Cuff Linked Memories
By Robyn Singer Rose

Preface

3rd November 1983. St. Jude of God Hospital, Brighton.

‘Dr. Harris, you’ve got a new one.’

‘I’m quite capable of determining that for myself, Polly, thanks very much.’

‘But you haven’t been here for a while, how were your holidays?'

‘Fine thanks.’

‘Let me give you the tour. Over here, we have a drug-induced psychosis…sees spiders. Many a night I’ve taken to stomping on spiders…very real delusions. In here, we have a schizophrenic, over here, nobody knows and oh yeah, a new one in here. She’s yours, Doc. Look, there’s her name on your list, S. Klein, came in last night, Jewish girl. She’s lost the plot after months of depression. No previous therapy. I put the Milo on the bedside table and came back to a cup with a cold skin’

‘Polly, surely you know you’re not supposed to pry on other patients. Leave the drink on the side table and go.’

‘The nurse left the notes on the overhead table. Her parents found her in her nightie, collapsed in the backyard’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Shirley? She couldn’t remember how she got there. Good luck. I think the cat’s got her tongue.’

‘Shirley? I’m Dr Harris. I’ll be your therapist while you’re with us.’

‘Where would you like to begin?’

‘Shirley?’

‘Your parents have told me something of your history. Oh and that nice, Mrs. Erlickster, she was very helpful with details of your boyfriend’s death.’

‘Come on, I know you’re awake. Tell me your story.’

‘Just when you’re ready, open your eyes and talk to me.’

‘That’s right, when you’re ready.’

My eyes open to sharp rays of light darting between the curtains at a blinding angle. The room is filled with white light. Turning away, I am face to face with a young woman twiddling the end of her blonde ponytail and balancing a clipboard on her knee. My body is stretched tight in a hospital gown that has twisted its way over my hips and under my arms. I can’t make out whether it is knotted at the back or the front. If I move, I feel the wet sheet pull away from my back and it’s cold. One of my wrists is shackled to the bed frame with a leather strap. This is my body but this is not me. The bedsides are up. A tin of baby powder sits on the side table with a plastic jug, a vase of rotting violets and a bedpan covered with lunch wrap. Smells, burnt metal, sweat, dead flower water and the sweet scent of powder, hang in the air -- hospital stench between her and me.

The young woman wants to know if I’m ready to tell my story - to a stranger. God, we don’t even discuss things at home. Besides, it can’t be my story. It has to be someone else’s. How did the very ordinariness of my life turn into this? How did I, Shirley Klein, end up in a nuthouse?

Chapter One

THE FAMILY 1983

Rivkah Klein looked up from the sink. She stood motionless with her hands under the tap letting the cool water flow over her wrist. Outside, raindrops spilled over the spouting, hitting the concrete below. One drip followed the other with a distinct thud-thud, thud-thud. With a vegetable knife, she separated thin layers of skin from a potato, sniffing the earth’s damp rawness. Thud-thud. Skins swirled through the water coming to rest, one on top of the other, until the drain was blocked and the sink full of muddy water.

After all these years, she could still feel herself in that small space. She could hear the thud-thud of boots marching on the cobblestones growing louder as they neared. She could see the tall, thin figure coming back for her. Moishe.

‘Rivvy, where are you?’ Moishe had pleaded.

‘Under here,’ she tried to say but her throat was too dry. She wasn't sure if she'd made any noise at all. Moishe, silent in the shadow of the lane, was anxious and strained to hear the soft sounds of her voice before his eyes blinked recognition and he ran, ducking under the stairs to drop down beside her.

‘Go on without me,’ she whispered, making a useless attempt to push him on.

‘I won't leave you, Rivvy.’ Rivkah tasted tears of salt but could not lay claim to them being hers. Her body wedged against Moishe's, rib-to-rib, limbs intertwined, as they hid under the stairwell in a Lublin alleyway. She could not remember feeling courageous or fearful. She could not remember feeling at all. Everything had stopped. But her heartbeat marched on with each squelch of the boots as the soldiers passed by, thank God without them being discovered.

