And having seen Goldberg, she looked back at Margaret, and realized, from Margaret's expression, what look there was on her own face. And she was swept by confusion, and blushed as she'd never blushed before.
Goldberg nodded courteously to Margaret.
"Good evening," he said. "Your lawyer Mr Wentworth is a good man. I have spoken to him. But - later for that. Miss Lockhart, you're needed now. Down on the river. Is the child safe here? Then come. Miss Haddow. . ."
Another nod, and he went out, leaving the door open for Sally. With a helpless look at Margaret, she followed.
Chapter Nineteen
REBECCA'S STORY
They walked down Royal Mint Street towards the Tower of London. Goldberg was urgent and preoccupied, and in answer to her questions he said only, "We're going to meet a ship. I'll tell you more when we're on the river."
The streets were crowded, and the pavements narrow, and he took her arm as if he had a right to, walking steadily and swiftly beside her. She was aware, through her hand pressed against his side, of his tension, and of his strength too: there was something implacable about him. She felt baffled by the strength of her own feelings, and even more baffled as to what those feelings were.
They turned down towards the river. The great bulk of the Tower of London rose darkly on their right. At the end of the street, before it turned left, a narrow opening led to a flight of stone stairs that went down to the water. Before they went through, Goldberg stopped and pointed along towards the dock-gates further down the street.
"See all those cabs?" he said. "And the hangers-on?"
Sally could see that the road was blocked. A policeman was trying vainly to organize the cabs into a line, and people were jostling and shouting. They looked like a flock of greedy vultures eager to get at a kill, and she said that to Goldberg.
"Exactly what they are," he said. "They're waiting to prey on the Jews who come ashore. The first boats will be arriving very soon; we'd better hurry."
He led her through the opening and down the steps. They were lit only by a feeble gaslight at the angle of the warehouse which stood on the left, and the steps were wet and slippery. She took Goldberg's hand.
At the foot of the step a man was waiting in a rowing-boat. He had an old-fashioned horn lantern, and he held it up as they came down towards him. Sally saw a dirty, grey-bearded face and caught, even before she was close, a powerful drift of spirits.
"Evening, Mr G," said the boatman.
"Evening, Charlie. We're going to bring back one passenger, and we want to come ashore here."
"Right you are, sir."
The old man held the boat steady as Sally got in. Goldberg settled himself down with her in the stern, and then the boatman fixed the lantern on a pole at the bow and took up the oars.
"Where are the crimps working from?" said Goldberg.
"Off the Pier Head, sir. St Katharine's Basin. See, there's sixty, maybe seventy people to come ashore, maybe more. They offload 'em at the Pier Head, then they can get away straight up Lower Thames Street. You seen all them cabs? The cabmen got wind of this trade in the last month or so. They put a copper there regular now, to control 'em. There was nearly a hundred there last week."
He pushed off, then slipped the oars into the rowlocks and started to pull away with short, light strokes.
"What are crimps?" said Sally.
"Parasites," said Goldberg. "Swindlers. Minor criminals. Those vultures you saw back there."
Their voices sounded different on the open water, away from the enclosing cliffs of brick.
"Them cabs," said the boatman, "they're the worst. Even if they got somewhere to go to, the people coming in, they can't speak English, most of 'em, so they just repeat the address till the cabbie gets it. Then they're off. Some of them cabbies'll take 'em all over the place, out to Walthamstow, Leyton, Wanstead Flats, drop 'em there and charge a fortune. There'll be plenty of that tonight, this being a Rotterdam boat. They don't bother with the Hamburg ones. It's the sweatshops that do for the Hamburg passengers. Looking for greeners."
"This is a new language to me," said Sally. "What are greeners?"
"Newly arrived workers. Blokes without jobs who don't know their way around. Green, yer see."
It was a still night, and the water slid under the boat like oiled silk. Goldberg sat quietly beside her, and the gin-flavoured old boatman looked half asleep, only those quick light strokes, as regular as clockwork, showing that he was in command. Sally felt suspended - between sky and water, past and future, danger and . . . and what? She looked at Goldberg, but she wasn't sure of his expression under the wide brim of his hat.
"What have you brought me here for?" she said. "Is there something you want me to do?"
