by Tobias Hill
The fish markets: I keep my lips shut against the flies. We walk together down slick gangplanks and again down unlit steps between decks. Together we go between stalls where salt sprats are weighed in kilos and sturgeon is smoked and cut, broad as logs. Down between rooms where poachers’ golden caviare is measured out in small jars. Always down and always together. But we are not together. It’s five days since I learned to read my father’s eyes.
The second deck has more noise, less light. There are live eels in wooden drawers. Trestles of carp, their gills still working in the hot air. More kinds of fish that I’ve never seen in Poland. More fish than I’ve ever seen, so that I’m hungry but too sick to eat with the smell of them.
We are looking for the Iranian. Because there are other things bought and sold on the riverboats, not just fish. We are here for the other things. We walk together, but my father is always two steps ahead. He is scared of me now. When he asks me what’s wrong, I say it’s nothing. In five days this is what I’ve said to him: It’s nothing. Nothing else. At night when he drinks Russian spirit I can read his eyes.
*
July, the month of holidays. Tonight we leave for Russia, and I learn my dad’s business. All afternoon he’s in the guest room, watching the football with Slawek and Chorzelski. When he’s home this is where he sits, waiting for the next trip. He drinks Scotch or hunters’ herb vodka, arms flat out on the armchair’s rests, watching daytime TV or nothing at all. Once I was getting ready for school and I went in there and he was asleep with a blanket on him. I never watched him sleeping before. He looked surprised. I breathed soft.
With Slawek and Chorzelski he doesn’t bring out the Scotch, though. They drink Lech beer still warm from the corner shop shelves, crackling the empty cans. We can hear them through the wall as we pack, my mother choosing the clothes, me getting them, she folding them into the soft plastic suitcase with the scuffed white corners. Warm clothes for the north, light for the south. Dad is the loudest, barking curses as the TV whines and shouts.
If there’s any beer left, my mother will pour it on the balcony flower-pots. It kills the slugs.
I can’t think of Astrakhan. When I imagine leaving I go west, not east. Astrakhan is the wrong way. Karol says Russian girls are beautiful at fourteen but old at eighteen. Piotr says there will be an eclipse and not to look at it or I’ll go blind. I’ve seen eclipses before, they’re not so great. Dad says that in Astrakhan you can buy ten dollars for a dollar. I listen to them and think of Terespol. Sunlight in Russia, moving across countries towards me.
‘What does it feel like?’
‘What does what?’
‘When you leave Poland. Do you feel anything?’
She looks up from the case, easy and smiling. ‘Nothing! Except in your mind. Why, what did you think?’
I go and sit on the bed beside her, looking at my hands. ‘I had this dream. Me and Dad were walking into Russia. When I stepped across and my foot touched the ground, it was like pins and needles going up my leg, into my chest. Then I woke up, and I still had the pins and needles in my leg.’
She doesn’t take my hand. I know she’s still smiling. From outside comes the sound of a klaxon from the steel factories, two long hoots with space between them. We sit side by side, hands in laps.
‘I tried to tell him no, but he wanted you to go so much and I got so tired in the end –’
‘No, I want to.’
Now I look up at her, to show I really do. At the corners of my mother’s eyes are fans of lines from smiling or crying. There are three lines by the left eye, four by the right. I’d like to touch them but I can’t do that.
‘Can we play a game when we’ve finished?’
‘That’d be fine. What do you want to play?’
‘Cards. Pan. Is there any soup?’
‘There’s borsht and pasties. We can play in the kitchen.’
We shut the case and lock it and go into the kitchen. It’s darker on this side of the flat but we’re further from the guest room. With the window open you can hardly hear Dad at all, only the ordinary sounds from outside, voices calling voices home. We drink the soup out of teacups and eat the hot pasties off the saucers.
After I’ve won we clear away together. There’s no soap but the water’s hot today. The dishes clunk and clank in the water bowl.
‘It’ll be your birthday when you get back. When your grandfather was thirteen, he grew twenty centimetres in a year. Twenty! And you’ll be tall as him. Have you thought about presents?’