Ari followed Moishe to the kitchen but was stopped at the door, colliding with his grandfather’s back when the old man paused to lift his foot out of a puddle. His Zeyda’s face wrinkled into his worried look as he shook his foot. The sock he’d just put on was seeped in water, causing him to dance on his toes to the sink and lunge to turn off the tap.

‘Rivkah!’ he cried, startling her. Rivkah jumped back, her tiny slippered feet filled with water and her apron wet through to her skirt. She gasped and shook her head in an effort to pull herself together. Moving aside she allowed Moishe, sleeve rolled up, to reach into the sink to unblock the drain.

‘Oi Vey! Now I'll have to change.’ She gave a contrived laugh as she scurried past her grandson, ruffling his hair and mumbling in Yiddish that everyday she was more and more Meshugana.

Moishe leaned out the back door. Without looking, he stretched his arm to reach for the mop he hoped was in its usual spot against the wall. Shouting so Ari would hear, ‘I know what you doing, Rivvy. You make a big wave and wash the floor and the dishes in one go.’

Moishe returned with a mop and bucket. Ari waited in the doorway between his Bubah and Zeyda, watching his grandfather lift the mop into the bucket, press down hard on the lever and pull the mop up dry. The mop handle nearly poked the old man in the eye. Ammonia fumes caught in his throat. The moment the mop left the bucket the boy felt a change in his grandfather’s mood, confirmed by a wink and a flash of the gold in his teeth when he smiled. Ari let out his breath relaxing his fleshy belly. Puppy fat his Zeyda called it, normal for a young boy, he’d say, patting and kissing Ari’s cheeks so Ari had to dry his face with the end of his t-shirt.

Hands on hips the pair looked at each other, then at the shine on the vinyl and nodded. Moishe placed the mop and bucket against the wall. He smoothed his thick grey hair and rubbed at his fat nose. ‘Bubah is a very clever woman, Ari.’

Moishe popped a piece of fruit into his mouth from a plateful sitting on the table -- peeled, washed and removed of its seed. He dried his hands and sat in his place at the end of the table, gesturing to Ari to join him as he ate. With every piece of fruit Moishe took, he handed a piece to Ari. They continued this way in silence.

Ari was comfortable in the warmth of his grandparents’ kitchen. He liked the sound of the clock ticking where it hung over the stove. He even liked the shiny, blue walls. From the kitchen, he could see the chrome legs of the dining room table and the glass sliding doors of Bubah’s buffet where she kept the menorah and chanukiah amongst her best crystal glasses from Vienna. One wall of the dining room was dressed with textured wallpaper that Ari loved to run his hands over, feeling ripples of softness on his fingertips. The familiar coffee aromas mingled with soup and stewed apples with cloves. He liked it before his mother got up, when the room wasn’t overpowered by the stench of cigarette smoke.

‘Zeyda,’ Ari broke the silence.

‘Yes, Ari,’ Moishe answered, intent on picking the skin of a grape from his teeth.

‘How did you meet Bubah?’ Ari had so many questions. He twisted his leg around the table leg, uncertain of his grandfather’s reaction. He guessed his Zeyda might like to tell him about falling in love with his Bubah, just as his teacher at school had delighted in telling the class her story of meeting her fiancé, that day she’d worn a new ring on her finger.

‘We were from the same town and knew each other most of our lives. I always loved your Bubah, Ari,’ Moishe sighed. ‘But then, so did many young men.’ Moishe buried his head in his newspaper. Ari’s eyes pierced the print but Moishe went on reading.

Ari shifted in his seat. He listened to the tick of the clock. The radio, he thought, the radio, is off. It was on most mornings. Bubah liked to listen to 3AW. She liked to be informed, but his mama argued that listening to narrow-minded talkback radio was depressing. His Bubah might be depressed this morning.

