Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth (34 page)

Adar—astute, fragile, sensitive—felt sorry for him. Her compassionate plan was to reinterpret the cruelty, hand it back to him transformed. It was a doomed project, and the only outcome was intimidation. She was afraid of Patrick, and I wanted to save her. Anthony would have said that the blueprint for utopia in my breast pocket was still impelling me, still defeating me.

I often wonder: did Anthony plan our fraud? It occurs to me that he counted on us to conceal his death, bury him, read a poem over his grave. He thought we were up to it, and that he wasn’t important and that we’d be fine, we’d move on, and if we were unhappy, well, people were unhappy; there was no avoiding that. He was wrong about everything.

Yesterday I wrote to Dvora and asked her for Rosie’s current email address. As always, Dvora was happy to hear from an old friend:

Hi Maya! Great that you guys are connecting! Rosie always writes to me from her hubby’s address at Harvard (makes me feel important to see the address on my inbox) but actually I haven’t heard from her since last spring. I’ll look around in my files (you know me, I never throw anything out) and see if I can find her letter and I’ll forward it to you. Guess what, I’m going to be a grandmother!!! Help!!! Emma’s expecting twins—probably girls but they aren’t exactly sure, could be boys with small (for now) willies. I’m attaching a photo of the whole gang. Phil as you see has gone grey and no wonder! He might retire next year as delivering squelchy babies in the middle of the night is getting to be a bit much for him. Our Beautyshop Quartet had to disband because Janet’s getting chemo. We’ve probably all gone croaky by now anyhow, though we placed sixth last year which isn’t too bad. I’m still doing the donkey rescue work, not that those bad-tempered grouches ever bray a word of thanks. OK gotta run, fab to hear from you!

An hour later, she forwarded Rosie’s letter:

Hi Dvora, I’m very glad things are working out so well for you and that your multi-family Passover dinner was a success. It’s obvious that you’re very
popular in the community and no wonder, you were always so kind and generous to everyone and funny. Remember all those toffees you snuck into the pool for us? Yesterday Glenn bought a Wii for the boys, they’re very excited about it and making a racket. Did I tell you, there’s an immense man, he must weigh three hundred pounds, he runs the coffee shop a few blocks away and I want so badly to be his friend. Not that we ever say more than a few words to each other, but I wish I knew him better. He’s so unhappy! I brought him some tulips from the garden but I think I only made it worse. I dreamed we were lovers. Glenn reads
The Prophet
to me every night. Remember Kris gave me that book at the surprise party my parents and Maya organized when I turned 15? I keep dreaming that I’m swimming and I discover I have no arms, only tiny fins. It’s a very scary dream. Sometimes I imagine the whole room is teeming with people, half-dead, half-alive. I guess I’m actually dreaming but it feels so real! Do you dream? xx

I’ve read and reread the letter, trying to find in this distressing text—what? exoneration? a way out? or maybe a way in … though one thing does strike me with cathartic force: the shackles that held our parents to their unspeakable past, those shackles seem to have multiplied through some sort of process of spontaneous generation—and now it’s our own past that thwarts us, and we are flailing with tiny fins, trying to move on, but a great, cumbersome weight holds us back.

I clicked on “compose,” typed in Glenn’s address—how wonderfully simple it is, these days—and wrote:

I’ve been thinking about you, Rosie, and feeling sad that we lost touch—I hear news about you and your family from Dvora, but it’s chatty and superficial. I remember your sad eyes. Please write. I guess you heard that Vera died. She never sold the country house—an artist she knows has been living there for many years. Maybe we could drive to the house one day and visit the grave. Or meet in New York and see Anthony’s son, talk to Gloria. I’m sorry about everything. I want to see you. Maya.

Glenn replied almost immediately:

Dear Maya, I was so pleased to receive your letter, which I read. I hope you don’t mind, but you addressed it to me so I assume you wanted me to print it out and give it to Rosie. Rosie has been unwell. I don’t know how much you know, but the problem seems to stem from depression. Maybe if you came, she’d feel better. I don’t want to put you out of your way. You have your own life, I know. It’s only that I’m at my wit’s end, and I know you were once close. If you come, we have a big house and a guest room and you’d have all the privacy you need. Or we’d be happy to put you up in a b&b. Have you ever been to Boston? I think you’d enjoy seeing the sights. Well, that’s about it. I have a meeting and I have to run. Thanks for writing. Sincerely, Glenn.

We think we aren’t important; we tell ourselves that because we were helpless and ineffectual once, this is who we are, and our exits don’t matter—no one will miss us. I told myself that Rosie had Glenn. My desertion was a way of mourning through imitation, a way we have of re-enacting the worst traits of whoever it is we’ve lost. For those tangled reasons, and others, I did to Rosie what Anthony did to me.

