| Smiling,
looking down at the flower, I explain, half-
musing, "I used to. I don't
anymore."
Edna looks at the flower.
"That's
right," she concedes graciously. "You used
to." Now she holds
the flower under Danny Tan-
nenbaum's chin. "You pee in bed now."
Danny, red, reluctantly nods. "Only sometimes."
I
take the flower from Edna's hand and hold it un-
der her chin. "You pee
in bed?"
"I used to," she says, laughing.
Mrs. Tannenbaum's voice precedes her. Carrying a
large shopping
bag, she cascades large and gruesome
on to us. "Danny! I told you not
to go near that dirty
whore! She'll give you a disease!" She pulls her
Danny away.
A minute ago the sun shone. Now this fat
bigot is
raining her poison on us.
Edna is infuriated.
"Your mouth could give him a
disease!"
In
anger and disgust Mrs. Tannenbaum retorts,
"Whores and horse shit! What
a neighborhood! She
has to move to this street! Naturally! Mrs. Founder!
Your boy is playing with the whore!"
A window opens.
A woman's head. "Come in the
house, Andre."
Another
voice calls out, "Marie. Come m the
house."
All
the children scatter, except for Cleo and me. The
tailor shop has a small room off the front
room. One wall is completely lined
with books. On a
workbench is a pants press. Mr. Baumgarten is iron-
ing
a jacket and talking to Mr. Elias, my zaideh. Mr.
Elias sips lemoned tea from
a glass. The hot iron
sizzles steam from new damp garments. The tailor
pats the cloth, and asks, "Who was it that said, "What
is the bigger
crime? To rob a bank or to open a
bank?'"
Grandpa
sips his tea. "Probably Jeremiah."
Mr. Baumgarten
is amused. He puts aside the hot
iron
and goes to look for a book, to track down the
quotation. Despite his amusement
he comments dry-
ly that the author of the quote was more probably
Karl
Marx.
Grandpa's eyes follow the tailor over to the book-
shelves. In his opinion, Karl Marx only repeated what
the ancient prophets
said.
"Not quite. Not quite." Mr. Baumgarten's
finger
reads the titles on the bookshelf. He finds the book
he seeks,
removes it, and sits down to find the quota-
tion.
Grandpa,
holding his tea, eyes the German, Rus-
sian, and English books.
"Have
you read all of these books?"
The tailor peers up,
looking at his books lovingly.
All the great and pertinent political thoughts
of the
day are housed on these shelves. "All of them," he an-
swers. "And I still read them."
Grandpa nods with
respect. "I've read only one
book... and I'm still reading it."
Mr. Baumgarten nods his respect for the ancient
book. "The
ancient prophets were wise, Mr. Elias. I
don't deny that. But they couldn't
foresee the rise of
capitalism, nor did they understand the class nature of
injustice."
Mr. Baumgarten's eyes scan his row of books,
while
Grandpa answers for the prophets, saying, "They
foretold that
when the Messiah came, all injustice
would disappear."
And
Baumgarten, the tailor muses, "The working
class is today's messiah,
Mr. Elias."
The room, light enough to sew in, is still
dark af-
ter the sun. I enter, searching for Grandpa. I'm car-
rying
Edna's buttercup, and show Grandpa. "Why is
Edna dirty, Grandpa? Doesn't
she like to wash?"
Grandpa looks to Mr. Baumgarten
for help with
the explanation, and then looks back at me. "She
washes,
like everybody else. But she sells lies."
I've thought
a lot about Grandpa's answer. At first
it surprised me. "She tells lies
and sells them?"
Mr. Baumgarten tries to help. "You'd
be surprised
how many people sell and how many people buy lies."
Grandpa's eyes fly to the window, chasing some
commotion
in the courtyard. Wisps of commotion
outside obtrude into the tailor's room.
Angry words
and hatred. Edna and Tannenbaum are arguing. Their
voices
swelling. The old men exchange a look and
start to leave the shop to go and
see what is happen-
ing, while I'm thinking of Edna's "lies," and
say to
Grandpa, "I bet Papa buys from her."
"He
doesn't have to buy from her," scorns Zaideh.
Outside,
Edna is standing in the court, shouting up
at Mrs. Tannenbaum.
