Cafe Scheherazade (3 page)

Yankel laboured and longed for the day when he would return to his grand obsession. Etta journeyed in his wake, thousands of kilometres east, with her new-born daughter, to Irkutsk. She obtained work as a nurse, looked after her infant child, and visited Yankel on the shores of Lake Baikal.

‘She always carried the family on her shoulders,' says Avram. ‘She was always both a breadwinner and revolutionary. She tended her husband, her children, her patients, and her comrades. She made time for everyone.'

‘And Yankel?'

‘He was a professional revolutionary. The party always carne first. When I was a child I rarely saw him. He was often absent at night, at a meeting, a conference, a Bund gathering. Sometimes he was away for weeks on end, on missions throughout Poland. He was always on the move, always organising and scheming. When he was in town he would visit me at school, in the mornings, and treat me to breakfast. This was our allotted time together. Of him it was said: “Where he stands he talks, where he sits, he sleeps.”'

‘You are jumping ahead now,' Masha warns. ‘One minute we are in Siberia, in Irkutsk, on Lake Baikal, ten years before you were born, and now we are in Vilna, twenty years later. Martin will be confused.'

But I do not mind. I enjoy the asides. The hours flow through the winter night. Trams glide by, like whispers on wheels. Lights wink from restaurants lining the Street. A gentle rain slants down in transparent sheets. And Avram's lilting voice draws me back through the early years of a passing century.

In 1914, Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated in Sarajevo. The tribes of Europe converged upon the battlefields. In the millions they fell, foot soldiers in the service of emperors whose dominions were about to be swept aside. In muddy trenches, amid the stench of decaying flesh, their bodies numb with fatigue, they battled over mere metres of ground. And wherever they fought, they sowed the unmarked graves of countless wasted lives, until those who still remained screamed: ‘Enough! Let the empire crumble! Let the old order die. We want bread! We want peace!'

In March 1917, Tsar Nicholas was swept aside; and thousands of kilometres to the east, on the shores of Lake Baikal, Yankel Zeleznikow was pardoned and released from his Siberian exile.

Towards the west they journeyed, Etta and Yankel, anxious to rekindle their life's work. They chose Kiev, capital of the Ukraine, as the city in which to resume their lives. They entered a city draped in red banners and flags. It was the alluring springtime of revolution. A time of soap-box orators, fiery speeches, messianic visions. Fatigued villagers streamed in from the provinces lured by the promise of better days.

But it was short-lived, this interlude of utopian fantasies. The White Armies were on the march throughout the Ukraine. In August 1919, the Red Army retreated from Kiev. Battles raged on the banks of the River Dnieper. Thugs and bandits gained control of the streets.

Events seemed to be careering out of control. The Red Army regained the city in December. Typhus and famine engulfed the land. Revolution gave way to repression. The Red dictatorship took hold, the all-powerful party seized total control; and in 1922 the Bund was banned. Avram's father became a wanted man.

Yankel farewelled his wife and daughter, and fled Kiev in a horse-drawn wagon crowded with books. Russian novelists, French philosophers, Yiddish poets and socialist pamphleteers kept him company as he travelled west, through Poland, in search of yet another home. Wherever he went he was feted by Bund comrades and put up in the homes of fellow cadres. Wherever he journeyed he was assigned urgent missions.

Yankel's life became one extended detour that did not end until he arrived in Vilna. It was in the Jerusalem of Lithuania that Etta and Yankel were reunited, and finally set up a permanent home. And it was in this fabled city where, in 1924, their second child, Avram, was born.

II

L
ike a magnet Scheherazade draws them, cynics and idealists, ageing schemers and dreamers. One by one they enter on a Sunday morning. A typical Sunday. Each newcomer is greeted with a wave of the hand, a raised eyebrow, a familiar routine.

‘Sholem Aleichem!'

‘Aleichem Sholem!'

‘Well? How is it going?'

‘As you can see, I am still alive.'

‘And how are the children?'

‘They are so busy I have to make an appointment to see them.'

‘And the business?'

‘The business? It's deep in the ground.'

‘So? That is where we will all be soon enough.'

Rapid-fire conversations echo from all corners of the cafe. Caffeine courses through the veins. The talk becomes louder, more animated. The chairs extend outwards as the circles expand.

