Lesson-2

The Address

By Marga Minco

The Address Introduction

The plot revolves around the human predicament that occurs between the pre-war and post-war periods. Mrs. S, a Jew, was a wealthy lady. Mrs. Dorling, on the other hand, was a non-Jew. The girl, Mrs. S's daughter, had lost her house and her mother during the war, and she had decided to return to collect her belongings from Mrs. Dorling, an acquaintance whose address had been given to her mother years ago. When she arrived at the house, the woman gave her a cold reception and refused to let her in. She decided to go back anyway, and when she arrived, she was greeted by her daughter, who let her in and told her to wait inside. She couldn't connect with her possessions when she saw them all in front of her and decided to leave the house.

The Address Summary

The protagonist received a cold reception after ringing Mrs. Dorling's doorbell at Number 46, Marconi Street, and Mrs Dorling took a long time to recognise her. Mrs Dorling had assumed that everyone in the protanogist's family had died and had inquired as to whether anyone else had come along with her. Mrs Dorling refused to let the protagonist into her house and told her to return later. Mrs Dorling's green cardigan was recognised by the protagonist as her mother's. She returned to the train station, thinking about her mother and how she had told her about Mrs. Dorling, an acquaintance of hers. Mrs Dorling would come to their house during the war and take their possessions with her because she didn't want them to be lost if they ever left. Mrs. Dorling possessed a broad back.

The protagonist decided to return their belongings to Mrs Dorling's house. Mrs. Dorling's daughter answered the door when she rang the bell. She let her in and directed her to the living room. While crossing the passage, the protagonist noticed their Hanukkah candle stand, which they had never used because it was too large. She was horrified when she entered the living room and saw all of her mother's belongings arranged in an unappealing manner. The furniture was unappealing, and the room had a muggy odour that made her uninterested and want to leave. Mrs. Dorling's daughter offered her a cup of tea, and the protagonist noticed the burn mark on the old tablecloth. She jumped up and walked out of the house when the girl showed her the silver fork and spoons that belonged to the protagonist. She decided not to return to the place because it brought back memories of the past, and thus she decided to forget the address.

The Address Lesson Explanation

‘DO you still know me?’ I asked.
The woman looked at me searchingly. She had opened the door a chink. I came closer and stood on the step.
‘No, I don’t know you.’
‘I’m Mrs S’s daughter.’

She held her hand on the door as though she wanted to prevent it from opening any further. Her face gave absolutely no sign of recognition. She kept staring at me in silence.
Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought, perhaps it isn’t her. I had seen her only once, fleetingly, and that was years ago. It was most probable that I had rung the wrong bell. The woman let go of the door and stepped to the side. She was wearing my mother’s green knitted cardigan. The wooden buttons were rather pale from washing. She saw that I was looking at the cardigan and half hid again behind the door. But I knew now that I was right.

• Chink – narrow opening
• Fleetingly – for a short time

The protagonist inquired of the woman standing at the door if she still remembered her. The protagonist approached the door and stood there after the lady had opened it slightly. Despite the woman's negative response, the protagonist continued to introduce her. She claimed to be Mrs. S's daughter. The woman had tightly gripped the door, not wanting her to enter the house. She kept staring at the protagonist, despite the fact that she didn't recognise her.

The protagonist suspected she had arrived at the wrong address. She had only seen the woman a few years before. The woman who answered the door took a step back and let go of the door. The protagonist recognised the women's green knitted cardigan as her mother's. Because of the washing, the wooden buttons had turned pale. The woman noticed the protagonist's gaze fixed on the cardigan. She crept behind the closed door. The protagonist knew she had arrived at the right house at this point.

‘Well, you knew my mother?’ I asked.
‘Have you come back?’ said the woman. ‘I thought that no one had come back.’
‘Only me.’
A door opened and closed in the passage behind her. A musty smell emerged.
‘I regret I cannot do anything for you.’
‘I’ve come here specially on the train. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.’
‘It is not convenient for me now,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t see you. Another time.’
She nodded and cautiously closed the door as though no one inside the house should be disturbed.

I stood where I was on the step. The curtain in front of the bay window moved. Someone stared at me and would then have asked what I wanted. ‘Oh, nothing,’ the woman would have said. ‘It was nothing.’

