BREATH IN THE DARK
CHAPTER 1
Manchester 1959
It was a dark, damp, misty night, inside the bedroom as well as across the city. Please don’t let the lights outside that had frightened me and brought me running to the window be fire.
Naked except for an old sodden dress, turning away from the window I shuffled in the dark back to the bed, sniffing and looking around. My heart pounding, my breathing heavy: I was so sure it was the smell of fire. The bedroom free from any comforting wallpaper and carpets seemed for the moment to be back to normal.
Settling down on the bed, stroking the plump, still body, watching my mother’s face just to make sure she was still breathing, as a 6 year old, that was all I wanted, not toys or chocolates or comforts, just to know my mother was still alive was enough.
The urine soaked bed sagging in the middle seemed so comforting now that the panic was over. Pulling the coat that was the only source of warmth over us, I clung onto my world.
“Gehen shloffen meine kinder, go to sleep my child.” She closed her eyes again. I was sucked into the well of the bed, engulfed by her huge breasts and stomach keeping me warm. The night passed slowly, and brought in its wake the cold reality of day. Awakening slowly, I felt hungry and cold, but there was warmth in the smiling face that said, “My little one, what would I do without you?” The panic of the night had disappeared, as it had so many times before. Stretching wearily and pleased to see the day-light, I climbed off the bed.
As I walked towards the bedroom door, panic and fear set in once again. What would be behind the door of the old dilapidated Victorian house? Monsters, ghosts or howling, shrieking faces waiting to bite me and tear me to shreds, my shivering little body could sense them: “Shama Yisroel Adoinoi Elowhaynoo”, shouting these words perhaps three or four times before gently easing the door open. The more times it was repeated, the more likelihood of the monsters shrivelling up and going away, they couldn’t survive the sound of the precious Hebrew words.
Now that was out of the way, just double checking that none had survived to creep in and get my mother, the main thing was to go and prepare the fire in the living room. I crept along the landing, pulling at the bits of broken linoleum with which I would make the fire, making sure there would be enough for another day, then down the stairs with a terrible sense of dread hanging over me, still saying “Shama Yisroel” It was very dark going down the stairs, but the “Shama” would keep any harm away. My mother had taught me the prayer on one of the few occasions when she could open her eyes and face the world. She had been taught it as a child by her Jewish parents, both of whom were now dead.
Approaching the living room and standing on tiptoe, I tried to reach up to touch the Mezuzah on the door, it was so exciting. As soon as the fire was ready, I pushed the couch close up to it, and ran back upstairs to try to coax my mother out of bed.
The damp was not so noticeable now, there was a warm glow, the melting linoleum was burning blue and orange, there were more pieces in the corner to keep it alight. I sat and began to watch the melting droplets.
“Come downstairs, Mummy. The fire’s really nice for you. Try to come downstairs, I’ll take care of you.”
Jumping up, I ran out of the room and up the stairs into the bedroom. I began touching her arm to wake her up. It was an effort to pull her out of the sunken bed. She sat on the side of the mattress and wrapped the coat around herself for warmth, still wearing the dress she had slept in and lived in for as long as I could remember. Looking dishevelled and lost, she followed me downstairs. I knew she was doing it for my sake.
Lying in her place on the couch, she said, “Let me shloff, Hikey, be a good girl”, then fell asleep again. I picked up two or three pieces of linoleum and put them on the fire. I began to look around the room perhaps I could find some sweets or something, so long as it was food. There was nothing, so I took my place on the floor beside the couch. Today was Sunday, so there was little chance of finding anything. Perhaps there was something, maybe in the bedroom a penny might have dropped out when we had covered ourselves with my mother’s coat. She was asleep, now I could go and have a look.
I opened the living room door with all the same ritual, closing it quickly behind me to make sure I didn’t let too much heat escape from the room, it was very precious, I tried to retain it for as long as possible, then up the stairs, where it was still very dark, holding the banister rail, reciting the “Shama” over and over again, not giving those horrible monsters a chance to spring out of either of the doors to get me. Into the bedroom, checking over my shoulder, all the time looking around, even under the bed, there was only the mattress reaching to the floor. On my knees I searched about the room, feeling under the ripped linoleum, there was nothing. My mother was still asleep as I quickly returned to the living room. I was praying that she would not wake up, wanting and needing to be fed, praying that she would not feel the hunger in her sleep.
