The Credit Draper Episode 7

The raft rose high on a wave, dropping him back into the grip of a sailor, Dmitry’s grip, the dark coarse cloth of the man’s naval sleeve blocking his vision. A wave washed over them and he managed to drag the damp serge away from his eyes.

“What will happen to me?” he screamed into darkness. “What will happen to me?”

Avram had written to his mother and so had Papa Kahn, but they had received no reply.

Yet he wanted to believe so much what she told him in his dreams – to believe God would look after her.

That, after all, was what God did. Papa Kahn had told him this, too. How God had looked out for Joseph in Egypt, how He had guarded the Jews through the years in the Sinai, how He had even cared for the Gentile Hagar after Abraham had cast her out.

“The Almighty will look after your mother,” Papa Kahn pronounced. “And when the time is right you will go back to her.”

Avram was not totally convinced. “Why will God look after my Mama, when he didn’t look after my Papa?” he asked.

“Why will God look after my Mama and not the other Jews being killed?”

Important

“Because your mother is a good woman.” Avram thought about this. “Was my father not a good man? And the other Jews?”

“Yes, yes, they were probably good, too.” “Then I don’t understand.”

“What you need to understand, Avram, is how hard it must have been for your mother to give you up so you wouldn’t have to join the army.

“Some parents cut off their son’s forefinger so he cannot fire a rifle. Others hide their sons in caves so they spend their youth living like animals. Your mother did none of these things.

“She gave you up in order to save you. That is what is important to remember. The unselfishness of her love for you.” “I still don’t understand.”

Papa Kahn sighed. “Life is not for understanding.”

Avram’s favourite task took place towards the end of the Sabbath when he ran down to Arkush’s bakery with Celia to pick up the pot of cholent left to cook overnight for their Saturday dinner.

The heat scoured his face as he watched old man Arkush open the giant oven door. The smell of baking meat, carrots, butter beans and potatoes flooded his nostrils.

When the baker turned his back, Celia found her mother’s pot among all the others, lifted the lid, dipped her finger into the steaming stew.

“Ours is the best,” she said.

“Not sure,” Avram replied, tasting the rich stew for himself.

“Then let’s check again,” she giggled, licking her finger.

“Yes. You are right. It is the best.” “And who stuck their dirty fingers in the pot?”

“I did it.”

He helped her carry the pot home, careful to follow her instructions not to step on the cracks on the pavement otherwise he would grow up to look like Uncle Mendel.

Compliment

“And you will look like Mrs Carnovsky.” She laughed. “I like you. You’re much more fun than Nathan.”

Avram warmed to what he took as a compliment. Then he pondered a while on the image of Celia’s young brother.

How morose and introverted the boy was. And realised that Celia’s words were not much of a compliment after all.

Once the Sabbath was over, the cholent eaten, the after-meal benedictions sung and said, Avram worked with Celia to help Madame Kahn quickly clear the table.

Papa Kahn brought out the playing cards, Uncle Mendel pressed tobacco into his pipe with his thick fingers, Mrs Carnovsky arrived from across the hallway, Nathan was sent to bed.

The adults sat around the table, Celia cosied up to her Uncle Mendel, Avram found a corner where he could rest his chin and watch the cards fly across the green cloth of the playing surface.

He marvelled at the blur of Madame Kahn’s skilful shuffles, the remarkable patience of the adults waiting for the deals to be completed before picking up their hands.

Papa Kahn drummed the table with his fingers, Mrs Carnovsky muttered: “Feh, feh,” under her breath as she sorted out her hand, Madame Kahn held her cards tight in a fan just under her nose lest the Devil himself might sneak a look, Uncle Mendel alternated between holding his pipe, holding his cards, bringing a glass of schnapps to his lips.

Then came the ordered placements of the cards in trebles and runs on the table, the surprise entrance of the magical and colourful jokers, a final flourish as the last card of someone’s hand found its rightful place on the green cloth.

Then shouts of “Bah! What Mazel!”, the throwing down of redundant cards into a messy confusion until the next dealer swept them up, worked them neatly into a pack, started the process all over again.

Nonsense

Hearts. They represent love. Diamonds are money. Clubs are work. And spades mean health

“Mere symbols of life itself the cards are,” Uncle Mendel told Avram through a cloud of pipe smoke during a break in the play.

“Hearts. They represent love. Diamonds are money. Clubs are work. And spades mean health.”

“Stop filling the boy’s head with nonsense,” Madame Kahn scolded.

But Avram liked the idea. “So if I have four aces,” he dared to ask.

“Does that mean everything in my life is good?”

“Four kings are better,” Celia insisted. “No, my little piece of herring,” Uncle Mendel said.

“Avram is right. Aces are high not low. So, four aces give you the very best life has to offer.”

“Nu, Mendel,” Papa Kahn prodded. “It’s your deal.”

Uncle Mendel bent down to Avram’s level. His breath flowed with the sweetness of the schnapps.

“Just make sure you’re never low in hearts, boychik,” he whispered.

“Never be low in hearts.”

More tomorrow.