‘I don’t know. You choose for me.’
‘No, I’ll just pick something horrible. You’re big enough to make up your own mind. You can tell me and then forget. I’ll keep it secret for you.’ Mum talks quietly, not looking up from her hands as she scrubs. ‘Do you still keep lists of secrets, Ariel?’
‘No.’
I wait for her to say something else but she doesn’t, not yet. I’m surprised at her for remembering. It was a long time ago, when we talked about secrets and lists. We were washing potatoes then and her arms were around me. I felt as if I had four hands.
She lifts out the last cup, white with gold patterns. Weighs it in her fingers, the water running off it. Sets it down.
‘Ariel, listen to me. Whatever happens in Russia, remember that I love your father. Will you do that?’
I’m standing still, the cloth in my hands. She looks round at me, staring in the kitchen’s bad light. ‘Why do you love him?’
My mother turns right round and catches hold of my hands. ‘Because he loves me. He has taken care of us both. There is good in you that comes from him. Will you remember that for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’ She lets go of my hands, the light going out of her eyes or back into them.
When we leave that night she says nothing to me. She’s packing plastic bags of food into the back of the car and I look down and she’s still wearing her house slippers. They’re light blue, thin on the grass-cracked concrete. I kiss her and she kisses me back and then I get into the car, pressed in with the bags of food. I look out of the rear window to wave but she’s already walking to the flats, head bent forward, not turning to watch as we drive away.
We drive north-east, away from home. The evenings are long in July. Outside the car is still lighter than inside. I can see strip fields, each one just a couple of tractor-widths. Rusting combine harvesters, six in a field, still like cows. Birch forest in the distance, whiter than the horizon.
I haven’t been alone with Dad since I was small. It isn’t the same as it was then. We sit quiet like strangers on trains, until Gliwice is way behind us. Then he turns his head. Not really looking away from the highway, just glancing back quick. I can see his eyes when he talks.
‘The roads are clear. We’ll be at the border in five hours. What food did we get, then?’
The plastic bags are full of newspaper parcels. Greasestained, folded tight. I open them carefully, thinking of my mother’s hands wrapping them. The highway lights come every few seconds and I hold the parcels up to the side-window. ‘Cake. Poppy-seed cake. Sandwiches. I can’t see what. Cabbage pasties. And a cooked sausage. And water.’
‘What kind of sausage?’
I lift the parcel to my face, smelling the garlic in the warm grease. ‘Silesian.’
‘Hah! Good.’
‘Dad, can I sit in the front?’
‘No.’
‘I’m old enough. I’m twelve. The law says when I’m twelve I can sit in the front.’
‘Yeah, well the law in this car says you sit in the back.’
I close my mouth with the teeth together. Look out. The highway lights have gone here, and Dad swears in the sudden darkness. There are pines close up to the roadside. They flicker past like bicycle spokes. The bitter smell of a rubbish dump blows in through the open window and is gone.
‘People won’t see you so much back there. OK? What they don’t see they don’t ask about. And the less they
ask, the better for us. Still, there’s quiet roads round Astrakhan, nothing to crash into for three thousand kilometres. I could teach you to drive.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure, why not? It’s about time. Anyway, you’re supposed to be learning the business.’
‘Great! Great, Dad. Thanks.’
East and north-east, past the fat chimneys and long hills of Silesia, on towards Czestochowa. One time Piotr came here to see the Black Madonna with his school and three boys fainted. Now we’ve got no time to stop. It’s hours to Terespol, where Uncle Jan waits in the border-control rooms.
I close my eyes. In the dark I can see my mother alone, walking up ten floors to our flat. The scuff of her house slippers on the unlit flights. The creak of the bed as she lies back down.
East of Warsaw the land gets flatter and there are fewer houses. The long ploughed fields go off into the dark, rising or falling away only a little, so the horizon is way off and out of sight anyway, there being so few house lights to mark off the distance. When we come into Terespol it’s bright, though. There are floodlights like in a football stadium, high up over the train yards and border roads.
