Читать книгу That Stranger Next Door - Goldie Alexander - Страница 11

Ruth

All weekend I nursed my secret, so I suppose I was dreamier than usual. 'Ruth, what's wrong with you?' Mamma cried after I forgot to unpeg the laundry and bring the basket upstairs. 'Why so vague?'

'Too much homework,' I muttered.

'Really?'

What if I told her the truth? What if I told her that I was meeting this gorgeous Catholic boy called Patrick Sean O'Sullivan who was about to show me how to ride a bike.

What would she do then? I knew her reaction. She'd take me aside and I'd get an endless lecture on the dangers of mixing with boys from other religions. She'd say, 'We were only saved by a miracle to come to this country. You should know by now not to trust anyone who isn't Jewish. If you mix with gentile boys, you will only bring trouble on our heads. You know enough about what happened in Europe to be aware that even those who didn't remember that they were Jewish, were sent to the gas chambers. It didn't do them any good whatsoever moving outside their community.

'As for riding a bike, how can you even think of something so dangerous? What if you fall and hurt yourself or fall under a car? Ruth, it's time you grew up and took more responsibility…' and so on and so on; she'd never stop!

I would then have to promise to never see Patrick again. If I refused, I'd never be allowed to go anywhere except school and back. Possibly forever. As for the bike, I'd get a another lecture to never, ever attempt to ride in streets crowded with dangerous cars, trucks and trams and how, if I was to fall off, I'd be sure to break a leg or an arm and end up in hospital, and how much this would inconvenience the family, and how I never think about anyone else but myself.

The trouble was that she had a sixth sense for lies.

'Homework. Is that all?'

'Yes,' I muttered. 'We get much too much.'

She didn't believe me. 'Ruth,' she said sternly. 'I know how confusing growing up can be, I'm not so old I can't remember what it's like being fifteen. So I ask you not to indulge in so much daydreaming. Once you are older, you will need every bit of self-control to make a successful marriage. Please try to control your enthusiasms.'

I felt my face grow hot. It seemed stupid to worry about 'making a successful marriage' when I was only fifteen. She knew I was thinking this, because she reminded me that she was barely eighteen when she met Papa, 'Only three years older than you are now.'

But right now, all I could imagine when I turn eighteen was studying medicine, learning to be as good a doctor as possible.

'Mamma, I've just got too much homework. Why can't you ever believe me?'

She sniffed and sent me to polish the silver, and after that, to try and amuse Leon who was in a total grump. He wanted to play hide and seek, but I couldn't be bothered. Instead, I took him to the playground. There, while I pushed him on the swing, and those obstinate curls ruffled in the breeze, I was free to stay with my dreams.

Of course he accused me of not listening.

'I am, I am,' I quickly assured him. 'I heard every bit.'

His stare was disbelieving. 'So… tell Leon.'

'Thomas the Tank Engine is in trouble,' I began as this is story he most likes. 'I'll tell you the rest on our way home.'

At this, he slowly climbed off the swing onto his tricycle. As we headed towards Brighton Road I made up the rest of the story. Not that this was ever enough, as he had an insatiable need. 'You tell new one,' he demanded.

'Okay.' I stopped to think. 'Thomas is sad because he has no one to play with.'

'Why?'

'Because the other engines won't play with him.'

Those obstinate curls formed a question mark. 'Why?'

A truck roared past exhaling smelly exhaust fumes. 'Because Thomas was naughty. He blew smoke in their faces.'

He considered this. 'That's not nice.'

'Not at all nice,' I agreed.

'What happened after?'

'He told the other engines how sorry he was for upsetting them.'

'And…?'

'And now he always made sure his smoke goes another way.'

Leon must have been satisfied with this ending, because he pedalled home without any more coaxing. But all I could think was how easy it was to find a happy ending when it came to stories, and how hard in real life. Whenever I thought about Patrick, which I did all the time, I couldn't imagine any way Mamma and Papa would allow me to keep seeing him. So how could having him as my boyfriend end happily if everything was stacked against us?

I did wonder about his quick change of mood. What if all teenage boys have unexpected dark spells? Was it because he wanted to be an artist and his father expected him to study law? If only I knew more boys, it would make understanding Patrick so much easier.

Mostly, I wondered what it would be like if we could be together more freely. Didn't most stories have happy endings? I refused to believe that mine couldn't end well.

Monday seemed endless. School never varied; just more homework and the constant threat of oncoming exams. If I didn't get high marks, I risked losing my scholarship. In math we revised mean, medium and mode. In science, we started lab work, in history we went over the Restoration of Charles the Second, and in English, we worked on adverbial clauses. Lunch-break, we practiced basketball, exploring new tactics for when we played other schools. As goalie I warned Kate and Denise that I needed more protection when the ball came at me from far left. They kept fooling around and it was hard getting them to listen.

At home, when I could find a moment between looking after Leon, making Zeida his endless glasses of tea and helping Mamma scrub baking pans and dust shelves, I escaped to my room.

Mostly, I pictured Patrick and myself some place where grown-ups didn't exist; some place where we were allowed to be together without letting my whole religion and background down. I imagined us walking along the beach hand in hand watching a wonderful sunset, sitting in the park with our arms around each other, even enjoying a movie. But deep inside I knew these were only daydreams and unlikely to come true.

The only letup was running another message for Eva. A pint of milk, a loaf of brown bread, and four packets of Craven A cigarettes.

