‘Shall we sing a lullaby?’ Slava nodded sleepily.
Julia turned the lamp down to a flicker and began to sing the notes to a song that she knew instinctively: a minor-toned, beautiful song that her mother used to sing to her, about love and beauty and death and sweetness.
The moon has gone,
The sun is in its keep,
Slava wants to sleep.
Sleep my dear, sleep,
Close your eyes sweet,
And I’ll tell you a story deep.
In the bedroom there was a window, a little square one divided into four panels that looked out onto the small back garden, and though it was dark, Julia stared into the night as she sang:
And once there was
An extraordinary war,
And it lasted for many years;
A cat ate the Prince
A hound ate the Knight
And a mouse left the Princess in tears.
Slava slowly fell asleep to the comforting rhythm of her mother’s voice, her tones drifting with softness and care, and landing delicately on the words of the song:
And in the end,
The prince was made of chocolate,
The princess was made of sugar,
And the knight was made of sweet biscuit,
So, none of them suffered.
She’d just closed the door to the bedroom when she saw Henry pick up the letter. ‘What’s this?’ He turned it over in his hand, a cigarette burning in the other. He started to open it.
‘No, please don’t.’ Julia walked towards him, after leaving the dark of Slava’s room, and took it out of his hands. ‘It’s just for me.’
‘Oh. Why are you embarrassed by it?’ He watched as her eyes revealed more than she cared to.
‘It’s just nothing. I wrote a letter.’
‘For whom?’
‘For my sister. For me.’
‘Could you write to your parents instead? Would it make you feel better?’
‘I should. But there is so much to say. Old wounds, I guess.’
Henry leaned towards her, resting his face on his palm. ‘I have them too, you know.’ And then leaned back in his chair, having laid the gift of honesty at her feet. ‘To this day, I wonder what would have happened to me had she still been alive.’ And another cigarette passed through his fingers as the old one dimmed, the metal tray full of dying embers. ‘Do you fear for them? What if you sent it?’ he prodded.
‘Yes. I fear that if I write, it would be a kind of beacon, somehow. As if a trail of my tears would be traced back to them and end in their deaths.’ Her honesty felt like a hole in her chest that would never heal. Henry’s questions were necessary— two people should reveal their pain to the other— but it revealed her scars. She looked up at him and realized that he’d placed his hand in the middle of the table, to reach for hers, but had stopped and waited for her; he understood her pain.
Julia suddenly felt uneasy, so she stood up, shaking off the maudlin as if an uncomfortable coat, and immediately started telling Henry about today, about Slava being overbearing and riotous, and how she had been outside most of the day, her shock of golden hair, thin as gossamer, disappearing in and amongst the wild grass and brush, like some indigenous, white-eyed animal.
She’d told Henry that she’d been down the path and seen the other houses, after she and Slava had gone for a walk, and that she’d seen Iliya come out and say a polite hello. She asked what he knew about him.
‘Ah yes, that’s Iliya. Good man. Keep to themselves, he and his wife, mostly. He works with me, he’s in my cutting group. Why do you ask?’ Henry leaned back in his chair.
‘Just curious, I guess. I see him sometimes, when I'm out with Slava. He’s from Poland?’
‘Yes. Lublin. They had a tough time during the deportations.’
‘I can imagine. We probably have such similar pasts.’
‘Don’t know much about him really,’ he exhaled and leaned forward to inspect a burn on his hand and a cut on his arm, both of which were difficult to see through the soot. ‘He’s out with us most days, he does contract work on other things, I think. Contract work pays better, but you get moved all over the place.’
‘You feel sorry for him,’ Henry laughed. ‘You like stray animals.’
‘What? No, no. Just curious that’s all,’ she waved her hands as if brushing off the comment.
‘Well, maybe we can invite them round for dinner one evening?’ Henry looked over at her, a wan look crossing his face. ‘What do you think?’ He saw that she was off in a thought.
‘Julia?’
‘Yes?’
‘Dinner? You didn’t say anything.’
