Read Online Son of a Smaller Hero by Mordecai Richler - Free Book Online
Authors: Mordecai Richler
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who?”
“Aw, go tell your mother she wants you.”
Behind Old Annie’s store was the yellow field that was used as the market. Early every Friday morning the French Canadian farmers arrived with poultry, vegetables, and fruit. They were ahard, sceptical bunch, but the Jewish wives were a pretty tough crowd themselves, and by late afternoon the farmers were worn out and grateful to get away. The women, who were ruthless bargainers, spoke a mixture of French, English, and Yiddish with the farmers. “S
o fiel
, M’nsieur, for dis
kleine
chicken?
Vous
crazy?”
Pinky’s Squealer saw the two boys sitting on the steps, waiting for Noah. He approached them diffidently. “Where you goin’?” he asked.
“To China,” Gas said.
When the Squealer’s mother wanted him to go to the toilet she would step out on her balcony and yell: “Dollink, dollink, time to water the teapot.” Pinky, who was the Squealer’s cousin, was seventeen years old. His proper name was Milton Fishman. He was rather pious, and conducted services at Camp Mahia. The Squealer was his informer.
“I’ve got a quarter,” Pinky’s Squealer said.
“Grease it well,” Gas said.
Those Jews who lived on St. Dominique Street, St. Urbain, Rachel, and City Hall clubbed together and took cottages in Prevost for the summer. How they raised the money, what sacrifices they made, were comparatively unimportant – the children had to have sun. Prevost has a very small native population and most of the cottages are owned by French Canadians who live in Shawbridge, just up the hill. The C.P.R. railway station is in Shawbridge. Prevost, at the foot of the hill, is separated from Shawbridge by that bridge reputedly built by a man named Shaw. It is a confusion of temporary clapboard shacks and cottages strewn over hills and fields and joined by dirt roads and an elaborate system of paths. The centre of the village is at the foot of the bridge. Here are Zimmerman’s, Blatt’s, The River-View Inn, Stein the Butcher, and – off on the dirt road to the right – the synagogue and the beach. In 1941 Zimmerman and Blatt still ran highly competitive general stores on opposite sides of the highway. Both stores were sprawling dumpy buildings badly in need of a paint job and had dance halls and huge balconies – whereyou could also dance – attached. But Zimmerman had a helper named Zelda and that gave him the edge over Blatt. Zelda’s signs were posted all over Zimmerman’s.
Over the fruit stall:
AN ORANGE ISN’T A BASEBALL. DON’T HANDLE WHAT
YOU DON’T WANT. THINK OF THE NEXT CUSTOMER
Over the cash:
IF YOU CAN GET IT CHEAPER BY THAT GANGSTER
ACROSS THE HIGHWAY YOU CAN HAVE IT FOR NOTHING
However, if you could get it cheaper at Blatt’s, Zelda always proved that what you had bought was not as fresh, or of a cheaper quality.
The beach was a field of spiky grass and tree stumps. Plump, middle-aged women, their flesh burned pink, spread out blankets and squatted in their bras and bloomers, playing poker, smoking, and drinking Cokes. The vacationing furriers and pressers seldom wore bathing-suits either. They didn’t swim. They set up card-tables and chairs and played pinochle solemnly, smoking foul cigars and cursing the sun. The children dashed in and out among them playing tag or tossing a ball about. Boys staggered between sprawling sun-bathers, lugging pails packed with ice and shouting: “Ice-cold drinks. Chaw-lit bahs. Cigarettes!” Occasionally, a woman, her wide-brimmed straw hat flapping as she waddled from table to table, her smile as big as her aspirations, gold teeth glittering, would intrude on the card players, asking – nobody’s forcing, mind you – if they would like to buy a raffle in aid of the Mizrachi Fresh Air Fund or the J.N.F . Naked babies bawled. Plums, peaches, watermelons, were consumed, pits and peels being tossed indiscriminately on the grass. The yellow river was unfailingly condemned by the Health Board during the
“Aw, go tell your mother she wants you.”