Of course, I don’t know why she’s in trouble. I only know I haven’t been there to help out. And I also know something else now that doesn’t occur to us when we’re young, and when what we have in common with our fellow-travellers is being young, and it seems as if it’s easy to find friends. It only dawns on us later, as people drift away, that friends are in fact hard to come by, hard to replace.

I’ve already bought my plane ticket and arranged for a dog sitter. I leave tomorrow morning. The past is irretrievable. I will never be in Eden again, trailing after Rosie, helping her gather up her books. I’m waiting, as Anthony did not, to see what comes next.

E
IKAH

Y
es, I said
when they offered me a blanket
they gave me a blanket
I sat in the back of a truck
there were folding seats on the side walls
I sat on the seats with my back leaning against the wall
you could choose
without concealing that you were choosing
without hiding
that was what freedom was
not having to hide
the Russian drivers were full of good humour
they laughed and hit each other in play
sang out of tune
my thoughts were very narrow
I barely noticed the weather though I remembered later
that it was a sunny day with blue skies and a chill in the air
I was planning my future
everyone was in a stupor
everyone’s thoughts were narrow
they’d been narrowed
if I made it to Prague I’d look for Katya
find out if they were all in one piece
Katya’s father could help
if he was alive
he liked me
he knew people once
I wanted to continue my studies in Canada
I imagined horse-drawn wagons
hands hidden inside fur muffs
fields of snow
fireplaces
sparsely populated cities
fresh eggs
eggs were part of my future
if I found Katya I would eat two lightly salted poached eggs on
     buttered toast
I’d wear a dress
I’d listen to the radio
everyone had diarrhoea
there were seven people in the truck and the driver had to stop
     constantly
we pounded and the Russians laughed and stopped the truck
no we didn’t pound
we tapped on the glass window between the back of the truck and the
     Russians
but was there a window?
or was it only a metal wall?
it must have been a window
how else would I remember the Russians
laughing and slapping each other’s shoulders
I was half-asleep when the truck stopped suddenly
ten kilometres from the city
we all froze in panic
maybe it was all an illusion
maybe they were back
maybe some parts of Europe were still under their control
anything sudden did that to us
the mind gets trained in one direction
learns to protect itself
but there was no one there
only a little girl sitting by the side of the road
dressed in strange clothes that didn’t fit her
the Russians had stopped for her
but no one moved
the Russians were waiting for one of us to climb down and get her
but no one had the strength for it
I was afraid the truck would move on
the girl would be left behind
she was half-dead like the rest of us
any minute she’d stop clinging on
and her death would be our fault
worse than our fault
when we weren’t selected
because we didn’t choose
only hoped
some of us hoped
but here we had a choice
it was very hard
I staggered up
undid the half-door at the back
someone helped me with that
I got out of the truck and took the girl’s hand and led her up inside
the girl sat on the floor
she thought she had no choice
she didn’t know the war was over
I said the war is over
she didn’t seem to understand me
it was impossible to tell what language she knew
if any
she had a devious face
like a small demon
she’d lost her mind
she clutched my shirt with her small dirty hand
the shirt the Red Cross gave me
I guessed she was between seven and fourteen
hard to know with everyone shrinking
and looking so old
one British soldier thought I was an old woman
he said to someone bring the old lady over here
the way the girl clutched me was closer to seven
her eyes were closer to fourteen
but even two-year-olds had those sad old eyes
in the ghetto
and fourteen-year-olds clutched
we all lost our ages
the truck reached the city
the Russians offered us cigarettes
Prague was impossible
nothing had changed
nothing had changed
it was all the same
there were broken windows from the riots
heaps of rubble
but apart from that it was the same
we were the nightmare
intruding on the city
the Russians let us off the truck
we dispersed
the girl wouldn’t let go of my shirt
and anyhow there was nowhere for her to go
the Russians were returning to the DP camp
they could take her
I couldn’t leave her with the Russians
I’d have to take the girl with me to Katya’s
everyone stared at us or looked away
afraid
the first few days we’d slept in a field
wrapped in blankets from the Red Cross
a tall man hovered above me
repeating over and over I killed him, I killed him
he dangled the rope he’d used to strangle an officer in front of me
then he moved on to someone else
dangled the rope in front of them
we’d all lost our minds
it was only a matter of degree
I had ways to hold on to sanity
I studied the human mind
sadism
torture
starvation
group behaviour under threat
I pretended to myself that I was doing research
undercover
now I was encountering revenge
the German officer he’d strangled was lying face down in a ditch
no one cared
we were tired
it began to drizzle and we were taken in trucks to a train
