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Stories
Sugar Lamb
by Ola de
Sas
It was a Saturday afternoon,
and my car was broken. I managed to drive slowly, in 1st gear, to the
nearest petrol station in an unknown Karoo village, only to be told by
the petrol attendant that the workshop was closed for the weekend, and
that there was no mechanic to help me. The young man offered to examine
my clutch, but he admitted that there was nothing that he could do for
me, and suggested that I should get a room in the local hotel, and wait
till Monday.
I drove slowly with my slipping clutch into the village and looked for a
hotel. There was nothing of interest. The small houses along the dusty
streets were all closed up against the wind and the sun and there were
only a few shops in the market square, a church with its cock on top of
the tall tower, and finally the Royal Hotel. The hotel looked like an
old dilapidated barn, and I felt quite exasperated thinking that I would
have to spend my weekend here, instead of in my comfortable bachelor pad
in Cape Town. After being on the road for five days of every week, I
needed time to unwind, and not be stuck in one of these God-forsaken
places.
There was nobody at the reception, but after my urgent calling, an old
waiter finally appeared to announce that they had a room for me. But
that the owner of the hotel, Vic Russell, had gone fishing and would be
back for dinner at seven. Only then would I be able to register.
Having nothing to do, I decided to go for a walk hoping that I would
find somebody who would be willing to help me.
The shopping centre was deserted. I studied the shop windows but there
was nothing that drew my interest. There were mostly household goods,
farming implements, and some clothing (which consisted mostly of the old
fashioned dresses and suits.) There was also a grocery shop, but it was
closed as well. I was turning back to the hotel when suddenly I spotted
a little figurine of a lamb made of sugar amongst bottles of fruit juice
and confectionary. It was such a lovely, well proportioned figurine,
that I couldn’t help admiring it. I also felt something more, like a
sudden feeling of yearning for the days of my childhood. How I wished I
could get hold of this little lamb, and learn where it came from. I
looked around but there was nobody there. I headed back to the hotel and
sat in the lounge waiting for Vic Russell, the proprietor. As I waited,
I thought of the sugar lamb and felt very vulnerable remembering my
childhood. We had a pastry shop in the centre of Warsaw. It was a
magical shop, bright and beautifully decorated with glass cases of cakes
and pastries that looked like jewels. I remembered the figurines of
animals, flowers and little people made of sugar; I remembered big, iced
wedding cakes, and my favourite cake with nuts, chocolate, whipped cream
and glazed cherries. It was all made by my father (who was a
confectioner), he loved to create magic concoctions to the delight of
young and old. I was such a happy little girl, loved and spoilt by my
parents and all in my large family of uncles and aunts. Then came the
bad days… The days in the Warsaw ghetto, the hunger, the illness, the
death of my mother, and finally my escape from the ghetto by the sewage
canals, while losing my father somewhere in a stinking mass of running
human excreta.
As I remembered the days gone by, I grew more and more agitated. It was
not wise to think of the past. It all happened so many years ago. Now I
could not even recall all the places I had lived in. After the war, they
were mostly refugee camps in Germany. As I had no papers and my name was
too difficult to pronounce, I was given a new name, “Zuckermann,” which
was the equivalent of my Polish name, “Cukiernik.” From now on I was
Wanda Zuckermann, a Polish Jewess, and an orphan girl from Warsaw. But I
never returned to Warsaw. I met a man from South Africa and we got
married. Unfortunately, soon after our arrival in Cape Town he passed
away, and there I was again, alone in a strange land.
Finally there he was; an elderly jovial man who was full of apologies
for coming late. He showed me my room, and escorted me to the dining
room. After dinner I approached him again. I wanted to know who the
owner of the grocery shop was, and how I could contact him. He was
intrigued, and I explained my interest in a sugar lamb in the shop
window to him.
Vic Russell was full of information. Apparently, the foreign man who
created the sugar lamb arrived here some time after the war. He got a
job in Seligman’s Grocer Shop. He worked there for many years and was
well known for his confectionary, and especially for little animals made
of sugar. The old Seligman befriended the stranger, and after he passed
on, “Uncle Sam,” as he was known to the village people (because the rest
of his name was unpronounceable) inherited the business. But Uncle Sam
was not really interested in the grocery trade, and retired. But he
still lived here, and sometimes made his sugar creations on demand.
“Do you think I could see him?” I asked breathlessly.
Vic Russell looked at me strangely, but did not ask any questions, later
he said, “Maybe it is not accident after all that you’re here?”
The little house on the dusty road had a tiny garden full of marigolds,
and one sad looking cypress tree. Vic Russell knocked at the door and we
waited for a long time. Finally the door was opened, and an old man
appeared looking at us with bewilderment. Russell (with his friendly
way) introduced me as a, “Young lady,” from Cape Town who wished to meet
him, and the man relaxed and exchanged some pleasantries with Vic. I
kept watching the old man. He was very stooped and thin. His skin was
very white, as if he had never been in the sun. His hair must have been
red once, but now it was yellowish white. When he turned to me I saw his
eyes, there was so much sadness in them that I felt like crying. I still
had my doubts, though my heart was racing faster and faster, and I was
afraid I would burst out crying at any moment now. The old man watched
me attentively; surely he should have recognized me by now? But he just
kept looking at me as if waiting for me to say something. I stretched
out my hand and stammered, “My name is Wanda Zuckermann.”
The old man bowed politely and said very distinctly, “I’m Samuel
Cukiernik, please to meet you, young lady.”
I gasped and shouted at him. “Didn’t you have a daughter by the name
Wanda who you lost in a sewage canal?” I burst into tears, hiccupping
and shouting at him, I accused him of not recognizing me. I had waited
for this moment all my life.
My poor father, when he
finally understood that he had acquired a fifty year old daughter, his
happiness was beyond description. He refused to part with me for even
one day. The result was that I sold my apartment in Cape Town, and moved
in with him. I stayed with him for many happy years, never bored with
each other, and always remembering the wonderful way we were brought
together. How could I have possibly known that day, that seemingly
insignificant event, the slipping of my clutch, was just waiting to
change the course of my life? Was it a coincidence which brought on this
sequence of events? Or was it Divine Power that guided my movements that
day in a small Karoo town?
June 22,
2008
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