His mama liked the Top of the Pops, so did Ari. The transistor radio, cased in leather with pieces cut out to allow the buttons through and holes punched in the front to let the sound out, sat on top of the fridge. Looking up at it, he knew standing on a chair he could reach to turn it on, but he wasn’t satisfied with his Zayda’s answer. His grandfather did not reminisce, nobody new much about his life before he was old. At least, nothing they were going to tell him. His answers were always short, unlike if he were telling a story about what happened when he arrived in Australia.

‘Zeyda, Bubah is often standing staring into space as if she is far away.’ Ari took a breath. He felt his cheeks flush but was ready to hold his grandfather’s gaze.

Moishe looked up from his paper, pausing to study Ari’s face. He would say again, how much his grandson’s round face, reminded him of his older brother Chiam. The same chubby cheeks and black curls resting on a rounded forehead making him seem younger than eleven years old. Ari was growing up and was ready to begin studying for his Bar Mitzvah. But the old man would not tell his grandson, how his brother perished with so many others. He would not tell him of his brother’s wish that Moishe should live a good life. He would not tell him how grateful he was that his brother Chiam lived on, in this little boy’s face and in his own precious memories.

Ari almost lost interest. He looked at his mother’s muddied shoes at the back door and wondered where she’d walked in them. He was seconds from jumping up to turn on Top of the Pop when to his surprise, Moishe said, ‘She ‘is’ far away, Ari.’ The old man picked up the newspaper, his mouth drawn into a pucker, his eyes scanning the page.

Ari sat for a moment. He thought of how many times he had tried to talk to his grandparents about the past. Museum visits, school and books he read in the library, had taught him about the Holocaust. But he wanted to know from his grandparents. Not knowing made him imagine the worst. Sometimes he'd hear his grandmother's cries in the night and he'd shudder. Horrible images appeared before him as if they were his own memories. What was she remembering? After one of these nights he would see her stand by the window, her eyes filled with tears as she stroked the tattooed number on her arm. Rivkah told stories of Vienna before the war, the music and dancing, cafes and coffee but little of her life. Ari often wanted to scream out his questions. Who did you dance with Bubah, with Zeyda? Did you work? Go to school? Who were your friends, what about your sisters, your mama and papa, what happened to them? But as if his mother could read his thoughts, she’d cast him a look that choked his voice. Nothing was said about the war. Did his Mama and Bubah share secrets? When he asked his mother, she said, ‘They suffered, Ari that is enough to know. Many people, your daddy’s parents and….’ He watched his mother’s shoulders slump and her eyes stared at nothing in particular. ‘Many,’ she sighed.

Many times Ari tiptoed behind his Bubah following her to her room, conscious of his feet sinking in the spongy carpet. He’d followed her along the sand at the beach stepping in her footsteps and when he followed her up the hall he imagined he was doing the same but in the carpet, her feet didn’t leave a trace. Without looking behind, she closed the door. Once, she didn’t push hard enough for the door to secure, it rolled on its latch, making a round sound, thlock, as it sprung open to leave a crack for curious eyes.

Ari crouched in the shadows of the bedroom light, peering between the door jamb and the door’s edge, his fingers fiddling with the hinge. Rivkah opened the small drawer at the top of the bureau. Ari noticed it pulled out to the height of her chest and a familiar scent filled the air, lavender and nylon. The same scent he enjoyed when curled up next to Bubah, his face nestling in her soft bosom.

Rivkah lifted her silky white underthings out in a neat pile, the same way she placed them in the drawer. Her hands trembled, reaching deep into the back, her arm disappearing into the dresser. Her face anguished until she found her treasure as if there was a chance it wouldn’t be there. In her hand, Ari saw her holding an embroidered handkerchief. With a reverence he had seen on the faces of the Rabbi’s helpers when undressing the Torah, Rivkah unwrapped the hankie parcel. Ari squinted to see what his grandmother held. He watched her face relax, the wrinkles unfolding, smoothing her skin over her nose and mouth, her eyes misting, distant but not sad. Her hand clenched around something, hugged to her heart. Tossing her head back, her eyes closed, her body swayed. Ari felt uncomfortable. His legs ached and his foot had gone to sleep. He straightened careful not to be heard and made his way back to the kitchen, limping on pins and needles.

