The Invisible Wall Read online

  I couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but I am sure it must have had a perplexed frown. These were questions, perhaps, that he had never given much thought to. But he did try to answer them. “I could get digs in Manchester,” he said, “I should be doing that, anyway, because the last year is going to be a hard one, and I shouldn’t be wasting time traveling back and forth every day. I need all the time there is for study.”

  “Could you afford it?” Lily asked gently.

  It was a question more difficult to answer, and Arthur hesitated. “I know my Mam and Dad’s been finding it hard enough as it is,” he admitted. “And they wouldn’t be able to help me out any more than they are doing right now, especially with the mill being slow. I’m not on full scholarship, you know, like I was at the grammar school. It’s only part scholarship, and I’ve got to pay the rest. Well, Mam and Dad have been doing that so far and it hasn’t been easy for them. I wouldn’t ever ask them for any more—they wouldn’t have it, anyway. But I’m thinking, if we got married and lived in Manchester, I could take on some tutoring work. I’ve thought of doing that before now, but it would have meant staying in the city until very late and the trams don’t run at night. I could do it if we lived there.”

  “I could work, too,” Lily said thoughtfully. “There’re lots of tailoring shops in Manchester, and I know the trade well enough to work anywhere.”

  “That would do it then, wouldn’t it?” Arthur began eagerly, but Lily stopped him with a finger to her lips and turned her head around to look at me. He looked too.

  I was pretending not to have been listening and had bent down to pick some flowers in the field we were crossing. They went on, and I did not get the rest of their conversation for a little while because I had really become occupied picking flowers. The two of them went on ahead, and after I had gathered an armful of buttercups and daisies to give to my mother, I ran after them, and was able to listen again.

  They were walking very slowly and talking earnestly. Arthur was saying, “Oh, I’m sure of it. I’m absolutely sure, and as far as its interfering with my studies—well, there’s nothing could interfere more than the way I feel now, wanting you, knowing you’re right across the street from me and I can’t even talk to you, thinking of you all the time, daytime, nighttime. It’s been driving me mad, Lily. Yes, I’m sure this is what I want. The only question is, do you?”

  “Yes,” Lily said, and her voice trembled a little. “I think about you all the time the same way you do me, and it’s torture. I want to marry you, I want to be with you all the time. The only thing is, I don’t want to hurt my mother. I don’t care about my father. He doesn’t matter. But I do care about her.”

  “Yes, I know,” Arthur said. “I know all about your father. But I wouldn’t worry. I told you before, your mother would get over it in time.”

  Lily shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she could ever get over it. It just wouldn’t be possible for her to get over it.”

  “Why d’you say that?” asked Arthur.

  “Because of what she believes, and what all Jewish people believe.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “If a Jew marries a Christian he or she is considered dead.”

  “What!” Arthur was incredulous.

  Lily nodded her head slowly. “She told us that a long time ago. I remember it so clearly. It was during the time they found out about Sarah and Freddy. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” It was not something that Arthur would have wanted to remember. He spoke rather shortly. Clearly, he didn’t think it was a parallel and would just as soon she had not mentioned it. “That was just a bloody bit of foolishness. Freddy was always after some girl.”

  “Yes, I know. But my mother was terribly frightened over it. She was suspicious of you and me even then, even though I wasn’t much more than twelve and you fifteen. I think she wanted to impress it on me especially. I’m sure she was looking at me when she told us of the terrible thing that could happen to a person who strayed from the fold. And I really got an eerie feeling when she said it. I think we all did, because she made it sound so real. Dead. That was the word she used. You became dead if you married a Christian. I was angry with her too, and I remember I said it was a lot of bosh and I stamped out. But it really made an impression, and I’ve never forgotten it.” She shivered a little and drew closer to him, and he put an arm around her waist.

  “You wouldn’t forget it,” he said. “They put a lot of superstitions in our minds when we’re kids, and it’s just the right time for them to stick. But you’re not going to let that make any difference, are you?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not a bit superstitious. I’m really not. I’m just thinking of what’s in my mother’s mind. She believes it. I’m sure she does.”

