butcher, and before that a common rag peddler— has bought a split-level bungalow in an up-and-coming west-end suburb to which Jews are flocking in droves. The other bit of news that Lisa has divined was that another little Nutkevitch is on the way. The twins’ mother looks exactly the same as ever, as far as Toni can tell, but Lisa knows , she can smell the baby coming. To top it all off, a sleek, brown Chevy sedan from Harold Cummings’ used car lot stands in front of the building next door waiting to carry the burgeoning family off to their four-bedroom palace with the basement den.
“Good riddance,” Toni chortles into her cup of cocoa. But Lisa bristles with the energy of discontent. She gulps her morning coffee at the kitchen counter while shredding a large head of cabbage. The cuckoo clock warbles and Lisa barks, “ Verdammt! ” and Toni stifles a giggle because her mother’s curses are hilarious when not aimed directly at her.
“Now’s the time to buy,” Lisa declares, knife poised in mid-air. “Now.”
Julius continues to read the paper, folded twice to make a neat parcel he can hold steady in front of his face while his other hand lifts the coffee cup to his lips.
“We could get a nice bungalow in Côte Saint-Luc for about twenty-thousand dollars.”
“Twenty-thousand dollars?” Julius tears his eyes away from the newsprint and stares at her, incredulous. “That’s what you call affordable? Twenty-thousand dollars?” He speaks the number slowly as if trying to get a grasp on that huge tower of money.
“We get a mortgage. We put a little down, the rest monthly. It wouldn’t be so much more than we’re paying now.”
“Yes, of course, a mortgage.” He taps his forefinger to his temple to show what he thinks of such a notion. Verrucktheit . Madness. “You want to ruin me with debts.”
“Everyone here has debts. That’s how people live in this country. That’s how people get ahead.”
“ Naturlich! Buy now, pay later. Pay with my blood.”
If they’d just ask Toni her opinion she’d tell them they can stop fighting right now, because she has no intention of moving. She glances around the kitchen, cosy and crowded with familiar objects—the Arborite-topped table, the vinyl-covered chrome chairs, the sputtering gas stove, the fat-tubbed wringer-washer, and the dear old cuckoo clock on the wall. Where could be better than here? But Mama and Papa are too caught up in each other to pay attention to Toni. So she turns back to the book she’s reading, Black Beauty, about the adventures of a lovely young horse who must deal with the injustice of bad masters in a harsh world.
The argument does not go away. Day after day, at breakfast, at supper, through the bedroom walls at night, her parents raise their voices against one another. Lisa cajoles, loses her temper, hurls sarcastic barbs. Julius meets her with crossed-armed silence or mocking remarks of his own. “Indeed, Xanthippe!” he mutters. One morning he reminds her of Uncle Alfred, ruined by debts, besieged by creditors, consumed by shame, and driven to fire a bullet through the back of his mouth with his World War I revolver. Debt is a cancer, Julius’s father used to say. And even he, a well-established bank employee, lost barrelfuls of money.
“That was the Inflation, the Depression. That was Europe in the dark days. Now there is prosperity, opportunity, the New World, in case you haven’t noticed, Mr Head-in-the-Sand. Where would we be if I didn’t push you forward? Still in some stinking back alley in Rome waiting for the right moment to leave. It was I ,” Lisa strikes her fist against her chest, “ I who got us the entry papers. I who made the arrangements.”
She glares across the breakfast table. A series of incredulous chuckles falls from his lips, a sound like bubbles bursting. He rolls his eyes. Her version of events is too preposterous.
“She forgets how she nearly lost us our chance to come to Canada
“Good riddance,” Toni chortles into her cup of cocoa. But Lisa bristles with the energy of discontent. She gulps her morning coffee at the kitchen counter while shredding a large head of cabbage. The cuckoo clock warbles and Lisa barks, “ Verdammt! ” and Toni stifles a giggle because her mother’s curses are hilarious when not aimed directly at her.
“Now’s the time to buy,” Lisa declares, knife poised in mid-air. “Now.”
Julius continues to read the paper, folded twice to make a neat parcel he can hold steady in front of his face while his other hand lifts the coffee cup to his lips.
“We could get a nice bungalow in Côte Saint-Luc for about twenty-thousand dollars.”
“Twenty-thousand dollars?” Julius tears his eyes away from the newsprint and stares at her, incredulous. “That’s what you call affordable? Twenty-thousand dollars?” He speaks the number slowly as if trying to get a grasp on that huge tower of money.
“We get a mortgage. We put a little down, the rest monthly. It wouldn’t be so much more than we’re paying now.”
“Yes, of course, a mortgage.” He taps his forefinger to his temple to show what he thinks of such a notion. Verrucktheit . Madness. “You want to ruin me with debts.”
“Everyone here has debts. That’s how people live in this country. That’s how people get ahead.”
“ Naturlich! Buy now, pay later. Pay with my blood.”
If they’d just ask Toni her opinion she’d tell them they can stop fighting right now, because she has no intention of moving. She glances around the kitchen, cosy and crowded with familiar objects—the Arborite-topped table, the vinyl-covered chrome chairs, the sputtering gas stove, the fat-tubbed wringer-washer, and the dear old cuckoo clock on the wall. Where could be better than here? But Mama and Papa are too caught up in each other to pay attention to Toni. So she turns back to the book she’s reading, Black Beauty, about the adventures of a lovely young horse who must deal with the injustice of bad masters in a harsh world.
The argument does not go away. Day after day, at breakfast, at supper, through the bedroom walls at night, her parents raise their voices against one another. Lisa cajoles, loses her temper, hurls sarcastic barbs. Julius meets her with crossed-armed silence or mocking remarks of his own. “Indeed, Xanthippe!” he mutters. One morning he reminds her of Uncle Alfred, ruined by debts, besieged by creditors, consumed by shame, and driven to fire a bullet through the back of his mouth with his World War I revolver. Debt is a cancer, Julius’s father used to say. And even he, a well-established bank employee, lost barrelfuls of money.
“That was the Inflation, the Depression. That was Europe in the dark days. Now there is prosperity, opportunity, the New World, in case you haven’t noticed, Mr Head-in-the-Sand. Where would we be if I didn’t push you forward? Still in some stinking back alley in Rome waiting for the right moment to leave. It was I ,” Lisa strikes her fist against her chest, “ I who got us the entry papers. I who made the arrangements.”
She glares across the breakfast table. A series of incredulous chuckles falls from his lips, a sound like bubbles bursting. He rolls his eyes. Her version of events is too preposterous.
“She forgets how she nearly lost us our chance to come to Canada
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