Fire Song by Libby Hathorn Read Free Book Online Page B

yes. A good woman, come to that, and what a cook! And seamstress. She could turn out a dress quick smart, and often did on Saturday afternoon – one for Ivy and one for me, if there was a dance.’ Something in her voice told Ingrid that her mother had loved this grandmother who was rarely spoken of. ‘She lost everyone in that horrible war. Everyone but my mother. She was sent here with a lot of other migrants. But mostly, in the family, well, we kept good and quiet about the Jewish bit.’
    Dare she ask why? Mum was unfolding.
    ‘Why, Mum? Why did you keep quiet about it?’
    ‘Had to – like a lot of things. Especially in a small country town. There weren’t many Jews – none, really, where we were.And people don’t like anyone different. They get nervous, you know. Like things will change, get out of hand. Foreigners might be funny, eat queer stuff, have queer ways, believe in different things and spoil things. And people can be cruel, Ingrid, you know that – even here, in this dump. Look at all the name-calling that goes on in this town! But not just names; things can get far worse than that!’
    How? What was she talking about? Had people been cruel to Mum’s grandmother, then?
    ‘So we all kept quiet about our foreign grandma when we moved to Sydney. It was better that way. True blue Australians – not from foreign parts, sort of thing.’
    ‘But didn’t everyone come from foreign parts?’ Ingrid asked, thinking of the sailing ships and the first settlers she’d learnt about at school. ‘Other than the Aborigines, that is.’
    ‘You talk too much, Ingrid Crowe. Far too much. Just eat up and then you can give me a hand. Dom’s dad bought me a whole heap of fresh peas that need shelling. The potatoes need peeling, too.’ And she shook the crumbs from her bright apron and stood up and Ingrid thought there was nothing more to be said on the matter. But there was one more thing.
    ‘Don’t you go hanging around the new girl, what’s-her-name Klein, or go to her house, now will you? And don’t say a word about what I told you, understand?’ She nodded, but Ingrid didn’t understand why Mum was making it such a secret, as if her old Jewish grandma was something so shameful. Nobody liked to talk much about what had happened to them in the war, it was so terrible. They had sympathy about it, though, if ever anyone did mention it, so why this secrecy now?
    She’d gone to visit Ruth Klein’s house as soon as she could, not to spite Mum, but because Ruth told her at school that she’d found a nest of kittens in her backyard. Six of them, blind and mewing and gorgeous. And she liked Ruth and was interested in all that she’d told Ingrid about her parents. And interested in what a home was like where you were the only child.
    Mr and Mrs Klein had been more than welcoming whenever she visited after that. She was fascinated to find out that Mrs Klein ran the whole house from a wheelchair, because something bad had happened to her that meant she had weak legs for life, Ruth told her. Mr Klein had made special wooden ramps for the house so she could get up and down the steps to the kitchen and the bathroom all by herself. She preferred it that way.
    Mrs Klein always dressed in pretty florals Ingrid knew her mum would like. Her cardigans were of fine wool with fancy buttons and she knew Mum would like those, too. And Mrs Klein sang a lot and seemed happy as anything, despite her affliction. Not only that – she baked pastries such as Ingrid had never tasted, and never seemed to lose her temper with Ruth.
    And what about that morning she and Ruth had performed especially for her! Mrs Klein had wheeled herself over to the cumbersome old pianola, so big in that tiny room, and sat there with her hands poised. Ruth took up her place by her mother’s chair, clasped her hands in front of her as if she were going to recite poetry the way they did at school, and took several deep breaths. Just watching her, Ingrid