He nodded. "There's a young woman travelling alone. She has some news of the Tzaddik, and I want to be sure we hear it as soon as possible. And we have to be quick. At the steamer there will be women like the ones I told you about, probably several of them, watching out for single girls. They speak Yiddish, Russian, German - they pretend to come from Jewish charities - anything to take them in."
"The white goods?" said Sally.
He nodded. "We must find Rebecca Meyer - that's this girl - and keep her out of their hands. The problem is, she's expecting to be met by a woman. If you find her, and stay with her, she'll come with us. Will you do that?"
Sally nodded. "How will I know her?"
"I have a photograph. Here -"
He handed her a tattered photograph, and struck a match for her to see it by. The girl was pictured standing on the front step of a house in, she supposed, Russia; dark, heavy-featured, suspicious, with a shawl covering her hair. She was holding a broom and looked like a servant of some kind. The match went out.
"Does she speak English?" said Sally.
"Not much. Some German, I think. Show her the photograph if you need to. It's going to be difficult; you'll have to make her trust you. I won't be with you; I have other work to do on board. But you can do it."
I hope I can, thought Sally. She tucked the photograph into her glove and sat back beside Goldberg as the boat moved out further into the middle of the stream.
Then she saw the steamer. It sat some way off in a forest of masts, with lights glowing at the portholes and the bridge, and a swarm of smaller vessels - rowing-boats and dinghies like the one they were in, a steam-launch or two, and many others she couldn't make out - clustered around it like bees. As they moved closer, she saw that the deck was crowded with dark, huddled figures, and some were already swarming down the dimly lit, swaying stairs that hung alongside. Hands reached up to help them down, seized ragged bundles and swung them into the bottom of the boat before helping the owner down briskly and reaching up for the next.
Charlie, the boatman, kept the dinghy level with the steamer and a little way off, and Sally noticed for the first time that the tide was flowing strongly in.
One of the boats, laden and leaning over, moved away sluggishly, and another darted in to take its place. There seemed to be no order about which came next to the foot of the stairs - it was first come, first served, and the boatmen who jostled for position filled the night air with shouts and curses.
The boat that had just succeeded had two men in it, one to row and one, as Sally heard, to interpret. He was calling up in Yiddish to those on the deck, and Goldberg told her that the man was offering passage to the Pier Head, guaranteed cab journey to a clean Jewish lodging-house and an introduction to the landlord for no more than ten shillings. Sally drew breath at this, for the passage all the way from Rotterdam cost only a pound. Still, people were crowding down the ladder. Perhaps they didn't know what ten shillings was worth.
"Ah," said Goldberg. "Look who's arrived."
A steam-launch was next to reach the ladder, sweeping aside a couple of smaller boats and leaving them rocking in its wake. A large, round-faced man in a top-hat and Inverness cape was getting out and climbing the swaying stairs with difficulty, fol
lowed by a smaller man in a bowler hat, carrying a dispatch case.
"Who's that?" said Sally.
"It's the famous Arnold Fox. You haven't seen his name in the papers? You will. An anti-Semite - he's making a stir, trying to get Parliament to keep the Jews out. All right, Charlie, take us in. I want to see what he's up to. Ready, Miss Lockhart?"
Sally nodded. Hardly seeming to make any effort, the old boatman turned the dinghy and darted in skilfully between the stern of Arnold Fox's launch and the bow of the next.
As soon as they touched, Goldberg seized the railing and held it while Sally stepped over the side of the boat and on to the swinging, narrow staircase. She was conscious of the stares from above, the jostling and shoving, the other boats crowding the dark water, and conscious too of Goldberg close behind her. She felt his hand on hers for a moment, looked round and met his eyes, and then turned back to the top.
Once on deck, in the harsh light and strong shadows thrown by the kerosene lamps, he leant close and spoke quietly.
"As soon as you see her, move in. There'll be others eager to do the same. Look over there - I know that old witch, I've seen her before. A brothel-keeper called Mrs Paton. Look what she's doing."
