Cafe Scheherazade (14 page)

Like so many others, Yossel had fled Warsaw in September 1939. Vilna was a place to draw breath, a footstep beyond the newly drawn borders that divided the Nazi-occupied west from the Soviet east.

‘My foolish child, Vilna was a poor city. There was not enough fuel to make a fire. We would buy a kettle full of hot water and drop in a sweet as sugar. We slept in houses of prayer, in corridors and foyers. We slept in apartments, ten to a room. I lay down wherever I could and, when I woke up, I went out and sniffed the air. I have always relied on my nose. It has never let me down.

‘My nose led me to Wolfke's. Perhaps it was the aroma of food. In Wolfke's you could buy the best choient in Vilna, a delicious stew of onions, potatoes and beans, barley and beef. And their chopped liver was exquisite! With mashed boiled eggs, as smooth as pate. Such a delicacy. A true delight

‘I knew this could not last long. Soon we were living on crusts of bread. But in Wolfke's I made contacts. I began to deal on the black market. I bought and sold currency, tobacco, anything that came my way. One thing led to another and I found myself in a shop selling nuts and bolts, screws and tacks, nails and knick-knacks.

‘I got to know the woman who ran the shop. She was called Dvora, a biblical name. She looked like the women of those times. She was beautiful. I fell in love with her at first sight. I have often fallen in love at first sight. Why waste time? Life is short.

‘Dvora had an agent who supplied her with goods, a Lithuanian. He sold us diamonds at fifty dollars a carat. I smuggled them from Vilna, to the most elegant hotel in Kovno, where a German buyer paid double the price. Dvora became my sweetheart. We made a lot of money.'

Yossel speaks Yiddish in a Warsaw dialect I strain to understand. The elegance of his clothes belies his Krochmalna Street roots. This was the secret to his success, he tells me—to dress elegantly. Good dress came before food.

‘People liked me,' he says. ‘This was the great thing, to be well dressed and have charm. This is why people trust you, why people buy from you. First you establish a liking for each other, then you do business.'

Yossel is on the cusp of ninety, yet the charm is still evident. It is not a calculated charm, but rather the boyish charm of a gambler.

‘I have always taken risks. I was willing to step out into the world. Whenever I saw a window I looked through it. If I saw an open door, I was not shy. Whenever I saw a cafe, I stepped in.

‘I wanted to leave Vilna, get out of Europe, sail to the ends of the earth. I could see it was all crumbling. Meanwhile I needed money. With money you can help yourself, and help others. Without money, you are
gornisht
, nothing. This is what I learnt from the boys of Krochmalna. This is what we schemed about in the basement cafe in the Polonia hotel. Do you think we had a choice?

‘In Vilna I made money. In Vilna I lost money. I was arrested three times. Three times I managed to wriggle free. Our contacts in the diamond business dried up. The Nazis, may they rot in
gehennim
, were perilously close. I could smell the approaching fear. I sniffed the air and I could sense what was what. It was time to get out.

‘We heard that there was a way via the Baltic. A fisherman would smuggle us over to Sweden. Then we heard that Germans and Lithuanians were intercepting those who were trying to escape, and shooting them on the spot. Wherever we turned there was a trap.

‘Then in Wolfke's the talk turned to a man called Sugihara. May he sit with full honours by God's right side! May his feet be forever massaged by angels and cherubim. He was a true
tzaddik
. A saint!

‘My dear Martin, of course I met him in person. First, I had to obtain a pass to Curaçao, a Dutch colony. I am sure Zalman has told you about this. He knows every little detail. He still reads books about it.

‘I took the train from Vilna to Kovno and dashed to the office of the Dutch consul, Mr Zwartendyk. I never forget a name. He was a businessman. He sold radios and lightbulbs but I was in too much of a hurry to talk and do deals. I ran straight to Sugihara's. I joined the many hundreds gathered outside his Kovno home. I hopped about as if standing on pins. I sweated and jostled along with the impatient crowd. And Sugihara welcomed us all. He was a true
tzaddik
! A man of pure gold! He stamped whatever we put under his nose.

‘When I left Sugihara's I was dancing in the streets. I was
meshuge
with relief. I kept patting my pocket, to make sure my precious papers were still there. I slept with them under my pillow. I wrapped them in a waterproof bag.

