The Tiger in the Well (41 page)

What a lucky bugger I am, he said to himself. Talk for your life, Danny boy. Tell 'em a story.

"I need a chair," he said loudly. "The man over there by

the door—knock on it, will you? Ask the lady for a chair. She's just inside. That's it. Fetch it over here, don't be shy."

They didn't know what to make of it, but in the face of his brazen confidence they felt their anger tremble a little, uncertainly. The weight of their suspicion, the undischarged burden of their hatred, still hung in the air like electricity; but as he climbed up to stand on the chair, Goldberg saw a young boy on the fringe of the crowd look away from him, and then up uncertainly at the man beside him, whose features were similar; a father, or a brother. And then he knew how to begin.

"Brothers," he said. "Yes, I'm not ashamed of you, I'm not ashamed to call you brothers, though I'm a Jew and you're Gentiles. Brothers, d'you know what brings you here.'' D'you know why this man, Harry Solomons the baker, d'you know why the good Lord picked on him this morning to have his business threatened and his wife and children terrified.^ Is it because he doesn't make good bread.? No, it can't be that. Smell it, brothers. Put your noses up and sniff that good smell. Harry Solomons is a fine baker. If this place burned down, there wouldn't be more good bread in the world— there'd be less.

"So there's a puzzle. There's a mystery. We all want more bread, but we're going to burn down Harry Solomons's bakery where he makes the stuff.

"But I can see a man down there, one of my brothers, one of you, who can explain. I won't tell you his name, but I know a lot about him. He's got a wife called Florrie. He's got three kids living and two that died before they were a year old, poor little scraps. He's a docker. Now the other day he goes down to the dock gate as usual. To the cage. He hasn't had work for two days. He's hungry, he's not in his full strength, and there's six hundred men crammed in there down Nightingale Lane, all of 'em desperate.

"And the foreman there—^you seen him.'^ Big belly on him as if he's got a bun in the oven.? You know what—he felt the pangs of birth coming on the other day. Lay down and bel-

lowed like a pig. 'Help me!' he roars. 'I'm giving birth! I'm having a baby!' They all come running—sent for the doctor—carried him in the office—bent over him to see what came out—and you know what it was? Wind. A whole bellyful of wind. They heard it down in Gravesend—thought it was a steamship."

And they laughed. There was a murmuring, like the pull of the tide on a shingle beach, but over and above that there was a shushing, an impatient shaking of heads. They wanted to hear more. Tell 'em a rude joke, make 'em want more; now get on with the story, wind 'em in.

"Anyway, Fartbelly the foreman, the other day that I was telling you about, he was rolling up and down with the rickets in his hand. Twenty jobs, six hundred men. You know the scene—^howling, yelling, shouting men, pressed up against the bars, hands held out. 'Me! Me! Give it to me! Gimme a job!'

"And then he flips a ticket up, old Fartbelly, and he watches 'em scramble for it—kicking, shrieking, desperate men. One of 'em gets it, and they let him through. There's one man with food in the house tonight.

"Then up comes the second ticket. Little brass thing flipping through the air, and another scramble, another fight, another torn ear, another broken finger. Twenty times it happens; twenty men are safe in the docks with a day's work to do and three or four bob at the end of it.

"But not our friend. Not the man in the crowd down there—he knows who he is. No job for him. Old Fartbelly's got his favorites; days when he doesn't want a scramble, or when the boss is looking, old Fartbelly calls out the names he knows won't be any trouble to him, doesn't he—hungry men, men with injuries, men who've lost the will to fight, men who won't complain if he gets a day's work out of them and sends 'em home with a shilling short. But our friend— he's not one of them, not one of Fartbelly's favorites."

They were still now. Goldberg knew that people are hun-

gry to have their own experience voiced; he was saying all this for them. They wanted to hear more.

'*So there's no job. Nothing in his pocket. Nothing in the cupboard at home; nothing in his belly; nothing for the kids. So he puts his hands in his pockets—^yes, I can see him now, I know who he is—and he sets off home.

"And on the way he goes past the workhouse. On a sunny day, the shadow of the workhouse never leaves the street, does it? They never see the sun down Old Gravel Lane; the workhouse shuts out half the sky. And he wonders—didn't you, mate.?—he wonders how long it'll be before he's drawn into that great dark shadow, him and Florrie, and the three little kids; how long it'll be before they're split up and taken away, and he has to look at 'em one last time with shame in his heart. . . .

