Apricots. A pile of them on the green kitchen table – already halved and pitted, the centres oozing all sweet and sticky.
My grandma kneads the dough. I kneel on my seat, rest down on my elbows and watch my grandma’s big, strong hands work. She cuts the dough into small, even squares. I listen for the door, listen to the clock tick. My grandpa is late.
My grandma spreads flour on the table and picks up her first square. She pinches it into a circle with her thumbs and forefingers and when it is thin enough, she wraps the dough around an apricot half, seals up the ends tight.
Apricot dumplings.
My grandma works fast, her hands in constant movement until there are no more apricot halves on the table. She sorts the finished dumplings into groups of six and puts each group in a small plastic bag. She knots the bags tightly. Like always, the fresh dumplings are going into the freezer. Like always, there are six dumplings in each bag. Two for me. Two for my grandpa. Two for my grandma. Everything fair. Everything even. For special occasions.
My grandma wipes down the table, cuts through the dusty flour with a wet sponge, and I finally hear the front door. The key and that heavy click when the door closes, then my grandpa’s slow steady steps down the hall. My grandma and I watch the door. My grandpa walks into the small kitchen quietly, and he looks tired. He looks crumpled.
‘The factory has let me go,’ he says.
Just like that.
He tells us that he will get six weeks’ pay and that he will no longer be night watchman.
‘Too old,’ he says.
My grandpa has lost his job. He is sixty-one years old.
He leans against the sink, looks at nothing. ‘I will look for another job,’ he says.
The clock ticks. The room is still. Even my grandma’s busy hands no longer move.
‘Go and have a shower,’ my grandma says, and my grandpa leaves the kitchen as quietly as he came in.
After his hot shower in the mornings, my grandpa always ate a small breakfast in the kitchen before he went to bed. He never talked while he ate his breakfast, even when I sat with him. He never talked, he just ate. Maybe he was happy to have the company, and maybe he was annoyed to have the company, but I knew not to ask him any questions then because he was already half asleep, and the talking, the words, and all the thinking would wake him up – wake his brain. Then he would wrestle with his blankets. He would toss and turn in his little bed until he could no longer stand it, the strain of trying to sleep, and he would get up again and sit in his chair and smoke his pipe.
Those days were the bad days. Too much sleep pushing down on him but unable to settle. He would be a ghost on those days, moving through that third storey flat not really there. I would sit and be quiet, and I’d play patience – a game my grandpa taught me especially for those days – and I would count out the cards in my head, and not out loud like normal.
I wished that my grandpa could sleep, but I knew that sometimes he could not. And I thought that maybe it was a good thing he wouldn’t have to be a night watchman anymore because now he could sleep at night while we were sleeping. He no longer had to sleep alone. We could all be together in sleep, and that would be good.
The day my grandpa became redundant, my grandma left two bags of apricot dumplings out of the freezer and set them aside. They were my grandpa’s favourite – boiled apricot dumplings with melted butter and sugar and cottage cheese on top.
Food for special occasions – for emergencies. And my grandma let my grandpa eat six. A whole bowl full of steamed apricot dumplings – soft and sweet and filling.
My grandpa found a part-time job delivering the Truth newspaper. The pay was no good, but it was better than nothing, and my grandpa hated not working. He no longer sorted through his coins in the afternoons, and the gherkin jar was put away in a cupboard.
The paper only came out once a week, so for the rest of the time my grandpa tinkered with things in his workshop, which was in the small garage. That way he didn’t get under my grandma’s feet. He ate more, and he slept more. He would go out for long walks by himself and I knew not to ask if I could go with him. The flat had become too small.
My grandpa looked forward to Fridays when it was time to go to work. Sometimes I would go with him to deliver the Truth in the Ford Telstar.
My grandpa would always get to the printers early on Friday afternoons, and we would wait in the car until it was time to load up the Truth in the boot and back seat and anywhere they could fit. My grandpa would ask me questions about politics while we waited. Who is the Prime Minister of Great Britain? Margaret Thatcher. Who is the Father of Communism? Karl Marx. When was the eight-hour day won for the workers? 1856. What is the Munich Agreement?
