Mosaic

by Diane Armstrong

  Like a man going to the gallows, his legs trembled as he mounted the four steps that led to the Bimah, and stood in front of the Ark where the Torah was usually kept, behind an embroidered velvet curtain with gold tassels. There was no rabbi in this prayer house and members of the congregation conducted the service. ‘God hears our prayers so there’s no need to have anyone to pray on our behalf,’ Daniel used to explain. There was a cantor but some worshippers complained that he sounded as if he had last year’s matzoh ball caught in his throat, while others were shocked that he sang ancient prayers to modern tunes.

  When it was Matus’s turn to chant his parsha, his hand shook as he tried to move the pointer along the line, the new tallith, the prayer shawl that he now wore for the first time, kept slipping off his shoulders, and his voice rose to a squeak. As he stumbled and hesitated over his words, Daniel had to prompt and correct him. Although the whole episode couldn’t have lasted more than half an hour, Matus was bathed in perspiration and thought that his ordeal would never end.

  Although Matus was a poor student, he was alert and curious, and wondered about some of the traditions his father followed. Before Yom Kippur, when Daniel used to bless all the children, he gathered them all around the sacrificial rooster and raised his finger. ‘Now all of our sins have entered the rooster,’ he explained. Unaware of the symbolic nature of this ritual, Matus was puzzled. If their sins really were inside the fowl, wouldn’t they swallow them all back again when they ate it?

  At the age of eighty-five, Uncle Marcel could still see his mother take a big white shawl embroidered with little eyelet petals, fold it diagonally and hold it over her head while she lit the candles on Friday nights. Then she would sit down and wait for Daniel to come in, singing melodious Shabbes songs which created such a festive atmosphere in their home.

  When Sabbath ended, at sunset on Saturday, Lieba lit thin, finely plaited Havdalah candles, yellow, green and red ones, and again Daniel made kiddush with wine. Matus knew that the small silver spice box with aromatic cloves that stung the inside of his nose was intended to make the whole week smell good.

  Melancholy lurks behind Uncle Marcel’s jollity, I can see it in the depths of his amber eyes. Suddenly the years roll away, and a stout man with a large bald head sits forward, looks into my face with his candid gaze and says in a confidential way, ‘You know, in all my childhood I can’t remember anyone ever saying a loving word to me. I don’t know if you can understand what this means, that no-one ever stroked me. No-one,’ he says, plunged in sadness for what he missed.

  My heart aches for this warm, affectionate man who has yearned so much to be loved. It’s ironic that those who long most desperately for close family relationships so often end up having the most turbulent ones. ‘Your mother must have cuddled you when you were small,’ I say.

  ‘Where would she have found the time?’ he scoffs. ‘I can’t recall ever seeing her showing affection to the others either. In our home there was no cuddling. But I’ve never held that against my parents,’ he says. ‘Not like Avner and Izio.’

  I feel sad for Daniel too. This man who had longed so much for children didn’t know how to show the love that he undoubtedly felt for them. He must have been too reserved, too self-conscious. Perhaps he thought that they would feel his love without him showing it. Or perhaps he just didn’t know how. As far as Uncle Marcel can remember, the only member of the family from whom he received any affection was Jerzy’s dog, Lord, a labrador who regarded Matus as his master. One day Matus walked out of the living room and whistled, forgetting that he’d closed the double glass door behind him, Lord hurled himself through the two glass doors to get to Matus!

  My uncle’s face glows as he tells me about his dog. ‘Lord knew he wasn’t allowed to stay in the room while Father was praying, so as soon as Father went to wash his hands before praying, he’d creep into the kitchen, and didn’t come back until the prayers were over!’

  When Matus left school, his father had a brief talk with him about his future. ‘With what you have learned, you can make shoes or furs,’ he said. Matus decided to follow his brother Janek’s example and become a furrier’s apprentice in Krakow. The furrier’s workshop had the stuffy, sweetish odour of Persian lamb whose fibres tickled Matus’s nose. He didn’t like the work and didn’t show much aptitude for it, but he had no idea what else to do. For the next two years, his employer taught him to use a sewing machine but didn’t teach him how to cut the skins, which was about as useful as training a surgeon without showing him how to use a scalpel. Jealous of his craft, the boss shut himself up in his cutting room so that his apprentices couldn’t watch.

