The Prosperous Thief
THE PROSPEROUS THIEF
Andrea Goldsmith is the author of four previous novels:
Gracious Living
(1989),
Modern Interiors
(1991),
Facing the Music
(1994) and
Under the Knife
(1998). She lives in Melbourne. Andrea Goldsmith’s website is at
http://purl.nla.gov.au/net/award/andrea-goldsmith
THE PROSPEROUS THIEF
Andrea Goldsmith
First published in 2002
Copyright © Andrea Goldsmith 2002
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Goldsmith,Andrea, 1950–.
The prosperous thief.
ISBN 1 86508 756 4.
1. Jews – Australia – Fiction. 2. Jews – Fiction.
3. Holocaust, Jewish (1939–1945) – Fiction. 4. Lesbianism in literature. I.Title.
A823.3
Set in 12/14 pt Bembo by Asset Typesetting Pty Ltd
Printed by Griffin Press, South Australia
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
for Dot
Virtue and crime weigh the same
I’ve seen it:
in a man who was both
criminal and virtuous.
—Tadeusz Rózewicz
We all live in a phantom dwelling.
—Basho
THE PROSPEROUS THIEF
Contents
Out of a Job in the New Germany
Fake Coffee and False Promises
A Meeting in the Woods, Northern Germany, April 1945
A Seinfeld Lookalike with a Side in Volcanoes
O
n a balmy night in the summer of 1910, not far from the gutter in Berlin’s Scheunenviertel, Heinrik Heck was born. Twenty-four hours later his mother was back at the bar downing her beers and buttoning Heini to a nipple whenever he threatened to bawl. His father, typical of the wanderer-fathers in the Scheunenviertel, had moved on months before the birth. He had promised Heini’s mother he’d be back, but was either dead or in gaol or had chanced on some good luck he wasn’t about to share with a woman who meant only shackles and misfortune. Greta didn’t care, she’d moved on too. First there had been Johannes, followed by a messy month with Johannes and Bulle, and finally, not long before the birth, sentimental Heinrik, who was honoured, he said, to offer his name to the child. Seven weeks later and the sentiment had soured; soon Heinrik, too, was gone, leaving behind nothing but his name.
Heini was weaned from breast to beer in the three or four bars of his mother’s preference. Berlin’s white beer was a favourite along with a nice piece of sausage, although Heini learned early not to be choosy.When there was nothing better to eat he would climb on a chair and from there to the table, dip his fist into the mustard pot and lick.
While not an ideal diet, it seemed to do the trick, for Heini grew into a smart little boy blessed with a cunning more valuable than gold in this district, and certainly longer lasting. He knew how to scrounge for food and could always find a safe place to sleep.And even before he could walk he could gauge the mood of his mother and the other drinkers in the bar. On good days he was bar mascot with ample attention and plenty of food, but when moods turned sour, all he was good for was slapping and kicking and knew to keep his distance.
The Hecks and people like them filled in the cracks in the underworld. Pickpockets, thieves, prostitutes, pimps, bludgers, fighters, gamblers. And drunks, always drunks. They hung out in gloomy bars and bedded down in grimy rooms, several crammed in together and no one as brave as the rats or as well fed. Heini, his stomach hurtling in its emptiness, would see the rats gnawing the doorframes and know he’d have to turn himself into a stranger to have a life as good as them.
‘They don’t come much lower than us,’ his mother once said. ‘But someone’s got to hold up all the rest.’
Down in the Scheunenviertel it was the quick or the dead and Heini fortunately was a fast learner. By the age of five he had acquired the basic skills for survival in this district. He knew to trust no one but himself, he knew when to take advantage, and he was learning the hard way how to deal with fear. Younger than most of the boys who prowled the streets, he nonetheless possessed fingers fine-tuned for gain. One day when the baker’s back was turned, he grabbed a loaf and made off with it. He slipped into the first alley, then into another, and from there through a dank portal across a courtyard to an alcove on the far side. He squatted down among the weeds and, with his back pressed against a scrap of wall, he sank his teeth into the still-warm bread. His stomach clutched with delight. He took two more bites, then knowing to prolong the pleasure, changed to a neat nibbling round the edges. Such an expert with a loaf, he could make it last till midday.
The sun was shining but not too strong, the wind was a cool shuffling on his face, and the loaf as good as any he had tasted. He squirmed against the bricks until he found a smooth patch, was nibbling the loaf and squinting into the light and thinking as far as days went this was one of the best, when he saw them, two of the toughest, on the other side of the courtyard. Quickly he shrinks into the weeds and wraps himself up like a snail. He’s sure they haven’t seen him. And neither can he see them, although he senses them drawing near. His ears strain to hear, but apart from cursing, the boys’ words blur in the breathy air. Tighter, he tells himself, curl up tighter. But fear fills his stomach and then it’s rising and with it the bread, and if the boys haven’t noticed him already they will now, although these toughs could see a cringing kid at a hundred metres in poor light, so he probably never stood a chance. And here they come, loping across the ragged ground, closer and closer and laughing as they grab him.
They’re as big as grown-ups, they taunt with insults, they throttle with fists, they toss him around like a ball. Heini can’t stop his grizzling, he’s all pain and snivelling fear. These boys will flay the life out of him, then they’ll throw him in a hole where no one will find him, and he’ll lie there sore and starving and too weak to move. He may even die.
He may even die.
And suddenly his fear loosens and his blubbering stops – no point to nothing if he’s about to die. And now he’s kicking the boys and swinging his fists, and spitting from his bloodied mouth. He’s not fool enough to think he can hurt them, but neither will he go down without a fight. And almost immediately their blows slacken, their taunts lose enthusiasm, and in another minute they’ve had enough. But they’ll be back, they say, as they turn to leave, and they’ll finish the job next time. Heini hears their laughter as they make their way across the courtyard. And though he’s sore and bleeding and his loaf is ground into the dirt, he vows there won’t be a next time.
It is less than a month later when next he sees them. He is coming down the stairs of his building carrying a bucket full of slops. His head is down, his mind on the job, and under his breath he’s cursing his mother who’s too drunk at the end of the day to walk, and too desperate to get to the bar in the morning to bother with the buckets, when a flicker at the edge of his vision makes him look up.And there they are, the two brutes waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Their fists are raised all ready to punch, their faces are mean with smiling. Heini is all fear and floundering, nowhere to run and certainly not with his hands full of filth. He’s the loser this time and all out of luck, when suddenly he realises his advantage. He’s standing on the stairs high above them, and in his hands a weapon far more powerful than their big beefy fists. He raises the bucket slowly, so slowly, raises it while keeping his gaze pressed hard to them. For a moment they waver, surely this kid wouldn’t dare? They even move forward, then decide not to take the chance.
Heini acquired a reputation in the streets as a kid not to be messed with. Not that he had abolished fear, he needed a certain amount to keep him alert, but after the business with the toughs it was so well disguised no one would recognise it, much less turn it to their advantage. And along with the reputation, he developed a practical wisdom. Whether dealing with danger, or the basics of eating and hygiene, even the more complex business of making a living, Heini had a nose for the necessities. Not all children had the knack; his sister who was a bit younger and his brother who was a bit older certainly didn’t. They relied on him and he did his best to look after them.
Once when his brother complained about one of the drinkers in the bar and bared his backside to show the marks, Heini explained that sometimes you learn more than you bargained for.
