Davita's Harp (47 page)

I stood on the porch, facing the beach and the sea and the stallions that grazed quietly on the summer grass. How sweet the wind was! And everything so still. And the gulls circling the beach and softly calling.

Behind me the door to the porch opened quietly. I turned—and it was my father, Michael Chandal.

Hello, my love! he said gaily. You didn’t think we wouldn’t show up, did you? Look how you’ve grown! Hasn’t she grown, Sarah?

My Aunt Sarah stepped out onto the porch, smiling. She most certainly has. She is a young lady.

Give us a hug, Davita. A big hug. That’s right. Say, you
are
a big girl!

He grinned broadly and ran his hand over his curly brown hair. How young he looked, my father.

May we begin? said a voice from inside the house. And my father said, Come on outside, Jakob. It’s too beautiful to hold a graduation inside on a day like today.

Jakob Daw came out to the porch, carrying a folding chair.

Hello, Ilana Davita, he said. How are you feeling? You took good care of our bird, I see. You even added a bird of your own. A wise girl. Then he smiled and said, You see? Stories may have some use after all.

They sat on chairs on the porch, waiting. How radiant they looked! How alive! Waiting. On the beach one of the stallions whinnied, the sound carrying clearly through the silence.

I only wanted to say a few words, I said. That’s all.

Say them, my love. That’s what we came all this way to hear. Say them. We’re listening to you.

I stood there, facing them, sunlight on my face.

I began to talk.

I told them that I wanted to speak to my family and my friends, to the world and to this century. I wanted to say that my mother was once badly hurt in Poland because she was a Jewish woman, and my father was killed while trying to save a nun in Guernica, and my uncle died in part because of his politics and in part because he wrote strange stories. I wanted to say that I’m very frightened to be living in this world and I don’t understand most of the things I see and hear and I don’t know what will happen to me and to the family I love. I wanted to say that I would try to find and join with the side of America that wouldn’t hurt people like Wesley Everest, and I would also try not to let this century defeat me. I wanted to say good-bye to Papa and thank him for his love and his laughter and for the way he used to hug me, and also for teaching me about Paul Bunyan. And I wanted to say goodbye to Uncle Jakob and thank him for his stories and for the way
his glasses used to shine in the light when he wrote at the desk in his room and for the way he didn’t care much about his clothes and walked on the beach with his hands clasped behind his back. And I wanted to thank Aunt Sarah for her kindness. And I wanted to show everyone the harp so they could see where the decent music of the world comes from. And I wanted to use some quotes from the Bible and from Rabbi Akiva. That’s all I wanted to say. It wasn’t very much. I couldn’t think of anything original like one of Uncle Jakob’s stories. But they wouldn’t let me say it.

There was a long silence.

I liked those words, my father said quietly.

They were very fine words, Uncle Jakob said. Good words.

You are quite a young lady, Aunt Sarah said. I thank our Lord for bestowing upon you His favor.

I’m going to applaud that speech, my father said.

As will I, said Uncle Jakob.

And I, said Aunt Sarah.

There were only the three of them on the porch—but it seemed the beach, the birds, the sea, and the sky all joined in the applause. And above all the noise was the harp, singing and singing, for all the Ilana Davitas who never had a chance to speak their few words to this century.

My father rose from his chair. It’s time to go, he said. Give us a hug, my love. A whole world of a hug. A century of a hug. It’s got to last a long time.

I held him and was crying and closed my eyes.

That’s
a hug! he said loudly and cheerfully.

Good-bye, Ilana Davita, said Uncle Jakob. You will take care of our birds, yes?

And take care of that harp, said my father. Good-bye, Davita. Give your mother my love.

I stood there, crying, and could not open my eyes.

Then I heard the sudden thunder of hoofbeats. I opened my eyes and there were my father and my uncle racing across the beach on the stallions toward the sea. The water splashed all about
the galloping horses, rose in white foaming waves to their knees and flanks and shoulders and necks. Then they were suddenly all gone, but the sea still foamed and boiled. And then, very slowly, it settled back into calm and watery silence.

Overhead the gulls circled and wheeled and called. Aunt Sarah stood with her arm around my shoulder. We looked out at the silent sea.

Where will you go to school in September? she asked. A public high school. A very good one. Are you very angry, Davita? Yes.

If you continue to be angry at the world, you’re in for a lot of trouble.

I’m getting used to trouble, I said.

She smiled. My brother and Jakob Daw didn’t know it, she said softly, but they were possessed of sacred discontent. Oh, yes. Especially my brother. That’s why I loved him.

Near the farmhouse the birds stirred faintly as they waited alongside the harp.

It was a good talk, my Aunt Sarah said. They should have let you give it.

I was quiet.

Good-bye, Davita. Be discontented with the world. But be respectful at the same time. Good-bye, Aunt Sarah. She kissed my cheek.

I walked toward the harp, the wind on my face and the silence in my ears. The birds rose from the grass, their wings beating. The harp ascended into the air. There was the sea and the farmhouse far below me and my Aunt Sarah, waving. And then it was all gone, and I sat on my bed, gazing at the picture on my wall and at the harp on my door, and listening to my mother calling me to help her set the table for supper.

•  •  •

In early July my mother gave birth to a baby girl. My father walked around dazed with joy. David went about smiling broadly and for a few days even neglected his studies and kept going with me to the hospital to visit our mother and stare at the baby.

I remember when they brought her home. She lay small in the crib in my parents’ bedroom. I didn’t think anyone could be so small—though my black and gray birds were smaller still as they nested once again in my harp.

That Shabbos morning my father was brought up to the Torah and I heard him chant the blessing and saw him at first dimly through the ninon curtain and then clearly through the rip in the fabric. The Torah was read by David. My father chanted the closing blessing. Then I heard the baby being named—after my father’s mother, the aunt with whom my mother had lived when she had first arrived in America from the wars and pogroms of Europe. Rachel daughter of Ezra and Channah Dinn. There were shouts of “Mazol tov! Mazol tov!”

That afternoon I watched her nursing at my mother’s breast. Sunlight came into the living room through the wide bay window and fell upon my mother and sister. Later my mother let me hold her. I sat in the sunlight with my sister in my arms, warm and nestling against me. My mother stepped out of the room. I held my sister and rocked her gently back and forth and smelled the scents of her tininess—oil and powder and milk—and I thought, in a moment of bitterness, Enjoy your childhood. They’ll take it away from you soon enough. And then I said, softly, my mouth close to her ear, speaking so softly that only my tiny birds and my tiny sister could hear, “I want to tell you a story. It’s a strange story. It doesn’t have an ending. But you might find it interesting anyway. It’s a story about two birds and some horses on a beach far away. Are you listening, little Rachel? And it’s about a door harp….”