Once again sitting beside the couch, feeling the heat of the fire, my eyes fixed on the little black droplets falling over the grate. I listened to each breath my mother took, petrified even at that tender age that her breathing would stop. The hours were passing by, it began to get dark outside. I stayed at her side for the rest of the day, watching the fire, listening, protecting her from all the monsters and ghosts in the house, praying for the morning to come.
My mother awoke, desperately wanting a cigarette, begging me to find one. I looked in every nook and cranny, at last finding a cigarette end. She watched my every move. “Gott sei dank, thank god don’t lose it, Hikey.” It was getting dark now, the fire was dimming for lack of material. I lit the cigarette until it glowed red. I heard her say, “Watch my little one”, and saw her making patterns in the darkness, it was something she did that always made us laugh. Then she fell asleep again. The dark closed in, and my ears became like radar in the pitch blackness. I listened for all those monsters, willing them to stay away, begging them to leave us in peace. I even looked up the chimney, just to make sure there were no monsters’ legs edging down, trying to get in.
Keeping very quiet, so that if a fire broke out I would be able to hear the crackling wood, I kept smelling for smoke: how would I get her out of the house? I was trying hard to plan it all out. If I kept sniffing, I would smell the fire as soon as it started. I mustn’t allow myself to fall asleep, just in case. It was getting colder and damper, the hunger and stench were like familiar friends to me. Planning an evacuation in my mind until I knew it by heart, would keep me awake.
Daylight came very slowly, the darkness lingering on. Stretching out on the floor, I began shaking my mother’s arm, trying to waken her. “Come on, Mummy, wake up. The Post Office will be open soon. Come on Mummy.”
Today was Monday. Today we would have food. I could go to the doctor’s surgery to try to get him to give my mother some tablets that would bring her back to life, perhaps for a day. Pulling her arm, I helped her to sit up on the couch, straightening the dress she had slept in, helping her to put on the coat that had served as a blanket during the night.
“Get my handbag Hikey, make sure my National Assistance book is in it.”
We didn’t have to walk down to the National Assistance offices to get the money any more now that they had sent us a book, we just had to take it to the Post Office.
“I’ll carry your bag, Mummy”, I said, when we were ready to go, running to the front door. Walking out of the house into the daylight, I was jumping up and down, swinging the bag about, happy as could be because my mummy was taking me out, I loved it. It was still very cold and drizzly outside. I didn’t care. I was playing hide-and-seek in her coat, tripping over her feet and laughing.
We walked up Johnson Street to the Post Office at the top. This area of Manchester, just off Cheetham Hill Road, was very run down. It was part of what was then the Jewish Community. Inside the Post Office we joined the queue of people waiting for money. I asked about the old woman in front of us with black numbers printed on her arm. My mother told me that she had been in the concentration camps, that her expression was always one of anguish. She always carried a pair of baby’s bootees with her. She wasn’t alone I was told: there were others. I stood closer to my mother and watched very carefully as the book was handed over the counter, checked, and then passed back with the money. My mother placed it in her bag. It would take away the panic and hunger for a while.
“The Levy’s had burning shmattes put through their letter box and Halpern the butchers. Fascist momzers,” I overheard an old lady say. My heart was pounding so fast I gasped for air.
Outside the Post Office, my mother gave me some money. “I’m going home, Hikey. Will you get the shopping?”
“Yes Mum.” I walked towards the nearest delicatessen, the shopping list imprinted on my mind,.....chopped liver, chopped herring, bagels, and much more.
At last the bags were full of food, now for some cigarettes. If she woke in the night crying for one, I wouldn’t have to panic. Then on the way home a bottle of ‘pop’. Walking home as fast as possible, swinging the bags to and fro and singing to myself, I felt very excited as I anticipated the taste of the food.