He indicated a woman dressed in expensive-looking furs, her face heavily made up. She was in her fifties, Sally supposed, with a narrow trap of a mouth and eyes as cold as coins. She was stroking the lapel of a pretty dark-eyed girl who was holding a bundle of luggage, helpless, bewildered, polite, as the older woman spoke wheedlingly into her ear. The beringed hand moved up from her lapel and stroked her cheek. The girl said something, and the woman glanced over to a man by the rail and nodded. The girl moved away with them towards the stairs.
Sally wanted to dart forward and hold her back, but she found Goldberg's hand on her arm.
"We attack the roots, not the leaves. You want to see more? Watch that man."
He nodded at one of the passengers, a big man with a fur hat. As she watched, Sally saw that he was acting just like a sheepdog. The struggle for places, the jostling at the rail, the confusion weren't random at all. He was selecting some passengers to go down and holding others back, according to which boat was waiting at the bottom, and doing it so skilfully that it looked as if he was merely helping to keep the stream flowing.
"Who is he?" said Sally.
"He's one of the crimps. Look at the boatmen. Some are in the organization, some not, and they'll have a password, some kind of signal, something like that."
They watched over the rail, but in the darkness and the swift movements of the shouting boatmen below, it was hard to see any signal they were making.
"Who's he picking out?" said Sally.
"The wealthy ones. That's to say those with a few roubles left. The ones with not much, he doesn't care about. Imagine this, all the way from Russia; parasites every inch of the way. But now you must look for Rebecca Meyer. I'm going to leave you for a little while, but I'll find you again. Good luck."
She nodded. He moved away into the crowd, and she looked around and got her bearings. There was plenty to see.
Bundles everywhere - rough canvas sacks tied at the neck, small parcels carefully wrapped in calico, rolled-up mattresses and feather eiderdowns bulging out of the cords that held them together. Hats: no bowlers here, no top-hats but Arnold Fox the anti-Semite's, no tweed caps or deerstalkers; but Russian-style caps with leather brims, moth-eaten fur hats, one sumptuous article in astrakhan, and shawls; all the women wore shawls tied over their heads. Children: hollow-eyed, white-faced, ill after the crossing or lethargic through hunger. The men and women: foreign faces, all the men bearded, all the women broad of cheek and dark of eye.
And the smell. Dirty clothes, dirty bodies, filthy boots; smells of fried fish and of seasickness; smells of illness and poverty and long, weary travel.
She was standing near a well-lit doorway into the inner part of the steamer. A grey-bearded man in uniform was standing in the doorway, blocking the path of Mr Arnold Fox and his companion, who had a notebook and pencil in his hand.
"Captain van Houten, I insist that you answer my question," came the high, rich voice of Arnold Fox. "I am conducting a survey on behalf of the British Parliament, and I must have an answer. Has the customs officer been on board or not?"
"Of course," said the Captain impatiently. "He came aboard at Gravesend, like always."
"And did he count the passengers? Or did he merely accept your numbers?"
"You mean my numbers are incorrect? You mean I can't count?"
"I must know, Captain van Houten. What number did you give him for the aliens on board?"
"Sixty-three. And that's correct."
"And did he count them?"
"I don't care if he looked or not. That's for him to say. Why don't you ask him? Why are you bothering me?"
"Be assured, I shall ask him," said Arnold Fox. "I would like to see your official returns, please."
"You got no authority for that. I give the documents to the Collector at the Report Office. You want to see them, you go and ask him."
"Captain, I would remind you that this is an official Parliamentary report--"
"You a member of the Government?"
"No, but--"
"You a member of Parliament even?"
"I hardly see--"
"Don't waste my time. Any fool can say he's making an official report, it means nothing. Go and play somewhere else."
"Have you no concern for the plight of these unfortunate people?"
The Captain snorted and turned away. Arnold Fox, quite unabashed, turned and called out over the noisy, teeming crowd on deck:
"Anyone - here - speak - English? Anyone - on board - English?"
He moved through the throng, his large white nose wrinkling involuntarily as he tried to find an interpreter.
Sally moved away too, glancing at the photograph again to remind herself of Rebecca Meyer's appearance. But it wasn't a large photograph, and the girl's features were wrinkled up against the sun, and, in any case, she had the same kind of build and look as many of these women. It wouldn't be easy.
