The Nature of Blood (3 page)

Mama refused to employ a nanny, and raising her two children became her job. And then, as life deteriorated, she began to insist that they should leave for America, reminding Papa that if they left now they would impose no financial burden on the host country. But Papa was stubborn and Mama, instead of being patient, accused Papa of being typical of his class in his fierce attachment to his possessions. She raised her voice and accused him of cowardice, of not daring to begin again elsewhere, and of being happy to risk the future of his two daughters. This merely infuriated Papa, who could clearly see how impoverished and desperate the situation was becoming, but who refused to be ruled by a spoilt wife. And so he buried his head in his medicine and ignored his wife, and tried to pretend that nothing untoward was happening. But Mama talked incessantly about America, and about how important it was that she put our names on the list at the embassy, and when Papa refused to listen she would shout, and then sometimes scream, but Papa would simply close the door to his study. And then, of course, it was too late.

I watch Gerry. I stand hidden at the far end of the hut and peer at him through an open window. He is loitering about the place where I usually sit. To begin with, he paced about a little while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Now he sits and watches the world go by, occasionally relighting his cigarette and then coughing noisily. Today, the sun is too hot. I am taking shelter, although the smell inside this hut is loathsome. I am not sure what this Gerry seeks. His attention, while flattering, also causes me to worry. I decide that, in future, I will avoid this man as much as possible.

Tonight, we eat the same soup. It tastes familiar. After this soup I will wash.

Night falls and I return to my cot. I am cleaner, and my stomach has been satisfied. My bedding has been taken and burnt, so I must sleep on bare boards. There are fewer of us now. It is quiet. The seriously ill have been relocated to a tented hospital, and those of us who remain will not die with any undue clamour. The light from the moon casts a mournful pool on the floor. If only I could bathe my face in the pool, then surely I would emerge healed. I look around at my fellow women. All lie with their eyes open and their bodies broken. But slowly and silently, they are gathering strength. In the darkness, beyond the hut, I hear the sound of a soldier's raised voice. And then a nervous burst of laughter. But these noises aside, this night of freedom is tranquil. I continue to be bewitched by the moonlight on the floor.

I am awoken by a loud noise. It is bright outside. I realize that I am the only one left in the hut, and that I have actually slept peacefully. The noise outside is becoming louder and more raucous. I leave my cot and walk the few paces to the window. I look out. I see a long line of local townspeople. They are being forced to march past a huge mound of bodies. The English soldiers shout at them. And some of my fellow inmates shout at them too. But that is all. These miserable people continue to trudge by. I wonder how long this parade has been going on for? Hours? I notice that it will be a beautiful day.

I walk close to the barbed-wire fence and peer at the world beyond the camp. I touch the fence. I know where I am. I am suddenly appalled to realize that I am comfortable being confined. To remove the wire seems unthinkable. I know that I am free to trespass on the other side, to saunter out through the gate and bolt in any direction I choose. But looking at life through this fence suits me better. And then I realize that I cannot go back. I am sure that Margot will have found her way to America. Why go back? I am twenty-one now. I must begin to plan a future. Beyond the fence, a bird sets forth from a tree and soars into the air. But even while lost in flight, the bird remains beyond the fence. The bird never flies close to the fence.

I turn a corner and stop. Lying before me, encouraging me to step over it, is the battered corpse of a guard. His face is lumpy and misshapen, his limbs splayed. Near his body are a pair of freshly stained wooden staves. He wasn't a bad man. In fact, compared to some of the others, he was quite a good man. I step around the body and continue to walk. Why should the death of this one man affect me?

Margot loved the movies. Her room was plastered with pinups of the stars, but Mama did not like this, for she was concerned that both of her daughters should succeed at school. However, Papa said to leave her alone, for she wasn't harming anybody, and there was plenty of time to study. Margot was always trying to persuade me to come with her to the latest picture, and I envied Margot's preoccupation with the movies. Eventually it replaced her piano-playing, which she never really enjoyed. Compared to my sister, I was dull. I enjoyed school and studying, and Mama used to say, 'Margot is a dreamer, but Eva is like her father.' However, I could never understand whether Mama meant this warmly, or whether, deep down, this was a criticism of me. Eventually I realized that Mama's comment was born of both pride and disappointment.