Dad parks by the railway station. There are guards everywhere on the platforms and in the waiting rooms. The trains are painted red and they let off clouds of steam. The smell of burning coal is strong on them, dirty and sweet. It makes me think of home, more than anything I could see or hear.
My father stands by the car, stretching his arms and legs. ‘Aargh! That wasn’t so bad, was it? Russia tomorrow. When was the last time you saw your uncle?’
‘Years ago. I was little.’
‘Yeah. Well, you’re not so little now. Keep your mouth shut with him. I’m hungry. Get us something, will you?’
We eat two parcels of chopped-egg sandwiches and wash them down with water. Then we go into a station office and Dad asks for Jan. The office man says he’s on the trains. We wait ten minutes for my uncle and then he comes out and we drive back to his house. I notice how big it is, his house. Larger than our flat. There’s three of us and only one of him.
‘Well. You’re making good time, Michal. How are you, Casimir, are you well?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Fine. Do you drink now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that’s fine too.’
He takes off his green-and-gold hat, puts it on the kitchen table. There are four empty vodka bottles lined up beside the back door and Jan brings out a fresh bottle and pours three glasses. With his hat on, my uncle looked the same as years ago. Now I see his hair is gone, all except a white stubble.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers!’
We knock back the vodka. It’s cold and thick from the freezer, and I feel it burn my throat and the back of my nose. I swallow fast, so I don’t start coughing. My dad sighs and sits down, legs sprawled out under the table.
‘Damn, that’s good! And next trip’ll be even better. I’ll only have half the driving to do then. Twice as much to drink. Casimir’s learning to drive, did he tell you?’
‘No. Big man, eh? When did you start?’
‘Not yet. Dad’s going to teach me. In Astrakhan.’
My uncle leans forward, pouring again. Two shots, for Dad and himself. I hold hard on to my empty glass. ‘Good. Now, there’s benzene to shift into the car. Eight cans. Casimir can give me a hand. You’ll be wanting to sleep, Michal. You’re clear to go across at four.’
Dad looks at his watch. It’s already past midnight. ‘Casimir, you help your uncle, eh?’
‘Yes.’
They both stand at the same time. I didn’t know they were going to do that. They even stand up the same way, pushing themselves with their hands on the table, heads down. Brothers. I thought Dad was older, but he looks younger, with his black hair and shaved white skin. His forehead slants out more and his nose is straight; Jan’s is smaller and broken to one side. My dad’s cheekbones are long, like the face of a dog. They’re not really that long but his face feels sharp to look at, like a dog’s. If he laughed you’d even see his tongue.
He goes back into the guest room. Through the open door I watch him fall asleep in a hard chair with the TV on. Me and Jan bring the benzene up from his cellar and pack it into the boot of the Polonez. There are blankets too, in case we have to sleep in the car. I stick them under the back seats while Jan checks the water and oil. The car’s insides smell of garlic and old cigarettes.
My uncle works with his head down, not talking. He moves like an old man, trudging round the car, then back into the house, not changing his work boots at the door. I follow him down the corridor into the kitchen. He’s washing his hands at the sink, hot water steaming as he scrubs. When he’s finished I wash my own hands while he gets the vodka out again.
‘You want a nightcap?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ I sit down at the chipped pink Formica table. We drink without talking for a while. There’s a click every time my uncle swallows. It sounds like small bones breaking. I was eight last time I was here. My bones are bigger inside me.
‘Your mother, Anna. Is she well?’
I shrug. The vodka settles inside me. Warm in my gut, light in my head. ‘She’s OK. She forgets things.’
‘Your mother’s got enough to forget.’
‘Like what?’
My own voice comes out high with nerves. I sound like a child asking a question, whining at its parents. But I’m not a child any more. I’m taller than my uncle, taller than my father. The outside of my glass is white with frost. Jan sits back, hands together around his own shot. It must be cold against his palms.