She picked her way through the confusion on deck, ignoring the stares as best she could, and looking carefully at every solitary woman or girl she could see. In the crowd, though, it was hard to see who was on her own and who wasn't. More than once she thought she'd found Rebecca Meyer, only for the woman concerned to pick up a nearby child or turn to a man behind her and say something, obviously part of a family.
Having moved through the whole throng as far as the bows, stepping over canvas bundles and mattresses and cracked and broken boxes tied together with string, she turned and looked back. Goldberg was nowhere in sight, but the man in the fur hat was busily at work by the stairs, pretending to help by signalling for boats and organizing the queue at the top. Sally watched him for a minute, and saw how he did it: he was beckoning the boatmen with four fingers for one sort of passenger, one finger for another. But how he sorted the passengers out, she couldn't tell. Arnold Fox, high voice braying over the bustle, was interrogating someone near by, with his companion jotting down everything in his notebook. A little way off, the brothel-keeper, Mrs Paton, was talking to a young woman in a dark shawl, hand on her arm, exuding kindliness while - Sally could see - eyeing her figure.
But wasn't the young woman Rebecca Meyer?
Sally looked at the photograph again: it could be. It could easily be. She was too far off to be sure, so she quickly moved forward to be closer. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs Paton's male companion reach the top of the stairs and exchange a word with Fur-hat; perhaps Fur-hat had a cut in the business.
She got within three or four yards of Mrs Paton and the young woman, and stopped. It was so hard to know. Mrs Paton was talking in a sympathetic voice, stroking the rough cloth of the girl's sleeve, and the girl was looking down expressionlessly at the deck. But as Sally watched, she looked up and wrinkled her face with what looked like despair, looking ar
ound as if for an escape from Mrs Paton, and Sally had no doubt.
She hastened forward.
"Rebecca!" she said, and before the girl could react, she leant forward to kiss her, whispering, "Ich bin deine Schwester. . ." I am your sister.
Rebecca's hands found hers, and a flash of understanding entered her eyes. Sally turned to Mrs Paton.
"Please," she said. "My sister will come with me."
The older woman looked at her with steady hatred, and then quite calmly pursed up her mouth and spat deliberately on Sally's sleeve before moving away, shrugging to her companion at the stairway.
Sally, shocked, didn't move, but Rebecca took a handkerchief and wiped off the old woman's spittle. She was younger than Sally had expected: hardly more than eighteen or so. But something had marked her soul, for her eyes were full of pain.
"I come with you?" she said in German.
"Yes. Herr Goldberg is here. We'll go with him in a minute."
Sally looked around, but couldn't see him. Only a yard or so away Mr Arnold Fox, his fact-finding completed for the night, was calling down to his boatman, and gathering the skirts of his coat about him fastidiously as he prepared to climb down the stairs, with his bowler-hatted secretary close behind, thrusting his notes into the dispatch case.
Sally had an idea: could she do it without being spotted?
She edged forward, and then, under cover of the crush, she nudged the dispatch case out from under the man's arm just as he was about to step on to the ladder. With a cry of dismay he grabbed for it, but too late: it struck the railing and burst open, and the papers swirled and fluttered out into the darkness, to float and sink and drift among the jostling boats. Sally enjoyed the secretary's horror almost as much as Arnold Fox's goggling rage.
Rebecca was watching, a puzzled smile somewhere behind her expression.
"An enemy," said Sally.
"Ah."
"Bravo," came Goldberg's voice from behind her. She turned, and then he said something in Russian to Rebecca, who responded guardedly.
"Let's go," he said, and waved over the side to Charlie the boatman. Sally saw the dinghy slip easily through the press of boats and reach the foot of the ladder, and then they were hurrying down and moving away, back on the dark water.
Less than an hour later, they were in a house in Spitalfields, drinking tea. It was the home of Morris Katz. His wife and their daughter, a young woman of Rebecca's age, welcomed Rebecca with embraces and a warm cloud of Yiddish, and bore her away to wash and to find some clean clothes while Goldberg and the heavy, bearded Katz talked quietly for some time. Sally sat apart, aware of the warmth and the welcoming protectiveness of this home; or was it the Jewishness? Whatever the source, she wondered how she fitted in. It wasn't that she felt excluded; but it was a world she didn't know.