She chain-smoked. Did this mean she was dreadfully nervous? But why not go down the street herself? I became more and more convinced that she really was Evdokia Petrov, otherwise her secrecy made no sense at all. Not unless she really was Evdokia Petrov, as she continued to look so upset until I promised to keep her presence a total secret.

When I returned with her shopping, she took me into her kitchen and offered me a glass of milk. While I drank, she dropped more hints about her previous life. She grew up in a village in the Ukraine where there was also a big Jewish population. 'All dead,' she told me. 'Everyone dead. First big famine when communists take grain away. No food. Many die. Also Christians. Almost all village dead. After, when Nazis come, they kill all Jews. Bury in big…' she finally came up with, 'hole.'

I nodded. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear all this. It reminded me too much about those other grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins I never got to meet, too much about Jews being led like sheep to the slaughter, and how, if Mamma and Papa hadn't emigrated to Australia, this would have happened to us. It filled me with too much shame that this was allowed to happen. After all, this was 1954 and I was sure the world had learnt never to repeat such terrible events again. But then, not wanting to hear all this made me feel dreadfully guilty, as if I didn't care enough for those lost millions when the truth was quite the opposite. I cared far too much.

Anytime I brought it up, both Mamma and Papa said, 'Rest assured Ruthele, we'll never let anything like that happen' Mostly, it was best I didn't mention it as they got too upset. Maybe they thought they were rescuing me from dwelling on such horrors by not talking about them. I knew they did when I wasn't around, as I heard them from another room. But whenever I walked in, they instantly clammed up. Didn't it make me feel horrible that I was spared and so many millions weren't? Didn't it make me wonder what I have to do to prove that my survival wasn't just a lucky accident, that there was some profound reason for my being here, only I still didn't know what it was?

I lost so many relatives I could hardly bear to think about it. Zeida was Papa's father. His wife, my bubba, my grandmother, died when Papa was only ten and they only ever had one son. But I never got a chance to meet Mamma's parents or her younger sister and brother, Mamma had photos of her parents in their Sabbath clothes, both so serious, like they had to stay quite still as they waited for the camera. That other Zeida had a round face like Mamma's, and he was short and plump. His wife was also quite round with a high forehead, dark eyes, and curly hair pulled behind her ears. Mamma claimed I was the spitting image of her. How I wished I could have known them. I knew from talking to my school friends, that grandparents adore grandchildren, so I was sure Bubbe and Zeida would have spoilt me outrageously. I was sure they would have told Mamma to stop being so overly critical, maybe even helped her out with babysitting Leon so I wouldn't have so many tasks to complete when I came home from school. It was another way I felt our family was terribly unlucky.

After tea, I thought about phoning Nancy, about confiding in her. But in the end I wasn't sure. I figured she would only take on her disapproving-mother voice. From our endless conversations, I knew she agreed with our parents that we should never date gentile boys. Anytime in the past I brought this is up, she said, 'The only way we can recover from the Holocaust is to stay together.'

Maybe I wouldn't have minded so much if she didn't argue with her parents over everything else. It was all very well for her with so many Jewish boys at Uni High; she could pick and choose to her heart's content.

But where was I supposed to meet them? Besides, I really liked Patrick. In fact, I couldn't stop thinking about him. Did this mean I was in love? Hadn't we already had one date? Did that mean he was almost my boyfriend? Then I remembered that quick change of mood and wondered what it meant? The thing was, I didn't know anything about big boys, only little ones like Leon who also shift from being happy one minute to angry tears the next. Maybe all boys were hard to handle. What I did know was that I really wanted to be with Patrick a great deal more, far more than one hour on a Tuesday afternoon.

That morning, I told Mamma that I would be late home from school. She looked around from the stove where she was stirring porridge. 'Papa has an important appointment this afternoon. Means I'm in the shop by myself. I'll need you to look after Leon.'

'Can't miss basketball practice,' I lied. 'If we don't turn up we're out.' Then I sulkily added, 'What's it all about, anyway?'

She turned back to the stove. 'Your father's appointment is with a solicitor.'

'Why?' I wailed, though my thoughts were elsewhere. So it was only later that I remember this conversation, only very much later that the importance hit me.

She frowned, started to say something, shook her head and turned away.

'Why does it always have to be me?' I whined. 'Why can't Zeida look after Leon?'

She shrugged and nodded. So I picked up the brown paper bag with my lunch, grabbed my hat, gloves and bag and I was out the door so fast she couldn't see me for dust.

I thought I'd managed my escape until Eva's door opened a crack. She called, 'Need message tonight.'

Another time I wouldn't have minded. Today, I wanted to tell her to forget it. But then I remembered how generous she'd been. 'I'll come by later,' I called, and I was off before anyone could think of another excuse to bring me home early.

The day dragged on and on. In Geography when Miss O'Rourke asked me a question, I blinked stupidly.

'Not your usual alert self, Ruth,' she said in her most sarcastic voice.

I reddened and didn't answer. Of course not! All day I couldn't stop thinking about Patrick.

I worried he would forget our date, or I'd get to the park and he wouldn't be there, or if he did turn up, I'd be too shy to talk to him properly, or I wouldn't know when he was pleased or when he wasn't.

Worse still, what if, when I did get on the bike, I would make a fool of myself and then he'd despise me.