Week 2 - If It’s Any Consolation…
Jun. 28th, 2025 11:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marjoricaYetta used to tell this story. Sometimes it was about her and sometimes it was about other people.
She had been a young girl still when she saw the fortune teller. She and Sara had crept off to the fair, determined to have some fun, no matter what their parents might have to say about the matter.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” Sara had declared. “It’s our money anyway. We earned it!”
She could always remember- or at least felt that she could - standing outside the tent on that summer’s day, the sun beating down on her head and the smell of frying potatoes in the air.
None of the rides had looked too safe and none of the food remotely wholesome. There were stalls where one could win a coconut or a small trinket, but neither of them wanted to have to explain such acquisitions at home. That left the fortune teller and Sara was not going to let them leave without trying at least one of the attractions.
When Yetta told the story later to her children and grandchildren, sometimes the fortune teller was exotic and sometimes less so. In one telling there might be musk in the air or the lady wore earrings of dazzling gold, as big as beigels. She might have gold-capped teeth, a bright silk scarf wrapped around her raven tresses or a belt of coins jangling at the waist of a flowing skirt.
Sometimes in her mind’s eye she was simply a tired-looking Roma woman of a certain age. She felt sorry for this version as no-one was treated worse than Roma and no-one would want to sit in a stifling tent on a hot market square.
She had her fortune read first. She was going to live a long life and travel very far, just not as far as she might like. She was going to be blessed with many children and one of them would travel much further than ever she could have hoped for herself.
“Is it me? Am I going to be the one who travels?” some child would later ask. She might shrug and laugh at this point or turn it into a lecture about trying harder at school. Sometimes she told the story to soothe a sick child and get them to think about where they might want to go. Sometimes she would just sigh.
Sara’s fortune was less fulsome. The fortune-teller looked troubled and then told her to always make the most of her days.
When they talked afterwards, on the way home, she reflected that fortunes were very silly. Hers had been stupidly generic, with some romantic flim flam stuck on the end. She mourned for her wasted money and felt a little disappointed, like a secret had been spoiled. Sara’s fortune had been like the woman had not even been trying.
However, within a year Sara was dead. She may as well have tried to find happiness for as long as she could as the river current claimed her at a Temple picnic.
Then again, look how far Yetta herself had come.
***
It had been a happy girlhood judging by the stories she told. The ending of it had come with the troubles visited upon her people after the Tsar was killed. She never knew why they were blamed, but it happened a lot.
She and Wolf had a good, long engagement, long enough for her to build up some savings and with a view to him finishing his apprenticeship. They had told one another stories about the kind of home they wanted to make and even a modest trousseau had been amassed.
In the end it was all moot. Wolf’s cousin was killed and he knew that his family name would make him a target when the mob got to their town. He was leaving for a distant city where another cousin had a job for him. He meant to save and emigrate to America away from this shit, so she could either marry him now and come with him, or…
A whirlwind of a wedding with a borrowed dress. Happy enough, even though she knew that she would never see her family again. She kept them with her in her dreams and in stories she told over the years. Sometimes there were letters, telling their own tales.
They had scrimped and saved and took every job that they could until the money was there. Their first child was born and that set them back for a while, but that little one was never destined to travel at all.
She felt bereft on the day that they left their country behind with just two precious tickets in their hands.
***
They never got to America. The ticket agent had lied to them and presumably stolen the extra money. It was only after Wolf had approached a man in a homburg and long coat, brandishing the name and address that they had, that they were informed that they were in the East End of London.
She had stood in the middle of the street and cried, almost screamed,
“But what did you do then?” a child would usually ask.
What could they do?
The man with the homburg was very kind and showed them to a rooming house. They could not speak English yet, but the man knew their language and said that there were others. He helped Wolf to find a place to exchange their small supply of dollars and took him to see a man who might know a man who could get him some work.
“Your uncle was an angel sent among us,” she told anyone listening.
The nights in the rooming house were sleepless and the days spent guarding their precious trunk of belongings. Wolf got some work at a boot factory and they were able to rent a room with a fire, a mattress and a lock on the door.
She had to be her own angel then. She kept her pitiful home scrubbed clean. She learned some English and earned pennies scrubbing other floors. Her children thought of childhood as the scent of Sunlight soap. Later on, this made her grin.
***
When photography came in, she had saved up again and made sure that she and Wolf and their children were duly immortalised.
“One day someone will see this and say that this was our family and see each of our names on the back of this photograph,’ she told her seven year old. “They will see how pretty Hannah is and maybe remember a story about her.”