"It's enough to send a man mad. It's enough to make him cry out to God and beat his head against the walls; enough to make him fling himself in the river with despair. He knows that feeling. You know that feeling."

The street was silent. The Jews had crept closer to hear, and behind the shutters of the bakery, the baker and his wife and children were pressed to the window, listening. Every man in the crowd stood still, and he looked into their eyes, and he drank in all their attention and focused it back through the story.

"And then he sees a mate of his outside a pub, and his mate beckons him over. 'Come over here,' he says. 'There's a bloke in here buying drinks.' And he follows his mate into the pub, and sure enough there's a fellow sitting at a table, an agreeable-looking bloke, smartly dressed, soft hands; he's not a docker. You'd put him down for a clerk of some kind.

"And, yes, he's buying drinks. Pint of bitter.'' By all means, mate, sit down, have a bit of baccy for your pipe.

"And then a strange thing happens; Soft Hands starts dripping poison. Not the sort you can see. This is invisible poison; it's lies. 'D'you know what's behind all this.'" he says.

'D'you know why good men like you are thrown on the scrap heap while others prosper? It's the Jews. . . .' Then he puts his soft lips 'round his little cigarette, and he blows out a stream of smoke, and you can see his little eyes calculating, watching how the poison's going down."

They were all quiet, all listening. After a moment's pause, Goldberg went on. "Now, our friend down there, he knows a couple of Jews. He knows Solly Moskowitz the tailor; he knows Sam Daniels the boxer. He's proud to know Sam Daniels. He's won a few bob on him in the past; he bought him a drink once, and Sam Daniels remembered him after that and called him by his name whenever he saw him.

"But Solly Moskowitz and Sam Daniels—they're not rich and powerful. They're men like he is, men of the East End. He can't see how they came to have such power in the world that they can deny a job to six hundred dockers every day. And he can't work out why old Solly Moskowitz is as poor as he is, if he's so almighty powerful.

"And he thinks: old Fartbelly—is he Jewish, with the power that he's got.-' And the men who own the docks, sitting up there in the West End, with their cigars and fancy wines and pretty women— they're all Jewish, are they.'* The members of Parliament and the lords and the lawyers and the judges— Jewish.? No, course not. There's something wrong with what Soft Hands is saying, but our friend can't see his way through it.

"And here comes another pint, and another, and here's some more poison with it: Burn down a Jewish house or two. Show them who's master in this country.

"But our friend down there—he's no master. What's happened down in Nightingale Lane by the docks has proved that, if anything will. Who's master.? Even old Fartbelly's not master. The real masters are the men you never see except when they sweep past in their carriages and splash you with mud; they're masters, and we're not. Smashing windows and burning houses won't turn you into a master. Only a desperate man would think it could.

"So our friend's still not sure. But it's warm in the pub, and here's another pint, and—'Come a bit closer,' says Soft Hands. 'I'll tell you something that's not for everyone's ears.' "

Goldberg paused. They were caught now; they were his. When he dropped his voice and said Come a bit closer, they'd all moved in a step, rapt, held.

And he saw that a policeman had appeared—two, four, five of them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the Jews urgently explaining something, saw the policeman look along to him. . . . Could he slip out through Solomons's place.? Finish this first. . . .

It all took less than a second. Back to the audience, back to the story.

"So our friend moves in close, brings his chair right up to the table. And Soft Hands leans across, looks over his shoulders, licks his lips.

" 'There's talk of murder,' he says. 'Human sacrifice. You know what these Jews do.? They kill Christian children. They mix their blood in the bread. It's been proved.'. . .

"And that's too much for our friend. Because if it's true, it's the most horrible, filthy thing anyone could do. People who did that would deserve all they got. So that eases his mind a bit; he doesn't mind attacking Jews if that's what they get up to; it makes sense of it.

"So that's why he's here today. That's how he came to be standing out on a wet morning with a stick in his hand, about to smash down a baker's shop and ruin a man's business.

"Because everyone needs a reason to do wrong things. No one'd do 'em if they thought they were wrong. They think they're right, that's why they do 'em, isn't it.?