‘What is the Munich Agreement?’
There is silence and I don’t know the answer.
‘No one cared about us,’ my grandpa says, and he turns to me. ‘My home shrunk by one third – can you imagine?’
I shake my head.
My grandpa stares out the window then, and his cheeks are going red, and his breath is fast.
‘People wonder how Hitler took my country without one shot being fired. Well – it was handed to him on a silver plate!’
I have never heard my grandpa talk like this, all fast and jumbled, the words spitting out, his accent sharp and not hidden. Not soft.
I look at the glove compartment. I know what is inside – a copy of the Melways 1979, and a can of WD40. There are also two screwdrivers, a Phillips head screwdriver with a green handle, and a plain screwdriver with a yellow handle. My grandpa always says that you never know when you might need a screwdriver, or some WD40. But my grandpa never uses the Melways. He knows his way around the streets of Melbourne. He is very good with directions.
‘Platter,’ my grandpa says. ‘I mean silver platter not plate.’
He is calmer again, his cheeks not so flushed. We sit there waiting. He hands me a peppermint. My grandpa always has a roll of peppermints in his pocket. Extra strong. They burn my mouth, make my eyes water – but I can never resist. I always take one.
‘One shot was fired,’ my grandpa says, ‘from your great-grandfather, if you don’t mind.’ And he looks at me now, his eyes alive.
‘He did not hit one single thing. He fired out the window and the bullet went into the sky.’
Finally, the papers are being put out on the loading dock in giant piles.
‘Still, he paid the price,’ my grandpa says. ‘My father.’
I want to ask my grandpa what his father’s name is – was – but I don’t ask. And my grandpa gets out of the Ford Telstar and begins to fill the boot with the Truth.
Each newsagent had their own pile of Truths that needed to be delivered and we would do many trips back to the printers on each run. Sometimes I would help my grandpa actually deliver the papers when he couldn’t find a park and had to double-park. And he would tell me to take them to the newsagent door, put them down, and then yell out, ‘TRUTH!’, as loudly as I could manage.
I liked that bit, yelling out ‘Truth!’. It made me laugh because when I yelled it, it came out as ‘TROOOF’. My grandpa would give me twenty cents for the day, for helping. He would always say, ‘Don’t tell your grandma’, and I never did.
Máňa
28 SEPTEMBER 1938
My heart is racing, my face burns. From the podium, the stadium looks so big and the crowd is cheering and I feel dizzy.
A strong mind in a sound body, the crowd chants together, the stadium alive with pride. The world has let us down, thrown us away, but we stand tall. Three hundred and fifty thousand of us, our national anthem sung over and over. We are here!
There is a blazer just for me, navy with the emblem of the falcon, pressed and brand new. It is the nicest thing I have ever owned. There is a gold pin on the lapel, a gold pin with my name engraved on it. Máňa Králová.
I am head girl.
I know Eva is angry. She thinks she is as good as me. She thi
nks she should be head girl. But I know I try harder, work harder. I practise harder. And this is all I have ever wanted. Fit and strong. I will train and become a teacher. I will lead the next generation.
The right for every child to fulfil their potential. The words ring out in my head and I believe in them. My potential.
The park is full, colourful and alive, and it feels like the music from the stadium is still playing, and that we are all still dancing. The performers and the crowd mix together like one giant animal moving towards the city in the gentle darkness. Evening.
Eva pulls at my arm.
‘I’m cold,’ she says, and she keeps on saying it, she keeps pulling at me until I give her the blazer. Sulking – still sulking, even with all the joy around us. She puts the blazer on, and it looks good on her. She is me. We are the same. It fits well, and I can’t wait to show Papa.
We cross the bridge and the crowd fills it completely from side to side and end to end. We have brought our city to a standstill. We have brought our city to life. On the other side, people hang out of apartment windows and wave our Czech flag. People cheer, We won’t be taken!
