The Singing Fire (29 page)

He was talking to Mr. Berman, who wholesaled slop coats. You could always tell one of his jackets. The lining hung down like a collapsed womb from a woman who’d died in labor. Her father made nice jackets.

“This is a sight.” Papa clapped a hand to his cheek. “I believe it’s Sarah Bernhardt, the famous Hebrew actress. Might I have your autograph?”

“Anytime you want,
Tatteh
.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling the rasp of the yellow-checked jacket that he’d been wearing as long as she could remember, smelling of sewing machine oil and cheap cigarettes, now damp with rain.

“The resemblance is uncanny,” he said in Yiddish, stroking her head, “but I see it’s only my beautiful daughter.”

Gittel stood proudly. “I have a loose tooth that I might be willing to sell.”

“Mm. Then you came to the right dentist. I’ll have it out. Give your jug of milk to Libby to hold. That’s right. Open up. I see. I see. Whoops. Here we go. Ah, a good one for the collection. What will you have for it?”

She probed the hole with her tongue. “I don’t have many left to come out. I’ll want at least a crown for it,” she said, and grinned.

“What—five bob? No, that’s too dear. I can get a dozen teeth for half a crown. Fine teeth. No, you can have a farthing.”

“Ask for monkey-nuts,” Libby whispered to Gittel, returning the jug of milk.

“Tuppence,” Gittel said, serious now. This was real bargaining. “And monkey-nuts for me and Libby.”

“Done!” Her
tatteh
slipped a piece of toffee into her hand as he shook it. “I have a little business here. Then I’ll get your apple.” He
turned to Mr. Berman. “What do you think this would fetch?” he asked, taking something glittery from his pocket. A chain, Gittel saw. A delicate braid of gold. Something her other mother might wear. If only she could have it.

“A few months’ hard labor,” Mr. Berman replied. “Where did that come from?”

“The gutter near Dorset Street,” Papa said.

Maybe her other mother had actually worn it. The chain might have been a gift from one of the gentlemen that liked to go slumming in Dorset Street. She could picture it, her mother with the chain as golden as her hair, the gentleman in his tall hat, the gutter running with blood, for in Dorset Street there was such violence. Her cheeks were hot with the thought of it.

“I picked it up in front of the coffee house where your brother makes book. I always put my bets with him,” Papa said. “Someone was coshed and rolled and this was missed, I’d guess.”

“If it were me, I’d just give it to my missus,” Mr. Berman said.

“What’s a chain with nothing on it? No, I’ll sell it and get my Nehama a nice bit of cloth for a holiday blouse. She’s always making do with cabbage leaves of leftover stuff. And Passover’s coming. She should have something new.”

“I think Mama would rather have that,” Gittel said softly. It didn’t matter how quiet she was. Papa could always hear her.

“You think so?” he asked, looking down. She nodded. “Then it’s my lucky day. What a bargain—a tooth and a chain, too. Maybe my horse will place. Who knows?”

Gittel walked home with her father, and he let her hold the chain for Mama in the pocket of her pinny. She must always remember that her other mother was a lady. She spoke German and French, and she taught Mama to read English with the very book,
Pride and Prejudice
, that lay under Gittel’s pillow.

Petticoat Lane

In every Jewish room the evening before Passover, Father or Uncle carried a candle and a feather, searching for the last few crumbs of bread. The children followed the candles, peering into dark corners, only the oldest of them realizing that their mothers had hidden a few crumbs here and
there for them to find and add to the pile that would be burned on bonfires in the morning. Every room had been cleaned, every rag of clothing washed, every mattress aired and turned. It took weeks, and if there wasn’t so much excitement, the women would have dropped from exhaustion. When the leavened burned up in the fire, so did everything heavy in their hearts and they were ready for the festival of freedom.

In the
heim
people had the same tradition of searching for crumbs, but here there was a whole evening of festivity called Chametz Battel Night, for Jews always take something from their surroundings to add to their customs and in London it was the excitement of the street. On other days, they got a teaspoon of jam, a pinch of tea, an ounce of sugar. But tonight they spent money without a conscience. It was a
mitzvah
, a virtue, to make the festival great. They needed
motzos
and tea and sugar and meat and carrots and onions, maybe a kettle, a spoon, a frying pan. It was all piled high right here in the Lane. And between the stalls offering all the foods that were needed for Passover, there was every sort of entertainment, juggling, fire-eaters, contortionists, and ordinary men chasing each other with squirters and feather ticklers. Even the grandmothers walked here and there, watching it all. But who could they tell? Who could they warn? Once you’re dead, you shout but only heaven hears you.

