Arnold Zable - Cafe Scheherazade

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 pinstriped 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 Almighty's 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 cat 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 sonin-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.