A long one from me book:

 

June 2006

I was drinking coffee in a deli in Haifa

When a sepia photograph caught my eye

A man, his wife and family posing stiffly.

The café owner said it showed his grandfather’s father

And brought my order and the story.

 

June 1906

When Black Hundreds pillaged Bialystock

And the cry went up, “Kill all the Jews!”

Moyshe ben Mendel, cantor of the Shul,

Took Sara his wife and baby Yisrael

And dodging barking village dogs 

Pushed a pram stacked with food and blankets 

And a violin-cased Tenach he knew by heart,  

Down moonless muddy tracks 

For Christiania and a boat to England

On to the ‘promised land’. Americke.

 

To placate the “Inspector of Nuisances”

The Wilson Shipping Line leased a landing station, Island Wharf,

To keep Hull safe from contamination by “bloody Russian Jews”.

Then whip them quick away to Liverpool.

 

Moyshe ben Mendel looked through the bars of

“The North Eastern Railway Company Emigrant Waiting Room.”

Complete with disinfecting and delousing facilities. 

It’s still there, a pub, The Tiger’s Lair.

 

Seeing a shtreimelled head pass the window

And seizing his chance, and Sara and child

Moyshe raced after hat and wearer

To Osborne Street - the Jewish Quarter.

 

Pursued by whistles and heavy boots

Ringing the cobbles of Midland Street

The family ran headlong into a throng of 

Boozehounds spilling from the Albert Hall.

 

A treacherous leg tripped Moyshe.

As the cantor measured his length, 

The song went up, 

“Got us another Jew just like the other Jews.”

 

The mob stamped the violin case

To matchwood junk

Tenach pages fluttered to the gutter

For baptism by dogs and drunks.

 

Clogs pinioned the cantor tight to the cobbles

Coppers frogmarched him manacled 

Back to the Emigrant Waiting Room,

Sara with Yisrael in her arms, hobbled behind.

 

Isolated from Paragon proper,

On the migrant departure platform

The straggle held in line by grim batoniers 

Congregates awaiting transportation.

 

Sara whispers, “Black Hundreds?”  

Moyshe ben Mendel nods.

Finding courage, he asks a guard, “Americke?”

 

“Not effin’ yet – keep your breath off of me. 

Move further down. Bastard Yid.”

 

Moyshe ben Mendel former Cantor

Of the Bialystock Synagogue nods, “Ja yid.”

 

Migrants overflow the platform 

Huddled against sheeting rain 

Wondering what lay ahead

Along the track around the bend

Beyond the railway bridge. 

 

Spurred by shepherd dogs, shouts and shoves

They cram into former cattle trucks.

Sara shivers, Yisrael whimpers, 

The train wheels beat out the curse,

“Black Hundreds!”

 

Bleak, featureless terrain unfolds,

Moyshe, alert for signs of Americke,

Squints through slatted windows

Making out the names of places,

Broomfleet, Saltmarshe, Gilberdyke.

 

At Leeds the train put on coal and water,

Moyshe, spotting a poster, “Syrup of Coca Cola”.

 

Hissed, “Americke! Frayhayt! Kumen meyn tayer.”

 

Quietly stepping from the train,  

Moyshe, his wife and child

Melted into unknown streets 

And urine-running alleyways

Stalking kippahed heads to ‘The Leylands’ – a ghetto.

 

I nodded to the waiter, “Coke please?”