Cafe Scheherazade (15 page)

‘In Shanghai there were Jews from the entire world. From Bombay. Thessaloniki, Persia and Cochin. Magnates! They owned factories, warehouses, real estate. You know why they call it ‘real estate'? Because you can touch it; because it is not a fantasy, a grandmother's tale.

‘I met the famous magnate, Sir Victor Sassoon, in the lobby of the Hotel Cathay. He was a great philanthropist. He walked with a limp, and he showered money on all who came!

‘It was such a pleasure to stroll in the carpeted foyer. I would loiter for hours in a magnificent hall that overlooked the Whangpoo. Even the elevators were like palace rooms. It was a delight to press the buttons, to wait for the lifts to arrive. I rode them up and down as if I was riding a horse on a carousel. I lifted my hat to the wealthy merchants who stepped in. I greeted them with a wink. A smile. And I made conversation.

‘Small talk leads to big talk, to contracts and deals. This is how I met the millionaire, Baruch. His grand-daughter was Esther Williams, the actress. From Hollywood. That's what he told me. Perhaps he was just boasting. Or perhaps I have got it all mixed up.

‘I met Kadourie and Hardoon. Or perhaps I heard stories about Kadourie and Hardoon. I can't remember which was which. Kadourie erected a beautiful school for refugees, where it was needed most, in that rat hole called Hongkew. He was a man with a golden heart. I am sure he sits in
gan eiden
, serenaded by angels on all sides!

‘Hardoon too had a heart of gold. He had a Chinese wife. He adopted children from many lands. He built a synagogue in honour of his father, and called it the Beth Aharon, the House of Aron. And when the refugees came, he gave it to them as a gift. He opened its doors to the boys of the Mir Yeshiva. Can you imagine it? A whole yeshiva, from the Polish town of Mir, a mere shtetl, made it all the way to Shanghai.

‘Yes. This is how it was! They fled from Mir to Vilna, hundreds of rabbis and yeshiva boys. They ran from Vilna to northern Lithuania where they lived secretly in villages until Chiune Sugihara helped them along. They travelled from Vilna to Vladivostok, from Kobe to Shanghai. A complete school of Talmudic studies in a caravanserai! With scholars who tugged at their side-locks, and teenage boys who scratched their itchy cheeks. They rushed about in black-brimmed hats. Their jackets flapped in the wind. Even in the summer they hurried through the streets of Hongkew in their black coats to the Beth Aharon, to study and pray.

‘I prayed there too. I can still see it before my eyes. It had an arched doorway and arched windows, high white ceilings and a white dome. It looked like the great synagogues of old.

‘The Russian Jews too were great philanthropists. They had lived in Shanghai for many years and they knew how to get by. My foolish child, to be able to give, you must be able to receive. This is a golden rule.

‘The Russians managed nightclubs, restaurants, cinemas and cabarets. I would often stroll in the Russian quarter, along Avenue Joffre, in the French concession. Little Moscow, it was called. It was crowded with people speaking in Slavic tongues. Naturally I felt at home. I sniffed the air and soon became a regular customer at the Balalaika, the Kavkas and the Renaissance. Little Moscow was a paradise of borscht and black bread, and stores that sold everything from Siberian furs to samovars!

‘The whole world was in Shanghai.
Der gantzer velt
. As Mendel Mandelbaum used to say:

“Die velt is ful mit veltelekh
Un men shpilt zikh in beheltelekh”

‘That's how it is. The world is full of little worlds, and we are all playing hide-and-seek. This is what Mendel Mandelbaum taught me. This is what I learnt on Krochmalna Street, and in the tenement courtyards of old Warsaw. And this is why Shanghai was so familiar to me. It brought back childhood memories of peddlers selling smoked herring and bagels; and of geese and pigs being driven to market through narrow lanes. It was a wonderful mess, a
balagan
. As the boat approached the busy wharves, I rubbed my hands with glee. I fell in love at first sight. I wanted to leap into the city as soon the boat pulled up to the port.

‘What can I say? In Shanghai I had a beautiful life. I lived with other single men in a dormitory, in Hongkew. Until Pearl Harbor we could roam wherever we wished. I walked the streets of the French concession, and sat in Viennese cafes. I sipped coffee with the boys from Berlin. And with the boys from Prague, Siberia and Harbin. Each group had their own cafe, their own little world. Mendel Mandelbaum was right. The whole world is full of little worlds, and we are playing hide-and-seek.

