‘Besides, the more shifts I work the more money for us.’
‘Gold in the dirt.’ It was an expression that her father had used.
He smiled weakly. ‘That’s a way of thinking about it.’
He turned on his heel, and walked out of the house, his steps fading away, increasing the distance between them for now. Slava woke finally, and then Julia would have to get on with her day. But she couldn’t move, still. Her feet clung to the floor in front of the door, she was looking out towards the pink sky, watching it turn to blue, starting the book of her day. Turning the page.
‘Breakfast?’ Slava pulled on her wrist, delicate hands with a strong grip.
‘Yes, yes.’
A week had passed, and they hadn’t spoken in what seemed like years. Henry stayed in the cutters’ camp, the single men’s refuge. It was food, and a bed, and peace, and that’s all he wanted, to be removed from a home where he felt like a stranger. When he’d arrived, the current shift of cutters were crouched in front of a row of freshly cut cane, a line of their bare chests covered in sweat and grit, dark against the bright green behind them.
He leaned his bicycle against the barrack, its metal scraping against the wall.
‘Jesus, you look like someone dragged you off the cross, ha!’ An older cutter that had come from Italy was sitting on a metal chair across the large room, chain smoking. He had a scar on his tanned, thin cheek and his black hair was matted from sweat and pushed back off his forehead.
Henry dragged his tall body under the frame as he walked in and dropped a small canvas bag on a cot. ‘Wife and kids driving me to drink.’ The wind blew through the door, bringing with it the familiar smell of sugar smoke, mingling with the sweat and stale body odor of the men who had been living here for days, some for weeks and months. The thin wood echoed with their grumbling.
Another man, laying in the corner on a cot picking dried sugar from his nails, groaned. ‘Who’d have them anyway, honestly. Though, I wouldn’t mind a few here and there. Your wife, the dark one, right? Very nice.’ Henry’s eyes flashed in response and a few other cutters walked in, laughed at hearing the tail end of the conversation as they dropped their belongings and lit cigarettes.
‘...Who’s this?’
‘...Women.’
‘...Which one?’
‘All of them.’ They all laughed and nodded their heads.
‘... Henry’s one.’ A blonde Polish man, broad and short, pointed, cigarette in hand. ‘She’s a good one.’
Henry sat down heavily. ‘Alright, that’s enough. Do we really need to do this?’ He emptied his back onto his cot. Bread, water in a dented hipflask, some sausage, a clean shirt, cigarettes, and a deck of cards wrapped in twine. ‘They’re exhausting.’
A tall, lean Russian laughed, exposing a gold tooth at the side of his mouth. ‘Ah! I agree! Can’t be bothered. Who has the energy? We’re all barely alive here.’ He flexed his arm, the wiry muscle wrapped around the bone. He had a dog’s body, ribs protruding. ‘Look! How handsome I used to be and now, I look like a stalk of wheat!’
Henry leaned back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbow. ‘Alive. Just.’
The Italian threw an empty cigarette pack at him, teasing. ‘Fool, don’t be so down. They’re great to look at though, not like those fat old babushkas that make—and eat—pies all day.’
‘You could always see what’s on display in town, you know,’ The Russian winked.
The Polish man groaned. ‘Who has the time? We are here for long days and short nights, and every day the same.’
‘Listen,’ Henry sighed. ‘It’s not helpful, any of this.’ He needed a drink. He needed to feel something more than duty, though his father’s voice rang again in his head, and he would probably shake it in disgust at the son he had raised to be what, a farmer? He was a disappointment to the man who raised him and the woman he had loved once (and did, still, he knew it). ‘I need to rest.’
Henry closed his eyes. Another day settled and the humid night closed in and he was sleeping next to men who were lost, and as his breath became shallow, he realized he was one of them.