"So our friend down there—I can see him, he knows I'm right—he's on the right line. But he's going in the wrong direction. Of course it's right to fight against people who sacrifice children. Of course it's right. But ask yourself this: Who sacrificed your children, my friend.? Who made sure you couldn't buy any medicine for your little daughter.? Who refused to pass the law that would have made the landlord

keep the drains in good repair, so your little boy had to catch typhoid and die?

"I'll tell you who did it. Every one of those rich men— the landlords, the factory owners, the members of Parliament, the judges. Lord This and the Earl of That and the Duke of Something Else. They're the ones who go in for human sacrifice. They're the real murderers. You can see their victims every day along Nightingale Lane and Gable Street—"

There was a growl from the crowd. Goldberg knew he had them, but something had interrupted, something was shoving the crowd aside. The policemen—

"All right, all right, break it up," came a loud, commanding voice. "Move along there. That man—Goldberg—hold him. He's a wanted man. Goldberg! You're under arrest."

Not yet, thought Goldberg.

He jumped down from the chair, and before the crowd had parted he slipped through the door and into the bakery.

Harry Solomons slid the bolt home against the tumult outside.

"God bless you, Mr. Goldberg," he said. "Look, there's a man here—from Moishe Lipman. He says—"

In the warm, clean little front shop, fragrant with the smell of new bread, Goldberg looked around to see Mrs. Solomons and several children, all gazing at him with wide eyes, and a small man anxiously twisting his cap.

The clamor outside got louder as the police forced their way to the door. Moishe Lipman's man spoke quickly: "Moishe and the other boys was arrested, Mr. Goldberg. Someone spotted 'em. I don't know how it happened. But the house . . ."He clutched his head. "God, I can't describe it, Mr. Goldberg—"

"What.? What.?"

"The whole house—it's collapsed. The one we was watching—it just fell into rubble in front of my eyes. . . . It's just not there anymore! Like as if a bloody bomb'd hit it."

Goldberg was dazed. He shook his head to clear it. Htmi) could Sally have . . . Never mind that. Move. Get out.

"Come on," he said to the man. "Give me a hand."

"But, Mr. Goldberg—"

It was Mrs. Solomons. The whole family was pressing around him, trying to thank him, blessing him, kissing him, and he wanted to sweep them out of the way and run with the last of his strength and find Sally, tell her Harriet was safe, tell her—

There was a hammering at the door.

"Open up! You've got a wanted man in there! Open this door or we'll smash it down!"

Solomons took Goldberg's good arm and tugged him through into the back of the shop while Mrs. Solomons pretended to fumble at the bolt.

"All right, all right—hold on. I'll just find the key—'*

"There's a gate in the wall," the baker told him hastily. "Here's the key; it leads into Cropper's Alley. You can duck through the yard of the Queen's Head and out into Brick Lane—"

But it was too late. A policeman stood framed in the back doorway as Solomons opened it.

"Gotcher," he said.

Goldberg turned to Moishe Lipman's man and said in Yiddish, "Telephone Kid Mendel. Four-two-one-four. Tell the man what's happened." And in English to the policeman, "All right, Constable, I'll come. I'm too tired to run. Don't pull my arm, please; it's had a bullet in it."

The baker picked up a couple of hot rolls and thrust them into Goldberg's pocket.

"That's all I can do, Mr. Goldberg," he said. "God bless you."

The bolt of the front door slid back; the other policemen shoved their way in. Moishe Lipman's man watched as they led Goldberg out, and then heard a strange sound resounding down Holywell Street, a sound no one would have guessed

at half an hour before: a hoarse and ragged cheer from the crowd, Jews and Gentiles alike, all united now in their sympathy for the outlaw captured.

He watched as the hero was led away and the crowd was dispersed by the other policemen, and went in search of a telephone.

Sally had no way of telling how much of the house had fallen. The lift, which was holding them above the water, had kept some of the rubble off them too, but it was totally dark, and her only sensations were cold, and noise, and smell. The stench from the ancient sewers that emptied into the Blackbourne was foul and getting worse.

The water was rising too. Already it was an inch or so deep on the floor of the lift. Sally crouched beside Ah Ling's head, trying to describe what was happening.