“Will you be alright?” Zelda asked.
Cora nodded, still staring at the flowers, not sure if she really wanted to be alone or not. Zelda kissed her cheek and her neighbor squeezed her hand before they quietly left, leaving the door open. Cora could hear them descend the stairs and greet Claus in the parlor. Whatever was said after the introductions was said hushed and Cora could hear no more. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. It seemed odd to her that it hurt to close her eyes just as much as it had to open them when she was coming around. But the pain dulled enough that she felt herself drifting off until a door opened and shut in the hallway. Her father had come out of the bedroom and was talking to the doctor.
“The baby is stable for now. But the impact caused a lot of stress. It’s difficult to say just how much was torn. It’s a miracle they’re both alive. She could have hemorrhaged to death in your back yard. A woman with her medical history, in her condition, should not be left alone. You ought to hire a nurse, someone who can be here if this happens again, not to mention the day to day household responsibilities. Giselle is not well. If she has any chance of bringing this child to term she’s going to have to stay on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy.”
“But how would that work? I have to be at the camp,” Blaz was saying.
“As I said, hire someone. I have to go. I was on my way to an appointment when I was called.” He was quiet a moment and Cora could just imagine the look her father must be giving him.
“They’ll be fine,” the doctor continued. “Just don’t let your wife exert herself too much. Make sure she’s comfortable. I’ll send over some pills for her. They will help her body replace some of the blood she lost.”
Cora listened as her father went downstairs with the doctor and, after he left, must have joined Claus in the parlor. Cora wondered if her mother was awake. She imagined her supine, staring at the ceiling, terrified at how close she had come to losing the baby and grateful she hadn’t. Cora wondered if her mother was thinking about her. Then it occurred to her, the doctor had not come to see her. No one had even noticed her except for Zelda and the old neighbor. Had everyone simply forgotten she existed or was she being punished for what she had done? If Giselle were able to come to her, Cora was sure she would tell her daughter that it wasn’t her fault and try to find some way to make her feel better. But her mother couldn’t do that. Her father could. But he wouldn’t. It was that thought that hurt most, not the accident, not the pain, not even the sight of her mother bleeding and weeping violently. The weight of her father’s indifference gave Cora absolute certainty he would not come to her as she lay in pain, unattended, in her bed . . . that thought was what made Cora begin to cry.
CHAPTER 10
April 1921
Young Blaz
He examined his cheekbone carefully. The mirror had two long cracks running almost parallel through the middle so that he could never see his whole face at the same time. The bruise was a light rose, but he knew that it would swell and turn wine colored and then purple and finally a baby blue with splotches of yellow. Then it would go away. The bruises always did. He touched it with his middle finger and winced. This one hurt more than the last, but he had deserved it this time. Blaz was the kind of fifteen year old with the conscience of an older man. What was right? What was good? These questions plagued him endlessly. He could not be called wise beyond his years, but thoughtful beyond his years was certainly true enough. Other boys his age spent their thoughts on girls and arguments and how they should occupy themselves on sunny afternoons. But Blaz allowed himself to think and feel deeper than that. He noticed girls, but was more curious about their habits and their secret conversations than what was beneath their blouses. He argued rarely, except in his head, too afraid to be confronted with a debate beyond his understanding. He wanted to join in the conversations but was never quite comfortable with the speed or vocabulary of his schoolfellows. And while he considered his future, he was far more interested in what he would be doing in twenty years rather than twenty minutes.
His home life was not unusual. He was born into a middle class family who had lost money after the war, but that was true of many. They had struggled when Blaz was little but eventually his father had found steady work and things got better after that. His father was a hard man, prone to angry silence and a firm hand, maybe firmer than most. One could tell he had been an athlete in his younger days. Blaz had once thought of his father as a gladiator, trained to inflict terror and pain. Fierce as he was Blaz’ father worked as a textbook seller and sold privately to schools and hospitals. He had not been in service during the Great War but considered himself a soldier in spirit at least. To him, the veterans were respected brothers, kindred souls. And he became a collector of war memorabilia; rifles, uniforms, medals, pistols, maps, anything that made him feel as though he were a part of history.