• Musty – stale

The protagonist inquired about the woman's mother. When the woman asked if she had returned, she replied only to her, and no one else followed her. When the woman opened the door, there was a passage behind her. A stale odour pervaded the entire area. She was told by the woman that she couldn't help her. The protagonist explained that she had travelled a long distance on the train just to talk to her. The woman told her that it was inconvenient for her to talk right now and asked her to return later. The woman shut the door because she didn't want anyone in the house to be disturbed. The protagonist was still standing on the stairwell. She noticed the curtain on the window bay moving. Someone inside the house was staring at her. As the woman would have told her, she thought it was nothing.

I looked at the name-plate again. Dorling it said, in black letters on white enamel. And on the jamb, a bit higher, the number. Number 46.
As I walked slowly back to the station I thought about my mother, who had given me the address years ago. It had been in the first half of the War. I was home for a few days and it struck me immediately that something or other about the rooms had changed. I missed various things. My mother was surprised I should have noticed so quickly. Then she told me about Mrs Dorling. I had never heard of her but apparently she was an old acquaintance of my mother, whom she hadn’t seen for years. She had suddenly turned up and renewed their contact. Since then she had come regularly.

• Enamel – an opaque or semi-transparent substance that is a type of glass
• Jamb – side post of a window, fireplace or doorway
• Acquaintance – stranger or social contact

When the protagonist looked at the number plate again, it read Number 46. Dorling was written in white enamel on the plate. As she walked back to the station, she summarised on her mother, who had given her the address. It was the first half of World War II. She had been home for a few days when she noticed that the room had changed. Several items were missing. Her mother was surprised that she only noticed the changes after a while. It was at that point that she told her about Mrs. Dorling. She was an old acquaintance she hadn't seen in years. She unexpectedly came to see her, and they've kept in touch ever since.

‘Every time she leaves here she takes something home with her,’ said my mother. ‘She took all the table silver in one go. And then the antique plates that hung there. She had trouble lugging those large vases, and I’m worried she got a crick in her back from the crockery.’ My mother shook her head pityingly. ‘I would never have dared ask her. She suggested it to me herself. She even insisted. She wanted to save all my nice things. If we have to leave here we shall lose everything, she says.’
‘Have you agreed with her that she should keep everything?’ I asked.
‘As if that’s necessary,’ my mother cried. ‘It would simply be an insult to talk like that. And think about the risk she’s running, each time she goes out of our door with a full suitcase or bag.’

• Lugging – carry a heavy object with great effort
• Pityingly – feeling sorrow
• Crick – cramp or spasm in muscles

Her mother says that whenever that woman paid her a visit, she took something from the house with her. She struggled to carry the large vase, which was laden with table silvers and antique plates. She explained that the cramp in her back was caused by the crockery. Her mother wept and shook her head. The woman kept telling the protagonist's mother that she wanted to save her valuable belongings. They would lose everything if they had to leave the place someday.

She asked her mother if she was sure she wanted her to take everything with her. Her mother responded that even if she didn't, asking her not to would be an insult. She was leaving with a suitcase full of items, which was a risk in and of itself.

My mother seemed to notice that I was not entirely convinced. She looked at me reprovingly and after that we spoke no more about it.
Meanwhile I had arrived at the station without having paid much attention to things on the way. I was walking in familiar places again for the first time since the War, but I did not want to go further than was necessary. I didn’t want to upset myself with the sight of streets and houses full of memories from a precious time.
In the train back I saw Mrs Dorling in front of me again as I had the first time I met her. It was the morning after the day my mother had told me about her. I had got up late and, coming downstairs, I saw my mother about to see someone out. A woman with a broad back.
‘There is my daughter,’ said my mother. She beckoned to me.
The woman nodded and picked up the suitcase under the coat-rack. She wore a brown coat and a shapeless hat.
‘Does she live far away?’ I asked, seeing the difficulty she had going out of the house with the heavy case.
‘In Marconi Street,’ said my mother. ‘Number 46. Remember that.’

• Reprovingly – critically
• Beckoned – signalled

Her mother noticed she wasn't convinced and gave her a critical look. They never discussed the incident again after that day. She arrived at the station without noticing anything along the way. For the first time since the war, she passed by familiar surroundings. She didn't want to be bothered by the familiar sights of houses and streets that reminded her of all the wonderful times she'd had.