British soldiers gave us sardines
sweet lemon juice
the sun shone in through the open doors
I tried to tell the soldiers that if we ate more than one sardine at a time
and more than one tin in a day
we would die
I tried to warn people
but two men and a woman ate too fast and died in great pain
I slept on the train and then I slept five or six days at the American
     post
I heard that a Russian truck was leaving for Prague
and I managed to find it
now I had to find Katya’s house
I was lucky
someone took pity on us
and gave us a ride
the girl was still clinging to my shirt
the driver talked about the riots
I wanted a bath
he let us off at Katya’s house
I looked up and saw the red curtains of her apartment
Katya’s apartment
the curtains were a good sign
the driver told us that two thousand people were killed in the uprising
Katya and her parents could have been among them
I wanted a bath
and eggs
and to be rid of the girl
my own baby died on January 14, 1942
he was shot on the way to the ghetto, in my husband’s arms
along with my husband
it was worse for other parents
that realization came to me in the months that followed
the realization that given the choices, it was worse for those whose
     children were still alive
I rang the bell
I could hardly stand on my feet
a maid I didn’t know opened the door a crack
she kept the chain on
she called out: refugees
an old man and a girl
old man
I laughed at that
my first laugh in the new world
Katya came to the door
she undid the chain
she said we don’t have much
I’ll see what I can find
I said it’s Vera
I’m not old and not a man
I’m Vera
this is a girl we picked up
I don’t know anything about her
Katya let us in
we sat in her living room
the maid prepared tea
Katya said what can I give you
we have four eggs
I made bread this morning
I said I’d like poached eggs on buttered toast
and hot milk with cocoa
the girl should have a soft-boiled egg and as much milk as you can
     spare
nothing that’s hard to digest
Katya hurried to the kitchen to tell the maid
I was laughing
Katya was crying
I said let’s have some music
Katya put on the radio and a classical piece came on
Fauré I think
the little girl let go of my shirt
walked to the middle of the room
began dancing ballet
precise ballet movements
she kept it up for half a minute or a minute
then she fell to the floor
and began shrieking
piercing
demonic shrieks
she peed on the carpet
and Katya’s father walked in
alarmed
there was an old man on the sofa
a girl shrieking in a puddle of urine on the floor
when the girl saw the man she stopped shrieking
terrified
ran back to me
clutched my shirt again
Katya said it’s Vera
her father said I know who it is
he sat down next to me and kissed my hands
Jan? he said
I shook my head
Jan and the baby were shot on Jan 14, 1942
just as well I said
considering
considering what was coming
I said I want to go to Canada
can you arrange that?
can you get me a visa?
I want to study there
even if I have to start over
I want to start over anyhow
the eggs were ready
the girl clutched my shirt in one hand and held her spoon with the other
we tried various languages
with the help of dictionaries
I was back in a world that had dictionaries
damask
paintings on the wall of children on a sled
finally we had some luck with Italian
the girl understood Italian
I asked for a bath
Katya said the water was only tepid but she’d add hot water from the
     kettle
I undressed
the girl didn’t let go of my shirt
she sat on the floor holding the shirt
I got into the water and lay down
the water turned dark brown
we changed the water four times
Katya vomited
she was too thin to be pregnant
it was seeing me naked that made her vomit
the girl refused to be bathed
Katya wiped her with wet towels
Katya was afraid of her
but to me she was ordinary
her demonic shriek in the living room had been ordinary
it was this life that was out of the ordinary
I wanted to sleep
Katya gave me her bed
the girl slept with me
we slept for days on end
slept and ate
our cells regenerating
with remarkable speed
the human body was remarkable
the human mind was even more remarkable
how had I not gone mad?
how?
I didn’t know
even my memory had survived intact
another mystery
Katya asked a friend who spoke Italian to come visit
he tried to find out more about the girl
where she came from
she didn’t know
Katya’s father managed to get me a visa
he pulled the usual strings
he wrote to McGill University
they were willing to take me
I’d have to start over
my period returned
my tissues repaired themselves
my hair began growing back
the maid took a liking to the girl
went out walking with her
the girl had a wild look in her eyes still
but she was well-behaved
she was learning Czech
if you studied the mind several lifetimes you still would not understand
     more than a fraction
there was endless oddity about us
at night I returned to another world
nightmares you’d call them
Gerald
but they were memories
replaying themselves in my mind
during the day I could control my thoughts
I controlled them
but at night
at night they returned
but if you hold me tonight
maybe I’ll sleep better
with you I feel safe
is that what you mean when you say you love me
I feel safe with you
Gerald
for me that’s enough
for me that’s enough
do you understand?
can you understand?