‘Oh, sorry, yes sure. That would be nice. If you want to.’
She walked softly into the bedroom, still in thought, and fell asleep listening to him lighting another cigarette. The night drew in and began the orchestra sounds of cricket-song and a child’s steady breathing.
9
‘Why?’ It was Slava’s favorite word lately. Why, along with, Mama.
‘We’re having dinner, sertseh.’ Sweetheart.
‘Why?’
Slava peered out from under a clean bed sheet in the other room, having fashioned it into a sort of limp tent, hanging between the dresser drawers and the bed, and proceeded to pull it off and onto her shoulders, wrapping it around her and dragging it behind her like a train. She pointed at the kitchen counter. ‘Chicken.’
‘Yes. For dinner.’ Julia massaged the skin with a small cub of butter, her fingers shining from it.
Slava pointed at the broom in the corner and the glasses set out on the table. ‘Why?’ Her blue eyes were the color of the sea and they glittered mischievously.
Julia plunged her hands into a bowl of soap and water. ‘A nice man and a young lady are coming for dinner. A friend of Papa’s.’
She started peeling fresh potatoes and carrots, having rinsed off the soil from their garden. Her thoughts ran nervously over menial tasks: Sweep the floor. Pluck the chicken. Wash the kitchen table. Tidy the rooms. Curl my hair.
‘Why?’
‘Because it is nice to have people for dinner.’ Julia’s voice grew firm to prevent any further questions, and she kept talking. ‘And sometimes, having people to come and visit makes me feel less lonely.’ She scraped the edge of the knife along the carrot and stopped. She hadn’t expected to say that, but there it was.
‘Mama, sad?’ Slava held the sheet and walked regally, her dusty grey rabbit in her hands.
‘Listen, please just let me do what I need to, okay?’ Julia’s voice was stern.
She saw Slava’s face scowl at the reprimand, and she softened. ‘Oh, you’re such a lovely nuisance though,’ and ran over to her to grab her face and plant a kiss on her forehead. She still had a carrot in her hand and showed it to Slava. ‘Here, rabbit. Now, Mama has to get busy with the dinner.’
That evening, the sky turned a bitter orange, touching the flatlands farther than the eye could reach. It looked a bit like the sky Julia used to see seeping through her bedroom window. And the memories creeped in as she leaned against the kitchen table and inhaled the smell of the meat crisping in the oven and the onions simmering in salty oil. The smells were home to her. Nothing else managed to affect her in the way that this did.
‘Mama, hungry!’
She opened her eyes and started cutting the carrots into chunks. ‘Slava, just wait. Soon, dinner is soon.’ She pushed a few bits of paper and pencils across the table (a little too forcefully, to make a point) across to Slava. ‘There. Draw. A nice picture please.’
It was evening and the sunset had passed, and the sky was black, and neither of the men had come back yet. The food was settling, warm in the oven, and the table set with simple plates and cutlery, nothing pretty because no one could afford anything expensive and delicate.
Slava was perched on her chair, drawing circles with jagged lines all through them, talking to herself. ‘No! No more room in the mi
tten, it will break! It will break and then…’
The door squealed open. Must oil that, what a horrible sound, Julia thought.
And then there were three smiling figures in the doorway. Slava squealed ‘Papa!’ and dropped her pencil and ran to the door.
‘Julia, this is Iliya, is dinner ready? Smells like you’ve actually gone to some effort.’
Julia looked at Henry, her eyes sharp at the unnecessary comment. He smiled in response and winked. She smoothed her skirt and stood up, walked over with her thin pale hand outstretched. Now that he was closer to her, she could see him more clearly: He was tall and straight-- taller than her (most men were, as she was only slight and just shy of five and a half feet), and he was almost as tall as Henry. His was narrow and his hair slightly wild in its curl, and his eyes were bright blue and almond-shaped, his smile genuine yet inaccessible. There were small creases by his temples and the corners of his mouth, which meant that he was older than 30. 35, maybe? His shirt hung on him disinterestedly, like crisp paper.
