The Credit Draper

Episode 2

Gas street-lamps struggled to light Avram’s way. Towering cranes hovered over him like skeletons signposting his route. An empty milk bottle rolled and broke at his feet. Barefooted children taunted him as their threadbare dog snapped at his ankles. A woman tried to give him food, but he shook his head, frightened that what was offered was not kosher.

He heard a scream. Another time, piano music. Then the desolate echo from a foghorn on the river.

But it was the lack of colour that haunted him most. Everything was grey. The buildings, the people’s faces, the mangy dogs. Even the air he breathed. It was a greyness that he felt as a terrifying pallor, clinging to his face and hands like the faint touch of cobwebs on his skin.

He kept his attention on his feet, letting them walk him faster, pounding out the terror from his wildly beating heart on to the cobbled streets.

The air drew thick and cold in his lungs, tightening his chest, causing his breath to shorten. He began to sweat despite the chill. With every few steps, he switched his case from hand to hand.

His arms ached, his palms began to blister. He observed his feet moving him on, as if they had a consciousness of their own.

Sunlight

But the fog lifted and the streets grew wider, the buildings taller and the façades grander. A smear of sunlight crept into the morning. His head lifted too. He saw streetlights that were not lit by gas but by some other miracle.

He paused to wonder at the horseless trams and carriages. He passed shop windows crammed with merchandise. He lingered outside a bakery until the warm smell of freshly baked loaves was too much to bear.

As he moved deeper into the city, the pavements began to fill up with pale, sternfaced people not unlike those from his homeland. He had no choice but to approach them, and with his cap in hand, he offered the envelope.

Some guided him with elaborate hand signals, others walked him ahead to street corners before showing him the way.

It took him nearly six hours to reach the Gorbals. There, the first sight of a Hebrew shop sign soothed his fears. An old woman who spoke Yiddish accompanied him to his destination.

He entered the close at number 32, and grasping the heavy brass knocker on the door of the ground floor flat, tapped out his message of arrival. Still holding on to the envelope, he collapsed starving and exhausted into the arms of the woman who answered the door.

Pressure

Avram felt the increased pressure of Madame Kahn’s hand on his back and he stumbled forward almost dropping the bottle of schnapps. “This is the boy,” she said. “Rachel Escovitz’s boy.”

Papa Kahn looked up from the pickedclean bones of a pickled herring, dabbed a napkin to his moist lips. “What is your name, boy?”

“Avram, sir. Avram Escovitz.”

Papa Kahn popped an apple slice into his mouth and crunched slowly. The only sound in the room. “You kept your mother’s name?”

“I know no other, sir.”

“What about your father?”

“I have no father.”

“What do you mean? Of course you have a father.”

“The Cossacks took him before I was born.”

Papa Kahn frowned as he chewed. “Mmm. So that’s how it is. How is she, your mother? Is she well?”

Avram didn’t know if his mother was well. The last time he’d seen her, her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, her hands fluttering over his face like a blind woman, trying to imprint his face on her memory with her fingers.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Is she in good health?”

“I think so, sir.”

“And how old are you, Avram?” “Eleven years and eleven months, sir.” Papa Kahn smiled. “Nu. Come. Come closer. Let me have a look at you.”

He did as he was told, letting Papa Kahn cup a hand round his chin, drag his head from side to side in the light from the window. He wondered if Papa Kahn was in mourning, for he only wore black. A black suit, black shoes, black tie and a black yarmulke.

“Teeth.” Avram opened his mouth wide. “The teeth are good. Bicarbonate of soda. Every day. Do you understand?” He didn’t but nodded anyway. “Now tell me, Avram. How were you allowed into this country?” “I don’t know, sir.”

“You must know. There are controls now. You can’t just walk off a ship into this great country. This Great Britain. Where did your ship dock first? Before it arrived in Glasgow?”

“I don’t know, sir.” “Southampton?” Southampton? He recalled the rush down the gangplanks into a large shed partitioned into sections by long tables. Braziers heating the chilly space. The other passengers brandishing papers, swearing in Yiddish, clamouring for the attention of the men in uniform.

Examination

Still holding on to the envelope, he collapsed exhausted into the arms of the woman who answered the door.

A medical examination, the doctor pressing the cold disc of a hearing device against his bare chest. “Yes, sir. That was the name. Southampton.”

“And you spoke to an immigration officer?”

“Dmitry. Dmitry did everything.” Dmitry knew one of the officials. They were taken to one side.

“Who is this Dmitry?” Madame Kahn asked. “My mother paid him to bring me.”

Papa Kahn shrugged, looked at his wife. “Perhaps there were papers. Perhaps there was a bribe.”

“This Dmitry brought you here to the Gorbals?” Madame Kahn persisted. “Only to the docks in Glasgow.” “And the rest of the way?”

“I walked.”

She gave a short laugh. “You walked from Clydebank? There is a tram.”

“Now, Martha. What does it matter? He is here now.”

More tomorrow.

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