Listen, and you will hear four, five, six voices at a time. Perhaps you think this impolite, lacking in manners, in style. But for those who participate this is a weekly
simkhe
, a celebration, a communal gathering. The babble of voices is an aria to their ears. A full-blown opera, first heard in the towns of their youth, in shtetl cottages, in crowded apartments with whole families packed together in one room.

To be heard was to learn to leap into a discussion, to dart in and out of an argument, to know when to deliver a punchline, an aphorism, a retort, while at the same time keeping an ear upon two, three, four simultaneous conversations, lest a crucial piece of gossip should pass one by.

They are like a chorus in a Greek drama, those who frequent Scheherazade on this winter morning. They fill in the gaps. They echo the central text. Each one has a story aching to be told: tales of townlets and cities now vanished from the earth, of journeys in search of refuge, a shelter from a curse.

Yossel Bartnowski enters the cafe with slow, measured steps. A man in his late eighties, he is well dressed for his Sunday promenade. He wears a pin-striped suit, double-breasted. A green umbrella dangles on his left arm. The umbrella matches his green shirt studs and emerald bow tie. His body is short and stocky, and suggests a tenacious will. His ample face falls away into a succession of chins. A red pullover highlights his red complexion; his braised cheeks are on fire with age. Yet, as he seats himself beside me, I am startled when I see that his eyes are an unblemished blue.

‘My foolish child, age does not matter. Willpower can defeat it,' he tells me. ‘I can still lift fifty kilos. I walk fifteen kilometres a day. I do not take short cuts. I do not waste time. I climb the stairs to my apartment. I set my heart to work. I pump the blood through my varicose veins. I leave the car rotting in the garage, and I walk until I burst.

‘You are the writer, Martin Davis, no? I have read your articles in the press. I have read your stories about the old world,
der alter velt
. My foolish child, what do you understand about the past? You did not live there, may my enemies have such luck. What do you know of such things? You are still a young man. You were born here, in Australia, in a fortunate hour. If you wish to know
der alter velt
, I will tell you. If you wish to write about Vilna, you have hit the mark.

‘My dear Martin, no one knows this city as well as I do: the central market place, the Sage of Vilna's house, the synagogue courtyard, the boulevards and lanes. I can still see them in front of my eyes. And I can see the hill, by the banks of the river, with the three crosses burning at night. And the rise on the opposite banks, with Count Gedimin's castle ruins; of course I knew that too. It was the perfect place to take a girl at night. Such a beautiful view. Such a beautiful girl. What a
mekhaiye
, a pure delight.

‘And I know the history. You think I am an ignoramus? Vilna was founded by Count Gedimin; six, maybe seven hundred years ago, give or take a century or two. What does it matter? It was a long time ago. I know the poem, ‘Pan Tadeusz' by Mickiewicz. I learnt it as a child. I can still recite it by heart. In the original Polish, of course!'

And Yossel declaims with a flourish:

‘Gedimin, by meandering Wilja's and Wilenka's streams,

Lay, bewitched, while he dreamed of the iron wolf;

And awakened by the gods' command,

Built Vilna like a wild wolf that breeds

In the forest among bears, boars and bison.

‘You see, my dear Martin? I am not an ignoramus. But a poem is just a poem. If you wish to know a city, you must sit in its cafes. This is the most important thing to do when you arrive in a new place. This is where you sniff the air, and know what is what.

‘In Vilna, if you wanted to know what was happening, you went to Wolfke's. If you wanted to make contacts, do business, where else would you go but Wolfke's? If you wanted to forget your worries, to hear a story, a joke, the best place was Wolfke's.

‘It stood on the corner of Niemecka and Zydowska. Just one hop and a spring from the synagogue courtyard. First I would pray, and then I would run to Wolfke's for a bite, a quick drink! My foolish child, Wolfke's was the Scheherazade of Vilna.'

Yossel orders a coffee. It remains untouched as his eyes scan the cafe. He is expecting his regular companions, Laizer Bialer and Zalman Grintraum. They share the same miracle, Yossel tells me. They first met in Wolfke's, in the final months of 1939. The city was inflated with refugees. They clogged community buildings, the synagogue foyers, private apartments, and single rooms. From every corner of Nazi-controlled Poland they had fled, from Lublin and Lodz, from Siedlce, Krakow and Belz, from Chelm and Czestochova, from every village and town, from every alley and avenue on which their families had once lived.