One of the things, the very few things, Julia enjoyed about life here, is not being overlooked, and she appreciated the beauty in the space finally: it was the space beyond the farmhouses, beyond the cane fields and flat skies where she could reach a world where her parents still were, thinking about her. Being outside in the small garden, hearing the shushhh of the trees and the grass as they swayed in the cool breeze before the coming rains soaked the grasses and left a sweet residue on their skin.
Julia felt that she would finally write to them, because it was safe to, now, and her heart swelled with love that she hadn’t let herself feel for seven years. She had so much to tell them, and much that she could not, and she wondered how long it would take for her words to reach them.
That evening, after dinner, Julia sat with Slava on her lap, her arms around her, reading her a story, but impatiently waiting for her to fall asleep so she could sit in peaceful silence and write.
‘Mama, sing please?’ Slava traced the freckles on Julia’s arm absentmindedly, the dark hairs standing up as she went against them with her fingers.
‘Yes, love.’ And she sang softly as she rolled her body softly into bed:
Dream passes by the window,
And Sleep, by the light.
Then Dream asks Sleep:
‘Where should we rest tonight?’
Where the cottage is warm,
Where the child is small,
There we will go,
And rock the child and all,
And there we will sleep,
and will sing to the child:
Sleep, sleep, my little dove,
Gentle and mild.
‘Slava? Slava….’ Julia whispered softly; her voice still raspy with the remnants of the melody. Slava’s eyes were closed, a halo of soft hair on her pillow.
She tiptoed towards the door, turned off the light and stood in shadow, listening to the faint, shallow breaths. She walked to the kitchen, by the small window that looked out onto the rain soaking the sugarcane, and sat down to write a letter that she would finally send.
Mama, Papa—
In the absence of you seeing my face and judging for yourselves, I will tell you that I am the same, for the most part: I am healthy, and I am living in Australia with my husband, Hironimus. You may remember him, as he lived in Striy. Rudnick. Papa may have known his father, Ivan.
After we left, Maria and I struggled to continue on, after stopping in a migrant camp in Austria
Julia put the pen down. She decided, resolutely, that she would not tell them. It would be too great a burden to bear, and sometimes a lie is better.
but we made it eventually to Neumarkt. Winters were cold, and there was not much food. It was incredibly hard. I worked as a seamstress. Others were metal polishers. I didn’t think I would survive the long days. I slept three across, on the hard ground in one of the buildings. We had a woman in our group, Lina, who would pray every night, and I prayed with her.
When I met Henry, I was happy again. I did not hope to find anything like love, but it was there, and I am so grateful that we survived.
We left there after the war ended, and we are now in Australia with our daughter, Slava. You would love her immediately
I am happy with my life, I do not want you to worry, but I do often wonder what could have been.
With love to you and Papa,
Yulia
Julia folded the finished letter but before she could find an envelope, she heard footsteps at the door, followed by a knock.
12
She turned around and saw Iliya. Behind him, the sky was so dark so that the edges of the trees were barely visible against the sky and the sky and ground were the same.
She walked up to the door, and as she opened it, it squealed, and then the wind blew across, clearing the paper off the table and onto the floor. Sh
e reminded herself to pick it up later, and to fix the squeal with some oil.
She held onto the doorframe and welcomed him in. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
He leaned forward and caught his stance, faltering a bit. ‘Where’s Slava?’
‘What? Sleeping. It’s late.’ She shifted on her feet.
‘Hmm. Where’s Henry?’
‘Camp.’
Iliya raised his eyebrows.
‘Long story,’ Julia replied. She looked down at her bare feet and suddenly felt a chill.
‘Argument?’
‘Typical things.’
Iliya nodded, running his hand through his black hair, revealing his sun-mottled forehead. Julia’s smile was wide, suddenly. She appreciated the company.
‘How is Elina?’
‘Yes yes, all good. She was with some girlfriends at dinner, I suspect she’ll be home soon.’ He shrugged. ‘I was supposed to meet a few of my friends as well, but, I didn’t, in the end. Told her I might see Henry.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Much better idea.’