‘Nothing you need to know. Ask your mother if you want. She might tell you. If she can remember.’
‘I’m asking you.’
He looks up at me. The skin pulls back from his eyes, up into the lines of his forehead. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’m asking you.’
My voice splits on the second word, broken between high and low. Jan looks at his glass. He could be smiling but it’s hard to tell. His mouth stays the same, pulled down at the ends. From next door comes the chatter of the television. Snatches of folk music, Russian voices.
‘You should respect your elders, Casimir. You know why? Because they know more than you. Knowing things is what puts the grey in their hair. You want grey in your hair, Casimir?’
‘Just tell me.’
Jan snaps his head up. His face has changed. It has come alive, staring and smiling. I see he grins like my father, the lips pulled back against the teeth.
‘If you like I can tell you all kinds of things. Fuck with me I’ll fuck you up, sonny. You just sit there and keep quiet. Drink your big man’s drink and then get some sleep. You’re leaving in a couple of hours anyway. And where you’re going, you’ll need the rest.’
My uncle stands up. I sit watching as he clears the bottle and glasses away, rinsing them under the kitchen tap. I close my fists so the nails rest on the fat of my palms, trying to hold the anger inside me. I feel it escape. It trickles out between my fingers, like alcohol.
‘I know she’s Jewish.’ He doesn’t answer. My head feels tight and hot. ‘I know what happened to Jews in the war. Auschwitz and Sobibor. I learned it in school. It wasn’t so different from the Poles. They died too.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ My uncle talks with his back to me, putting the glasses down hard on the draining board. Water trickles out of them down the grooved wood. First his voice is low, then loud. ‘You know where she’s from?’
‘Kielce.’
‘Kielce. Your mother and father and me, we all grew up there. Different schools, same street. Your mother’s family were Jews. Jews by blood, not religion. You know what happened in Kielce?’
He turns round. The vodka bottle is still in his hands. I shake my head. The table is between us.
‘You wouldn’t believe how many Yids there were in Poland then. It was part of everything. Quiet Fridays, I remember that. Me
n who mended shoes. I never saw real Polish men mending shoes like that. I knew Jews, everybody did. I thought the same about them as everyone; they were different from us. I think they thought the same.
‘I was fourteen when the Germans came. Michal was a bit older. There must’ve been twenty thousand Jews in our town. And when the Germans left there were two. An old man and a little one-eyed girl. They were the last. But that was normal. That’s not what I’m going to tell you. Since you’ve asked.’
He unscrews the top and swigs from the bottle, like a drunk. Staring at me over the bottle’s neck. I sit ready. If he comes for me I’ll hurt him.
‘So the Germans left, and there were all the empty Jewish houses. Nice sideboards, nice wallpaper. People were shocked, of course, but we had our own dead to bury. We got on with life, only with new wallpaper. And then the camps were emptied. A hundred and fifty of our Jews came through alive.’
When he talks, my uncle’s voice drags. It sounds as if part of him has died. ‘I was walking with Michal and our mother. We were going to meet father at the repair shop. There was a thin woman standing in the street. You could see the light through her clothes. We came up close and she started to smile at my mother. Her hand was tight on my arm, and it started to shake before she spoke, I don’t know if it was anger or fear. She said, “What? Are you still alive? We thought that Hitler had killed all of you.” My mother said that. She died six months later, when the Russians were settling in. The woman could have been from our street before the war, but I didn’t recognize her. She looked like no one I’d ever seen. Like nothing.’
From somewhere in the house comes the hiss of TV white noise, left on after the last programme. My uncle goes on talking in his hard, slurred voice. My head is still tight but loose, too, thoughts floating in my packed skull.
‘So there were the Jews. And then there was your mother. They were always in love, Michal and her. Always together, from when they were very small. Michal believed what our mother believed – that it was better if the Jews had never come to Poland. But Jews and Anna were not the same for him. He was stupid like that, your father – is stupid, I should say. But not as stupid as your mother. She should never have married him.’