The crowd begins to thin, veins of people walking in all directions. The sun has dropped completely now and even though there are lots of people still around, the streets feel more gloomy, more normal. The everyday streets. We cross the square, turn off towards home, and I feel tired suddenly, adrenaline gone. I tell Eva to give me back my blazer. I want Papa to see me wearing it when we come through the door, but she won’t. She starts to run and she is far ahead before I catch up. She flies down the street and around the corner and I trip on a cobble and fall. But I’m not hurt. I get up, I sprint as fast as I can until I can almost touch Eva’s back, touch my blazer with my fingertips. Eva is laughing, squealing, not sulking anymore.
‘Give it back,’ I scream, and suddenly there is a man right in front of us, a man wearing a hat, and Eva runs into him with full force. She flies backwards, hits the pavement hard right by my feet. The man must have come out of a doorway. He just came out of nowhere. His hat is in the gutter.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eva says, looking up at the man, looking right into his face. His head is balding and I pick up his grey hat. It’s wet with grime from the deep gutter. He moves forward and snatches it from my hands. His cheeks are sweaty, his eyes pinched.
‘Why can’t you watch where you are going,’ he says. His words strained, his accent strange. ‘Running like dogs!’
Eva gets to her feet. The blazer is covered in dirt all down the back. It is torn near the bottom. It is ruined.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eva says again, and the man comes towards her. He stands very close. His hand comes down, touches the blazer emblem, touches the gold pin on the lapel. My gold pin.
‘Máňa Králová,’ he says. And he grabs both of Eva’s arms. He pulls her in, their faces almost touching.
‘I see you’re proud of your little country, of your little dancing.’
Eva nods. Her face pale.
The man says something, his hands still tight on Eva’s arms. I want to pull her away, I want to help, but I’m frozen. And I understand the words.
‘You socialist pig.’
German.
The man rips the gold pin off the blazer, clutches it in his fist. Then he spits right in Eva’s face.
I grab her arm and tug her away, and we start to run, holding onto each other. When I turn back, the man is gone. He is nowhere and there is no one. No one in the windows, no one in the street. No flags, no colour. No life.
Eva begins to sob.
‘I should never have let you go,’ Papa says, and he sits with his head in his hands.
I stare at him, at his dark hair going grey.
‘Papa?’ I say. ‘Papa?’
He stays seated. He looks at the floor.
‘They are coming,’ he says, quietly – almost a whisper. ‘Coming.’
‘We will fight them, Papa,’ Eva says. ‘We will fight them and win.’
Papa shakes his head. He looks up now, looks right into my eyes.
‘Tomorrow they take one third of our country. Soon that won’t be enough for them. We must get you out.’
‘But it was my fault. It was me!’ Eva cries out.
Papa looks at her, and then back at me. He takes both of my hands in his – big and rough. He is shaking.
‘It will be okay,’ he says, and his eyes go to the floor once more. He breathes in deeply, breathes out. ‘Maybe this war will be short, and then you can come back to us.’
He does not believe his words, I know that. I start to cry then, and I fall into my papa’s arms. I cry and Eva cries and Papa cries, and he holds us tight. He won’t let go.
We sleep as one in the same bed. We cling to each other. We say each other’s names over and over.
Máňa, Madlenka, Maruška, Mařenka, Majka, Márinka.
Eva, Evka, Evička, Evinka, Evelína, Lina.
I’m sorry. Don’t go.
I’m scared. I don’t want to go.
Eva wants me to take the ocarina – Mama’s bluebird. Papa was right to give it to her, she can play so well. Eva makes that bird sing happy songs. I am no good at it. I can’t play. I wanted it so badly once, this clay bird, and I hold it softly in my hands as if it is alive, as if its heart beats fast and it might fly away.
‘You can give it to me when I come home,’ I say.
Eva nods but her eyes won’t find mine.
Papa paid for stolen papers – somehow.
Only enough money for one.