She saw Mrs. Dorling in person a day after her mother told her daughter about her. She awoke late that morning, and as she walked downstairs, she noticed her 'the lady with broad back.' Her mother was accompanying her out. The protagonist was introduced to the lady by her mother. She motioned to her, and the women nodded in response. She chose the suitcase from beneath the coat rack. She was dressed in a brown coat and a hat with no shape. The protagonist inquired about her mother's whereabouts. 'Marconi Street, Number 46,' her mother told her. She remembered it.

I had remembered it. But I had waited a long time to go there. Initially after the Liberation I was absolutely not interested in all that stored stuff, and naturally I was also rather afraid of it. Afraid of being confronted with things that had belonged to a connection that no longer existed; which were hidden away in cupboards and boxes and waiting in vain until they were put back in their place again; which had endured all those years because they were ‘things.’
But gradually everything became more normal again. Bread was getting to be a lighter colour, there was a bed you could sleep in unthreatened, a room with a view you were more used to glancing at each day. And one day I noticed I was curious about all the possessions that must still be at that address. I wanted to see them, touch, remember.
After my first visit in vain to Mrs Dorling’s house I decided to try a second time. Now a girl of about fifteen opened the door to me. I asked her if her mother was at home.
‘No’ she said, ‘my mother’s doing an errand.’
‘No matter,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait for her.’

• Liberation – Liberty or Freeing
• Endured – suffered
• Vain – hopeless

She remembered the address, but it took her too long to get there. She was on the one hand uninterested and on the other hand terrified after gaining her freedom. She was afraid of being confronted with memories and connections from her past that no longer existed. Connections were concealed in cabinets and boxes. Those memories seemed to be waiting in vain for them to be returned to their rightful places, as they had suffered all these years because they were only things.

Things were getting back to normal in the Protagonist's life until one day she became curious about everything that was still at that address. She desired to see and touch them. She decided to try again after the first hopeless visit. When she arrived at Mrs Morling's house, a fifteen-year-old girl opened the door. The protagonist inquired about her mother. She informed her that she was out running errands, and the protagonist agreed to wait for her.

I followed the girl along the passage. An old-fashioned iron Hanukkah1 candle holder hung next to a mirror. We never used it because it was much more cumbersome than a single candlestick.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ asked the girl. She held open the door of the living room and I went inside past her. I stopped, horrified. I was in a room I knew and did not know. I found myself in the midst of things I did want to see again but which oppressed me in the strange atmosphere. Or because of the tasteless way everything was arranged, because of the ugly furniture or the muggy smell that hung there, I don’t know; but I scarcely dared to look around me. The girl moved a chair. I sat down and stared at the woolen tablecloth. I rubbed it. My fingers grew warm from rubbing. I followed the lines of the pattern. Somewhere on the edge there should be a burn mark that had never been repaired.
‘My mother’ll be back soon,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve already made tea for her. Will you have a cup?’
‘Thank you.’

• Hanukkah – The Feast of Lights, a Hebrew festival in December
• Cumbersome – unmanageable
• Midst – middle
• Muggy – humid

Along the passage, the protagonist followed the girl. A Hanukkah candle holder was hung next to a mirror. She remembered that she never used it because it was too difficult to manage. As she opened the door to the living room, the girl asked for her to take a seat. She came to a halt, disturbed. She was standing in a room that she both knew and didn't know. She was in the midst of things she didn't want to see, and they weighed on her. Maybe she was afraid to look at everything because of the way things were arranged, or the humid smell in the room, or the ugly furniture. She sat in a chair that the girl had pulled out for her. She took a look at the woollen tablecloth. Her fingers felt warm as she rubbed it. She remembered a burn mark that was never repaired as she followed the pattern's lines. The girl told her that her mother would be returning soon and invited her to join her for a cup of tea. She replied, "Thank you."

I looked up. The girl put cups ready on the tea table. She had a broad back. Just like her mother. She poured tea from a white pot. All it had was a gold border on the lid, I remembered. She opened a box and took some spoons out.
‘That’s a nice box.’ I heard my own voice. It was a strange voice. As though each sound was different in this room.

‘Oh, you know about them?’ She had turned around and brought me my tea. She laughed. ‘My mother says it is antique. We’ve got lots more.’ She pointed around the room. ‘See for yourself.’
I had no need to follow her hand. I knew which things she meant. I just looked at the still life over the tea table. As a child I had always fancied the apple on the pewter plate.
‘We use it for everything,’ she said. ‘Once we even ate off the plates hanging there on the wall. I wanted to so much. But it wasn’t anything special.’
I had found the burn mark on the tablecloth. The girl looked questioningly at me.