Yossel too had fled to Vilna, from his native Warsaw, where he was raised. Krochmalna Street was his cradle. Its crumbling courtyards were his playgrounds. A ground-floor apartment was the family home. In the apartment next door lived a family of thieves, and on an upper floor there was a school for thieves, where thirteen-year-old boys would gather to learn how to pick pockets. Their teachers were professional crooks.

‘My foolish child, do you think they had a choice?' says Yossel. ‘It was a family enterprise. The mother looked after the stolen goods. She kept an inventory. She was the boss; a big woman who could hardly squeeze through a narrow door.
Freidl die fresserin
, she was called. Freda the guts. She could eat a whole goose at one sitting. She dealt in geese. She would stride through the streets of Warsaw with a goose tucked firmly under each arm while bands of children followed her chanting:
“Freidl die fresserin. Freidl die fresserin.”
'

Yossel tells this story often, to anyone who is willing to listen, who allows him the slightest chance. Yossel still stalks the streets of Warsaw. He still hovers in its shadows. He remains obsessed by a world of hoodlums and fear.

‘We roamed the neighbourhood in gangs: the Polacks versus the Yids. Each gang had its territory, its exclusive beat. Our leader was Mendel Mandelbaum. He was the strongest Yid in Krochmalna Street. He was a porter. An ox. He could carry a safe on his shoulders. He led a gang of porters and wagon drivers. They fought many battles until Mendel Mandelbaum and the Yids prevailed and, for a few months, peace descended upon Krochmalna Street.

‘Mendel was my protector. I followed him wherever I could. I followed him to the Polonia, the biggest and best hotel in Warsaw. We would go down to the basement cafe, where the boys from Krochmalna played billiards and pool.

‘Mendel played for high stakes. He would bet one hundred zlotys on a single game. He played against a highly ranked government official. A crowd of onlookers watched them compete. The boys from Krochmalna placed their hard-earned zlotys on Mendel. Others put their money on his opponent. There was always an even chance of winning or losing, so closely were they matched.

‘But danger was never far away. Violence could erupt at any time, even as we played in the basement cafe behind the broad shoulders of our Mendel. My foolish child, what do you know about danger? About fear? Here we live in a paradise!

‘Stanislaw the pimp would descend into the cafe surrounded by a gang of henchmen. He had the most beautiful women working for him. Stanislaw was the king of the pimps. His face was scarred all over from knife cuts he had received in the many street battles he fought until he emerged on top of the heap.

‘We all feared him. Martin, how can you know what is fear? In Australia we have no fear. Here we live in a
gan eiden
, a golden land. We make a living. We educate our children. I have one daughter, a chemist, a second daughter, a doctor; and a son-in-law, a professor of literature. A true
goan
. A sage. He knows all the great books of the world. And he knows nothing. I am joking, of course. He is a clever boy.'

Yossel is breathless. His heart is pumping. And this pleases him. It makes him feel he is fully alive. He reaches for his wallet and extracts two photos.

‘My grandchildren,' he announces. ‘This is my true wealth. My legacy. My pride. Here we made a good life.' Yossel sweeps his arm in an arc to include the old men and sprinkling of women bent over their coffees at the tables of Scheherazade.

‘Stanislaw the pimp advanced towards us, his arms hanging by his sides. My dear Martin, of course I was afraid! I was terrified. I wanted to run to the toilet. I was shaking inside and out. Even now, sixty years later, I cannot understand why I ran out in front of Stanislaw with an ashtray in my hand. How could I do such a foolish thing? I was possessed. I was moved by a
meshugene
impulse, a sudden rage.

‘I hurled the ashtray at Stanislaw. I can see it now, as it flew towards him. I can see the exact moment when it crashed against his forehead. I can see the skin breaking open, the blood squirting over his face. I can see his astonishment, his burning eyes, as he leapt at me, clawed at me like a wounded animal. By the time Mendel came to my aid, Stanislaw had landed enough blows to send me to hospital for a month.

‘When I returned I was the toast of the streets. This is how it was. The boys of Krochmalna put on a reception for me. The Polish and Jewish underworld joined together to welcome me back. They hired the banquet hall of the Polonia.