  “I’m sure she does, too. But, I promise you, she’ll forget all about it once she sees how really alive you are.” Then, anxiously, he asked, “What’s the matter, Lily?”

  They had suddenly come to a halt, and I halted with them. Lily had put a hand to her heart, as I had seen her do several times before. “It’s nothing, really,” she said. “Just a little pain. I think it must be too many of Mrs. Fogg’s scones.”

  “Shall we sit down and rest a while?” Arthur asked. “You’re short of breath, too.”

  “No, I’m all right. I’ll soon catch my breath. I was a little frightened, I suppose, talking of that old business.”

  “Well, we won’t talk about it anymore,” Arthur said. “It’s all nonsense, you know. But are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m quite all right.”

  After a little while, we walked on. Lily didn’t say any more about it. I noticed, though, that she walked much more slowly than before. I think the cheerful note she put into her tone as they continued talking—about other matters this time—was a little forced.

  Again we separated just before we reached our street, Lily and I going ahead. Lily seemed very tired and still walked rather slowly, and as we came near our street she said, “Don’t tell Mam I got that pain.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, knowing that I was not to tell anything, not just this incident.

  My mother’s eyes brightened when she saw the flowers I had brought her, but then they became concerned as she looked at Lily’s face.

  “Don’t you feel well?” she asked.

  “I’m all right. Just a little tired.”

  “You’re so pale.”

  “That’s because I’m tired. I’ll go upstairs and lie down for a little while.”

  As soon as she had gone upstairs, my mother turned to me and asked, “Did anything happen?”

  “No,” I said.

  Then she began asking the usual questions. How was the trip? Who did I see? Were there a lot of people there? She was prying, unmistakably, and I always made sure I did not mention Arthur’s name. Nor, for that matter, did she. Perhaps she was afraid that if she asked if Arthur had been there I would say yes. Perhaps I was too. I could not have lied to her that directly. So we fenced a little, until she allowed her suspicions to be lulled, and then her attention was drawn to the flowers I had brought her.

  She had arranged them in a glass jar that had once been used for pickles but now served as a vase. She had placed them in the center of the table, and they spread out in a huge bouquet, exuding a fragrant smell that was like perfume.

  She looked at them with delight on her face and asked, “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  I was pleased, and I said. “Yis.” Then I asked, “Can I go out now and play?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Go out and play, but come back soon because I want you to write a letter to America.”

  As I ran out, she was still standing there looking at the flowers.

  THERE WAS SO LITTLE BEAUTY in her life, and so little hope, that even a bouquet of buttercups and daisies gave her enormous pleasure and put her in a gay mood. She was in that sort of mood when I sat down at the table with her
later and she began to dictate to me. But there were other things that contributed to it, I soon found out, all the little fragments of hope that had been accumulating over the past few months and that were trembling inside her.

  “My dear mother-in-law, father-in-law, brothers and sisters-in-law, and all the dear little children, just a few lines to let you know that we are well and hoping to hear the same from you.”

  Her letters began in the usual way, and my pen scratched industriously on the ruled notepaper for a while until she paused to gather her thoughts for what she was going to say next, which gave me the opportunity to dip the pen in the ink bottle once more.

  Now, continuing, and unable to wait for all the preliminaries about news of the street that she usually gave, she plunged right into the good news that was bursting inside her. It must have surprised the relatives in Chicago, accustomed as they were to our tales of woe, our misfortunes, and pleas for steamship tickets—although you can be sure my mother did not forget this last toward the end of her letter. But for the greater part it was an outpouring of the joy she felt. “For once God has smiled down at me,” she dictated. “I know what it is to be happy. Do you remember in my last letter I wrote and told you of the new rabbi, a young man who did not have a beard? How we were all so suspicious of him, because he shaved his face every day, which Mrs. Harris claimed was against the Jewish law. Well, all that was cleared up. The rabbi explained at a meeting of the synagogue committee that he did not use a razor, but a powder that he rubbed on his face in the morning and that took off the hair. Well, even then not everybody was certain about it, so a letter was written to the chief rabbi in London, and the reply came stating that only the use of the razor was forbidden, and the use of a powder to remove the hair was well within the law.