‘Hello, Julia,’ he smiled and took her hand lazily, hers disappearing in his weighted grip. His eyes looked at her intensely underneath careless hair.
‘Nice to see you again,’ She withdrew swiftly, cheeks flushing already.
He gestured to the woman standing beside him, very thin, with bright eyes, her honeyed hair cascading in waves onto her shoulders, the freckles on her nose moving as she smiled. ‘This is my wife, Elina.’
She produced a slim hand. ‘Hello Julia. Thank you for having us.’
‘Yes of course,’ Julia returned, feeling suddenly conscious of her nerves. ‘We don’t do this often, and it’s nice to meet new people.’ And then she excused herself, mumbling something about the dinner, and walked back towards the oven.
Henry and Iliya took their jackets off and laid them on the backs of the chairs, wiping their sooty hands on them in the process, whilst Elina took a seat and spoke to Slava animatedly.
‘Are you hungry, little one?’
‘Yes!’
‘How old are you, then?’
Slava looked slightly confused and splayed both chubby hands out to her. ‘Four.’
‘That’s a very grown up lady, I think.’ Elina placed her head in her palm, resting her elbow on the table. ‘Or are you a princess?’
‘I am a princess.’ Slava said matter-of-factly.
Julia turned and saw Elina’s face as she spoke to Slava and was the only one in that room that could sense her longing.
‘I think you are a beautiful princess,’ Elina said, smiling. ‘Your Mama is lucky.’ Elina stood up, breaking herself off from the conversation. ‘Well, something smells delicious.’ She turned to Julia. ‘Do you need help? Because— ‘she gestured to the front door and the men outside with their cigarettes, chatting about their day as they waited to be served: thin arms expressive and agitated. ‘—obviously the men are preoccupied with righting the world’s wrongs.’
Julia was grateful for her kind tone. ‘Well, isn’t that always the case? Men will fix things? We all know that isn’t true.’
Elina laughed, and it sounded like clear water. ‘Yes, agreed. I think you and I understand each other.’
Julia took the plates out of the cupboard and handed them to Elina. ‘Do you have children?’
‘No. Not yet, anyway.’ She looked over at Slava. ‘Maybe one day,’ she smiled and took the plates to the table.
‘Well, in time. God has funny plans.’ Julia brought the knives and forks to the table.
‘Iliya has other plans, maybe. War has been hard on him,’ Elina shrugged.
Just then, the door opened. ‘Right,’ Henry clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s sit.’
Iliya reached into the pocket of his coat as Julia began to spoon the potatoes and carrots onto plates. ‘Just a minute, I brought something,’ and he removed a small flask of vodka from his bag that he’d brought with him and set it on the table triumphantly. ‘In thanks.’
‘Oh, goodness,’ Elina groaned and put her fork down. ‘You and your vodka.’ She winked at Julia.
‘And you and your controlling. Let me be.’
‘So serious, husband,’ Elina laughed. ‘Always very serious about the vodka.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he bristled, but smiled regardless, and Henry interrupted.
‘This is much appreciated. Let’s pray that we always have such good fortune.’
They all prayed in a cursory way, all hungry and impatient and discarding the ‘Amen’ quickly so that they could keep serving themselves. Julia reached for the vodka and sighed happily. She turned to Iliya, the glasses clinking as she moved the vodka to the center of the table. ‘So, what is your story, then, you two?’
She spooned out the potatoes for Slava, and then passed them to Elina, and everyone’s hands were reaching and mingling, the food glistening on chipped plates. Someday it would be nice to have good plates, she thought.
‘She’s a curious one, Henry!’ Iliya clapped his hand on Henry’s shoulder like a brother. Julia was embarrassed and instantly silenced, focusing on chicken legs and boiled carrots and carefully cutting up Slava’s food. The warmth of the alcohol radiated through her.
Elina leaned over to Julia. ‘Don’t mind him. He likes to tease.’ She winked.
In between mouthfuls, he and Elina provided information.
