his stoic silence. He is a man of few words, but now he cannot stop talking. He is disoriented, anguished by his youthful transgressions.
Henry and his brothers and sister are unnerved by the power of his grief. They are overcome by his confessions. They have long been accustomed to his self-possession. They console him, and assure him he is a good man, and a much-loved father.
The family walks with the draped coffin as it is wheeled from the chapel into the daylight. The contrast is sharp, the sun abrasive. They lead the cortege to the assigned plot, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, and stand by the graveside. They take turns shovelling the dirt over the lowered casket, as is the custom.
When they are done they step back. Each child is lost in private thoughts and images, while, one by one, their friends and acquaintances step up to the shovels. All is quiet, except for the dull thud of dirt on the coffin.
When the burial is over, Leon recites the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. The words evaporate into the sky, leaving behind a blessed silence.
Within two years Simche is dead. Again the journey from the chapel into the light of day: the casket is wheeled along the route they had followed just twenty-two months earlier. Simche is lowered in the reserved plot next to Sonia. Husband and wife now buried at the ends of the Earth. Together.
He was a good man, say Henry and Leon, says Paul, says Sandra. He was straightforward in his dealings. He kept his counsel. He drew a curtain on the past and did not dare lift it. He spent his spare time watching the soccer and attended meetings of the Communist party. He marched in anti-war protests. Politics and sport were his passions, and tailoring his duty.
The children insist: our father was a good man. And Mum was a good woman. Do not reduce her to madness. Do not over simplify it. In her periods of calm she raised us. She got us off to school. She clothed and fed us. She survived the miscarriages, and she withstood the years of impoverishment.
‘She was a fighter,’ says Henry. ‘It’s amazing that she could still fight.’
And there is the lullaby:
Sleep my child, my treasure; my dear one
Ai-le-lu-le-lu
Blessed is he who has a mother, and a cradle too
Ai-le-lu-le-lu
17
The lullaby unlocks another Sonia. She is retrieving a chocolate sponge from the oven. The buckled linoleum crackles beneath her feet. She has baked the cake for one of her children’s birthdays. She has squirrelled away the money over weeks to give as a present.
The memory will lie dormant, obscured by the darkness. Only years later will it make its way to the surface. It is Paul who recalls it first, and then Sandra who remembers the aroma, and the sight of Sonia mixing the batter, her fingers dusty with flour and cocoa.
The table is scattered with eggshells, a jar of sugar, whisks, a bowl of sultanas. Sonia is opening the door of the oven. This isno faded black-and-white memory. There is colour in the picture. She takes out the two halves of the cake and places them on the table. The sponges are warm and the surfaces nicely rounded. She allows them to cool. Then she places one on top of the other, with an ample layer of chocolate-cream between them.
She has not skimped on the sultanas, but she has forgotten to dust them with flour and they have sunk to the bottom. Never mind, this aberration has its advantages. It’s Sandra’s favourite part of the cake; she cuts the slices in half, and eats the bottom portions.
There were times, in between periods of illness, when Sonia walked Sandra to school, and she was there by the school gate to pick her up six hours later. ‘How fortunate I was to have a mother waiting for me,’ Sandra says.
Mother and daughter are making their way home, side by side, falling into step, in harness to each other’s rhythm. Sandra is elated. They stop at the bakery and Sonia buys cream buns, a treat for her daughter. They continue homeward. Sandra greets friends
Henry and his brothers and sister are unnerved by the power of his grief. They are overcome by his confessions. They have long been accustomed to his self-possession. They console him, and assure him he is a good man, and a much-loved father.
The family walks with the draped coffin as it is wheeled from the chapel into the daylight. The contrast is sharp, the sun abrasive. They lead the cortege to the assigned plot, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, and stand by the graveside. They take turns shovelling the dirt over the lowered casket, as is the custom.
When they are done they step back. Each child is lost in private thoughts and images, while, one by one, their friends and acquaintances step up to the shovels. All is quiet, except for the dull thud of dirt on the coffin.
When the burial is over, Leon recites the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. The words evaporate into the sky, leaving behind a blessed silence.
Within two years Simche is dead. Again the journey from the chapel into the light of day: the casket is wheeled along the route they had followed just twenty-two months earlier. Simche is lowered in the reserved plot next to Sonia. Husband and wife now buried at the ends of the Earth. Together.
He was a good man, say Henry and Leon, says Paul, says Sandra. He was straightforward in his dealings. He kept his counsel. He drew a curtain on the past and did not dare lift it. He spent his spare time watching the soccer and attended meetings of the Communist party. He marched in anti-war protests. Politics and sport were his passions, and tailoring his duty.
The children insist: our father was a good man. And Mum was a good woman. Do not reduce her to madness. Do not over simplify it. In her periods of calm she raised us. She got us off to school. She clothed and fed us. She survived the miscarriages, and she withstood the years of impoverishment.
‘She was a fighter,’ says Henry. ‘It’s amazing that she could still fight.’
And there is the lullaby:
Sleep my child, my treasure; my dear one
Ai-le-lu-le-lu
Blessed is he who has a mother, and a cradle too
Ai-le-lu-le-lu
17
The lullaby unlocks another Sonia. She is retrieving a chocolate sponge from the oven. The buckled linoleum crackles beneath her feet. She has baked the cake for one of her children’s birthdays. She has squirrelled away the money over weeks to give as a present.
The memory will lie dormant, obscured by the darkness. Only years later will it make its way to the surface. It is Paul who recalls it first, and then Sandra who remembers the aroma, and the sight of Sonia mixing the batter, her fingers dusty with flour and cocoa.
The table is scattered with eggshells, a jar of sugar, whisks, a bowl of sultanas. Sonia is opening the door of the oven. This isno faded black-and-white memory. There is colour in the picture. She takes out the two halves of the cake and places them on the table. The sponges are warm and the surfaces nicely rounded. She allows them to cool. Then she places one on top of the other, with an ample layer of chocolate-cream between them.
She has not skimped on the sultanas, but she has forgotten to dust them with flour and they have sunk to the bottom. Never mind, this aberration has its advantages. It’s Sandra’s favourite part of the cake; she cuts the slices in half, and eats the bottom portions.
There were times, in between periods of illness, when Sonia walked Sandra to school, and she was there by the school gate to pick her up six hours later. ‘How fortunate I was to have a mother waiting for me,’ Sandra says.
Mother and daughter are making their way home, side by side, falling into step, in harness to each other’s rhythm. Sandra is elated. They stop at the bakery and Sonia buys cream buns, a treat for her daughter. They continue homeward. Sandra greets friends
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