  “So this matter was settled to everybody’s satisfaction, and we soon found out what a good rabbi he was, how well he led the services in the synagogue, and how well he taught the boys in the cheder, and how well he did everything, even slaughtering the chickens and the animals for the kosher butcher, who says that he has never seen a rabbi before cut the throat of a cow so quickly and cleanly, with just one swift movement. He does so well at circumcisions too.”

  Now, at this juncture, a sputter of laughter came from my mother’s mouth, and she had to stop her dictation. I have told you before how my mother always enjoyed a good laugh and how sometimes when she and Fanny Cohen were together they would go into fits of laughter, bent over with their heads close together, their bodies shaking all over. Well, this grew into one like that, and although I didn’t quite understand what it was that had set her off, I couldn’t help joining in.

  We both laughed for a while, and finally my mother wiped her eyes, sobered, and said, “Let’s go on. Never mind that part about the circumcision. Cross it out.”

  I did, and she resumed her dictation. “I like the young rabbi very much. He is nice and pleasant and you can talk to him without feeling uncomfortable. Because he’s unmarried he has been invited wherever there are daughters. I have had him to dinner once, and I am sorry to say that things did not go well because he and Lily got into an argument about politics. But that hasn’t stopped him from coming again. Actually, it is the shop he comes into to buy fruit, but that is only a pretense. He really comes hoping to see Lily. If she is not there he always asks about her. It’s quite clear that he prefers her to all the other girls he has met—and aren’t they and their mothers jealous! I am very excited about it myself.

  “I keep thinking, what a wonderful thing it would be for her. After all, what has she got to look forward to? She works in the tailoring shop all day, hates it, comes home at night, and goes right to bed. Once in a while, on a Sunday, she goes into the country with ’arry. That is all the pleasure she gets. What sort of life is that for a young girl, to see no young men, to go out with no one but her eleven-year-old brother? And now there is this chance for her. Oh, what a match that could be. A rabbi!”

  I stopped writing. Her words had trailed off, and she was staring over my shoulder. I turned my head around to see what she was looking at. Lily was standing in the doorway. She was in a robe and slippers, and her face seemed very white, and her eyes were fixed on us with burning intensity.

  “It’s no use,” she said in a low voice.

  “What’s no use?” my mother asked, and her voice trembled a little, showing that she was frightened.

  “I heard everything.”

  My mother took in a deep breath. “All right, so you heard,” she said. “What of it? What’s wrong with what I said? I’m writing to them in America. I want them all to know. I’m full of joy that this is how the rabbi feels about you.”

  “Well, that isn’t the way I feel about him. I’m not going to marry him. There’s not going to be any match. You can tell them that.”

  “Oh, Lily, Lily.” My mother looked at her appealingly. “Don’t be foolish. This is such a wonderful chance for you. He’s such a nice young man. You could be so happy with him, so much happier than I ever was.”

  “It’s no use,” Lily said, “You’ve got to stop thinking of it.”

  “Don’t you want to get married?” my mother asked.

  “I’m going to get married,” Lily said, but I think then that her courage failed her, because she added quickly, “someday.”

  “Someday?’ my mother murmured unhappily. “And have you picked out the man yet?”

  There was a pause, and I held my breath and looked at Lily, and thought, she was going to say it. Now. She looked at me, and knew what I was thinking, and there must have been a moment of desperate uncertainty for her, aware that this was her opportunity, but still afraid. Then it was settled for her. A voice spoke.

  “Yes, she has him picked out, all right.” The words were followed by a harsh little laugh.

  We all turned. Rose had come into the room. She did not look at any of us, nor were her words addressed to anyone in particular. She went about preparing herself some food. She did this often, as if she were a boarder in the house, much like my father, eating alone, ignoring us. When she spoke to anyone it was to a wall, as she was doing now.