‘Don’t ever sell your earrings, Máňa,’ he says. ‘Hold on to them. Keep hold of them.’
And I know that I will never see my papa again. I know this is goodbye.
A passage to London.
A little brown suitcase.
A skirt.
A blouse.
A cardigan.
My old winter coat.
My brown shoes.
Papa’s English dictionary – his name written on the inside cover.
I am alone now. Completely. I must become Marie. No soft names, no nicknames. Not Máňa, just Marie.
I am alone.
Prague
1980
Uncle Bohdan struggled to get the colour TV up the three flights of stairs. He had to put it down several times to rest, and when he finally got it inside the flat, sweat was pouring out of him, down his neck and springing from his forehead. Uncle Bohdan was not a small man.
He stood with his hands on his hips, breathing hard. Babi got him a towel.
The TV was Russian, a Rubin – like the black and white one Babi had watched forever. But this new one was bulky and there were lots of different dials, lots of sliding controls. Babi sat in her chair and stared at the large blank screen while Uncle Bohdan got down on all fours on the carpet and strained to plug in the cord.
‘Okay,’ he said when he finally hit the socket.
Luděk flicked the switch and stared as the screen opened its eyes. It was colour – full, bright colour, but it was strange. It was all wrong. People’s faces were crazy and the sky was a kind of orange. Every few seconds the whole screen flashed fluorescent green. It pulsed and flickered like a beating heart, like it was alive.
‘Get the instructions,’ Uncle Bohdan said and waved his hand towards the cardboard box.
Luděk fished around in the box and handed the manual to Uncle Bohdan. Uncle Bohdan stared at it blankly. It was in Russian.
Babi was still watching the screen and she kept saying, ‘Oh,’ every now and then as things that were not meant to be yellow turned bright yellow. That hospital serial she liked was on, the one that was boring as hell with the handsome doctor that all the ladies loved.
Uncle Bohdan started sliding the vertical colour controls: up – halfway – down. Up – halfway – down. At one point the screen looked almost normal – the grass was green, the sky was blue, but it did not last. Uncle Bohdan moved another control and the picture faded do
wn to a kind of black and white. Black and white with highlights of bright colour. Black and white with fluorescent edges.
Uncle Bohdan stood back from the TV. He shook his head. ‘Another great product from our Soviet comrades,’ he said, and he walked away from the TV and out of the lounge.
But Babi seemed pleased, her eyes still fixed on the screen, on the unfolding drama. An ambulance sped along the road to the scene of a car crash, the handsome doctor ready for action.
The TV was much bigger than their old TV and the sound was clear – crisp. That was something at least. It was an upgrade.
‘What will we do with the old one?’ Luděk asked. The old black and white workhorse. Thirteen years old and still going.
Uncle Bohdan returned to the lounge with a bottle of beer.
He did not want the old TV. He had a better one. And he did not want the hassle of trying to off-load it.
‘Maybe we can give it to Mrs Bláža?’ Luděk said.
Babi squinted her eyes. She turned away from the TV and looked right inside of him. The moment went on and on and Luděk tried not to blink.
‘She doesn’t have a TV,’ Luděk said. ‘Or even a radio.’
Babi’s eyes softened – relaxed.
‘You’re a good boy,’ she said, and she slapped Uncle Bohdan on the legs.
‘Help Luděk take the TV,’ she said.
Uncle Bohdan’s forehead was still sweating. He took a massive gulp of beer. Then another. Babi slapped his legs again.
‘Okay! Okay!’ he said and he put his beer down on the coffee table.
The black and white TV was much lighter than the colour set, but the loose cord nearly made Uncle Bohdan trip down the stairs.
‘Luděk!’ he shouted, trying to see over the television resting on his belly.
Luděk grabbed the cord and walked behind his uncle – one slow step at a time.
Mrs Bláža didn’t seem to know what was happening when they walked into her flat carrying the TV, but when Luděk switched it on, her face opened up. She sat down in her chair, rested one hand on her cheek.
There Was Still Love Page 9