  In 1928 Matus Baldinger, a round-faced youth with a shy smile and an insatiable curiosity about the world, climbed aboard the train at Krakow’s Central Station bound for Paris. For an eighteen-year-old making his first train journey, this was an exciting adventure. The feel of his wallet packed with the money which he had saved, the sharp smell of the leather seats, the clackety-clack sound of the pug-nosed locomotive as it chugged along its shiny tracks, whistling and spewing black smoke. The thought that in a few days he’d be arriving in Paris made his head whir in time with the rolling wheels. Going to Paris, going to Paris, sang the locomotive as the bare branches and frost-coated fields of Poland rushed past. No bird released from a cage ever felt freedom more deliciously than Matus that day. He was leaving the grey world of Poland behind, to meet his brother Janek who’d lived in Paris since 1925. The world was waiting.

  One of the most liberating aspects of his departure was that he had left his phylacteries behind. Incredibly, this had been Daniel’s suggestion. Every single day Daniel would wake his sons at dawn for morning prayer and insist that they wind the symbols of their faith around their arms and across their foreheads to remember their commitment to God, even though he knew that they only did it to please him. Matus was the sixth and last of the sons he had longed for but, like the others, he had no interest in religion or the orthodox way of life. The God of his father had no appeal for him. His love was too conditional, his power too overwhelming. The relationship was too unequal, it made too many demands.

  By the time Matus left for Paris, Daniel must have realised that although the Almighty had granted his wish to have sons, the spirit of his wish had not been fulfilled. Devout though he was, my grandfather was obviously a realist who could face unpalatable facts. He realised that once Matus left home, he wouldn’t continue laying phylacteries, and he didn’t want the sacred objects of his faith being treated with disrespect. ‘There’s no point taking them with you, because you won’t wear them when you’re away from home,’ he told his astonished son.

  When Matus arrived in Paris, he felt like a blind man whose sight has suddenly been restored. Even the people here seemed a different breed. They were bursting with life and seemed connected to each other in a way that made him feel joyously connected too. In Krakow there was such stifling formality, such a distance between people, but here everyone talked to strangers and welcomed them. No-one cared about religious rules or what the neighbours thought. Matus loved the generosity and free spirit of the Parisians and blossomed in this climate of friendly sensuality, acceptance and fun. This was what he had always yearned for without even knowing that it existed. He had finally found his home.

  As soon as he arrived he handed over all his money to his brother Janek who now called himself Jean. ‘I never saw that 10 000 francs again,’ he chuckles wryly. ‘That money was to cause a lot of misunderstandings between Jean and me.’ He arrived in Paris on a Tuesday, and on Thursday he was already working. At first he lived with Jean at Rue Grande Jobelle not far from the Place de la Republique. All week he worked in the same workshop with his brother until late at night when his skin was saturated with the smell of tanned hides, but on Saturday afternoons and Sundays his time was his own. Jean introduced him to his friends. Soon one of the great delights of his new life was meeting friends at a table in a pavement cafe on the Le
ft Bank and talking for hours about life, love and politics. He learned to drink aperitifs in bistros, munch baguettes for lunch and drink bowls of café au lait with croissants for breakfast. On Sundays they took a train out of Paris to the Marne. They rowed pretty girls in boats and later lay under the willows on the riverbank, talking, laughing and flirting.

  Matus, who changed his name to Marcel, was dazed by la vie Parisienne, and especially by the Parisiennes. Charming, vivacious and full of fun, they seemed as free as men. They didn’t play the games that women played in Krakow. No-one needed formal introductions. If girls enjoyed your company, they showed it without requiring a betrothal contract. Marcel noticed that his older brother’s dark good looks and sharp wit made him very popular. But although Marcel was shyer, more self-conscious and less handsome than his brother, people liked his company as well. He was friendly and ingenuous, had an insatiable curiosity and interest in people, and an infectious lust for life.