‘Ah, well.’ She ran her fingertips over the edge of the door. ‘Can I help you, then?’
Iliya stood tall suddenly, remembering himself. ‘Oh, yes actually. I needed something from Henry.’ He waited, his hands in his pockets, filling the doorway with his height. Julia wondered if she was supposed to invite him in.
‘Ah. Well…’ Julia shrugged at her husband’s absence.
‘No, how awkward. Sorry. I just thought that he’d be here.’ And then Iliya moved a foot back off the step as if presenting an exit, and Julia felt suddenly apologetic, so she extended the conversation.
‘Actually--’
‘Yes?’ He leaned forward.
‘A cup of tea?’
‘That’d be nice.’ Iliya’s tanned face softened into a boyish grin.
Julia pushed her forearm into the door and gestured for him to come in. She smelled the alcohol on his body as he passed by her.
‘I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?’ He strode in comfortably, shedding his coat onto a chair and relaxing into a sofa. ‘Elina is terrible at stocking the cupboards.’ He finally noticed where he was sitting and patted the cushion under him. ‘This new?’
Julia struck a match and put the kettle to boil. ‘Henry bought it from a small charity shop in Stratford. The one on King Road, not far from the—’
‘— right, yes. The shop that sells ice cream.’
‘Hmm. And he brought it home in the…?’
‘Car. Had to leave the back open completely.’ She laughed.
When the kettle had boiled, she poured the tea and let the leaves steep, drowning them with a spoon repeatedly if they bobbed back up. She felt him staring at her.
‘Car. That’s nice.’ He lit a cigarette and she noticed that he swayed a little, despite the fact that he was sitting down. ‘We don’t have a car. Elina prefers to spend money at the hairdresser.’
Julia smiled and pictured Elina’s shining hair being manipulated into waves of gold, framing her freckled face. She thought her beautiful; the light to her dark.
‘It’s very useful- though the color is, well, ‘muddy’ is the best way to describe it.’ She laughed. Three months ago, she had discovered that Henry had saved up enough money to buy them a car, and when he rattled home in it (she heard him on the road before she saw him), she’d wondered then if she had made a mistake. Not because of the car, or the color of it, but because it was a sort of an ordinary thing, a car, or maybe even a bit bourgeois, she felt. But he was proud and happy as he stepped around it and gestured for her to come out and have a look, as his arm swept across the length of it, long and wide with low seats and a profile reminiscent of a boat. ‘It serves its purpose, that rusty old thing.’
She brought over his cup, and then sat down on the chair across from the couch, her hands folded across her chest as she let her own tea darken. There seemed to be no urgency with Iliya tonight, and the energy felt neither electric nor still. She would later recall that nothing felt wrong about it, it was a friend whom she could talk to, and he to her; they were friends with similar pasts.
‘So. Julia. What is this business with the husband?’
‘Did you know that male geese hover over their nest whilst female geese sit on their eggs?’
‘Eh?’
Julia threw her head back, giggling at the impulse to share this piece of useless information. ‘Oh, Iliya. I don’t want to talk about Henry, I want to talk about useless things.’
‘No idea how to respond to that kind of diversion except to drink my tea and look at you strangely.’ Iliya winked. ‘You’re a strange creature.’
‘Strange. Yes. For me it has been a strange couple of weeks, if I’m honest.’
‘We all have strange days here.’ He cocked his head towards the fields. ‘Some days you can go mad from the day-after-day of it all.’
‘See, I don’t mind that. My life has been too full of days where things have been too heavy to bear. Here, I feel calm. Silent. I just want to be.’
She sipped her hot tea and placed it back on the table.
‘Thing is, I love having someone to talk to,’ she focused at a pane of glass across the room that had a crack in it. ‘My burdens feel lighter when someone else listens. I’m sure you feel the same…?’ Iliya was lighting a cigarette and she felt embarrassed suddenly. ‘Ah, I’ve said too much. Never mind.’