Mrs.
Tannenbaum is on her balcony, hurling insults
back. Mrs. Tannenbaum is in
a terrible temper. "Get
out of the yard! You don't belong here! I'lI
call the
police!"
Edna stands with her hands on
her hips. "I'll stand
here and show my ass if I want to!"
"You
should be stoned! We should stone you! You
hear me? We should stuff her filthy
mouth!"
Edna, belligerently, turns and lifts her skirt,
show-
ing her bloomers to Mrs. Tannenbaum. "Kiss my royal
American
ass!"
This brings the courtyard audience some merriment.
Edna proudly leaves.
"We
should stone her! Stone her! The police won't
do anything! We should stone
her!"
Grandpa, looking at his friend Baumgarten, lectures
the courtyard. "Stone her? Once before people stoned
such a girl as Edna,
and this great rabbi came along
and protected her, and said, 'He who is without
sin
amongst you, let him cast the first stone.' Nobody
threw another stone.
Everyone had sinned."
Mr. Baumgarten looks surprised.
"A great rabbi,
Mr. Elias?"
"And what
was he, if not a great rabbi, Mr.
Baumgarten?"
What
a full, full day, and not even a Sunday!
A taxi pulls up
to the gate of the courtyard and
stops. A beaming, triumphant Harry emerges,
carrying
many packages. Paying the cabbie, he calls out to
me, "Davie.
Come and give me a hand."
I go and help my father with
the parcels.
Harry strides past Grandpa, crowing. "The
bank
loan came through."
Grandpa simply nods. He
and Mr. Baumgarten re-
turn to the shade of the tailor's shop, as we parcel
up
the stairs.
Cleo holds the buttercup under her dog's
jowls and
tells the world inexplicably. "My feet are clean, 'cause
my mamma washes them."
Evening comes, and we are frantic-merry.
Grand-
pa, Annie, Harry, Uncle Benny, and me in the living
room. I love
the noise and confusion of the celebra-
tion, at least from the safety of
grandpa's shadow.
Grandpa watches silently.
Harry and
Benny gloat, bloated with success.
Annie dances, swirling
the new shawl Harry has
bought
her. The phonograph is playing, and Annie
sings in accompaniment. "I'm
just wild about Harry,
and Harry's wild about me..."
The
music slows, slurs, and I run over to the gram-
ophone to rewind it. Excited.
I enjoy my mother sing-
ing. I rush to join her dancing. I clutter-scamper
around her feet. She turns to Grandpa to say, "You'll
have to admit.
Papa, that he finally did it."
She resumes her song,
and sings a particularly love-
ly note. "I'd love to take up singing
lessons again,"
she dreams.
"Why did you stop?"
asks Grandpa. "I was willing
to pay."
Annie
dances in front of Harry. Still humming
how she's wild about him, she throws
her answer side-
ways to Grandpa, "I got married."
Harry
reclines on the sofa, legs crossed, feeling ex-
pansive, smoking a cigar.
Uncle Benny's sitting by the table, feeling awkward,
left
outside the excitement, reannounces to the room
and all who care to listen:
"I told the bank manager
it would revolutionize the men's clothing business.
He'd have never recommended the loan if I hadn't
presented it the way I did."
Harry throws him a small nod, kingly acknowl-
edgment. Puffing
on his cigar, he gives Grandpa a
long, knowing look, and says, proud, "In
another year
you'll be able to retire."
Grandpa,
silent, nods.
Annie renders another beautiful phrase, another
fine sweet note, and comments, "Not bad, eh?"
Harry
looks up at Annie, who is just in front of
him.
"Not
bad for a pregnant lady," he says.
Grandpa smiles at
his Annie's happy face, but falls
short of full warmth, caught with mixed
emotions,
feeling that the sunny spell can't last long. Now he
puts his
heart and concentration into his smile and
summons the faith to say to his
daughter, "It's not
too late. You can still study."
In
reply, Annie holds her big belly, indication of
her fate and status, and laughs
and dances and sings
again. "Too late... too late... too late."
Benny, chewing on his cigar, looks around, be-
wildered.
"What's too late?"
And I'm winding up the gramophone. Chapter
VIII
|
