Another Year in Africa by Rose Zwi

Author:Rose Zwi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: African Studies.
Publisher: Spinifex Press
Published: 2008-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

She always sang that song when the postman had no letters for her.

‘Oy vey,’ she sighed, bringing the chicken to the table. ‘Which part do you prefer, child?’

Ruth flushed with pleasure; she’d never been asked before.

‘The wing,’ she said casually.

‘Funny,’ Gittel said. ‘You always eat the drumstick. Tell me, how was school?’

‘Nice. And I’ve got a friend. Mavis Jackson.’

‘Jackson. Is she Jewish?’

‘No. She’s asked me to come and play with her after school tomorrow. She’s going to teach me to speak English properly,’ Ruth added with newly-found guile.

‘Good, good. But don’t eat in their house. It’s not kosher. I’ll give you extra semitches with schmaltz tomorrow. Say you’re not hungry if they offer you food. God forbid, they can noch give you pork to eat. Ugggh.’

‘Bobbe,’ Ruth said hesitantly. ‘Can you make my semitches a little thinner tomorrow? The children laugh at me and say only kaffirs eat such thick slices of bread. Please make them thin.’

‘New fashions,’ Gittel sniffed. ‘If it’s thin you might as well eat paper. All right, all right, don’t cry. Straight away there are tears. I don’t know who you take after. I’ll cut them thinner. New fashions,’ she grumbled walking into the backyard. ‘These kaffertes have to be watched,’ she told Ruth. ‘In no time at all they can stuff some washing into their bosoms and you wouldn’t even know the difference.’

After lunch Ruth sat on the back steps and watched the large white sheets and towels flapping in the afternoon breeze. Mondays smell of fried fish and soap and wet clothes, she noted. And tomorrow will smell of chips and vinegar. On the way back from Davis’s she would show Mavis her secret place in the plantation where she and Zutzke hid away during pogroms.

But perhaps Mavis didn’t understand about pogroms. Besides, Berka said there would never be pogroms again. A heavy load lifted from her heart at the thought.

‘Peachies! Peachies!’ she heard a call from the street.

‘Bobbe, they’re selling peachies,’ she called.

‘Ask the wagoner to wait,’ Gittel said taking a final count of the washing on the line. ‘And in my chestadraw where I keep my underwear you’ll find my purse. Please fetch it for me.’

Ruth went inside, darted around the breakfast room table and opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers. Under a cotton petticoat she found the little black purse. She was almost out of the room when she stopped, shook the purse, then opened it cautiously. There were two half crowns, a shilling and a sixpence. With a beating heart she took the shilling out of the purse. She held it in her palm for a few seconds, then hurriedly put it back again, running outside where Gittel stood on the pavement next to a large covered ox wagon.

‘How much?’ Gittel asked the sunburned man as he stepped off the wagon.

‘Two shillings a bucket, a big bucket,’ he answered in a thick voice. Three and six for two buckets, big buckets.’

‘Three shillings,’ Gittel bargained, walking towards the back of the wagon, followed by Ruth.

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