‘But are the changes heritable or just environmental? Zat is ze question,’ Sean says in a stupid, cartoonish voice, with a poor German accent. It is late, and I try to make allowances for his levity, but given the seriousness of our task, and the fact that some of the earlier studies that we are building on were Holocaust survivors and their children, I can’t let it go. Uli’s grandparents were killed for sheltering Jews.
‘That’s a bit off,’ I tell him without making eye contact, and he pauses. I feel him looking at me. ‘It’s a bit offensive, to be honest.’
He turns to face me, to see if I am joking.
‘Jesus, Sara. Lighten up.’ He looks back at his work and pauses again. ‘This is personal for you, isn’t it? Be careful with that. It can skew what you’re doing. This is research. You have to be objective.’
‘I know. But there are real people involved.’
‘How much of this is about you and your mum, and grandmother? And Ellie, for that matter? Be honest. Christ, your father, too?’
‘What do you mean?’ I know exactly what he means.
‘Your grandmother was a refugee. Your mother was raped, and must have been stressed when she was carrying you. You didn’t know your father, a man with his own historical traumas, from what you’ve told me. You’re recently divorced. Are you worried this is a lot for Ellie to carry, all those layers of trauma?’
I put down the plastic Eppendorf tubes that I have been pipetting samples into and crouch, crying, on the laboratory floor.
‘Sorry.’ He is beside me, a gloved hand on my back, the latex film between us. I shrug the glove away, not wanting any of the laboratory chemicals on my skin.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he tells me.
‘Well, you have. How the fuck could you not with those comments?’
‘I’m sorry. But really, you’re too invested here. I’m worried about you, Sar. You can’t carry all that history around with you like you do.
‘You’re a great mum, and I don’t think you need to worry. Ellie is fine. And it’s admirable what you’re doing for Abdhul and his friends …’
‘Abdhul’s my friend.’
‘Yes, of course. Don’t misunderstand. Just don’t forget to enjoy yourself. I reckon that probably goes a fair way to healing all this stuff. To reversing it. Show Ellie how to have fun, for Christ’s sake!’
I am reminded of Ian telling me to lighten up and hearing it now from Sean is a wake-up call that Ian might have been right. If Abdhul has the capacity for lightness and humour, surely so should I.
‘Life is great, Sara. We are really lucky.’
‘I know, I know.’ I wipe my face with my lab-coat sleeve. ‘So, what do I tell Ellie about her history?’
‘You tell her what she wants to know. She’ll ask, just like you did, when she’s ready. She doesn’t need to be burdened by it.’
‘Yeah, right.’ My tone is sarcastic in the way Ian hated.
‘Just tell her enough to maybe explain a few things about her crazy mum, and grandmother, and great-grandmother.’ Sean winks. ‘And, if our hunch is right, she can then go about rewriting her own history, just as her cells are rewriting theirs every minute.’ He extends his hand, and I pull on it to stand.
He snaps off his glove and brings me towards him, kisses my forehead. I let myself be in this moment, right now, loved and in love, no history, no future.
‘Do you want me to finish up here? You can go home ahead of me.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
He puts on a fresh set of gloves and I do the same, ensuring none of our DNA contaminates the samples.
‘Right. Crunch time,’ he says.
We look for the chemical markers of epigenetic changes to the relevant genes and find them both in the parents and the children of Abdhul’s friends. Significantly, some of the women arrived pregnant, and even their babies, who didn’t experience trauma directly, still show epigenetic changes in the vicinity of stress-hormone genes compared with the control group in Sydney. The chemical tags attach to the genes responsible for making stress hormones, dampening down their expression level. Sean looks at me and takes my gloved hand in his.
‘So, trauma is heritable,’ I say, and I see that Sean’s expression is also serious now. The implications are profound. Not only do we inherit genetic changes that predispose us to certain diseases and characteristics, we also inherit our parents’ histories.
‘Yes, but look here.’ His finger traces the lines of results.
Encouragingly, the widows and the men who were given refugee status quickly score better in their ability to deal with stress than those, mainly men, who are still waiting for visas. Abdhul’s scores, we note, are among the worst.