The house drew nearer, the front door was in sight. It was good to be home especially with all the food. My mother was lying on the couch, hands outstretched, waiting for the chopped liver. Ripping the paper, she scrabbled at the liver out with her fingers. We were both grabbing at the food, oblivious to everything else, not stopping until we were so full that it was hard to move. These were moments to savour, and would become rare in the course of the week.
Monday was also the day to try to get some ‘Purple Hearts’ from the doctor’s surgery. The name was familiar to me: they somehow breathed life into my mother, they had become part of my life as well. Any amount would do. If I went home without them, there would be crying and shouting, followed by more sleeping and silence, more misery. As I left the house and walked down to the surgery, my heart was thumping: “Please doctor,” I pleaded to myself, the agony almost unbearable.
At the surgery, the receptionist handed me a small piece of card with a number on it. “Take a seat. You will be called later.”
The waiting was terrible, time was passing so slowly. Eventually, my number was called out, “The doctor will see you now.”
I walked down the corridor to the Doctor’s room at the end.
“Come in!”
“Please doctor, can I have some ‘Purple Hearts’ for my Mum, Mrs. Levene?” I asked, standing at the open door.
Without lifting his head, he replied, “No”.
My heart started thumping harder than before. I knew his mother could have all the tablets she wanted, without even asking, and that made me feel very sad. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a doctor, then I won’t have to ask anybody for them,” I told myself.
Arriving home, I found my mum lying surrounded by piles of half eaten food, snoring away contentedly. My place was sitting on the floor beside her, playing with the leftover food, pretending to be a shop-keeper, protecting it as if it were buried treasure, wanting the scraps to last forever.
Later in the day my mother was still asleep, I took some money out of her bag, and set off to buy some coal bricks. The coal yard was a long way off, down Rochdale Road, but it was possible to buy broken bricks there a lot cheaper than anywhere else.
Everything would feel warm now, there would be heat and somewhere to cook for the next few days. Back home, I placed all the broken bricks in the corner near the fire, making sure none was lost or wasted. Taking the small scraps first, I put them on the fire. It was now ready to cook on. It was almost dark now, so it was time to make us some savaloys before the night set in. There was one pan in the house, it stayed in the living room with us, and doubled as a toilet.
We lived downstairs for the next few days. By Thursday, everything was gone: no money, no heat or food, only panic and fear to get by on.
The months passed, my mother’s stays in bed were more prolonged, her sleep deeper. I dared not try to wake her, she would lash out uncontrollably. “Let me shloff, don’t breathe near me, please get away.” she would shout, crying and gasping for breath, convinced that she was dying and begging for someone to help her. “Get off the bed, sit on the floor and don’t move.”
It felt hard and cold on the floor. I sat rigid, ears pricked just in case she stopped breathing.
“Hikey, go to the Doctor’s,” she pleaded. “I need some tablets.”
“I’ll go now, Mum. Don’t worry.”
I set off on my way, my heart was thumping. If only he would give her some of the little purple tablets that enabled her to wake up and be nice. Most of the time the answer was “No”, but there was always hope, as I sat in the doctor’s surgery, moving from chair to chair, getting nearer the doctor’s room. Maybe this time he would say “Yes”. Perhaps I could run home with them clutched in my hands, knowing they would make my mother be nice to me. Again, the answer was “No”.
“Please, Doctor, she can’t breathe and keeps saying she’s going to die.”
“Take this prescription home to her. These tablets should help.”
To me, they became as precious as the “Purple Hearts”. I always tried to make sure there were some in the house, even these became rare, and the panic of seeing her wake up so distressed was intolerable.
Life didn’t change from one week to the next. Leaving the house to go shopping became more of an ordeal, having to hold on to walls to keep my balance. Having to stamp my feet on the ground to make my heart start beating again, not wanting to die and leave her alone, all these fears were now part of my life. I should be going to school now, and was afraid to be seen on the streets in case I was forced to leave her alone in the house.
Time passed. One morning there was a dreaded knock at the front door, we never had any visitors. It didn’t even occur to me that my mum had a family. I felt very sorry for all the other children I saw, assuming that all relatives died before babies were born. The knocking continued. It was a signal to be quiet and huddle together, looking at each other, keeping still.
