Moishe kicks one boot with the toe-cap of the other, not looking up. ‘He’s right, Jessie, without you I’d never have got out of there.’
‘Exact!’ Solly exclaims. ‘Listen to the Communist, he’s right, Miss Bergman.’
It is almost time to go and Jessica now enters the carriage and a moment later appears at the window of the compartment. She moves the hamper along the seat, using it to reserve a place for Richard Runche, who has not as yet reappeared. Jessica keeps glancing anxiously towards the platform gate. ‘Mr Runche, he’s gunna be late,’ she finally says, concerned. ‘Maybe I should fetch him?’
‘Fetch him? Where is he?’ Moishe asks.
‘In the pub.’
‘What, here in the station?’
Jessica nods, a little uncertain. ‘I think so.’
‘I’ll go fetch him,’ Moishe volunteers. He has taken several steps towards the platform gate, when he stops and turns. ‘How will I recognise him?’
‘He’s got a mushed-up brown hat and he drinks claret,’ Jessica says.
Moishe looks doubtful but turns and continues on his way. ‘His name’s Runche, like lunch,’ Jessica calls after him.
As soon as his son is out of earshot Solly takes two five-pound notes from his pocket. ‘Miss Bergman, I want you should buy turkeys.’ He hesitates for a moment, then adds, ‘For the business.’
‘No, I can’t take it, Mr Goldberg. I dunno what’s waiting for me when I get back — not much I expect,” Jessica protests.
‘Take, take, no matter what’s waiting a little money can’t do no harm.’
But Jessica knows she can’t take the money. The stubborn Bergman pride won’t let her do it. Sadly Solly seems to sense she won’t be persuaded and he puts the notes back in his pocket.
‘Miss Bergman, I tell you a story. When I come here from Poland, we all Jews, we come they call it “cattle class” all together below decks on that small ship. Believe me, it’s not so good. I got no money, nothing, not even two shillings. I’m a butcher by trade, I got a set knives. Beautiful knives. Without that knives, you understand, I got no trade. I don’t speak English, only Yiddish and German and maybe some Hebrew for shul.
‘A friend, a Jew, he tells me, “Come, Solomon, I take you to the abattoirs on Glebe Island, they got jobs.” But the shop steward of the union say, “Sorry, you got no English, no job, mate.” We go to the boss. I say to my friend, “Tell this boss, he show me a carcass, I show him I can do this job good, I don’t need English to cut meat.”
‘The boss he say, “Righto, Jewboy,” and he give me a pig.’ Solly Goldberg smiles and shrugs his shoulders. ‘What can I do? I can’t cut up for him this pig, I’m a Jew. “A cow,” I say to my friend, “ask him a cow or a sheep.”
‘’’Jew!’’ that boss say. “If you don’t cut a pig no work for you. It’s home on the pig’s back here, mate!” All the men they are laughing. A big joke, the Jew don’t cut a pig. Then when we leaving some of them, some of those men they come. “Bloody Jewboy, you want to take our jobs, eh?” They beat me and my friend, also they steal my knives. “Teach you a bloody lesson, Jew!”
‘’’We go to the police,” my friend says.
‘’’The police? What for? You meshugganah!” I say. “You think the police they will do something?” , “They got here fair go,” he say.
‘’’Fair go?” I don’t know what is this “fair go”. I know only in Poland a poor Jew don’t go to the police. So we go to that police station, but my friend is wrong, they ain’t got no “fair go”. The sergeant he say to my friend, “Tell your friend this is union business, not police business.’”
Solly looks at Jessica and spreads his hands. ‘What can I do?’ He laughs suddenly. ‘In the cell in this police station we can see is a man standing. He is listening to my friend. We go to leave. “Hey, mate!” he shouts, this man. “You! Jewboy! C’me ‘ere!” Jew is already a word I understand good in English. I look him, this man.’
Solly makes a beckoning motion with his right hand, ‘’’C’me ‘ere,” he says. “Come ‘ere, Jew.” My friend and me we look first the sergeant, then we go to the man. The man he asks the sergeant some paper and pencil. Then he write something, I don’t know what it is. He fold the paper and he say, “Fair go, mate. Give this to Bill O’Grady at the abattoir.’”
Solly Goldberg laughs, fingering his fat nose. ‘My nose they have breaking, my side they kick, my lip is cut and my teeth is bleeding inside my mouth. What is this “fair go”? Why we go back that place? That abattoir kish mit in hinten, I say to my friend.’
Jessica laughs. ‘That abattoir can kiss my bum,’ she translates, remembering.
Solly smiles, delighted that Jessica has remembered, then he continues. ‘ “We got fair go,” my friend says. So, we go back the abattoir and ask they call please Mr Bill O’Grady. He come outside. “Don’t youse bastards know when yer beaten?” he says. I give him the paper. He reads and shakes his head. Then he throws down the paper on the floor. “Shit, wait on,” he says. He go back inside the abattoir. I pick up the paper on the floor He comes back, maybe two, three minutes, he’s got my leather bag, inside is my knives. “Garn, piss off!” he say. “We don’t want no Jews and dagoes workin’ here on the Island.” , Sally Goldberg takes out a battered wallet and from it he removes a piece of yellowing paper and hands it to Jessica. She unfolds it carefully and can barely make out the
words in faded pencil.
Fair go, mate, give the Jewboy back his tools.
Johnny Murphy.
Jessica smiles, nodding her head, and hands the note back to Sally, who now says, ‘Soon I am getting work also. From cutting chickens! To cut a chicken is not so important, but my life, it begins already again. I marry one day Mrs Goldberg, we got the boychick, we got the kosher butcher shop.’ Sally spreads his hands again. ‘What can I say? God is good.’ Then he takes the two five-pound notes out of his pocket and offers them to Jessica again. ‘Miss Bergman, now you got “fair go” also. Today I pay back Mr Johnny Murphy.’