“MOTZOS FRESH FOR YOM-TOV!”

“SEE THE FIRE-EATER! SEE THE SWORD-SWALLOWER! BOTH FOR A PENNY!”

“SHAINK A
POOR LAME BEGGAR A COPPER FER PESACH!”

In a far corner of the Lane the two families, Nehama’s and Minnie’s, were together in the dusk. They stood in front of a makeshift stage, gazing longingly at the other end of the Lane, where the fire-eater was fighting with the sword-swallower. All except for Lazar, who was rapt. It was his play up there.

“How many acts are there?” Nehama asked. She had one hand on Gittel’s shoulder to keep her from running off with Libby. The two girls were whispering and counting their pennies as they eyed a stall of paste jewelry. Maybe there was enough for a small shining brooch. Libby could wear it one day, Gittel the next.

“One act,” Lazar said. “Who has time to write anything longer in the busy season?”

“He means the actors wouldn’t give him more than an hour,” Minnie said to Nehama. It was a play in the new style. The actors spoke like ordinary people, like anyone right here in the Lane. There wasn’t a single rhyme. No dancing interlude. No Roman guards. No camels. No Bengal fire. They even had the script onstage because Lazar had just finished the play this morning.

It was about a father and son, peddlers who wanted to leave London because there was too much competition. They were discussing where they should go. They’d been arguing about it for twenty minutes, and it seemed that they would continue to argue for the entire act.

“As full of
dreck
as real life,” Nathan said. He was wearing his favorite and only jacket, with the yellow checks. He refused any other. This one suited him exactly.

“That’s real art,” Lazar replied, tipping his bowler hat. Minnie was proud of it, no wool cap for her husband, who attended the free lectures on art at the library. Nehama went to the lectures on economics.

“For such a demand you’ll have more than enough plays,” Nehama said. She liked the yellow jacket. All the others Nathan might have worn were in the coins knotted in handkerchiefs and stored under the loose board. Torchlight glinted on her husband’s face as he turned to wink at her.

“No, Nehameleh. You’re completely wrong. Who wouldn’t want to see something like this? You watch it and you feel like your life is very long,” he said.

Onstage, the father finally rose from his bench. He banged a fist on the rough table, looked defiantly at Lazar, and broke into song. “What does he think he’s doing?” Lazar asked.

Nehama and Minnie clapped. The thin crowd started to swell. The actor told a funny story and everyone laughed. Sometimes it happened like this. Yiddish actors weren’t yet convinced of the new style. They were used to making up their own lines when they got bored.

“Stop it!” Lazar shouted. He jumped onto the stage. The audience clapped harder. This was good fun. This was Chametz Battel Night.

“You’re not paying me enough to speak these lines,” the actor said, shaking the script at Lazar.

“You suppose anyone else would pay you more?” he asked. “You’re not even any good as a presser, never mind.”

“And you think you’re a Jewish Shakespeare? Better you should press paper with a hot iron than put a pencil on it.”

“A favor I did you. Giving you my best part where everyone could see you.”

“Better my grandmother should see me at my funeral,” the actor said, picking up the small table, which he’d brought from home, and stomping off the stage. The son shrugged and followed with the bench. The stage was empty, the crowd parted, some drawn by the smell of chocolate at the stall of sweets, some to the escape artist tied in ropes and hanging from a lamppost, others to the vendors of cooked meat.

“KIDNEY PIE CERTIFIED KOSHER BY THE CHIEF RABBI!”

“BRISKET! REAL KOSHER! NO PISS IN IT!”

“Very good,” Nathan said. “A wonderful play.”

“But it’s not over.” Lazar dug his hands into his pockets as he glared at the naked little stage.

“Now you can go,” Nehama said to Gittel. “Here, take my shawl. It’s getting cold. And don’t come back too soon. I have a lot to get for Pesach, still.”

“All right, Mama. All right.”