‘And wherever I met people I pencilled in their names. To prosper you must have an address book with you at all times. If you wish to make a living, you must always be prepared!'

Yossel is in full flight. His gold bow tie glitters in the late afternoon light. He orders a glass of borscht. The drink complements his tales, for he is talking of Russian philanthropists. He is singing the praises of Boris Salamonik.

‘My foolish child, to have money is the greatest thing. Even in times of danger some people knew how to give, how to be a
mensch
, a true human being. Boris was married to a
tsigeiner
. He helped everyone, the Gypsies, the Chinese, even the yeshiva boys from Mir. Salamonik gave them thousands of dollars to print the Talmud. They had no books for their studies, so Boris helped them.

‘And he helped me. He dealt in mink. He exported it to America. The best mink. I have photos. I carry them with me in my wallet. They remind me of my luck. Look. Here is a photo of me with Boris, wrapped in his winter coat. He treated me as a son. To have money is the greatest thing. With money you can help yourself. You can help others. And Boris helped me.

‘And he helped in a nice way, with honour, without making me feel like a beggar. He gave me textiles and said, “Go and deal. Go and make a living.” He did not give you charity. He gave you a chance. After I made money, I too was able to help others. My foolish child, this is how it is. This is the way the world spins and turns.'

Yossel orders his customary chicken schnitzel. He eats with relish, as if each morsel could be his last.

‘I did anything to survive,' he says. ‘I smuggled goods, traded in diamonds, exchanged my hard-earned money on the black market. I even purchased the complete works of Karl Marx and Adam Smith from a refugee, and made a ten-fold profit by selling them for their weight! Like everything in Shanghai, paper was in demand. They had opposite views, Marx and Smith, but in weight they were worth the same!

‘But unless my life depended upon it I never traded on
Shabbes
. This is where I drew the line. On Friday nights I would get dressed in my best clothes, and I would stroll to the Beth Aharon synagogue to pray. I stood at the polished pews, alongside the yeshiva boys, and rocked back and forth until I found myself in the prayer houses of old.

‘After the service I would go to Goldbloom's restaurant. It was
heimish
. As homely as a mother's kitchen; and the food was kosher. Do you think it would be otherwise? We sang
zmires, Shabbes
songs. We drank kosher port, as if we were back on Krochmalna. We drank wine as if each
Shabbes
was a Passover feast.

‘Yes, Shanghai was a
tragedia
. But we made a life. A Russian life. A French life. A Chinese life. Any life you wished. We danced to gramophones in private rooms. We went to all-night dances and ran after beautiful girls. We watched American films at the Lafayette. We saw Dorothy Lamour at the Broadway, as my beloved Warsaw fell. We watched Bette Davis at the Uptown cinema, while my dear parents perished in hell.

‘Of course, the situation changed after December '41. Of course the party was over. But even then, in Hongkew, there were coffee-houses; they multiplied like flies. We had little food. We drank ersatz coffee. We ate soggy rice drowning in water. We ate red beans until we burst; but we could breathe! We sat for hours on end and shuffled cards. We played ping-pong and dribbled footballs in rubbish-strewn lots. We sat with coolies and played mahjong. What else could we do but live for the day?

‘In Hongkew lovers grappled in each other's arms in dark corners and lanes. I saw them with my own eyes. My foolish child! What can you know of such things? Even in a slum, the spirit thrives.

‘And compared with those who stayed behind we were in paradise. Ah, now that was a true
tragedia
. What happened to us was nothing in comparison.
Gornisht
. At least we had a tiny bit of room in which to move. At least we could have affairs, bear children, and bury our dead, the way they should be buried, with a tombstone to mark their names. At least we could drink coffee as the rest of the world burned. Perhaps that is why I loved it. Perhaps that is why I still dream of Shanghai. In Shanghai I survived!'

As I leave the cafe I feel disoriented. The footpath seems malleable under foot. Nothing feels certain. Yet everything appears vibrant, ablaze. The Europa cake shop glistens with sugar-coated dreams of a distant past: sacher rum and cherry kougelhupf. Vanilla knipfel and almond horseshoe. Baked cheesecake, Vienna rings, hazelnut meringues and honey sponge.

