17 Martin Street by Marilyn Taylor

Author:Marilyn Taylor [Marilyn Taylor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781847174055
Publisher: The O'Brien Press
Published: 2012-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

The following Saturday Ben arrived early at Number 17, wondering if they’d got the note from the girl. Hetty, putting the breakfast dishes in the sink, barely greeted him. Later, when she brought Solly down – smiling and pointing at Ben with his chubby little hand – Zaida had arrived and invited Ben into the parlour to identify for him, as he’d promised to do ever since he found Ben gazing at them, the people in the sepia photographs on the wall.

‘That was my father, may he rest in peace,’ Zaida said, indicating the white-bearded, hawkfaced old man whom Ben had noticed. ‘He passed away after I left home. That’s my mother beside him holding the youngest grandchild, and my sisters and their families.’ He gazed unseeingly out of the window at the street. ‘The last time I saw my father was in the field near our home in Lithuania, in a shtetl – a village called Akmiyan, a long way from here. I had learned some tailoring there from my father.’ He gave Ben a sad smile. ‘I was pulling up beets and he came out to warn me – Cossack soldiers were raiding the shtetl, there were screams and smoke and flames …’ He paused, his voice husky. ‘My father said, “They’re rounding up young men for the Tsar’s army. You must leave now, my son.”’

Zaida turned to Ben who’d listened politely at first, but was now transfixed. ‘Young men had to do twenty-five years’ military service – and very few Jews ever came home after it. I had no money or papers – I was only wearing a ragged shirt.’ He looked down at his Sabbath suit. ‘My father took off his greatcoat, put it over my shoulders, gave me a few kopeks and a loaf of rye bread, and told me to go to my oldest sister, Mariashe.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘I’d never even seen her. She left home for England before I was born.’

Hetty stood listening, though she must have heard it all before. But Ben was staggered. ‘How did you manage with no money?’ he asked. ‘Did the soldiers catch up with you?’

Sinking into the easy chair, Zaida told Ben about the long, difficult journey to England, taking over a year, and from there later to Ireland. Along the way his tailoring skills earned him a little money, and he also did farm work, often sleeping in haybarns with the animals.

During Zaida’s story, when his English failed him, he had to put in the odd Yiddish word. Zaida was still recounting it when Mr Golden descended the stairs. ‘Come, Papa,’ he said gently, ‘it’s time for the service.’

Zaida looked round vaguely, as though he had just returned from a journey and wasn’t sure where he was. As his son took his arm, he said uncertainly, ‘Of course, we mustn’t be late for the synagogue.’ He smiled at Ben regretfully. ‘I’ll tell you more, young man, another time.’ Putting on his worn greatcoat he added: ‘This coat – it’s the one my father gave me.

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