She was fidgeting at the admission, her legs crossed firmly, her back pressed into the corner chair.
‘No! This is of course excellent. You— ‘he pointed a finger at her ‘— need someone to talk to. And I— ‘he pointed to his chest ‘— do as well.’ He lit the cigarette and watched the smoke tendrils rise.
‘But you have Elina.’
‘Elina, yes.’ He nodded. ‘She’s… well.’ He exhaled smoke. ‘Everyone has their stories, no?’
‘The connection.’ Iliya leaned forward off the edge of his seat toward Julia. His eyes looked heavy. ‘Do you understand? You, strange creature, have a story that I understand. A good connection.’ He leaned back again, his head resting on the back of the sofa.
He didn’t apologize for the way he threw his arrogance around, and it was very much a young man’s prerogative. It was so different to Henry: Henry was caring of course, but he held his cards close, and in many ways, despite the differences in their marriage, it did inform how Julia operated as a result; she always felt aware of herself around him.
Julia stood up and walked to the window by the kitchen.
‘Do you think of your family often? Do you wonder about them?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Why?’ She knew why, before she asked the question.
‘Because I can’t do it- I can’t remember her without being angry.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘What were they like?’
‘Kind. Hard-working. Patient. My sister was deliciously funny. Silly. Long hair, the color of hay. Always messy. Big green eyes. She hated being wrong. Always liked to win. She took care of me.’ His voice trailed off.
‘Do you remember the last time you saw her? What she looked like?’
There was silence at first, and then the sharpness of match striking the side of its box. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, the smoke teasing its way around and into his mouth and out through his nostrils.
‘Yes. We’d had a fight. We were children. Playing and then fighting. And then I saw fear. The last thing I saw in her face was fear. I thought she’d hide, just like me, but she didn’t follow. I think I remember her telling me that she would find me.’ His eyes closed, as if exorcising the memory. ‘That was the last time I saw her.’
Julia never asked Henry too much about his family. Partly because he didn’t like talking about it very much in general, but mostly because she’d suspected a hidden anger that was too easily accessible if he talked about his father. He had left his father to find a better life, and now he�
��s a father who never sees his family, despite his efforts. He didn’t talk. He drank. He read. He smoked. He hit. But he loved, and she loved him despite knowing the darkness. She understood why, as much as she was frustrated by it, and so she kept a fair distance from those kinds of questions.
She walked back to her chair and sat down, folding her hands on her knees.
‘Life doesn’t feel real, sometimes, I think. It feels like a collection of memories and photographs and tears. But it won’t always be this way, I’m sure of it.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘You’re probably right.’ And when he opened his eyes to look at her, something had changed. His face was set and his eyes rigid and focused, as if he had made a decision that Julia knew nothing about.
‘Listen, it’s late,’ Julia started, getting up to go and check on Slava. ‘Another day tomorrow, and may we live to see it, and the next after that.’
‘Hope for another day- a very good outlook, sweet Julia.’
Julia blushed at the word sweet.
He walked towards the door, but Julia didn’t notice that he left his jacket, because she had peered around the corner to see if Slava’s door was closed. It was, and the sounds from her room were of deep, contented breathing. When she turned around, Iliya was leaning against the door, watching her. Arms folded.
‘Or, maybe a bit longer.’
‘Ha... oh, I suspect that we’ve nothing left to talk about.’ Julia’s hands were moist, and she placed them in her pockets. ‘Besides, Elina will think you’d gotten lost out there--’ Julia gestured to the dark fields beyond them.
‘Elina knows I’ve come to talk to Henry.’
‘Ah, well. I can tell him--’
‘She already has one eye on you.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, that is typical Elina. Always wary of the world around her.’ He pressed his palm behind him to make sure the door was shut and moved towards Julia. ‘She spends too much time thinking.’
The room suddenly felt electric- Julia stood in the quiet, wondering if she should move, or stay still. If he would move towards her if she did. If he could hear how shallow her breath was, and how loud her heart.
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