The Credit Draper Episode 29

Avram awoke to the sound of the ash-bins being emptied out of the back court. He got up and tiptoed over to the window from where he watched the glow from the distant foundry chimneys roast the night sky.

He tried to imagine the colony of workers toiling in the heat. He saw the sweat on their skin and the strain in their muscles as they shovelled the ore, coal and limestone into the blast furnaces.

Their lungs breathed shallow the air dense with coal dust and the sand from the moulds, their ears immune to the roar of the fans and the constant winching of the metal containers lurching under their load of molten ore.

He saw their arms gloved in leather reaching up to ladle the scalding liquid into the moulds, each man bearing the marks of his carelessness where he had allowed the metal to spill and splash beneath his apron on to his skin.

Out beyond the blast furnace rooms, tired workers crouched among the dull, lifeless shapes of their labour – the axles, the wheel hubs, the rail clamps, the engine blocks.

They smoked their tobacco quietly, communicating the occasional vital word, grateful for the silence.

“The devil’s work in the furnaces of hell,” was what Madame Kahn called it. “That’s where you’ll go if you don’t do what you’re told,” she threatened. “To the fabriken.”

Ribbons of clouds cleared from across the moon and as he followed the shadows of men emptying the bins into the wagon on the street, he wondered what would be worse. Working in the fabriken or not playing football.

Talent

Celia had once told Avram his footballing skills were a kiss on his feet from God. He chose to believe her. For where else could his talent have come from?

He had not grown up with the game in Russia, he did not know that football even existed until that day on the streets outside the Kahns’ tenement close.

But what God had given, He could also take away. He knew that. He knew that this God was ready to punish the slightest sin, just as He had done to Moses. Just as He would do to him for his sin of dealing with Mary in anger, threatening her with the hairbrush. Or trying to talk back to Papa Kahn.

But there was one man whose wrath he prayed might be equal to that of the Almighty.

“What do you mean you can’t play football?” Roy Begg screamed. “Don’t stand there dumb, staring at your feet. Answer me, boy. Answer me.”

“I’m needed at home, sir.”

“Well, I need you at school. Our most important game is coming up. You have to play.”

He felt a droplet of sweat trickle from under his arm down the side of his ribcage. “I’m not allowed to play, sir.”

“No such thing, Escovitz. You’re mine. Remember what I told you, Jew boy. You’re mine. You play when I tell you.” “There’s too much to do at home, sir.” “Why is your home so bloody special?” “Because Madame Kahn is an enemy alien.”

“Who’s this Madame Kahn?” He explained.

Twisted

“A German. A bloody German. Wouldn’t you know it?” Roy Begg’s face twisted into a scowl but he appeared to calm down.

“I don’t think Mr Kahn understands what a talent you have. It’s a talent to be encouraged.”

“Mr Kahn doesn’t really know about my football, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never talk about it, sir.”

“Why not? It’s something to be proud of.” “Maybe you could tell him that, sir.” Begg scratched the back of his thick neck, shedding flecks of skin on to his sweater. “You’ll play for Celtic one of these days. I’m sure of it. I’ve got my connections. I know the scouts. Don’t you want to play for Celtic?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You stick with Roy Begg and the colour of your jersey will be the green and white. Now you tell this Mr Kahn of yours that Roy Begg is coming to visit. Tomorrow evening. At eight o’clock.”

And then the gym teacher added. “I’m coming privately, mind you. In a personal capacity.

“Not as a representative of the school. Make sure you say that. Personal capacity.”

It was not until the following morning that he found the courage to tell Papa Kahn about Roy Begg.

“Again with the football. What’s this with the football? If Mary needs you to help in the house, then that is the priority. What business is it of a gym teacher?”

“He says he wants to see you in a personal capacity.”

Papa Kahn rubbed his forehead. “All right, then. All right. But ask him to wait until Hanukkah has finished. I will see him next week. After Hanukkah.”

Special cakes

It was during Hanukkah that Rabbi Lieberman came to the flat. The visit was expected and the rooms were extra clean as if for Passover.

Mary was asked to bake special cakes and Papa Kahn went to much effort to purchase a bottle of kosher wine for the occasion.

Avram was sitting by Nathan’s bedside reading the boy a story when Papa Kahn entered with the rabbi.

The two of them were flushed in their cheeks. Crumbs of pastry adorned the rabbi’s beard.

“This is the boy,” Papa Kahn said, his voice louder than usual.

Rabbi Lieberman approached the bed. Nathan was propped up on his pillows, his head hanging loosely to the side on which Avram sat.

“He hears you when you read to him?” Rabbi Lieberman asked.

“I don’t know, rabbi.”

“No acknowledgement? No sign? No movement?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Rabbi Lieberman moved in closer. “Such a paleness and a thinness. Such dark circles around the eyes.”

No such thing, Escovitz. You’re mine. Remember what I told you, Jew boy. You’re mine. You play when I tell you

More on Monday.

The Credit Draper is the first in a trilogy by J. David Simons. He has written five novels and is published by Saraband. His work can be purchased at saraband.net.