Ari’s father died when he was young, too young to remember. They told him, he was sick and he died. His father’s parents were also dead. Old photos showed a smiley old couple, his father’s mama and papa, holding a baby his Bubah said was Ari. The old woman in the photo wore layers of clothing and a floral apron. She stood in the doorway with faded yellow kitchen cupboards in the background. The old man wore a grey dustcoat over his trousers and a cap on his head. Ari studied the photos. Who were these people? What did they know? They were strangers to him.

Ari and his mother, Shirley, lived with her parents in the split-level home where Shirley grew up. It was built in the sixties with light coloured bricks, a flat roof and big picture windows looking across the street at the neighbours’ curtain drawn-windows. The house next door, where the Erlicksters lived, was a mirror image of their house.

Ari lived with a silence that made him nervous. There were things he wanted to know, things he couldn’t learn from books, family things. Both Ari and his mother had lived with Moishe and Rivkah for a long time. Much of those years, Shirley spent lying on her bed, cocooned in a grey haze of cigarette smoke.

‘You smoke too much,’ Rivkah scolded. Shirley narrowed her eyes and waited for the rest. ‘And you eat too little,’ she sighed.

‘And you stuff too much into my son’s mouth.’ Shirley would retort, tempting Rivkah to pile Ari’s plate with more, and while she was heaping the food onto Ari’s plate, she’d say, ‘He’s a big boy and he loves Bubah’s cooking,’

‘Stop talking to him as if he’s a baby, he won’t turn out normal.’ Shirley often snapped at Rivkah. These days, Moishe had to be vigilant in his efforts to keep the women from tearing at each other’s heart.

‘Come for a walk with me, darlink,’ Moishe pleaded until Shirley gave in and they were out the door.

They always kept the same pace whether rain or shine. Shirley watched her legs walk in time to her father’s, pondering her mother’s huking. Always nagging, rarely praising and there were few cuddles. ‘Why didn't Mama ever hold me the way she holds Ari, Papa?’ Shirley asked on more than one occasion never waiting for the answer because deep down, they both knew why. She let out a deep sigh, rummaging in her pocket for her cigarettes and lighter.

‘How many times have we walked this route, Shirley? Thousands do you think?’ No matter how many years passed or how many times her father said this to her, it always brought a smile to her face and he knew it. Getting out was good and coffee in continental Ackland Street even better. Sometimes Shirley could feel the weight lift from her shoulders, sitting in the familiar surroundings nodding a greeting here and there.

‘No cake, Papa, this is why I am getting too fat.’

‘Your mother thinks you're too thin,’ Moishe ignored his daughter's pouting, knowing full well Rivkah would ask when they returned, ‘So what cake did you eat?’

Moishe nodded to the waitress, ‘Two coffees and some cake, thank you. How are you today, Sasha? Do you think my daughter is too fat?’ He could ask this of Sasha because she looked as if she never said no to a slice of cake.

‘Ignore him, Sasha, he's old,’ she feigned a reprimanding look. Sasha giggled, wobbling all that flesh as she did. Sometimes Shirley wondered if her father told a joke just to see Sasha's monstrous breasts jiggle. Perhaps her Papa was a dirty old man at heart. She reached over to kiss him.

When Shirley wasn’t home, Ari and his grandmother read stories. Ari brought the books to her and they'd sit on the couch together. Ari was a capable reader but he still loved his grandmother's voice. He listened, soothed by her sensuality, the warmth of her snuggle, the lavender scent of her clothes, the softness of her voice – a cosiness disturbed by his indignation at still being his Bubah’s baby.

‘It’s nice when Bubah reads to me, Mum, but I can read faster by myself,’ he’d say to his mother in private. Shirley answered him in a low tone.

‘You know how much it pleases her to read to you Ari, surely you are not going to deny your Bubah this pleasure in life. Nu?’ Sometimes it seemed to Ari, his mother was good at telling him how to please his grandmother but rarely did she manage to please Rivkah herself.