‘No wonder his hair is falling out.’ In recent weeks, I’ve noticed the appearance of a small bald patch of scalp. He has told me he isn’t sleeping well and that his headaches are worsening.
I look again at the results. If I ignore the unequal sample sizes, it seems that those children who were processed quickly score better than the few children who came by boat and who are still waiting for visas.
‘So, environment matters,’ Sean says. ‘Histories can be rewritten.’ He pauses. ‘Ellie will be fine.’
I look at my watch and think that Ellie will be getting ready to go to bed at Claire and Dale’s about now. I call her mobile phone, thankful that Ian bought it for her. She answers quietly.
‘How is it there?’ I ask.
‘Okay,’ she tells me, then whispers, ‘but Sally’s mum is really cross at her dad tonight.’
Hallelujah, I think, but don’t say. Then, chiding myself that it wasn’t my first thought, I worry about what Ellie is learning of marriage. The last thing she needs now is to witness more domestic disputes. ‘Did they argue in front of you?’
‘No, but I could hear them through their bedroom wall.’
‘Oh, well,’ I tell her. ‘People do get cross sometimes. But your mum and dad love you very much, okay?’
‘Yep.’ She yawns.
30
Foggy-headed from jetlag, Sean and I land in Munich with Dale and Sue, the distant Alps a snowy backdrop. It’s already mid-afternoon; grey with winter, so the day will be short. Ellie is with Ian, and next week, after Christmas, he will fly her back to Hobart so she can stay a couple of days with Helena in Nina’s cottage, something I would never have thought possible just a year ago.
Flying in, Sean, ever perceptive, suggested I take some photographs of the Alps to send to Ellie. He photobombed one of the pictures and I sent that one, too.
‘Have you told Ian about me yet? He’ll be wondering who the handsome dude is,’ he said, pinching my shoulder playfully.
‘He’ll figure it out. Ellie saw you kiss me at the picnic the other day. She’s small, but she’s not silly.’
Sean has paid for a weekend skiing after the conference, over Christmas. He said I could not come here and not get up into the mountains, but I now wish I was going straight home afterwards. I remind myself that Ellie seemed excited about visiting her father and some of her old school friends. Still, I’m torn apart on the inside.
Sean says he is living out a childhood dream and asks if I had a childhood dream, too. I tell him mine was knowing who my father was.
‘So, we should both be feeling pretty good then.’ He pats my leg. ‘Is that why you became a geneticist?’ he jokes.
It’s a minor revelation. ‘Perhaps, actually … I mean, not consciously, but I’ve always been fascinated in what makes us who we are.’
A message flashes onto my phone from Ellie – a picture of her on a black couch looking hot and sweaty and bored. Given I’ve only just turned my phone back on, I’m not sure how long ago she sent it. Ian had said he’ll be working from home to mind her and I think how dull that will be for Ellie, and how unimaginative of Ian. What a lost opportunity. I wonder if Sylvia is there in the daytime, too, and if she’ll be guilted into taking Ellie out.
I text back, ‘What are you doing today?’ I hope I don’t wake her and that she’ll get the message in the morning. I know she’ll show Ian and ask him to help her read it. It might at least prompt a trip to the park. And there was Ian arguing the case for time with his daughter.
As we leave the airport, Sean looks across at me and smiles. I smile back although I am a churning, anxious wreck. On top of my concerns about Ellie, the knowledge that I’m on the land of my paternal forebears is stirring up a complex mix of emotions that I haven’t even begun to unpack.
‘Stop worrying,’ Sean tells me. ‘She’ll be fine. It’ll be good for her.’ Perhaps after a sleep I’ll feel better.
We take a taxi in the direction of the hotel, paid for by Dale’s research grant. ‘I got a good deal. Bloody expensive here,’ Dale tells us.
‘Great,’ I say flatly, not wanting to give him more than that, although I know what he is looking for is a thankyou for making all of this possible. Dale has said nothing in the way of congratulations about the game-changing results of my research, or the acceptance of my paper, which has been given a better place in the conference schedule than his own.
