because of all her scenes at the consulate. We were nearly blackballed.”
He addresses these words to Toni, speaks quietly, reasonably, hand on his cheek, head shaking, as if the two of them were consulting over a mental case. Toni doesn’t allow herself to crack a smile. She locks eyes with her father’s and nods. Then she stares down at her plate and focuses on her bread and butter so she doesn’t have to see her mother’s wounded expression. My own daughter betrays me .
The hostility between her parents gets worse. Every day, accusations fly back and forth. The conflicting stories about how they got to Canada get mixed up in the argument about moving. Her mother corners Toni in her bedroom after school as she’s changing out of her tunic.
“Listen to me, Bubbele , it was like this. A nasty little man at the consulate—an anti-Semite, you could see it in his eyes—tried to get in our way. ‘Wrong papers,’ he said. ‘Stateless.’ Of course we were stateless! Who wasn’t stateless? I stormed out of his office and slammed the door behind me. I threw myself at the feet of the consul himself. ‘Madam, you must not upset yourself,’ he said. A proper gentleman.”
The moral of the story? Never deal with underlings. Too much caution can kill you. And: Your father needs a fire lit under him.
But no, it was like this. Julius takes the opportunity while Lisa’s in the bathroom to explain what really happened.
“There were quotas, even after the war. The Canadians wanted immigrants with certain trades, like furriers, hat-makers, garment workers. The fact that your mother could sew wasn’t good enough because the men, the breadwinners, had to find jobs. A crowd grew unruly in the embassy corridor—not just Jews, regular Italians and DPs from all over. They didn’t understand the procedures, they didn’t know English. Some got hysterical. I put myself forward as an interpreter for the overwhelmed official and was able to calm the mob, and so I made a good impression. The official put me on the list.”
And the moral? Keep your head. Don’t act rashly. And: Your mother gets carried away.
Confusion buzzes in Toni’s head. Even the cuckoo seems overwhelmed. He peeps feebly, retreats slowly behind his door to the sound of groaning springs. What does it matter how they got to Canada? What matters is that the family is here now and not moving ever again, plain and simple. What matters is the adventures of a plucky little horse in old London town. While Black Beauty pulls an overloaded cart up a hill, Lisa ambushes Julius in the corridor.
“An investment in a house is money in the bank.”
“Ha! Money for the bank. The bank will own the house.”
He retreats into his study. She follows and pushes open the door he closed so firmly behind him. She is like a terrier with a bone. But he is made of unyielding material, like wood turned to stone through eons of sediment.
One evening, planting herself in front of the television screen and blocking out the announcer on the news, Lisa yells, “And, by the way, another thing, in case you haven’t noticed. My clock is ticking. I’m running out of time.”
“Time for what?” Toni asks, wrenching herself away from her book. Two horses have been talking about what it’s like to have a bit in your mouth, and Toni can feel the cold, cruel iron against her own tongue. Yet she is forced to lift her eyes from the page by the mystery in her mother’s words, the sound of a desperate plea.
Lisa glares at Julius, a look of smouldering resentment, while he regards her with a strange mixture of pity, apology, and pained embarrassment.
“Time for what?” Toni asks again. Neither of them answer.
A story in the Montreal Star changes everything. Her parents lean over the front page spread out on the kitchen table. Julius sits, Lisa stands by his side looking over his shoulder, her jaw clamped shut. There’s a deadly stillness in the room. No sound except the rustle of
He addresses these words to Toni, speaks quietly, reasonably, hand on his cheek, head shaking, as if the two of them were consulting over a mental case. Toni doesn’t allow herself to crack a smile. She locks eyes with her father’s and nods. Then she stares down at her plate and focuses on her bread and butter so she doesn’t have to see her mother’s wounded expression. My own daughter betrays me .
The hostility between her parents gets worse. Every day, accusations fly back and forth. The conflicting stories about how they got to Canada get mixed up in the argument about moving. Her mother corners Toni in her bedroom after school as she’s changing out of her tunic.
“Listen to me, Bubbele , it was like this. A nasty little man at the consulate—an anti-Semite, you could see it in his eyes—tried to get in our way. ‘Wrong papers,’ he said. ‘Stateless.’ Of course we were stateless! Who wasn’t stateless? I stormed out of his office and slammed the door behind me. I threw myself at the feet of the consul himself. ‘Madam, you must not upset yourself,’ he said. A proper gentleman.”
The moral of the story? Never deal with underlings. Too much caution can kill you. And: Your father needs a fire lit under him.
But no, it was like this. Julius takes the opportunity while Lisa’s in the bathroom to explain what really happened.
“There were quotas, even after the war. The Canadians wanted immigrants with certain trades, like furriers, hat-makers, garment workers. The fact that your mother could sew wasn’t good enough because the men, the breadwinners, had to find jobs. A crowd grew unruly in the embassy corridor—not just Jews, regular Italians and DPs from all over. They didn’t understand the procedures, they didn’t know English. Some got hysterical. I put myself forward as an interpreter for the overwhelmed official and was able to calm the mob, and so I made a good impression. The official put me on the list.”
And the moral? Keep your head. Don’t act rashly. And: Your mother gets carried away.
Confusion buzzes in Toni’s head. Even the cuckoo seems overwhelmed. He peeps feebly, retreats slowly behind his door to the sound of groaning springs. What does it matter how they got to Canada? What matters is that the family is here now and not moving ever again, plain and simple. What matters is the adventures of a plucky little horse in old London town. While Black Beauty pulls an overloaded cart up a hill, Lisa ambushes Julius in the corridor.
“An investment in a house is money in the bank.”
“Ha! Money for the bank. The bank will own the house.”
He retreats into his study. She follows and pushes open the door he closed so firmly behind him. She is like a terrier with a bone. But he is made of unyielding material, like wood turned to stone through eons of sediment.
One evening, planting herself in front of the television screen and blocking out the announcer on the news, Lisa yells, “And, by the way, another thing, in case you haven’t noticed. My clock is ticking. I’m running out of time.”
“Time for what?” Toni asks, wrenching herself away from her book. Two horses have been talking about what it’s like to have a bit in your mouth, and Toni can feel the cold, cruel iron against her own tongue. Yet she is forced to lift her eyes from the page by the mystery in her mother’s words, the sound of a desperate plea.
Lisa glares at Julius, a look of smouldering resentment, while he regards her with a strange mixture of pity, apology, and pained embarrassment.
“Time for what?” Toni asks again. Neither of them answer.
A story in the Montreal Star changes everything. Her parents lean over the front page spread out on the kitchen table. Julius sits, Lisa stands by his side looking over his shoulder, her jaw clamped shut. There’s a deadly stillness in the room. No sound except the rustle of
Similar Books