‘Every few days I would take them out and kiss them one by one. I kept them with me day and night. I had found a passageway to wonderland. The papers had cost me only the price of a return ticket from Vilna to Kovno, but they were worth far more than gold. It was a
metziah
! The best bargain I have ever struck in my life!

‘Months later I went to the Vilna offices of the NKVD. I was terrified. Everyone was afraid of them. But without their approval we could not leave. They worked twenty-four hours a day. They interrogated you in their cold rooms. They glared at you with hard eyes.

‘But I had
mazel
. I have always had good luck. The man who interviewed me was a Jewish officer. And I charmed him. I spoke to him in Yiddish, the mother tongue. I made him feel as though I was his long-lost son. My foolish child, I was desperate. And I knew what I had to do! After all, I am a Krochmalna boy.

‘A few days later a friend came running to me. He was jumping with joy. “Yossel, we are on the list,” he told me. We had found a way out of our black hole. We celebrated by drinking a bottle of vodka. Or was it two? Ah, never before had I so relished its bitter taste. Vodka is a medicine. It can cure colds, relieve boredom, and prepare an old man for the act of love.

‘By the time we swallowed the last drop we were flying. We flew to the police station by horse-drawn droshkies. We flew over the snow to the tinkling of bells. We received our exit visas in style. The NKVD officer shook my hand, and wished me a bon voyage and good luck. I have always known how to draw people to me.

‘I received the visa on a Wednesday. On the Thursday, I went to my Dvora and bought the remaining diamonds. She did not want to come with me. Vilna was her home. We said our goodbyes, and I never saw her again. My dear Martin, this is how it was.

‘On Friday I went to a yeshiva boy who made special suitcases. They contained secret compartments in which I hid diamonds, American dollars and English pounds. I packed in salami, tins of goose fat, bottles of vodka, a flagon of cognac: all the delicacies a traveller requires.

‘The next day I took the three suitcases to the train. I had purchased a ticket for a princely sum. I paid over two hundred dollars, American. But it was worth it. I had privileges. I had comfort. I travelled first-class.

‘What do I remember about the journey? My foolish child, I can still smell the food. My mouth waters at the thought of it. The best food is when one is hungry, so the saying goes. I ate cabbage soup seasoned with sour cream. I feasted on black bread and herring. I had sugar to put in my tea. I sat in a carriage with soft seats and sleeping berths. The whole world was burning and I travelled first-class.

‘I saw prisoners lying on platforms, chained, and in rags. By the tracks stood old babushkas dressed in black, begging for food. In the villages that flew by, I glimpsed skinny children, barefooted, running over dusty lanes, and bearded peasants bent over barren fields.

‘The whole of Russia was hungry. An entire empire was searching for food. Yet in Irkutsk I bought a fish freshly caught in Lake Baikal, the best fish in the world. A giant of a fish. So soft. So thick with flesh. So well cooked. Full of juice. It was a
mekhaiye
. A pure delight. Even now, the thought of eating that fish can make my mouth drool.

‘I was afraid, of course. Whenever anyone asked me about the suitcases, I would say they were not mine. My heart thumped whenever anyone passed them by. Again I had
mazel
. Every carriage had a commissar, a spy. The commissar admired my gold watch. I gave him the watch and he turned a blind eye to my luggage. When we finally reached Vladivostok he put me up in his house. He fed me well. In exchange I gave him woollen socks, warm underwear, a jar of caviar.

‘We remained in Vladivostok for two weeks. It was a dump at the ends of the earth. Very few of us believed we would get out. This is what we thought, even as we boarded the boat for Japan. The ropes were untied. We moved away from the wharf. When he realised we were truly on the way, the man standing next to me started to cry. He could not believe he was free. Or perhaps he was thinking of those he had left behind. I don't know whether he was crying from happiness or pain.

‘I gave him a pickled herring and a nip of vodka. We drank each other's health. We were on our way, and still, he was crying. But I was laughing. And singing. Farria. Farria. Farria. Farria. Far-ri-ya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

‘Yes, I was singing. And why not? My three faithful companions, the suitcases, had made it safely aboard. I ate like a king. I had dollars. I had pounds. I had diamonds. I had gefilte fish and red-berry jam. I was out on the open seas. I was safe. And I was free. My foolish child, what more can I say? The old world was burning, and I was free!'

There are languid days in our city which obliterate memory. The seas are pale, the skies bleached white, the waves enfeebled by lack of breeze. Such days numb all thoughts. The skin drips sweat and sun. All is reduced to the body.