In the taxi on the way to the conference venue, we pass a group of people protesting outside a government building about immigration and refugees. Many have shaved heads and wear army-type clothing. One, to my horror, is waving a German flag overlaid with a swastika.
‘You’ll get some tough questions, Sara. Especially from the media, which I expect will hone in on your paper,’ Dale says.
‘Good,’ I say, although it is a lie. I do not want to answer challenges publicly, but will do so if that’s what it takes.
‘It’s solid research,’ Sean says.
Dale turns from the front seat of the taxi to face me. He doesn’t know me well enough not to bait me when I’m dog tired, anxious and emotional. Ian learned, but late in the piece. Before then, the lawyer in him wouldn’t give up on an argument until he’d won.
‘Just remember I’m paying for your research, Sara,’ Dale says. ‘My reputation is at stake. I’ve gone out on a limb letting you deliver this paper. We can’t afford to be seen as unobjective. I know you’ve taken this on as a cause, but …’ He looks across at Sean.
‘I am well aware of the need for our research to be objective,’ I say. ‘But it doesn’t mean I can’t also have an opinion. It seems to me a cop-out that as scientists we are told we can never have a view about what our results might actually mean out in the world. That we have to leave that to others, politicians or activists, people often much less informed and poorly advised. It’s gutless of us. We should grow some balls.’
Sean laughs beside me.
‘What? You’ve clearly been talking to Dale behind my back about my lack of objectivity and I’m pissed off,’ I tell him.
‘Hang on,’ Sean says. ‘I just said you had some personal motivations, that’s it. Shit, Sara. I’ve been totally supportive.’ He moves his leg away from mine in the back seat.
I go on, ‘All I’m saying is that whatever other pressures there are in the west, further traumatising refugees is hardly a solution. It’s hardly going to make for a healthier, happier society in the long term –’
‘Listen,’ Dale snaps, ‘I’m just asking you to stick to the science and let others comment on the politics. While you’re working for me. Okay? Don’t forget you’re on a contract.’
This is nothing compared to what Uli’s grandparents endured for trying to help refugees, I tell myself. Nothing. Nothing compared to what Nina and her family went through, either. And because of all that, I am stronger than any threat Dale can throw at me.
Standing in front of the crowd, I feel my throat constrict as I begin to speak. Sean, Dale and Sue are in the audience in the third row. My voice wavers as I acknowledge Sean’s contribution to the research and the funding from Dale’s lab, but as soon as I show images of Abdhul and his friends’ smiling faces, my nervousness dissolves. I have nothing at stake compared with my Hazara friends, who have risked their lives to flee to safety.
I show the test results. I show evidence of the inherited epigenetic tags that make children of refugees more susceptible to stress than other children. The ability for proteins to wrap around the DNA at specific locations and turn off genes that make stress hormones. It is a clear picture, and I see several heads in the audience nod. I refer to Swiss research showing that traumatised mice placed in positive environments soon recover.
‘This, I think, is one of the most significant areas for future research,’ I say. ‘To demonstrate whether, in humans, epigenetic changes that make traumatised subjects less able to cope with stress can be reversed, breaking the cycle of inheriting unhealthy stress responses.’ I stop and there is silence for a few moments, which I try to read. I mention the limitations of our study and where I think we need to focus future efforts, then flick to the acknowledgements page of the presentation, where Abdhul and all his friends’ names are listed, with their permission.
‘Thank you. Any questions?’
About fifteen hands go up, more than at any of the previous sessions.
To my relief the questions are generally supportive, although one researcher shouts what he says are flaws in the study. Dale stands and argues against the points raised and takes the opportunity to recap some of my findings, as if they were his own.
‘There is always one,’ he tells me later, out in the foyer where drinks are being served. ‘He was right off anyway, as I pointed out to him,’ he says.
‘I would have been happy to answer his question. Please don’t feel you need to –’
A man interrupts me, and I take the business card he is offering. He is the editor of a prestigious journal. Science.