I catch a tram and find relief in the breeze that flows through its open doors. The Upper Esplanade is lined with luxury apartments and dishevelled hotels. The sea is a scorching silver that scalds the eyes. A haze sinks from low-hung skies. A solitary ship crawls across the bay. The green-domed clocktower marks the passing of a summer day.

The tram curves into Fitzroy Street. Ageing elm trees line the way. Tables sprawl at kerbside cafes. Pimps and prostitutes survey their domain. Backpackers finger their copies of
The World on Twenty Dollars a Day
. It is shabby, yet somehow it seems new. A world of sojourners and itinerants, unhinged and unearthed.

I too have become a walker, a cafe dweller. I too have become unhinged, so taken by Laizer, Zalman and Yossel's stories that all I see about me seems like a parade, a play of chance.

‘We are
luftmenschen
,' is how Yossel put it, with a laugh. ‘People of air. We do not belong to any one place. The whole world is ours. Yet, despite all our running about, nothing is truly ours. My foolish child, this is how it is.'

VII

W
alk the familiar route. The inner city is coated in dew. St Kilda pier is lined with lamps that glow like miniature moons. A woman leans across the rails. A couple embrace on the deserted beach, a middle-aged man slumps back on a wooden seat. The Palais Theatre rears like a Gothic castle in the mist.

Walk the streets of Shanghai; walk the lanes of Krochmalna; walk the crumbling courtyards of Vilna; the foothills of Kobe; walk the ancient trading route. Walk the pier. Walk the pavement. Walk the shoreline of the bay. Walk and come to know that others have walked here for millennia. Walk the contours, the flatlands, the hills, the rivers and creeks coursing like arteries to the bay. Walk and come to know that this land abounds in tales, both ancient and new.

Retrace your steps along the familiar route. Observe the neon sign coming into view, Scheherazade blinking lilac, pink and blue. Proceed through the glass doors. Make your way past the front alcove where the boys are playing cards. Move past the men immersed in journals and racing guides. Sidestep the tables where families are gulping down their meals; and make your way to the back room.

They are there, as usual, Mr and Mrs Zeleznikow, Avram and Masha, the proprietors, in their directors' chairs, issuing orders, poring over bills, shuffling papers, reading the news.

So join us, dear reader. Don't be shy. Here, have a slice of Black Forest cake. On the house. And a glass of red. Savour it. Feel the glow spreading over your cheeks. Allow the taste to linger in the mouth. It is a pleasant feeling, no? Are you comfortable? Sit back. Settle into your chair; and listen to
bobbe mayses
, grandma tales:

Listen to this story children,

Listen with nose and eyes.

Over grandma's house

A cow I saw did fly.

This is true, this is true,

This is true, it all took place.

This is true, this is true,

This indeed, I saw myself.

The war is over. Empires lie in ruins. A weariness has descended upon the world. Travellers trudge across the horizon clad in rags. They sleep in barns, abandoned cottages, burnt-out buildings. They emerge from temporary refuges, remote hamlets. They disperse from disbanding armies and the labour camps of the east. It is time to seek out the loved ones they have left behind. It is time to journey home.

Masha's family were among the first to return to Poland. In September 1945, the Frydmans boarded a train in Dzhambul. Cold winds penetrated the wagons. The early snows were falling. Tall grasses bent to a bitter breeze. Forests vanished into the shadows. Villages receded in huddles of light.

They travelled in silence. All about them they saw others on the move; on the backs of trucks, in bare feet, on bicycles and horse-drawn carts; they moved like weary battalions in quiet retreat. They travelled towards a land shrouded in rumours. They prayed that their loved ones had survived. They were afraid of what they would find.

Yet nothing could have prepared them for the devastation that had been wrought in their absence: the piles of rubble, twisted girders, the razed hamlets, the wastelands of defeat. Nothing could have readied them for the scorched earth, the ruined cities, the desecrated temples and shattered homes.

This is when their stories began to be suppressed. This is when the Frydmans, and so many others who had survived in the east, were overwhelmed by the demands of others in far greater distress; and by an urgent need to forget, to bury the past and to rebuild their aborted lives.

‘When we first met,' says Masha, ‘Avram told me that all those years in
gehennim
he had dreamt of a white room. A brightly lit room. With a desk at which he could sit and write. That is all he wanted, a room with an electric light.'