As a man he never seemed to notice his wife. He never looked at her, only spoke when necessary or to scold. Strangely, she seemed accustomed to his way of communicating. If his feet were flat on the floor, he wanted his shoes removed. If he lifted his glass and set it down without drinking he needed more wine. And his wife knew how to administer to him. If she were distracted, his daughter would fill his plate and his pipe. Despite his apparent disregard for the females in his family, Blaz was aware of his father’s interest in the feminine form. While searching the attic for Christmas linen Blaz had found photographs with women lying naked in the water and wrapped in sheer curtains. Blaz had been intrigued by the pictures but had the good sense to put them back where he found them and not to mention their discovery to his father nor to anyone else.
Blaz’ mother was a nervous creature. Where his father was stern and absolute his mother was jittery and changed course many times throughout the day. She might be on her way upstairs to fetch the laundry, but would be distracted by the sheets already hanging from the line out the window. So she would look for her basket to bring in the clean linen and see the time and think she needed to start to peel potatoes for dinner. Then something else in the kitchen would distract her and so on. Blaz pitied his mother. For all her ridiculous qualities, she had been a beauty once. She was a beauty still, but the ever present look of confusion on her face made her less attractive than she probably was. She was a dainty woman, almost girlish with her thin, straight hips and bright cheeks. Her hair was cut very short, unfashionable for a decade. She pinned up one side of her gray, brown strands above her right ear and let the rest flip about her scalp as she darted around the house.
Had it not been for Blaz’ sister, he was certain very little would be accomplished in the house at all. Bita was younger than he by two years but resisted all sibling closeness. That was not to say that she did not love her brother, but her love was more loyalty than affection. She would praise his accomplishments when he announced them and make subtle huffs and sighs when he did something that she disapproved of, but for the most part she kept to herself picking up the pieces of life that their mother had dropped. Bita was as tall as her brother but delicate as if whittled from a slender strip of wood, whereas Blaz seemed almost hewn, a statue rough and impressive, a miniature of their expansive father.
Blaz had few friends and spent most of his time wandering through town or reading in his room. He preferred books to people, never finding another who could encourage his mind the way a fantastic story did. He appreciated the intelligent dramas of Machiavelli and Dumas. He read nonfiction, as well. With his father’s job textbooks were always accessible and Blaz devoured their pages one by one.
His appetite for learning was not seen as a virtue by his schoolfellows, though. Blaz envied the girls at his school. They could be admired for academics amongst their friends while boys were forced to vie for brotherly attention through physical exertion. Blaz was a good athlete, strong and agile, but he was too good. It did not challenge him or inspire him the way that learning did.
He was grateful when, following an assign
ment to research a great world leader, he was partnered with a girl. Chloe was a good match for him. She read history books on her own like he did and their main task of studying was already done. They simply had to choose a world leader and work on the presentation together. Chloe let him choose and so he opted for someone he had recently been reading about, the Spartan king, Leonidas.
Their time together started as merely pleasant but swiftly became Blaz’ favorite part of the day. Chloe was kind and enthusiastic, a voracious learner like himself. She listened to his ideas and never made him feel ignorant, even when he forgot facts he had recently learned. Her patience was only exceeded by her beauty. She was one of the prettiest girls in his class if not the school. Dark hair and eyes accentuated her pale, perfect skin.
Then one day, everything changed. While discussing the ethnic purity of the Spartans, their personal views on race took over the conversation. Chloe’s heritage was Jewish. The news shocked and frightened him. He had heard horrifying tales of what Jews did. Chloe saw the sudden change in him and tried to sound casual as she explained that her parents were both Catholic converts and she had never practiced Judaism at all. But her heritage was still Semitic, Blaz confirmed.