  Everything he saw fascinated him. One afternoon soon after his arrival he was sipping pernod at his favourite bistro while an old woman in a battered fedora was sitting on a folding chair on the street corner outside, selling papers and cigars. It was winter and she drew the woollen shawl tighter around her thin shoulders and blew on her fingers. He watched amazed as she left all her merchandise unattended in the street and walked into the bistro to warm herself up. While she took her time sipping her pernod, passers-by stopped to pick up newspapers or cigars wrapped in cellophane and dropped their money in the box she’d placed on the chair, often leaving more than the item cost. A delighted smile split Matus’s face. Pointing outside, he turned to the man sitting at the next table. ‘In Krakow she wouldn’t have dared turn her back or all her merchandise would have disappeared, and the chair as well!’ he laughed, and his neighbour laughed with him. He thought he was going to burst out of his overcoat with sheer happiness. ‘Mind you, she wouldn’t risk doing that in Paris these days!’ he chuckles. Outside in the large garden of his country house, the cherry trees are bathed in early morning light and he springs to his feet with a speed which belies his years. ‘Let’s pick cherries!’ he says, slaps a straw hat on his head, clambers up a ladder, and soon we’re laughing as we pop more fruit into our eager red-stained mouths than into the bowl. Glancing at my uncle I suddenly feel a twinge of sadness. Relaxed and glowing with this simple pleasure, he reminds me so much of my father.

  Back inside the house, Uncle Marcel continues reminiscing. For the first few years in Paris, he was in a state of perpetual infatuation, with the city and with a succession of delicious girls. He’d never imagined that life could be so carefree, so enjoyable. Then he met a young milliner who personified the spirit of Paris more than any girl he’d ever met. Rolande Guyot, who worked in Christian Dior’s fashion house, was effervescent, spontaneous and utterly irresistible. It seemed as though she hadn’t a care in the world, and her funny remarks and bubbly laughter always made him laugh. She was also very pretty, with delicate features, soft fair curls and shining eyes. Marcel was swept away.

  Even now a dreamy look comes over his face when he recalls those enchanted far-off days. ‘Ah, Rolande was a fantastic girl. Fantastic. She had a light-heartedness about her, a gaiety that made you feel dizzy. I can’t explain it.’ Suddenly he grows restless. ‘Speaking Polish is exhausting me,’ he says curtly. ‘Don’t forget it’s sixty years since I left Poland.’ But when I suggest speaking French he shakes his big head. ‘I’m so muddled now, I can’t speak one or the other.’

  I wonder whether recollections of his early years in Paris have made him irritable. His life would have been perfect except for one thing. Rolande fell passionately in love with his brother.

  CHAPTER 8

  Bent over his notebook, Daniel was absorbed in balancing his expenses. For the first time in his life he had no change to drop into the alms box in the synagogue, no spare coins for the beggars and no money to spend. Looking up, he caught Lieba’s tired glance. She’d regained some of her old energy after having a goitre removed in Berlin several years ago, but these days she walked more heavily and there were pouches under her eyes.

  He thought about his brother’s invitation. Samuel, whose brewery in Hungary had continued to prosper, had invited them for a holiday to the spa town of Krynica. The crisp mountain air would be invigorating and the mineral baths would soothe their old bones, but pride made it hard to accept his brother’s generosity.

  Izio, who was still living with his parents, occasionally tried to slip his father a few zlotys, but Daniel didn’t want to take them. In the end, Izio persuaded his father to accept forty zlotys and go on holiday. When he describes the incident many years later, Uncle Izio’s face crumples with regret. ‘I’m ashamed that I didn’t do more to make Father’s life easier, knowing how hard up he was. I should have organised a regular allowance for him.’ At eighty-nine Uncle Izio is thin and frail and his eyes resemble gumdrops when the flavour has been sucked out of them, but he’s as dapper as ever. The crease in his trousers is impeccable, his shirt is crisply ironed, and he wears his peaked cap at a jaunty angle.