Behind Old Annie’s store was the yellow field that was used as the market. Early every Friday morning the French Canadian farmers arrived with poultry, vegetables, and fruit. They were ahard, sceptical bunch, but the Jewish wives were a pretty tough crowd themselves, and by late afternoon the farmers were worn out and grateful to get away. The women, who were ruthless bargainers, spoke a mixture of French, English, and Yiddish with the farmers. “S
o fiel
, M’nsieur, for dis
kleine
chicken?
Vous
crazy?”
Pinky’s Squealer saw the two boys sitting on the steps, waiting for Noah. He approached them diffidently. “Where you goin’?” he asked.
“To China,” Gas said.
When the Squealer’s mother wanted him to go to the toilet she would step out on her balcony and yell: “Dollink, dollink, time to water the teapot.” Pinky, who was the Squealer’s cousin, was seventeen years old. His proper name was Milton Fishman. He was rather pious, and conducted services at Camp Mahia. The Squealer was his informer.
“I’ve got a quarter,” Pinky’s Squealer said.
“Grease it well,” Gas said.
Those Jews who lived on St. Dominique Street, St. Urbain, Rachel, and City Hall clubbed together and took cottages in Prevost for the summer. How they raised the money, what sacrifices they made, were comparatively unimportant – the children had to have sun. Prevost has a very small native population and most of the cottages are owned by French Canadians who live in Shawbridge, just up the hill. The C.P.R. railway station is in Shawbridge. Prevost, at the foot of the hill, is separated from Shawbridge by that bridge reputedly built by a man named Shaw. It is a confusion of temporary clapboard shacks and cottages strewn over hills and fields and joined by dirt roads and an elaborate system of paths. The centre of the village is at the foot of the bridge. Here are Zimmerman’s, Blatt’s, The River-View Inn, Stein the Butcher, and – off on the dirt road to the right – the synagogue and the beach. In 1941 Zimmerman and Blatt still ran highly competitive general stores on opposite sides of the highway. Both stores were sprawling dumpy buildings badly in need of a paint job and had dance halls and huge balconies – whereyou could also dance – attached. But Zimmerman had a helper named Zelda and that gave him the edge over Blatt. Zelda’s signs were posted all over Zimmerman’s.
Over the fruit stall:
AN ORANGE ISN’T A BASEBALL. DON’T HANDLE WHAT
YOU DON’T WANT. THINK OF THE NEXT CUSTOMER
Over the cash:
IF YOU CAN GET IT CHEAPER BY THAT GANGSTER
ACROSS THE HIGHWAY YOU CAN HAVE IT FOR NOTHING
However, if you could get it cheaper at Blatt’s, Zelda always proved that what you had bought was not as fresh, or of a cheaper quality.
The beach was a field of spiky grass and tree stumps. Plump, middle-aged women, their flesh burned pink, spread out blankets and squatted in their bras and bloomers, playing poker, smoking, and drinking Cokes. The vacationing furriers and pressers seldom wore bathing-suits either. They didn’t swim. They set up card-tables and chairs and played pinochle solemnly, smoking foul cigars and cursing the sun. The children dashed in and out among them playing tag or tossing a ball about. Boys staggered between sprawling sun-bathers, lugging pails packed with ice and shouting: “Ice-cold drinks. Chaw-lit bahs. Cigarettes!” Occasionally, a woman, her wide-brimmed straw hat flapping as she waddled from table to table, her smile as big as her aspirations, gold teeth glittering, would intrude on the card players, asking – nobody’s forcing, mind you – if they would like to buy a raffle in aid of the Mizrachi Fresh Air Fund or the J.N.F . Naked babies bawled. Plums, peaches, watermelons, were consumed, pits and peels being tossed indiscriminately on the grass. The yellow river was unfailingly condemned by the Health Board during the
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