever he was enjoying himself, his father always punished him. In winter, when frost etched leaf patterns on their windows, the ponds froze and hillsides billowed with soft snow, the children of Kazimierz skated and slid down the slopes on toboggans. The Baldinger boys had no skates or toboggans. Hesiu would watch enviously while his brother Jerzy glided lopsidedly on a single skate he’d found somewhere, as if on a scooter. ‘Let me have one turn,’ he pleaded. ‘Just one!’ but Jerzy ignored him. Hesiu went inside, head down, hands in his pockets. When he spotted a goose breast bone in the kitchen, he tied it onto his boot. Now he had a skate too. But as soon as he put his weight on it, the bone broke.

  The water that collected in the gutters froze solid, creating a miniature skating rink just wide enough for one boot. He ran outside to join the boys who were sliding around. His cheeks smarted from the cold, and he stamped his feet on the icy ground while waiting his turn, but finally Hesiu was sliding and laughing with the others. Within a few minutes, however, his father was striding towards him. Daniel took him inside, pulled down his trousers, laid him across his knee and picked up the strap as if to strike him. Arm raised, he asked quietly, ‘Are you going to slide in the street again and ruin your boots?’ Miserably, Hesiu shook his head but he had no idea why having fun was a crime.

  It’s one of the ironies of parenthood that parents so often inflict on their children the same restrictions that made their own lives miserable. When I was small, my father forbade me to play outside with the neighbouring children. I seethed with the injustice of it. ‘It’s not fair. This is Australia, not Krakow, all the kids are allowed to play outside except me. Who can I play with?’ A glacial expression would harden my father’s bright blue eyes and in a voice that made argument impossible he would reply, ‘Find more suitable friends. Only common children play in the street.’

  Added to all his other grievances as a child, my father didn’t have a single place to call his own. Not even his bed, which he had to share with his older brother Jerzy. There wasn’t a corner, a shelf, or even part of a drawer where he could keep his little treasures. He had to keep them in his pockets away from the prying eyes of his brothers who pulled apart whatever came into their curious fingers.

  When Hesiu came home from cheder one afternoon and saw a handsome roll-top desk in the living room next to the piano, he slid his hand appreciatively over the highly polished surface of swirled walnut. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. There were three big drawers down each side and four smaller ones across the top which only became visible when they rolled back the concertina-like top. Each little keyhole was beautifully edged in brass. Hesiu opened each drawer in turn, looking for a concealed recess like the ones in the storybooks which always contained secret talismans. ‘Tatunciu already has his big American desk, so he must have bought this one for us,’ Avner said.

  Hesiu’s heart pounded with excitement. If Avner said so, it must be true. A desk just for them! There was no time to waste: this time he wasn’t going to miss out. Appropriating the bottom drawer, he placed his treasured possessions inside it: two chipped marbles, a Chanukkah dreidl which spun in a lopsided way, and a battered cloth ball. He locked the drawer and dropped the small brass key safely in his pocket. Next morning, he set off for cheder with a secret smile. Now he had a place of his very own.

  That day the lessons dragged even more than usual. He couldn’t stop stroking the key, longing to unlock his drawer. As he burst into the living room that afternoon, he stopped and blinked as he looked around, hardly able to believe his eyes. The desk was gone. His father had returned it, along with all his prize possessions. All he had left was a useless key.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dragging his feet towards cheder, Hesiu crossed a works yard stacked with timber, sheet metal and wooden crates. Outside the soda water bottling shed, the delivery man was whistling one of Souza’s marches while he adjusted his horse’s bridle. He winked when he caught sight of Hesiu’s eager face.

  The sky was blue, the air felt warm on his face, catkins were hanging off the chestnut trees, and a yearning for something beyond his daily life squeezed Hesiu’s heart. ‘Prosze pana, please sir, would you take me with you on your deliveries today?’ he asked.

  ‘Oho! So the young master wants to have a ride!’ the carter chuckled and hauled him onto the coachbox.

  Hesiu jigged on the narrow seat. Instead of going to his lessons, he was setting off on an adventure. The horse clip-clopped along Miodowa Street, past the familiar shop signs advertising Luxus Shoe Polish, Grynberg’s hats and Fyszer’s down feathers, past the market square, and then through the crumbling stone archway which led out of Kazimierz towards Wawel Castle. He craned his head to see the fortress perched high on its bluff above the torpid Vistula River, delighted at his own daring. But when he next looked around, he didn’t recognise a single building. Panic swept over him. He was a long way from home. What if his father found out that he hadn’t gone to cheder?

  Involuntarily, he rubbed his bottom. The last time his father had found out that he’d not only played truant but also forged his signature, he’d marched him to cheder and, in front of the other boys, made him pull down his trousers and whipped him with a piece of rubber hose. Angry tears still came to his eyes at the memory of that public humiliation which had wounded him far more than the hose.

  When I think about my father’s childhood, it amazes me that even in later life he never held Daniel’s strictness against him. On the contrary, my father felt an unwavering admiration for his father’s character and consistency and regretted causing him so much troub
le as a boy. Perhaps that strict upbringing had helped forge the strong character which later helped him to survive.

  Riding beside the ice carter, Hesiu twisted around, vainly hoping to see a familiar landmark. ‘Prosze pana, when will we be back in Miodowa Street?’ he stammered.

  Tugging on the well-worn reins, the carter hooted with laughter, showing teeth like brown tombstones. ‘Back in Miodowa Street? And who said I was going back to Miodowa Street?’ Hesiu was wondering whether he should jump off and try and find his own way home when he saw something that nearly made him topple off the waggon.

  Surely his guilty conscience was playing cruel tricks on him. Striding purposefully along the road was the neat, immaculately dressed figure he knew so well. And his father was coming straight towards him. Hesiu closed his eyes and wished that he could vanish off the face of the earth. ‘That’s my father there, oh please, quick, can you hide me?’ he whispered in a strange, hoarse voice. The coachman rose and lifted the top of his seat. ‘Get in there,’ he said. Hesiu’s legs shook as he crawled into the recess, but there was so little room that when the carter sat down again, the seat pressed on Hesiu’s head. Immediately he was swathed in a fog of freezing air. He was inside a tin-lined icebox, and his teeth chattered so violently that he was sure his father would hear him.

  He could hear muffled voices. Was his father demanding that the carter let him out of the ice chest so that he could deal with him? The voices grew faint and he heard nothing more. Was his father waiting out there for him?

  The cold of the cabin seeped into his marrow. Even a belting would be better than this numbing ache. When the carter finally opened the trapdoor, Hesiu’s brows and eyelashes were rimed with frost, and his face and hands had the bruised tinge of a fowl left in the icebox too long.

  Looking down at him, the man held his ample sides and laughed so much that he could hardly speak. ‘Your gentleman father only stopped for a moment to ask directions,’ he chuckled, ruffling the boy’s ice-spiked head. ‘He’s been gone a while now, but I thought you might enjoy hiding in there!’ As the waggon rumbled back towards Miodowa Street, Hesiu shivered. How was he going to explain his wet boots and soaking jacket to his mother?