From the concrete walk of St Kilda pier, the inner city looms close. Beyond the breakwater, pale-silver upon the horizon, curves the bridge that links the city to the west. Like a migrating bird it swoops over a distant enclave of cranes, elongated chimneys and petrochemical works.

When standing at the end of the pier Yossel feels gloved by the bay. The rocks of the breakwater are matted with moss. Boats huddle at their moorings. Two men stripped to the waist, their upper bodies ivory-white, tend their fishing lines. Ageing sunbathers sprawl on the rocks, their skin burnt a permanent bronze. A boy wades into the shallows with a dog. A young woman promenades in a bikini and heavy boots, the fashion of the day: erotic, hard-edged, casual.

Everything is casual. And slow. Heat is the leveller, reducing us all to creatures of the moment, to bodies bleached by light and sand. Yet even on days such as this Yossel clings to the past. He is nearing ninety and still he does not give in. He makes his way back to Scheherazade with steady, determined steps. He greets Avram and Masha with a wave, and sits down at his customary place.

As I approach the table Yossel is anxious, restive, twirling an ashtray, adjusting his gold bow tie, which perches on a beige shirt. His cream safari-suit matches perfectly. His gold cuff links flash under the cafe lights. And I know in advance how he will greet me:

‘Sholem Aleichem!'

And I know what he will say next.

‘My foolish child, age does not matter. Willpower can defeat it. I can still lift fifty kilos. I have already walked fifteen kilometres today.'

And I know that he will leap up and kiss me on both cheeks, and I will feel his vigour, laced with the scent of eau de cologne. I will smell the lingering aroma of brandy on his mouth, and he will call me his old
khaver
, his loyal friend, though I have not known him so very long. He will embrace me and exclaim, ‘My dear Martin, sell your pants if you must, but nothing is worth more than a friend you can trust. Believe me. I know. I am a Krochmalna boy.'

And before I have time to respond, he will launch into an irrepressible tirade.

‘My foolish child, what do you know of the past? What do you know about such things? For many it was a
tragedia
, a true hell. But for me it was not so bad. It was a lottery, whether you lived or died, whether you laughed or cried. What can I say! I had
mazel
, and I spent my war years in Shanghai.

‘Of all the cities I have known, Shanghai was the best, the most beautiful. You cannot imagine it. My beloved Warsaw was burning. Krochmalna Street was circled by barbed walls. My loved ones were in
gehennim
, and in Shanghai I had a good life.

‘A Yiddish life. With Yiddish theatre. First-class. With the best actors. From Warsaw and Vilna. From Odessa and Harbin. And Yiddish clubs. Yiddish radio. Yiddish newspapers:
Unzer Leben, Unzer Welt, Dos Wort
and
Der Yiddisher Almanach
.'

And the ghetto? The internment camps? The bombings?

‘Of course, my dear Martin, after Pearl Harbor, it all changed. Of course we were squashed into Hongkew. Yes, it is true, we could be beaten up when we queued for a pass. Hundreds died of starvation. Of typhus. Of cholera. Of malaria and
meshugas
.

‘Of course I saw the bombings. I was in the street at the time. I saw it all. I saw the planes swooping over Hongkew, and people diving into the gutters. I heard the bombs whistling as they hurtled down. I saw the corpses lying on the road, with flies crawling over their wounds. I could smell the bloated bodies in the heat. I saw people frantically searching for their loved ones. I saw dismembered coolies slumped against their mangled rickshaws. I saw it all.

‘Yet somehow, for me, Shanghai was a beautiful life. That is how I remember it. What do you want me to say? That I am ashamed? That I should not have enjoyed myself when I had the chance? If not for Mao I would have stayed. Even at the worst of times I still loved it. I knew how to get by. During my six weeks, en route, in Kobe, I sold the diamonds I had smuggled from Vilna; and I arrived in Shanghai with cash in hand.

‘In Shanghai there were millionaires, Sephardic Jews. Their ancestors had lived for centuries in Baghdad. They sailed to Shanghai like Sinbad of the Arabian Nights. They lived in mansions. They ran shipping lines, owned cotton mills, managed banks. They took me to nightclubs and cabarets. We drank whisky. We sipped expensive liqueurs. And all this while my Warsaw was burning. All this while my family was in
gehennim
. It's a
meshugene velt
. What can I say?