Arnold Zable - Cafe Scheherazade

135

"When I left Sugihara's I was dancing in the streets. I was meshuge with relief. I kept patting my pocket, to make sure my precious papers were still there. I slept with them under my pillow. I wrapped them in a waterproof bag.

"Every few days I would take them out and kiss them one by one. I kept them with me day and night. I had found a passageway to wonderland. The papers had cost me only the price of a return ticket from Vilna to Kovno, but they were worth far more than gold. It was a metziah! The best bargain I have ever struck in my life!

"Months later I went to the Vilna offices of the NKVD. I was terrified. Everyone was afraid of them. But without their approval we could not leave. They worked twenty-four hours a day.

They interrogated you in their cold rooms. They glared at you with hard eyes.

"But I had mazel I have always had good luck. The man who interviewed me was a Jewish officer. And I charmed him. I spoke to him in Yiddish, the mother tongue. I made him feel as though I was his long-lost son. My foolish child, I was desperate. And I knew what I had to do! After all, I am a Krochmalna boy.

"A few days later a friend came running to me. He was jumping with joy. "Yossel, we are on the list," he told me. We had found a way out of our black hole. We celebrated by drinking a bottle of vodka. Or was it two? Ah, never before had I so relished its bitter taste. Vodka is a medicine. It can cure colds, relieve boredom, and prepare an old man for the act of love.

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"By the time we swallowed the last drop we were flying. We flew to the police station by horse-drawn droshkies. We flew over the snow to the tinkling of bells. We received our exit visas in style. The NKVD officer shook my hand, and wished me a bon voyage and good luck. I have always known how to draw people to me.

"I received the visa on a Wednesday. On the Thursday, I went to my Dvora and bought the remaining diamonds. She did not want to come with me. Vilna was her home. We said our good-byes, and I never saw her again. My dear Martin, this is how it was.

"On Friday I went to a yeshiva boy who made special suitcases.

They contained secret compartments in which I hid diamonds, American dollars and English pounds. I packed in salami, tins of goose fat, bottles of vodka, a flagon of cognac: all the delicacies a traveller requires.

"The next day I took the three suitcases to the train. I had purchased a ticket for a princely sum. I paid over two hundred dollars, American. But it was worth it. I had privileges. I had comfort. I travelled first-class.

"What do I remember about the journey? My foolish child, I can still smell the food. My mouth waters at the thought of it. The best food is when one is hungry, so the saying goes. I ate cabbage soup seasoned with sour cream. I feasted on black bread and herring. I had sugar to put in my tea. I sat in a carriage with soft seats and sleeping berths. The whole world was burning and I travelled first-class.

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"I saw prisoners lying on platforms, chained, and in rags. By the tracks stood old babushkas dressed in black, begging for food. In the villages that flew by, I glimpsed skinny children, barefooted, running over dusty lanes, and bearded peasants bent over barren fields.

"The whole of Russia was hungry. An entire empire was searching for food. Yet in Irkutsk I bought a fish freshly caught in Lake

Baikal, the best fish in the world. A giant of a fish. So soft.

So thick with flesh. So well cooked. Full of juice. It was a mekhaiye. A pure delight. Even now, the thought of eating that fish can make my mouth drool.

"I was afraid, of course. Whenever anyone asked me about the suitcases, I would say they were not mine. My heart thumped whenever anyone passed them by. Again I had mazel. Every carriage had a commissar, a spy. The commissar admired my gold watch. I gave him the watch and he turned a blind eye to my luggage. When we finally reached Vladivostok he put me up in his house. He fed me well. In exchange I gave him woollen socks, warm underwear, a jar of caviar.

"We remained in Vladivostok for two weeks. It was a dump at the ends of the earth. Very few of us believed we would get out. This is what we thought, even as we boarded the boat for Japan. The ropes were untied. We moved away from the wharf. When he realised we were truly on the way, the man standing next to me started to cry. He could not believe he was free. Or perhaps he was thinking of those he had left behind. I don't know whether he was crying from happiness or pain.

139

"I gave him a pickled herring and a nip of vodka. We drank each other's health. We were on our way, and still, he was crying. But

I was laughing. And singing. Farria. Farria. Farria. Farria. Farri-ya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

"Yes, I was singing. And why not? My three faithful companions, the suitcases, had made it safely aboard. I ate like a king. I had dollars. I had pounds. I had diamonds. I had gefilte fish and red-berry jam. I was out on the open seas. I was safe. And I was free. My foolish child, what more can I say? The old world was burning, and I was free!"

There are languid days in our city which obliterate memory. The seas are pale, the skies bleached white, the waves enfeebled by lack of breeze. Such days numb all thoughts. The skin drips sweat and sun. All is reduced to the body.

From the concrete walk of St Kilda pier, the inner city looms close. Beyond the breakwater, pale-silver upon the horizon, curves the bridge that links the city to the west. Like a migrating bird it swoops over a distant enclave of cranes, elongated chimneys and petrochemical works.

When standing at the end of the pier Yossel feels gloved by the bay. The rocks of the breakwater are matted with moss. Boats huddle at their moorings. Two men stripped to the waist, their upper bodies ivory-white, tend their fishing lines. Ageing sunbathers sprawl on the rocks, their skin burnt a permanent bronze. A boy wades into the shallows with a dog. A young 140 woman promenades in a bikini and heavy boots, the fashion of the day: erotic, hard-edged, casual.

Everything is casual. And slow. Heat is the leveller, reducing us all to creatures of the moment, to bodies bleached by light and sand. Yet even on days such as this Yossel clings to the past. He is nearing ninety and still he does not give in. He makes his way back to Scheherazade with steady, determined steps. He greets

Avram and Masha with a wave, and sits down at his customary place.

As I approach the table Yossel is anxious, restive, twirling an ashtray, adjusting his gold how tie, which perches on a beige shin. His cream safari-suit matches perfectly. His gold cuff links flash under the cafe lights. And I know in advance how he will greet me:

"Sholem Aleichem!"

And I know what he will say next.

"My foolish child, age does not matter. Willpower can defeat it.

I can still lift fifty kilos. I have already walked fifteen kilometres today."

And I know that he will leap up and kiss me on both cheeks, and I will feel his vigour, laced with the scent of eau de cologne. I will smell the lingering aroma of brandy on his mouth, and he will call me his old khaver, his loyal friend, though I have not known him so very long. He will embrace me and exclaim, "My dear

Martin, sell your pants if you must, but nothing is worth more than a friend you can trust. Believe me. I know. I am a

Krochmalna boy."

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And before I have time to respond, he will launch into an irrepressible tirade.

"My foolish child, what do you know of the past? What do you know about such things? For many it was a tragedia, a true hell. But for me it was not so bad. It was a lottery, whether you lived or died, whether you laughed or cried. What can I say! I had mazel, and I spent my war years in Shanghai.