Later on, the children would say, “But it’s Uncle Bob they will recognise.”
It was the same way when the fortune-telling story was told, they would announce that the well-travelled child must be Bob.
Wolf had sometimes made extra money singing in pubs or as a cantor. A lot of their children could sing, it was in their, blood, and her son Bob had taken that talent to the stage. One day he had stowed away on a boat to America. Her heart had filled with happiness to learn that he was alive, but she still gave him a clip round the ear when he returned several years later.
She couldn’t blame him for wanting the adventure or for wanting to get away from the place where he had grown up. By the time that Bob had been born, they lived in far better quarters and they had been able to invest in a fish and chip shop that did a roaring trade. They would never be rich, but fed and clothed was miraculous enough. Bob wanted more.
Nevertheless, when Bob was interviewed on the radio, she had been surprised to hear him describe his neighbours as salt of the earth. In reality, they still lived somewhere where she wasn’t entirely happy about the children playing out. There were, frankly, prostitutes around and their own street had seen two of a series of infamous murders. There was a lot of dirt, hopelessness and criminality. Even the salt cellars in the chippy had to be chained down. Bob was very rude about this in private.
After the war, the one which had taken two more of her sons, Bob’s career started to take off in earnest. He travelled all over the world. People sang his songs. He even dedicated a song to her, based upon a song that her mother had supposedly sung to her. He tried to pay for them to move somewhere nicer, but they refused. A couple of times, when he offered them holidays, they accepted and got to relax by the British seaside.
The fortune-teller had been right. Hers was a story that she hoped would be passed down. She did not even mind being part of someone else’s story any longer, not Bob’s, not Wolf’s, not any of the others. She even hoped that back in the old country they still sometimes mentioned the girl who had tried to move to America and ended up in London.
###
Vote here by Thursday 3rd July. https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1187056.html
She had been a young girl still when she saw the fortune teller. She and Sara had crept off to the fair, determined to have some fun, no matter what their parents might have to say about the matter.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” Sara had declared. “It’s our money anyway. We earned it!”
She could always remember- or at least felt that she could - standing outside the tent on that summer’s day, the sun beating down on her head and the smell of frying potatoes in the air.
None of the rides had looked too safe and none of the food remotely wholesome. There were stalls where one could win a coconut or a small trinket, but neither of them wanted to have to explain such acquisitions at home. That left the fortune teller and Sara was not going to let them leave without trying at least one of the attractions.
When Yetta told the story later to her children and grandchildren, sometimes the fortune teller was exotic and sometimes less so. In one telling there might be musk in the air or the lady wore earrings of dazzling gold, as big as beigels. She might have gold-capped teeth, a bright silk scarf wrapped around her raven tresses or a belt of coins jangling at the waist of a flowing skirt.
Sometimes in her mind’s eye she was simply a tired-looking Roma woman of a certain age. She felt sorry for this version as no-one was treated worse than Roma and no-one would want to sit in a stifling tent on a hot market square.
She had her fortune read first. She was going to live a long life and travel very far, just not as far as she might like. She was going to be blessed with many children and one of them would travel much further than ever she could have hoped for herself.
“Is it me? Am I going to be the one who travels?” some child would later ask. She might shrug and laugh at this point or turn it into a lecture about trying harder at school. Sometimes she told the story to soothe a sick child and get them to think about where they might want to go. Sometimes she would just sigh.
Sara’s fortune was less fulsome. The fortune-teller looked troubled and then told her to always make the most of her days.
When they talked afterwards, on the way home, she reflected that fortunes were very silly. Hers had been stupidly generic, with some romantic flim flam stuck on the end. She mourned for her wasted money and felt a little disappointed, like a secret had been spoiled. Sara’s fortune had been like the woman had not even been trying.
However, within a year Sara was dead. She may as well have tried to find happiness for as long as she could as the river current claimed her at a Temple picnic.
Then again, look how far Yetta herself had come.
***
It had been a happy girlhood judging by the stories she told. The ending of it had come with the troubles visited upon her people after the Tsar was killed. She never knew why they were blamed, but it happened a lot.
She and Wolf had a good, long engagement, long enough for her to build up some savings and with a view to him finishing his apprenticeship. They had told one another stories about the kind of home they wanted to make and even a modest trousseau had been amassed.