I see Gerry walking towards me with his hands jammed deeply into his trouser pockets. He is pretending that he hasn't been looking for me, but a week has passed and I have been watching him. As he reaches me, he attempts a small but quickly abandoned whistle.

'Hello there. Feeling better?'

'Thank you.'

He's not a bad-looking man. In fact, he's quite handsome, although his thin moustache is a trifle old for him.

'Anything you need, you know you only have to ask.' He pulls an apple from his pocket. 'I saved this for you.'

Gerry holds out his hand and I take the apple from him.

'Thank you.'

'You haven't even told me your name. I told you mine. I'm Gerry.'

'My name is Eva.'

'That's nice.'

He fidgets slightly. I watch as he sways first left, then right, and then on to the outside edge of his boots.

'It must have been awful here. Have you been here long?'

'About four months.'

I have no desire to pursue this conversation with Gerry, but I feel as though the apple in my hand is some form of payment.

'On your own?'

I lie. 'Yes. On my own.'

'I see.'

Beyond the fence, the sun is beginning to set. A fiery, dramatic light on the horizon.

'We'll probably be here cleaning up for a while. But it's pretty much over for us now. Then back to civvy street.'

Why is this man talking to me as though we are friends?

'You can smile, you know.'

He laughs as he says this. He doesn't know that, should I attempt to smile, my face would break clean in two.

I sit outside the hut and stare at the sky. Tonight, I will not sleep. My head is full of worries. I worry about Papa. I worry about Mama. I worry about Margot. I worry about what else I might have done. Between torn patches of cloud, the sky is choked with stars. This night air is warm and clammy. I worry because there is nobody to help guide me in the right direction. I have never been alone. There has always been somebody. And now there seems to be just me and the night and the sky.

Gerry stands over me. All night, I have remained in the same place. He looks down with a concerned look on his face. I immediately sense that he wishes to say something, but he does not seem to know where to begin. I want to tell him that I like his silence. But before I have the chance to frame my statement, he moves slightly as though he is about to talk. The sun behind his head makes it difficult for me to look up and into his face. Perhaps he has deliberately positioned himself so as to make me feel uncomfortable. I look past his legs to where his friends have slumped to the ground for a cigarette break They appear to be relaxing, opening their shirts and rolling up their sleeves in order that they might attract some sun. I wonder what they think of their friend, Gerry? Is he regarded by them as some form of light entertainment? I wonder if they talk about him behind his back?

'Do you have any family? I mean brothers or sisters?'

Again, I squint up and in the direction of Gerry. What a strange question. I cannot understand why he would be asking such a question of me. Nevertheless, I start to answer.

'I have a sister, Margot. But I don't know where she is.'

I stop and wonder about my words. I measure their weight. I don't know where she is. And then I continue.

'Margot left us at the start of all this.' I pause. 'But I'm sure she's fine.'

Gerry shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

'Are you sure? I mean, you don't know where she is, right?'

I lower my eyes. I have compromised myself, for I had no intention of providing this man and his thin moustache with any insight into my life. Do not come any closer. My breath is foul with disease and tooth decay. I will say nothing further.

'I see.' He pauses. 'I'm sorry.'

I lie in the dark and listen to the noises of the night. There are less than a dozen of us in this hut, and most appear to be asleep. I hear a rapid volley of gunfire, then silence. Again, I hear a volley of gunfire. I slide from the cot and move to the window. A cloudless night. Behind the neighbouring hut I hear feet racing, and then I see a former guard break into view, his legs and arms pumping. And then again I hear bullets, and weapons are emptied. The guard tumbles gracelessly into the dirt, in much the same manner as I imagine an animal falls when it has broken a leg. A group of men – former prisoners – run into view with guns in their hands. And then they see the body and stop. Among them are two English soldiers. And now I understand the nature of this approved slaughter. The group of men begin to walk slowly but purposefully across to the body. They look down at it, making sure that is it is truly dead. Clearly we are not beyond revenge. According to the Holy Scriptures, there should be more dignity than this. That much I remember.