‘...No, we have no family anymore. I came out here from Poland, Elina was in a school in Krakow when I met her, a bit like you all…’
‘...Iliya was looking for work. My family made it to New York…’
‘...More potatoes please? Thank you… Yes, I had a sister, she was a twin. The other twin, a boy, died from illness when he was 2...’
‘...No, I don’t know what he died of… well, my sister...’
Iliya hesitated and placed his fork down.
‘My sister and my parents were deported to the gulag. I hid in the attic of my parents’ bakery. They never found me.’
Henry grunted in a kind of sympathy, poured Iliya a small vodka, and looked at Julia, watching her reaction. He lit a cigarette.
‘We were some of the first Polish Jews to be rounded up,’ Elina rested her hand on Iliya’s arm. ‘I was in school and when it was closed down, I was enlisted to work in the ghetto, embroidering linen napkins and tablecloths for the Nazis.’
‘And how did you find each other?’ Julia asked.
‘He and I knew each other through school friends, and when I saw him one night trying to find his way to the shop for food, I took care of him for a time, before— ‘
‘Before I was thrown into a passenger train and shipped to a sub-camp.’
‘Which one?’
‘Placzow.’
‘Placzow wasn’t one of the death camps, right?’
‘No. But it may as well have been. Even on the train ride there, I saw starving bodies collapsing at my feet. It was torture.’
Julia turned to Elina. ‘And you? Were you ever sent out of the ghetto?’
‘Well, yes of course. I thought I could hide, but they would do roll call, and if they found me, I would have been shot on sight.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I was shipped to Soldau. And you, Julia?’
‘We were at Neumarkt.’
Elina nodded. ‘I had two school friends that ended up there. They died just before liberation.’
‘Mama? Mama finished. Finished!’ Slava proclaimed, jarring the quiet.
‘Okay, Slava, you may leave.’ She wiped dried potato off her cheek.
‘If you will excuse me.’ Julia shot up and followed her into the bedroom, steadying herself on the dresser. Her reflection in the mirror was white, probably more so against her dark dress.
She gripped the edge of the dresser.
‘Mama? What’s happening? ‘, Henry called after her, exasperated.
‘Nothing. I'm fine.’
And then she walked back in as if nothing had happened.
After Slava was asleep, Julia took her place back at
the table, sitting quietly, smiling when the conversation required it. She played the good wife, piled the dishes in the sink and afterwards served medivnik--honeyed bread--for dessert, with bitter coffee.
‘Julia?’ Iliya leaned forward on his elbow, his eyes sleepy from alcohol, and yet still like a man who knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. ‘What’s your story? How did you end up here?’
‘Ah, well. Not that interesting, really.’
‘Iliya, stop, maybe she— ‘
He put up his hand. ‘No, I'm interested. Everyone has a story to tell,’ he leaned back in his chair. ‘And I’d like to hear this quiet creature with the dark hair.’ Elina blushed and flattened her lips. Henry looked over at Iliya, and then at Julia.
Before she could speak, Henry intervened. ‘It’s all the same, we all have the same story Iliya: we’re born into war, we live our way out of it, we have children, then we die, and hope God forgives us for our trespasses.’
‘Child,’ Julia corrected in monotone.
‘Eh?’ Henry poured another vodka.
Julia smiled and shook her head, a sign for him to ignore her.
And in that silence, he may have understood, but she wasn’t sure.
Elina continued on. ‘Well, Iliya, I lived on a big farm with my family, and then my brothers were arrested...’
‘They were activists,’ Henry interrupted, nodding.
‘Weren’t we all, at the time.’ Iliya smiled sadly.
‘Yes, well...’ She continued, her eyes pricking with tears. ‘...They were arrested, and I never saw them again, and then I left home with my sister, Maria, and then...’
‘And, where is she?’
‘Too fragile for this earth. She became very ill.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry.’
‘The soldiers came and rounded me up at the migrant camp. All of us that were there, were thrown into cattle trucks. Only the strong ones. They left the old, and the children, behind.
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