Ari, almost dropping off to sleep while listening to Rivkah read, Gullliver’s Travels, stirred when his grandmother stood.

‘Read by yourself for a while, mine darlink, Bubah is tired.’

Ari watched his grandmother walk to the window and sit in her chair. She closed her eyes. He returned to his book, pleased because he was quiet while his grandmother slept and reading alone meant he could get on with the story but he felt sleepy. For a moment, he watched a patch of sunshine on the carpet, in the shape of a rhombus, fill with shadows. The shadows appeared to dance to the sound of leaves rustling outside. He turned to look out the window, kneeling on the couch, his elbows on the sill holding up his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bubah rocking. He lifted his hand to his forehead making a sun-visor and peeped over his shoulder to watch her. Sun on the window radiated its warmth, the rhythmic creak of vinyl squealed with the rocking chair’s motion, Ari’s eyelids fluttered and he was lulled to sleep. His head resounded with a soft thud when it hit against the pane of glass and nudged him awake. He slid down the back of the couch into position against the brown velvet cushions. Something stuck in his back and he wiggled around to find his mother’s hair comb. He put the end of the brown plastic to his mouth and nibbled while he reread the last few lines his Bubah had read to him. The rocker squeaked. Ari peeped over the top of the book to see his grandmother leave the room in a trance. If he asked she would claim she was having one of her sick headaches.

On the walk home, Shirley and Moishe had little to say. They listened to the rhythmic slap of her sneakers against the concrete and the screech of the traffic alerting them to take care. Wafts of the aromas from evening meals, being prepared behind the brick facades had their mouths watering. Savoury flavours of soups on the boil and chops in the frypan. Shirley liked playing the game of guessing what each of her neighbours was having for dinner.

‘Lamb roast,’ Moishe got in first, rubbing his belly and quickening his pace, ‘with Rosemary?’ He squeezed Shirley’s hand, his nose in the air like a bloodhound seeking.

A rumble burst from her stomach reminding her she was hungry as Moishe stopped to pick a bunch of lavender from the branches growing through the fence. Moishe smashed the grey-green leaves between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed the perfume through congested nostrils. Bees hovered and bounced from one purple spear to another. Lamb roasts, lavender and snot, Shirley thought, lighting up and exhaling a rich grey spiral so the air around her was pungent with cigarette smoke. The path ahead was blocked with barricades of metal stakes and plastic ribbon to protect the new concrete, now darker and neater than the surrounding path.

‘They mend just a bit at a time,’ Moishe commented as he led Shirley around the barricade. Poor Papa, Shirley thought, he’s tried so hard to provide a solid foundation for his family.

Ari heard the front gate creak open. He marked his place in the book and dropped it on the coffee table. Hearing the door of his mother’s bedroom close, gave him X-ray vision through the solid brick wall. His mother had slipped by Bubah, and his Zeyda had gone for a pee. Ari waited for the sound of the toilet flushing. Zeyda would appear tugging at the zip of his fly or with the end of his shirt pocking through the opening.

Moishe appeared in the doorway. A burst of laughter shot from Ari’s mouth. He rolled around on the couch pointing and laughing, his face red with slight embarrassment until his Zeyda bent his head to examine the zipper.

‘I’ll need a safety pin this time, Ari,’ he grabbed a fistful of material to close the opening. ‘Call Mama for dinner,’ he said, shuffling into the kitchen.

Ari knocked, waited, then opened his mother’s bedroom door and peeped in. Shirley lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her legs dangling over the end. Ari followed her gaze. A few bugs lay dead against the frosted glass of the ceiling light. Like Bubah, his mother’s mind wandered to places unknown and shut him out.

‘Dinner’s ready, Mama.’ He shut the door. For a moment, he hovered outside the room. His mouth twisted. He balanced on one leg, using the end of his shoe on the other to scratch at a mosquito bite. Still itching, he bent down to dig his nails into the flesh of his calf until it bled. He called through the closed door, ‘Mama, dinner’s ready.’

~

Read the first chapter of "Salted Pineapple"