Andrea Goldsmith - The Prosperous Thief

THE PROSPEROUS THIEF

Andrea Goldsmith is the author of four previous novels: Gracious Living (1989), Modern Interiors (1991), Facing the Music (1994) and Under the Knife (1998). She lives in Melbourne. Andrea Goldsmiths website is at http://purl.nla.gov.au/net/award/andrea-goldsmith

THE PROSPEROUS THIEF

Andrea Goldsmith

First published in 2002

Copyright Andrea Goldsmith 2002

This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Goldsmith,Andrea, 1950.
The prosperous thief.

ISBN 1 86508 756 4.

1. Jews Australia Fiction. 2. Jews Fiction.

3. Holocaust, Jewish (19391945) Fiction. 4. Lesbianism in literature. I.Title.

A823.3

Set in 12/14 pt Bembo by Asset Typesetting Pty Ltd
Printed by Griffin Press, South Australia

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

for Dot

Virtue and crime weigh the same
Ive seen it:
in a man who was both
criminal and virtuous.

Tadeusz Rzewicz

We all live in a phantom dwelling.

Basho

THE PROSPEROUS THIEF

Contents

Part I
THE PAST

O n a balmy night in the summer of 1910, not far from the gutter in Berlins Scheunenviertel, Heinrik Heck was born. Twenty-four hours later his mother was back at the bar downing her beers and buttoning Heini to a nipple whenever he threatened to bawl. His father, typical of the wanderer-fathers in the Scheunenviertel, had moved on months before the birth. He had promised Heinis mother hed be back, but was either dead or in gaol or had chanced on some good luck he wasnt about to share with a woman who meant only shackles and misfortune. Greta didnt care, shed moved on too. First there had been Johannes, followed by a messy month with Johannes and Bulle, and finally, not long before the birth, sentimental Heinrik, who was honoured, he said, to offer his name to the child. Seven weeks later and the sentiment had soured; soon Heinrik, too, was gone, leaving behind nothing but his name.

Heini was weaned from breast to beer in the three or four bars of his mothers preference. Berlins white beer was a favourite along with a nice piece of sausage, although Heini learned early not to be choosy.When there was nothing better to eat he would climb on a chair and from there to the table, dip his fist into the mustard pot and lick.

While not an ideal diet, it seemed to do the trick, for Heini grew into a smart little boy blessed with a cunning more valuable than gold in this district, and certainly longer lasting. He knew how to scrounge for food and could always find a safe place to sleep.And even before he could walk he could gauge the mood of his mother and the other drinkers in the bar. On good days he was bar mascot with ample attention and plenty of food, but when moods turned sour, all he was good for was slapping and kicking and knew to keep his distance.

The Hecks and people like them filled in the cracks in the underworld. Pickpockets, thieves, prostitutes, pimps, bludgers, fighters, gamblers. And drunks, always drunks. They hung out in gloomy bars and bedded down in grimy rooms, several crammed in together and no one as brave as the rats or as well fed. Heini, his stomach hurtling in its emptiness, would see the rats gnawing the doorframes and know hed have to turn himself into a stranger to have a life as good as them.

They dont come much lower than us, his mother once said. But someones got to hold up all the rest.

Down in the Scheunenviertel it was the quick or the dead and Heini fortunately was a fast learner. By the age of five he had acquired the basic skills for survival in this district. He knew to trust no one but himself, he knew when to take advantage, and he was learning the hard way how to deal with fear. Younger than most of the boys who prowled the streets, he nonetheless possessed fingers fine-tuned for gain. One day when the bakers back was turned, he grabbed a loaf and made off with it. He slipped into the first alley, then into another, and from there through a dank portal across a courtyard to an alcove on the far side. He squatted down among the weeds and, with his back pressed against a scrap of wall, he sank his teeth into the still-warm bread. His stomach clutched with delight. He took two more bites, then knowing to prolong the pleasure, changed to a neat nibbling round the edges. Such an expert with a loaf, he could make it last till midday.

The sun was shining but not too strong, the wind was a cool shuffling on his face, and the loaf as good as any he had tasted. He squirmed against the bricks until he found a smooth patch, was nibbling the loaf and squinting into the light and thinking as far as days went this was one of the best, when he saw them, two of the toughest, on the other side of the courtyard. Quickly he shrinks into the weeds and wraps himself up like a snail. Hes sure they havent seen him. And neither can he see them, although he senses them drawing near. His ears strain to hear, but apart from cursing, the boys words blur in the breathy air. Tighter, he tells himself, curl up tighter. But fear fills his stomach and then its rising and with it the bread, and if the boys havent noticed him already they will now, although these toughs could see a cringing kid at a hundred metres in poor light, so he probably never stood a chance. And here they come, loping across the ragged ground, closer and closer and laughing as they grab him.

Theyre as big as grown-ups, they taunt with insults, they throttle with fists, they toss him around like a ball. Heini cant stop his grizzling, hes all pain and snivelling fear. These boys will flay the life out of him, then theyll throw him in a hole where no one will find him, and hell lie there sore and starving and too weak to move. He may even die.

He may even die.

And suddenly his fear loosens and his blubbering stops no point to nothing if hes about to die. And now hes kicking the boys and swinging his fists, and spitting from his bloodied mouth. Hes not fool enough to think he can hurt them, but neither will he go down without a fight. And almost immediately their blows slacken, their taunts lose enthusiasm, and in another minute theyve had enough. But theyll be back, they say, as they turn to leave, and theyll finish the job next time. Heini hears their laughter as they make their way across the courtyard. And though hes sore and bleeding and his loaf is ground into the dirt, he vows there wont be a next time.