At this point, the stream slows, then stops, then doubles back on itself. A large tree has fallen and all floating debris, all fish, even the water itself, have to find another way around this bulky obstacle. The tree has bent the stream. I walk further along the path, past this tree, and then scramble up the grassy bank. Once I reach the top, I look across the field towards the low profile of the town. All is quiet. I do not know what day of the week it is. Tuesday? Friday? Sunday? I long ago gave up any pretence of attempting to maintain vigilance over the weekly calendar. It may be that today is their day of rest. I simply do not know. I look back towards the stream, and on the other side of the water I see a group of children playing beneath the arch of a huge willow. They are boys, with one solitary girl among them. One of the boys is looking towards me, and I am suddenly aware of how I must appear to these healthy children. I am in possession of a strange body that bulges in unlikely areas, and remains painfully skinny in others. A comical, perhaps frightening figure. And then a pebble is thrown. I assume it will be the first of many. I stand and stare at the children, who laugh and point at me. I know they do not mock me. Eva. They do not know me. They mock what I look like, not who I am. And then another pebble. And another. I turn now and walk back along the top of the grassy bank, careful not to break into a run, careful not to betray any panic. I walk slowly, but with purpose and dignity. And I feel the pebbles fly past, the occasional one striking me a bruise-inflicting blow. But I do not hurry. I will not run.

My sister leads the way up the steep slope that lies just below the summit. I am struggling, but I do not ask her to slow down or stop. She will not leave me behind. I will not allow this. I lower my head and redouble my efforts, concentrating on each footstep, one foot in front of the other, slowly, first one foot and then the next, the incline working against me, the air thin, my legs screaming with pain, and then suddenly the hillside gives way and the ground is level. Margot is beaming at me, but I simply throw myself forwards and on to the grass. I roll over on to my back. I close my eyes, but we are so close to the sun that I feel myself being grilled. It is hot. Margot, water. I roll on to my side and can see that she has the bottle to her mouth, her head tilted back, and she is gulping deeply. Margot, water. She swivels her eyes in my direction, but still the bottle is to her mouth. Margot! I sit on her bed and watch as she picks up her suitcase. The snow continues to fall.
(Sister, will we two disappear like stones in a well?)
For a moment our eyes lock. And then Margot pushes me back on to the bed and starts to laugh. I still dream, one memory swirling into the other. Every night I endure an uncomfortable journey to a place of distorted and unnecessary recollection. And, come morning, I am grateful to be uncoupled from the night.

I find Gerry standing by the trucks with a group of his friends. They are all smoking cigarettes and they appear anxious. I approach Gerry, but I discover that as I move closer to him my nerve begins to fail me. I do not know what to say. Then Gerry sees me and turns from his friends.

'Eva.'

He throws his cigarette to the ground. He takes a step towards me and puts his hand on my arm. I understand. He is steering me away from his friends, for he does not intend to introduce me. He is smiling, and I am sure that he is genuinely pleased to see me. But he is hurrying.

'We can sit here.'

We sit on a pile of wooden boxes that look as though they probably contain supplies of some kind. I begin.

'I have to find Margot.'

For a moment there is silence. Then Gerry turns himself around so he is facing me square-on.

'Are you all right? You look like you've had a shock of some kind.'

'I'm fine,' I say. 'I just need to find my sister.'

Gerry stands and stretches his legs. He lights another cigarette, tosses down the match, then inhales and quickly blows out the smoke. He sits now, his cigarette carefully poised between finger and thumb.

'I thought you said you don't know where she is.'

'I don't.'

'I can look when I get back to England. They're bound to have some sort of agency for tracing people. And I can look here. The D.P. camps. They have some kind of system too.'