  Errors of omission jab us like needles concealed in the lining of our conscience. But when I remind him that he’d given his father money for a holiday, my uncle’s moist lips tremble. ‘I only did it once. And anyway Father gave it all back to me when he returned from Krynica. He hadn’t spent a single groszy.’

  As I sit in my sun-drenched study in Sydney and listen to the honeyeaters twittering on the branches of the pepper tree outside, I look at a photograph of Daniel and Lieba during that holiday in Krynica. A fine-looking old man with a grey beard and a gold watch chain draped across his well-cut waistcoat is leaning on a blackwood cane with a silver handle, alongside a stout woman with thick ankles, softly waving grey hair and a motherly face. Standing beside her ageing parents is Karola, a typical twenties flapper in a dress with a dropped waistline and a head-hugging hat which accentuates her well-defined Grace Kelly jawline and the lovely mouth shaped like Cupid’s bow.

  The late 1920s were hard for Karola too. Although she’d graduated as a gym teacher, she couldn’t find a teaching job in Krakow and was becoming increasingly despondent. During a recent visit to Paris, among the family letters and documents my cousin Aline keeps in a big trunk, I came across a letter Karola wrote to her brother Janek in 1927. Aline, who has retained the surname Baldinger along with her married name Achour, has become the custodian of these precious papers her father kept all his life.

  Sitting on the floor of Aline’s rustic house on the banks of the Marne, my hands tremble with excitement as I unfold the thick cream writing paper with the initials KB in the corner. This letter is like meeting my young aunt in the flesh; it’s so infused with her high spirits that reading it feels as immediate as physical contact. I feel as though I’m watching the words tumble out of her impatient pen as she writes.

  Dear Janek,

  Again I’m sitting down to write even though I haven’t received any news whatever from you. Well it can’t be helped. What am I to do with such a wayward fellow? I’d like to box your ears, but what’s the use when you are there and I am here. So I’ll set you a good example and write myself.

  I’m very disappointed that you’re not coming to visit us because I was so excited about your visit and told all my friends that my handsome brother (I don’t even know if that’s true!) was coming to Krakow, and now you’ve spoiled my wonderful plans and reduced them to ashes. Instead of you, all we get is a letter saying that ‘most probably I’ll go to Australia!’ Don’t you dare go there, I forbid you to even think about it, and I don’t want to hear about it anymore. I’ve thought it over and I’ll let you go but on one condition—a great big heavy condition—I mean me. Big because I’m 165 cm tall, and heavy because I weigh around 60 kilos. So if you’re set on going, and nothing I say will stop you, you’ll just have to take me with you. That’s fair, isn’t it?

  So I suppose now you’ll give up the idea of that
journey because I found the right remedy to knock it out of your silly little head. I’m not going to write about this anymore and I don’t ever want to hear about it again! Last week Avner was here, he’d just got back from Vienna. He was barely here for a day but we hope to see him again soon. You’re the only one who doesn’t come, and not only don’t you come, but you don’t even write. I wonder why? Is it to save money…or is it just laziness?

  Aha, I guessed, didn’t I? Right? You probably find it hard to get round to writing. I can understand that because it’s a Baldinger defect. But difficulties have to be overcome so just write whatever is on your mind. The hard part is sitting down, but once you’re sitting down at the table, or at the desk with a letter in front of you, your hand just moves by itself and the thoughts will somehow arrange themselves in your curly little head.

  Now that I’ve given you such a telling off, I’m sure that you’ll write straightaway, out of fear, in case you get another one of these letters.

  What’s new with you? Do you have any work? I don’t have a job at the moment and feel like a lost soul. Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. Somehow it will work out. Surely God won’t forget about his children and let us perish for nothing.

  The poignant prophecy of her last sentence sends a shiver down my spine.

  Within two years, however, Karola’s life improved dramatically. She was finally appointed gym teacher in a high school in Sosnowiec north of Krakow and met the man she later married. While Karola was teaching schoolgirls who were infatuated with their beautiful young teacher, her brother Izio was running the shop with his mother on Szpitalna Street where they still sold prams, even though Daniel had stopped producing them.