That Stranger Next Door. Goldie Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