“You’re Jewish!” He had said. “But I thought the school had Anti-Semitic enrollment.”
Chloe had not been bothered at all.
“Oh, they do. But, like I said, my parents converted.”
She kept talking but Blaz hardly heard a word. He was too busy thinking how humiliated he would be if the other students knew how much he liked her. She was still talking, unperturbed by his reaction. As with all things she was more interested in the why than the what.
“Did you know,” she said, “The word Semite has nothing whatever to do with religion, but with language?”
He did not know and the fact that she did made him certain he should stop seeing her. Obviously, this entire discussion was her way of defending being Jewish. While she wasn’t exactly boasting about it, she didn’t seem to understand that it was a problem. He had to stop studying with her at school where all eyes were upon them, but he could not forget her or let her feel forgotten. She may have been Jewish but she was a friend to him, more than a friend. He might not be allowed to keep seeing her but he wasn’t cold enough to avoid her altogether. And they still had a paper to present. They would have to study separately from now on. But if he tried to tell her that in person, she might use her wiles to seduce him into staying. Now that he knew what she might be capable of, he was afraid to be near her. The only option was to write. So one night before bed he wrote a letter.
In it he told her how, despite her Jewish ancestry, he cared for her and admired her ideas. As he wrote he understood that he missed not only talking with her, but that he was missing the opportunity to ever touch her in a purposeful way; to hold hands, allow their knees to linger when they met, maybe even someday to kiss her. No matter how shameful he wanted her to understand why he had to stay away. Without intending to he had written all of these things and realized when he signed it that he had been holding his breath as he wrote. He folded the letter nervously, even though there had been no one past his room, and tucked it into his Grammar book.
The next morning, Blaz barely looked at his parents or sister. No one seemed to notice, but he was sweating with anxiety all through breakfast. Could they tell? Could they see the shame on his face? Here, at their family table, he was sure they knew every indecent thought. He forced himself to eat everything on his plate, despite not being the least bit hungry. His father would notice wasted food. Blaz was so grateful when it was finally time to go that he rushed off without saying goodbye.
At school he planned to leave the letter with the librarian so she could give it to Chloe when he did not show up to meet her. But when he got to the library, he realized his book was no longer in his pack. It had been left behind and Blaz could just imagine his father taking the textbook to work under the assumption that it was a sample and discovering the letter which had been written to the strange Jewish girl.
Blaz could only imagine his father’s face, his fury when he read the declarations Blaz had written. All throughout the day, Blaz tried to think of a way to not go home. But in the end, he knew he would have to go back at some point and he may just as well get it over with. Perhaps all his trepidation was for nothing. The book may still be in his room. Or maybe his father hadn’t seen the letter. Blaz could only hope.
But when he got home his father had had the letter in his hand. Blaz froze standing under the parlor arch. He could imagine the expressions his father must have had and the all too familiar escalation of his temper as he read Blaz’s tender words. He had felt an urge to run, but if he did the beating would still be waiting for him when he got back. The longer he put it off, the fiercer the blows would be. So there he stood in the parlor, facing his judge. He looked at his mother and sister. They both looked terrified, but it was hard to say why. Was it fear of how his father was about to react, or the transgression that had caused the reaction? He couldn’t ask. Of course he couldn’t. He thought he saw pity in his sister’s eyes, but she turned and left the room before he could be sure. His mother followed immediately after, not looking at him as she picked up a stray teacup and then set it on another table a few steps away before rounding the entry to the kitchen and leaving the men in her family to their business.
His father had not moved during the silence. He still stood in front of his chair as if he had just jumped out of it, the letter warped in his clenched fist. He stood there a moment longer, his chest heaving, beads of sweat gathering at his brow. Finally he lifted the letter and with one dramatic flourish after another he ripped it to shreds. Stepping on the mangled bits, he advanced on his son and glared with bloodshot eyes.
