Free Scraps of Heaven by Arnold Zable Page A

‘Why cry in our cups? Why wander around like farts in a barrel? The old world is gone. This is where we now belong, whether right or wrong.’ And, before anyone can object, he propels himself into an unaccompanied song:
    Matchmaker, what have you done?
The husband you chose is no fun,
Useless in business and bed,
I rue the day we were wed.
Matchmaker, I have been misled
He is ugly and coarse,
So I have no recourse,
But to seek a divorce.
Matchmaker, what have you done?
    And lest someone else jumps up with yet another impromptu performance, or a caustic aside, Uncle Yossel quickly rises for his speech to the groom and bride.
    â€˜Now who would have believed it possible, that we would find such a country, a goldene medineh , a golden land, ek velt , at the ends of the earth, where the streets are paved with brisket and herring, the gutters flowing with brandy and borscht?’ He fills his glass, holds it aloft, and wishes the groom and bride yet another mazel tov. ‘Who would have thought it possible? Who would have imagined it when I stepped off the boat, a gornisht , a nothing, a greenhorn, thirty years ago to the day, more or less, with just one suitcase and one address!’
    â€˜Ah, spare me the story,’ groans Weintraub, under his breath. ‘Again the alter maise , the old tale about empty streets and that one address.’ And he turns to his Rathdowne Street colleagues. ‘Again the story of his first day in the golden land. I have heard it one thousand times.’
    â€˜Who would have predicted it?’ continues Yossel, ‘as I walked through those empty streets, fresh off the boat, on a Saturday afternoon, 1928. Where in all my black years had I landed? I made my way to that one address, Lipski’s Cafe, on Faraday Street, in Carlton, where else? And there I slept that first night in an upstairs room, while below me the world played cards, and I awoke mid-morning, looked out the window, and again I saw empty streets, a wilderness where nothing moved, except for a stray dog, a lost cat. I had come to a city of the dead. And as I looked I wondered, where do I start? Where should I go? What sort of life is possible in this city of corpses for a nebekh , an empty-handed nobody like me? Who would have believed it would come to this?’
    â€˜Yes. I believe. I believe. Believe me, I believe,’ mutters Weintraub.
    Yossel runs his hand over his ample belly and sings the praises of the golden land where a man could rise from gutters to palaces, from shmuttes to undreamed-of wealth. ‘Yes, the streets were empty, but I could pack a suitcase with tchatskes and gatkes , toys and underpants, and push open gates, knock on doors, do business, make deals, make a life.’
    And he announces that he is donating five hundred pounds, no less, to the welfare society, because: ‘Still there are newcomers, and those that are running from Hitler’s gehennim , may his name be blotted out, or is it Stalin’s, may he burn in hell. Whatever, from both tyrants our compatriots have been forced to run, and they too need their share of brisket and chicken, their full measure of blintzes and borscht, and their place in the sun.’ His largesse is growing with each successive boast. He is now donating one thousand pounds to the Jewish Welfare home: ‘After all, what is money for? Isn’t that what the sages have taught? To give tzedokah , to give to the poor, to those who need more?’
    And he proposes a final toast to the groom and bride, careful to bring his speech to an end lest he give away his entire wealth. ‘May they be happy and blessed, and know how to invest; and may they live to be one hundred and twenty and have as much pride from their children, as I have had from mine, my son Joel, and my daughter Naomi. Such a beautiful bride.’
    â€˜Thank the Lord it is over,’ exclaims Weintraub the atheist, as the guests rise, glasses in hand, to sing backed