  “Oh yes,” she was saying with that peculiar little laugh, “she’s picked him out, all right, and she’ll marry him, too.”

  “Who?” asked my mother.

  “Who d’you think? Who d’you think she’s been going with all this time? I saw her today coming back from the country with him, where she’s supposed to have been with just her little brother.”

  “Who? Who?” my mother demanded in a loud voice.

  “Ask her. Why don’t you ask her?” And again that laugh.

  My mother turned toward Lily with terror on her face. Lily’s was whiter even than it had been before.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” she muttered, and flashed a look of hatred at Rose, who had seated herself at the table now, and was beginning to eat the little food she had put together, while staring at the wall opposite her, and saying, amusedly:

  “She’s supposed to be the bright one of the family. The brilliant one. The beautiful one. The winner of scholarships. Look at her. She slaves away in a dirty little tailoring shop for a few pennies a week, and she’s going to marry a bates, and she’ll spend the rest of her life on this street, and before you know it she’ll be running to Gordons’ Saturday nights to fetch a pint of beer for her husband.”

  “Who is it?” my mother shouted, interrupting her. I had never heard her shout like that before. Joe and Saul had just come in and were both staring at her. “Who is it she went to the country with? Who did you see?”

  I think Rose was a little frightened, but she held her ground, and repeated stubbornly, “Ask her. Let her tell you.”

  “Tell me!” Once more my mother swung on Lily, her eyes flaming.

  Lily broke down. She put her hands to her face and sobbed. Then, in a choking voice, she said, “Tell her, ’arry,” and ran out and up the stairs.

  My mother tu
rned toward me now. They were all looking at me, waiting. Even Rose had turned her head and was watching.

  “Who was it?” my mother demanded.

  I was no longer bound by any promise. Lily herself had told me to tell. “Arthur,” I said.

  A groan escaped my mother. She began to wring her hands distractedly. After a moment she asked, “Has she seen him there before?”

  “Yis,” I said.

  “He was there every Sunday?”

  “Yis.”

  “And she’s going to marry him?”

  “Yis.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yis.”

  “Oh, my God, my God.” She began to pace up and down, still wringing her hands. Then suddenly, she stopped pacing and said almost harshly, “Sit down at the table. I want you to write a letter.”

  She had completely forgotten about the other letter we had been writing. It was never finished and never sent. I tore it up afterward. It was this one we sent:

  “My dear mother-in-law, father-in-law, brothers and sisters-inlaw, and all the children, just a few lines to let you know that we are well and hoping to hear the same from you.”

  In spite of her agony and her rush to say what she had to say, she did not forget the preliminary, but as soon as that was done she raced on. “Now I must tell you of the terrible thing that has happened to us, a calamity, worse than anything yet, and one that you must share with us, because the disgrace must fall on you too should Lily carry out her plan.” She spoke fiercely, trying to stem the tears coming to her eyes, her voice choking a little. The other three around the table sat and listened, and my pen scratched quickly to keep up with the flow of her words. “I must tell you right now that Lily is planning to marry a Christian boy. He is the one who lives across the street, Arthur Forshaw. This all began when they were children, but I did not pay too much attention to it then and let it go on. I even let her write letters to him when he was in the war. God has punished me for that. I found out today that she has been meeting him secretly in the country. They are planning to get married. Perhaps I deserve this. I don’t know. I should have been stricter with her and not let her write to him when he was in France during the war. I think that really got things going for them. Now the truth has come out. I am sure you will feel the way I do, that this shame must not fall on our family.” She was crying now, and I had to pause while she pressed a handkerchief to her eyes and finally got enough control of herself to go on, though in a broken voice interrupted now and then by further outbursts of tears. “All these years I have begged you to send for us, but I no longer do that. I ask that you should send for Lily. Let her go alone, and I promise I will never ask for anything else after this. Please, dear relatives, save her from this. I do not want to sit shivah for my daughter. I do not want her to die.”