• Pewter plate – plate made of a gray alloy of tin

When the protagonist looked up, she noticed that the girl had placed two cups of tea in front of her. She, like her mother, had a broad back. She poured tea from the gold-rimmed teapot with a gold border on the lid. She took some spoons from a box she opened. The protagonist complimented the girl on the box. Hearing her own voice was strange for her. It sounded different to her. As the girl turned to hand her a cup, she inquired about the box. Then she added that her mother said it was antique. She indicated that there are more by pointing around the room. She told her to look, despite the fact that the protagonist was not required to do so. She was well-versed in the subject. She looked around the tea table, remembering how much she liked the apple on the pewter plate. The plate is used for everything, according to the girl. They used to eat off the plates that were hung on the wall. The girl also wanted to eat from that plate. But it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. When the protagonist found the burn mark on the tablecloth, the girl looked her in question.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you get so used to touching all these lovely things in the house, you hardly look at them any more. You only notice when something is missing, because it has to be repaired or because you have lent it, for example.’
Again I heard the unnatural sound of my voice and I went on: ‘I remember my mother once asked me if I would help her polish the silver. It was a very long time ago and I was probably bored that day or perhaps I had to stay at home because I was ill, as she had never asked me before. I asked her which silver she meant and she replied, surprised, that it was the spoons, forks and knives, of course. And that was the strange thing, I didn’t know the cutlery we ate off every day was silver.’
The girl laughed again.
‘I bet you don’t know it is either.’ I looked intently at her. ‘What we eat with?’ she asked.
‘Well, do you know?’
She hesitated. She walked to the sideboard and wanted to open a drawer. ‘I’ll look. It’s in here.’

Yes, said the protagonist, adding that when you're so used to touching things in your house, you don't notice anything. You only notice when something is missing, needs to be repaired, or has been lent to you. Her voice was once again unnatural to her. She went on to tell the girl that her mother once asked her if she would help her polish the silver. It was a long time ago, and she was bored on that particular day. She might have had to stay that day because she was sick. She inquired of her mother as to what silver she was referring to. It was the spoons, knives, and forks, according to her mother. But she had no idea it was silver. The girl laughed and said she bet she didn't know what they ate with either. The protagonist inquired as to whether she was aware of the situation. The girl paused before walking to the sideboard and opening a drawer. She stated that she would check to see if it was present.

I jumped up. ‘I was forgetting the time. I must catch my train.’
She had her hand on the drawer. ‘Don’t you want to wait for my mother?’
‘No, I must go.’ I walked to the door. The girl pulled the drawer open. ‘I can find my own way.’
As I walked down the passage I heard the jingling of spoons and forks.
At the corner of the road I looked up at the name-plate. Marconi Street, it said. I had been at Number 46. The address was correct. But now I didn’t want to remember it any more. I wouldn’t go back there because the objects that are linked in your memory with the familiar life of former times instantly lose their value when, severed from them, you see them again in strange surroundings. And what should I have done with them in a small rented room where the shreds of black-out paper still hung along the windows and no more than a handful of cutlery fitted in the narrow table drawer?
I resolved to forget the address. Of all the things I had to forget, that would be the easiest.

• Jingling – ringing

The protagonist jumped and stated that she had forgotten the time because she needed to catch the train. The girl asked if she did not wish to wait for her mother. The protagonist still said no and that she had to leave. The girl opened the drawer. The protagonist stated that she could find her way out and proceeded to walk down the passage as she heard the ringing spoons and forks.

She returned her eyes to the name-plate as she approached the road's bend. It said Marconi Street, and she was number 46. The address was correct, but she no longer wants to remember it. She didn't want to go back because the things inside reminded her of memories associated with the familiar life of old days. They lose their value, however, when you are separated from them and see them again in a strange setting. She imagined what she would have done in a small rented room with black-out curtains and no cutlery fitting in the narrow drawer. She finally decided that forgetting the address would be the easiest option.

About the Author

Marga Minco (born 31 March 1920 as Sara Menco) is a Dutch journalist and writer. Her real surname was Menco, but an official mixed up the first vowel. She was born to an Orthodox Jewish family in Ginneken. Minco's first book, Het bittere kruid, was published in 1957. ("The bitter herb").