“Father,” the word was barely out of Blaz’ mouth when the fist came. It caught him square on the cheekbone and knocked him into a desk. Blaz kept his eyes shut, not only from the pain that seared through his skull, but so he wouldn’t have to see the next blow and the next. His father was gone by the time he opened his eyes and all he could do was gather the fallen pencils and newspaper clippings, wishing he could turn back time.
Back in his room he continued to pat and press on the developing bruise. Somehow, seizing the pain felt good, like he was seizing his control again. How could he have been so stupid? So selfish? He thought of the letter, remembered writing it. Had he known then how foolish he was being? Had he known, honestly, that his father would hate him for it? Had he cared? Or had he only been thinking of her? Imagining her chocolate eyes and her skin the color of condensed milk, he shook his head in disgust. No, he would never think of her again. He would never write her another letter. He would erase her from his mind. He would never again be seduced by her kind, no matter what. He would forget her.
But that night his dreams wouldn’t let him forget. He dreamt he was standing on an open plain, bare and brown. The sunlight was fierce, yet somehow invisible, as though covered by paper. There were no trees, no hills, no buildings, no birds or bustling. No sound at all. He wondered, was he deaf? But then he heard it, the only sound in the dream. He turned towards it. Her voice was calling him from out of a pillar of smoke, shouting his name, pleading with him. The smoke was so tall. He felt its immensity increasing. Was he growing smaller or was the pillar getting bigger? He was standing right in front of the smoke, but Chloe’s voice was far away. As the pillar grew, her voice got further. It was the sort of dream that one knows they are dreaming. He could not feel the heat or smell the air. The pillar continued to grow but did not engulf him, just swirled before him, stretching across his field of vision. Yet it was not the smoke that frightened him most, but the voice that cried out.
When he awoke, the shock of reality was almost too much to bear. Most nightmares were a relief to escape from. But he felt panic at being awake, as if he had left something behind. He went to the mirror. His bruise was even more difficult to see in the moonlight. The
swelling was down, and the lavender color was shiny, almost metallic in the blue night. He went back to his bed. Every sound seemed so blunt compared to the singular cry from his dream. The starched sheets crackled as his legs maneuvered beneath them. The brass headboard rapped against the wall when he turned on his side. A large beetle fell from the rose bushes outside his window and bounced on the rocks, then zipped open its wings and flew to some other part of the yard.
He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember what else he might have dreamt, but only she came to mind. Something would have to be done. He must find a way to prove to himself and his father that he did not care for her. He closed his eyes and imagined the pillar of smoke with her voice coming out of it. He imagined raising a pistol and firing into the pillar until the voice was gone. And when it was gone he shuddered with relief and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11
September 1944
Blaz
The room was black. Blaz’ eyes adjusted as they searched for the invisible threat in wide alarm. Something had woken him and not gently. An autumn shower was flooding the camp yard outside and he struggled to separate the sound of the rain from whatever might have disturbed him. He listened, his arms braced him upright, tensing so tightly he could already feel a sharp stabbing between his shoulder blades where the muscles contracted. Just when he was beginning to believe it had been a dream he heard another sound, smaller, just under his open window like the squelching of feet in the mud. It was followed by a splash and then a scream that was muffled almost before it had been heard.
But it had been heard and the scream finally propelled him up and to the window. He looked down and saw nothing, only the rain and the blank brown and black of the nighttime yard. He kept looking as far as he could down each lane and through the fences. But there was still nothing. Perplexed, Blaz shook out his trousers, about to dress so he could investigate. Before he could remove his pajama bottoms he heard the unmistakable sound of someone being hit… hard. It wasn’t a sound many people would recognize unless they had experienced it intimately. Blaz bolted out of his bed and down the steps. It was not an inmate, he knew. The muffling of the scream and stealth of the perpetrator meant this was something private, something no one else was meant to witness.
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