Nehama put the red shawl around her daughter’s shoulders, murmuring warnings and instructions and scratching Gittel’s back in that one spot midway between her shoulder blades where it itched whenever she got excited.

It was just then that Nathan saw Mr. Shmolnik, the pawnbroker, across the way and said that he needed to have a word with him about getting a third sewing machine as he’d heard that Shmolnik had gotten one in very cheap. So why did it have to be that minute—who knows? It was a night for buying. A night for selling. Maybe Nathan thought he’d get a deal and tomorrow Passover was coming; it would be days till Mr. Shmolnik’s shop would open again, and tonight money burned to change hands.

The Lane was slick with wet muck, all the dropped bits of festivity tramped underfoot. When Nathan slipped and hit the ground with a thud, he got up and made such a face that everyone laughed as he slapped his hat back on his head. He waved at Mr. Shmolnik and called to him to stop. A cart with nuns from the convent was passing by. They
looked happy to be outside; they were chattering and pointing and laughing. The cart was painted with lilies for Easter, the horses in straw hats laden with flowers. But why should they go down to Whitechapel Road through the Lane tonight of all nights?

There was a noise. Of course there was a noise. There was lots of noise, all kinds of noise. But something startled one of the horses. Maybe it was the stall of chocolates that fell over when the men chasing each other with squirters crashed into it. Or maybe it was the juggler who dropped his plates on purpose to startle his audience. As Nathan stepped back to get out of the way of the nervous horse, he slipped again. He was flat on the ground, the driver struggling with the reins. A man jumped from the cart, a priest, and the nuns were screaming. Nehama blinked, then the horses were rearing and Nathan’s arm was sticking out from between the wheels of the cart.

Lazar was saying something she couldn’t hear. Minnie had her by the arm and Lazar gripped her shoulders as the horses were taken out of their harness and tied to posts. Nehama was holding on to her basket. Everything for Passover was there. How can you have a holiday without what you need for it?

She waited for Nathan to jump up and run back to her with a joke. But he was just lying there, a crumple of yellow jacket.
“Tatteh!”
Gittel was crying. When he wouldn’t answer, she threw herself at him. Nehama stood by, saying nothing, holding on to the basket with everything she needed for Passover except the one that mattered most.

Whitechapel Road

The sages wrote that it is the duty of every man to bring joy to his household with nuts and new garments on the festival, and wine to cheer the telling of the Passover story. Gittel knew that in every Jewish room in the East End, there was a table with a white cloth, a pair of candlesticks, a
seder
plate with a burnt egg, a shank bone, greens, bitter herbs, and sweet apples mixed with crushed nuts and wine. In the center of the table was the best cup for Elijah the prophet, who would invisibly travel from home to home, taking a drop of wine from each to share the joy of freedom.

But what did Gittel care about holidays? Papa was unconscious.
His head was banged up and no one could tell how badly. On the outside it didn’t look terrible. There was a bruise above his right ear but no blood.

Sister Marion, who was in charge, stood by Sister Frances, the shorter of the two, stout and ruddy. She spoke like a Cockney, Sister Marion like a shopkeeper’s beady-eyed and self-important wife. They were taller than Mama, the white wimple made them more imposing, but she faced the nurses with their clean sturdy hands and immaculate aprons bleached and boiled by fallen women and orphaned girls who had no festival of freedom, holding Gittel’s trembling hand. The nurses didn’t want Gittel to stay.

“Don’t say a word, my daughter,” Nehama murmured in Yiddish. “Leave it to me.” They stood next to Papa’s bed. There was a row of such beds. In each of them a man was maybe dying and maybe living.

“Girls don’t belong here,” Sister Marion said. “The men are exposed when the dressings is changed. You people think you can do whatever you please. But rules is just the same for them as think they’re above such things. She has to go.”

“Then who’s allowed?” Mama asked in the polite tone she used for lady visitors who came from the Jewish Board of Guardians to inspect their rooms.

“His wife, of course,” Sister Marion said. “And other married female relations. A sister, for example.”

“Oh, that’s all right then,” Mama informed her. “This is my husband’s littlest sister what’s married.” The nurses glanced at each other. Gittel was blushing. “Yes, don’t you know? Jews marry their children off dreadful young.”

“Disgusting,” Sister Frances said. The head nurse wiped her nose as if something were stinking more than the men’s wounds. But Gittel stayed.