“Keep very quiet, Hikey. It must be from the school. They mustn’t hear us.”
It meant panic: “They want to take me away, mum. We won’t open the door.” - It couldn’t be anyone else. “They’re not taking me, even for a day.” “Shush,” she said, pulling me towards her on the bed. “Be quiet.”
My memories of school were almost non-existent, only the children’s faces remained in my mind. Why couldn’t they all understand that my mother would die without me?
“Mum, I’m not going to school, ever. I love you.”
The knocking stopped she let me stay in bed with her for the rest of the day. She slept all the time. I tried not to move in case it woke her up. Everything felt safe again.
I awoke the following morning hearing footsteps coming towards the front door. The knocking was here again. I didn’t like it. It was frightening. “Mummy.” I was crying, shaking her, feeling terrified. We both knew I would have to go and see who it was. Creeping out of the bedroom, I was praying “Shama Yisroel” knowing there was something evil outside the front door, hoping the “Shama” would make it disappear.
“See if you can see who it is out of the bedroom window.”
I tiptoed into the bedroom and looked out of the window. I was too small to see anyone immediately below.
“I can’t see Mummy.”
I crept out of the bedroom, shaking and very frightened. Descending the stairs, I could see a dark shadow peering through the frosted glass on the front door. Standing on tiptoe, on a wooden box I tried to reach the catch, barely able to grip it. I could hardly see because something inside my head was banging away with the terrible fear that there was one of the dreaded monsters outside.
I gave up the struggle to open the door, turned around and ran back up the stairs. I jumped on to the bed and hid under the coat.
“Someone’s coming Mum, what if it’s a monster?” The front door creaked open we clung onto each other, listening to the footsteps in the hall downstairs. My heart was thumping. The footsteps became louder, coming up the stairs and along the landing. “Don’t turn into a monster, please,” I was pleading, peeping out from under the coat. The bedroom door opened. I could see a skirt, the legs were human. “Thank god.” I whispered.
“Mrs Levene, I would like you to come downstairs. I would like to talk to you.”
My head was reeling.
“Please go away,” I whispered. “Don’t come back”. The woman’s voice was insistent, trying to keep my mother’s attention. She started telling my mother that she was to go into hospital and I was to go into a children’s home. It would be the same one that my brothers were in.
That seemed to jog my memory. My only recollection of my brothers was of us all being in bed with my mother for days on end because there was no food or heat. It all felt too much. I just wanted somebody to shut the woman up, and make her leave my mum alone. She belonged with me, not in hospital. My body was shaking. I pulled the coat off me and stood up on the bed, tripping over my mother. I jumped to the floor, flew down the stairs, managed to open the front door and ran down the street, screaming that my mother would die without me. I ran and ran, to get help.
“Stop!” said a voice behind me. I felt my body jolt. A man had stopped me. He took me back up the road to the horrible woman, who was walking to meet me.
“Come on, you must come home with me.” She was telling me that an ambulance would call in a few days time to collect my mother, on the same day I would be taken to the children’s home.
My mother was still in bed. “Don’t worry, Hikey. We’ll be alright. Get into bed with me.” We both fell asleep.
A few days passed, and the same woman came back for me. I begged to be able to stay until the ambulance had taken my mum away, needing to make sure that they didn’t make a mistake and forget to come for her, not being able to bear the thought of her being alone. They let me wait for the ambulance. It felt overpowering as I watched them take her away.
“Goodbye, Mummy. God bless, I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.” I couldn’t stop crying.
“I love you too, Hikey.” The ambulance doors closed, and she was driven into the distance.
“Please don’t die. Please come back.” The tears flooding down my face, as I repeated the words, the car door opened and I got in. Something wanted to make me shout, “Dad, help us.” I knew I must have had a father, but didn’t know if I was different and there had never been one, not knowing or being able to understand.
My mind went blank, at the same time something inside me was screaming. Who am I? What am I? Who do I belong to now? Who will get food for my mum? What about her breathing tablets? Will they just put her to bed and forget about her? I sobbed.