In the end it was all moot. Wolf’s cousin was killed and he knew that his family name would make him a target when the mob got to their town. He was leaving for a distant city where another cousin had a job for him. He meant to save and emigrate to America away from this shit, so she could either marry him now and come with him, or…
A whirlwind of a wedding with a borrowed dress. Happy enough, even though she knew that she would never see her family again. She kept them with her in her dreams and in stories she told over the years. Sometimes there were letters, telling their own tales.
They had scrimped and saved and took every job that they could until the money was there. Their first child was born and that set them back for a while, but that little one was never destined to travel at all.
She felt bereft on the day that they left their country behind with just two precious tickets in their hands.
***
They never got to America. The ticket agent had lied to them and presumably stolen the extra money. It was only after Wolf had approached a man in a homburg and long coat, brandishing the name and address that they had, that they were informed that they were in the East End of London.
She had stood in the middle of the street and cried, almost screamed,
“But what did you do then?” a child would usually ask.
What could they do?
The man with the homburg was very kind and showed them to a rooming house. They could not speak English yet, but the man knew their language and said that there were others. He helped Wolf to find a place to exchange their small supply of dollars and took him to see a man who might know a man who could get him some work.
“Your uncle was an angel sent among us,” she told anyone listening.
The nights in the rooming house were sleepless and the days spent guarding their precious trunk of belongings. Wolf got some work at a boot factory and they were able to rent a room with a fire, a mattress and a lock on the door.
She had to be her own angel then. She kept her pitiful home scrubbed clean. She learned some English and earned pennies scrubbing other floors. Her children thought of childhood as the scent of Sunlight soap. Later on, this made her grin.
***
When photography came in, she had saved up again and made sure that she and Wolf and their children were duly immortalised.
“One day someone will see this and say that this was our family and see each of our names on the back of this photograph,’ she told her seven year old. “They will see how pretty Hannah is and maybe remember a story about her.”
Later on, the children would say, “But it’s Uncle Bob they will recognise.”
It was the same way when the fortune-telling story was told, they would announce that the well-travelled child must be Bob.
Wolf had sometimes made extra money singing in pubs or as a cantor. A lot of their children could sing, it was in their, blood, and her son Bob had taken that talent to the stage. One day he had stowed away on a boat to America. Her heart had filled with happiness to learn that he was alive, but she still gave him a clip round the ear when he returned several years later.
She couldn’t blame him for wanting the adventure or for wanting to get away from the place where he had grown up. By the time that Bob had been born, they lived in far better quarters and they had been able to invest in a fish and chip shop that did a roaring trade. They would never be rich, but fed and clothed was miraculous enough. Bob wanted more.
Nevertheless, when Bob was interviewed on the radio, she had been surprised to hear him describe his neighbours as salt of the earth. In reality, they still lived somewhere where she wasn’t entirely happy about the children playing out. There were, frankly, prostitutes around and their own street had seen two of a series of infamous murders. There was a lot of dirt, hopelessness and criminality. Even the salt cellars in the chippy had to be chained down. Bob was very rude about this in private.
After the war, the one which had taken two more of her sons, Bob’s career started to take off in earnest. He travelled all over the world. People sang his songs. He even dedicated a song to her, based upon a song that her mother had supposedly sung to her. He tried to pay for them to move somewhere nicer, but they refused. A couple of times, when he offered them holidays, they accepted and got to relax by the British seaside.
The fortune-teller had been right. Hers was a story that she hoped would be passed down. She did not even mind being part of someone else’s story any longer, not Bob’s, not Wolf’s, not any of the others. She even hoped that back in the old country they still sometimes mentioned the girl who had tried to move to America and ended up in London.
###
Vote here by Thursday 3rd July. https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1187056.html
no subject
Date: 2025-06-29 01:06 am (UTC)It also brought up vague memories of a movie called This Happy Breed, which also follows a family (non-immigrant in the film's case) living, loving, and enduring over decades in London. The stories aren't similar but the premise raised it in my mind.
You fit a family epic into such a small space. Bravo!
no subject
Date: 2025-06-29 03:19 am (UTC)I could not get on with This Happy Breed at all. By the time that the men were filling in for the bus drivers during the General Strike, I was yelling, “No, Noël! No!”
This got very long, I am aware. I am hoping that it is the bones of a short story.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-29 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-06-29 07:43 am (UTC)Not my family history, thankfully, but I have been reading an awful lot about the history of Whitechapel and the people who ended up there from fleeing the pogroms. My own ancestors had some pretty grim times, but not that at least.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-29 04:31 pm (UTC)I liked, "He meant to save and emigrate to America away from this shit, so she could either marry him now and come with him, or…"
Hahaha, all righty then.