‘I would like to invite you to submit your findings for consideration, Dr Rose,’ he tells me, not Dale.
Dale takes a step closer, thanking the editor for his interest and assuring him that we will submit the paper in coming weeks.
‘It is most exciting work indeed. As is my lab’s other research. Here,’ Dale says, reaching into his pocket for his own business card, but I can see the editor losing interest. The editor gives me what I take to be a sympathetic smile and holds up a finger to indicate he’ll be back in touch, or that I should contact him. He seems pleased when another researcher taps his arm for attention.
‘Did you see that?’ I ask Sean once Dale has moved away.
‘That’s his style. Bloody self-serving. If you don’t get first author on that paper, I’ll be so pissed.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘Anyway, for now, enjoy. You did a brilliant job.’
‘Thanks.’ I kiss him lightly on the lips, and over his shoulder see Dale talking to a young woman in a tight-fitting top. He is leaning close to her and, if I’m not mistaken, is looking down her cleavage. I hear him saying something about showing her the results later. ‘Maybe over dinner?’ He hands her his card.
‘God, he’s still flirting,’ I say to Sean. ‘I know what I’ll do.’ I find Claire’s number in my phone contacts, add the country code and dial it.
She answers.
‘Claire, it’s Sara. Dale wants a word. His phone is flat,’ I tell her as I stride up to Dale and hand him my phone.
‘It’s your wife,’ I tell him and walk back towards Sean.
Back at the hotel, I call my mother and tell her that the paper went well, and that I have an offer to submit to Science magazine.
‘Oh, that’s so terrific, Sara. And the top journal! Well done. It’s a really important finding. Really important.’
‘Even a blind pig finds an acorn every once in a while,’ I say, quoting Nina, and Helena laughs.
‘I probably have no right, but I am very proud. I know Uli will be, too. Do you want me to phone him? He called the other day to say he has an old violin for Ellie. One his parents somehow brought back from Germany.’
I look out the hotel window across the Munich rooftops and the streets decorated for Christmas, and wonder
if the violin came from nearby. ‘No, I’ll call him.’ I pause. ‘Thanks, Mum. Enjoy your time with Ellie.’
I phone my father and explain my findings.
‘Like I said, you have your mother’s brain,’ Uli tells me, and I hear laughter and warmth in his voice. I imagine him tapping his skull.
Sean and I pass waterfalls and icicles alongside the road on our way to the ski field where we will spend the next three days. Sean is grinning like a kid and I envy him his easy joy.
He pulls over suddenly and says we have to take a picture for Ellie. ‘Look at the size of those icicles,’ he says, pointing to a fast-flowing waterfall with metre-long daggers hanging over it. I laugh and take the picture and we kiss.
‘How do you do it?’ I ask.
‘Like this,’ he says, kissing me again for longer. He smiles and brings me to him and holds me tight. Presses our hips together suggestively.
I try again. ‘How do you be so consistently light and bright with all the shit that goes on in the world? The refugee crisis, the history of this place. Bloody Dachau is just a short train ride from Munich.’
‘Because of the good stuff that happens, too, Sara.’ He casts his hand around him at the scenery: the layers of mountains disappearing into the distance. ‘Good stuff happens at the same time as the bad stuff. Think about it. You actually owe it to your grandparents to enjoy your life. It was their gift to you.’
31
It is different arriving at my father’s home without my mother. I feel more self-conscious, almost shy, as if Helena had provided a necessary buffer between us, someone I could rely on to say something if I ran out of conversation or felt overcome with emotion and needed to take a step back. Over the past couple of months, she has been flying down quite often for weekends, sometimes even taking a Friday or Monday off work.
My father. I find myself saying this often, dropping it into sentences where it is not even required, such is the novelty and delight in it. The other thing I am saying a lot, when speaking with Ellie, is your grandfather. I think that brings me even more joy. ‘Your grandfather is asking what your favourite meal is, Ellie,’ I said while he was still on the phone, inviting us to dinner. ‘Sausages,’ she answered, and Uli laughed. ‘Tell her that’s my favourite, too. Good German sausages.’
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