Sunrise West (20 page)

‘From me,' said the rabbi, pausing at the bench, ‘you don't have to hide your transgression. And from Him there are no concealments.'

‘Certainly not, rabbi,' Berish replied. ‘I was only hiding it so as not to offend you. As for Him, I don't know, and I don't want to know. If He really is our Almighty, then people like myself have grave doubts about His justice.'

‘I can see you're experiencing some serious perplexities, young man.'

‘Yes, rabbi. Six million perplexities.'

The rabbi seemed to grow pale, and little pearls of sweat appeared on his high forehead. Berish lost his nerve and began to apologize, but the rabbi waved it aside. ‘Please, no need,' he said. Then, regaining his composure, he bent to peer directly into Berish's greyness. His voice was soft, almost faint. ‘There are people of many words, who understand none; and there are people who have travelled from east to west, from north to south, and still remain on square one.'

He straightened up and placed his hand on Berish's shoulder. ‘It won't make any difference to Him whether or not you believe. But I can tell you, it will make a world of difference to you.'

 

 
A Song of Milk
 

Esther was plagued by formidable headaches — headaches that defeated all sorts of painkillers. ‘The roots of my hair
prickle my scalp like pins and needles,' she would say. ‘I feel like I'm wearing a barbed-wire wig.'

The Collins Street doctor's nurse, a thin woman in a blue dress-shirt, gave Esther a long questionnaire to fill out. ‘If you have any trouble,' she whispered, ‘please ask.'

Although there were no other patients in the waiting-room, it took quite a while before we were admitted into the doctor's room. He greeted us with warm handshakes. We relaxed. At last a real doctor, not like some of those white-shirted villains in camp who were ready to break the Hippocratic oath for an extra ladle of soup every time they were confronted by a fellow inmate.

The doctor examined Esther. Then, clearing his throat and turning towards me, he enquired about certain personal matters that we preferred not to discuss. How could I explain to this stranger that our intimacy had been severely constricted because we had decided, at the start of our life together, that our child would not be begotten until we felt completely secure, and fully free of that sense of the displaced that we still carried about with us? How could this doctor understand that there were people whose culture precluded wives undressing in front of their husbands, let alone any familiarity with sexual methods — including alternatives to abstinence?

‘I'll give you a series of injections,' the doctor told Esther after some deliberation. ‘And don't forget to drink a glass of warm milk every morning.' Then, as we were leaving, he asked me softly: ‘So, how is life in your new country?'

‘Like a new blossom on an old twig of irony,' I wanted to say, but didn't.

We came home close to sunset, and had hardly entered our little front room of the Brunswick Road cottage when there was a knock on the door. Through the window we could see two uniformed policemen. Esther grabbed my hand. ‘Don't move!' she whispered.

‘Don't be foolish, Esther, we haven't done anything wrong.'

‘Did I do anything wrong before Dachau?'

We stood there for a while, paralysed. Finally I brought myself to open the door. But the two police officers did not barge in, or even cross the threshold. They looked at us; they looked at each other. Then, to our amazement, they
apologized
. They had come to the wrong house!

That night Esther awoke from one of her nightmares. ‘They've come back!' she screamed. ‘Help! They have swastikas on their arms!' We didn't get much sleep until we heard the clatter of the milkman's horse. At that point Esther, exhausted and drained, finally fell into a slumber. A faint shred of light that slipped through the blinds played across her shapely form as I tiptoed out to collect our bottle of milk.

‘What's going on?' Esther called, awake again.

An
empty
bottle stood near the doorstep. In the bottom of the bottle were some coins, and in its mouth a rolled-up piece of paper containing a scrawled note:
Sorry good people, we were on our way home from a dance and we were thirsty.

‘What a beautiful message,' Esther said languidly. ‘Like a song.'

 

 
The Waltz
 

A happy sensuousness hovered over the dance floor at Maison de Luxe as Esther and I stepped through the door into the castle of pleasure. The seductive murmur and eager searching glances mingled with the smell of nicotine and the band's pulsing music. The hall, situated in Glenhuntly Road, Elwood, was packed with many survivors seeking their lost youth. As soon as we were seated at our table, covered with a starched white cloth, I quickly learnt which man danced with his own and which with someone else's wife.

I had never been much of a dancer before meeting Esther, and although she told me I was quite proficient in the art of pressing my body against a woman's breasts, I always felt more secure dancing with my own wife. I knew that some people believed dancing to be the ultimate fore-play, that there was more drama in dance than in the whole of Shakespeare. I observed the room, fascinated.

A young man, his face a picture of absolute reverence, came over to our table, bowed gravely to Esther without any show of feeling, then over-politely enquired if it was all right for Esther to join him for the next waltz.

I was pleased to be left alone. I had come here only because of Esther; she needed this, I knew it would be good for her. But for me there was little appeal in the swinging firmament of Maison de Luxe, and since this was not yet the time when a woman invited a man to a frolic on the dance floor, my solitude was pretty secure. For a while at least, I was free to let my mind embark — as it often did in
such situations — on an excursion into my inner self, the realm of visions, imaginings and other forbidden realities.

That morning I had met a man with whom I had travelled in the same wagon to Auschwitz. I didn't know his name: in the wagon's darkness we all just called each other
you
. ‘I have no right to be alive,' this man had announced abruptly, and walked off. Yes, I reflected now. If self-accusation were a criminal offence, most survivors would be spending their lives behind bars.

All at once I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I turned my head but there was no one there, just an eerie emptiness. Then I heard a voice.

‘It's me, your sister Ida. Will you waltz with me?'

I stood up. She placed her ashen head on my shoulder; I slipped my arm round her ethereal waist. ‘Remember,' she whispered, ‘the green plant in our dark basement, where I used to hide my little Chayale? Remember? Chayale's life was like that little plant. It was desperately climbing the wall but couldn't find its way to the light. You have told this story often. And I know of the waltz you will write one day and dedicate to your wife. I am not jealous, my brother. I know that dancing belongs to the living.'

She leaned back to look into my eyes. ‘Do you recall how proud our mother was when you took my arm and we strolled along, I in my black seal coat, you in your grey three-quarter jacket trimmed with fur? Our parents paid for them with their own sweat. My coat was supposed to attract a wealthy match, to be part of my dowry.'

‘I know, I know,' I heard myself reply. ‘Sadly it wasn't to be, fate had other plans for you and your black seal coat.
When mother told me to run back to pick up some things from our home, for we had left in such a hurry, I saw your coat lying abandoned on the floor. I didn't tarry, I knew we had an appointment with death.'

‘Enough of that, my brother, enough. You know how short our time is. So please, while we waltz, while I can hold on to you like this, sing into my ear and I'll follow in step.'

One two three, one two three,

Step away, away, then come back to me;

How the trumpet weeps, hear the fiddle cry,

Are they sad like us, can you tell me why?

The waltz ended. As Esther and her escort walked back towards our table, Ida began to dissolve in my arms. ‘Don't ever forget us, my brother,' she murmured. ‘Ever... ever... ever.'

My wife's young dancing partner — guiding her by the elbow, still a picture of absolute reverence — must have been bewildered by my response when he delivered Esther back to my domain with a bow:

‘If I ever forget you, may the day of my birth and my very name be erased for ever...'

 

 
The Third Season