She was so upset to have arrived in England instead of America, and I kept thinking, "No, really, it's not a bad thing." LOL
Dan
no subject
Date: 2025-06-29 07:25 pm (UTC)I came across a story of people getting dumped off in London from Eastern Europe and thought, “Shiiii…”. That would spell the end for me… or would it? We are oddly adaptable creatures and there is a lot of stuff in people’s lives that they have to get through and make sense of afterwards.
Also: do not go to East London in the 1880s.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 02:58 am (UTC)It did get a bit long. If I still like any of it, I think I have the bones of a short story, maybe p.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 03:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 09:55 pm (UTC)I was trying to think about how we talk about the past and try to make sense of that to an extent.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 07:20 pm (UTC)So I have a lot of distant cousins in Brazil. They meant to come to New York to be with my great-grandparents, but they didn't know the difference between north and south America. I imagine the passage to Brazil was also cheaper, and so they took their chances.
My great-grandfather used to keep in touch with these relatives for a long while. A couple of them became professional soccer players. I have tried to find them myself, but I haven't had any luck getting in touch with them and my aunt has all of their old letters, but she's so disorganized that they're impossible to find. I would love to find out more of their history in the late 20th century and the early 21st.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 10:11 pm (UTC)Even moving to London from another part of England in the late 20th century with all of the information and every channel of communication open to me…. I still had to make sure that I had all of my ducks in a row. I had a job and it was like having a second one finding a place to live, which was unavoidable but felt outrageous. I am not the intrepid kind at all.
I very much admire my ancestors who took their chances and uprooted their entire lives with the hopes of something better. I hope your aunt finds those letters and you get more of an insight into this branch of your family tree.
no subject
Date: 2025-06-30 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-01 01:49 am (UTC)Weirdly enough, as scarily shabby as the East End was, there were still music halls and Jewish theatres here and there. Lots of people I have never really heard of got their start that way. See also soccer teams and boxing gyms as a way out. Education lagged far behind.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 02:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 07:38 am (UTC)I can only begin to imagine what my ancestors’ dreams and aspirations really were, as people rather than just names in records. A lot of mine came through some real wretchedness that I can’t begin to appreciate.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 12:52 pm (UTC)Have you ever read or heard of Sidney Sheldon? He was primarily a TV sitcom writer back in the 60s-70s but he also wrote sprawling family lore-type novels, many of which were based on old Hollywood celebrities. "Bob" and "London" first reminded me of Bob Hope because he'd been born in London and went to Hollywood and did the USO shows during WW2. Then I thought, no, he'd be too young for this. BUT...many of Sheldon's books deal with family backgrounds as you describe. Many of them fled the pogroms and found their innate talent to entertain in Hollywood. None of them ever forgot them.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 02:49 pm (UTC)I based the kernel of the story on a comedian/singer called Bud Flanagan. His parents did get married and fled the pogroms, getting cheated on their ticket to the States. I came across that on one of my rabbit holes and thought, “Flipping heck!”. He had quite the interesting life. Most of the story above is my own invention with a borrowed time line that I hope doesn’t veer too far into appropriation.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 02:36 pm (UTC)I enjoyed your story. Have you ever had your fortune read? Just curious :)
no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 03:00 pm (UTC)The ‘salt of the earth’ thing tends to be a euphemism for ‘rough and ready but probably not inherently malicious’. There is a stereotype that in the old East End, everyone may have been poor but they all pulled together. The guy that Bob is extremely loosely based on (this isn’t really his story) was very candid in later life about, yes, there was a community but the place was squalid and dangerous.
I don’t believe that I have had my fortune read per se. I have had tarot card readings, which were kind of spot on. Plus I was once in a séance (she said, airily, like it’s a regular occurrence) where I was given my ‘future’. 99.999% certain it was my friend messing around, but I did feel like I had been given disappointing spoilers. None of it came true, btw.
How about you?
no subject
Date: 2025-07-03 01:04 am (UTC)I haven't had my fortune read, but sometimes I am curious :)
I'm glad none of the disappointing spoilers came true for you!
no subject
Date: 2025-07-03 01:26 am (UTC)I feel that we should undertake to have our fortunes read just for the fun of it. I would also like to go to a spiritualist meeting just to see what it’s like. Real or not, I doubt it could do much real harm. At the very least, it would be interesting to see what a fortune teller makes of me.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 07:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-02 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-03 03:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-03 09:59 pm (UTC)