Sure, she had her answer – sort of. But at what price?
Seduced by the silence and the dark, warm comforts, she closed her eyes and her mind wandered off to a better place – the place she’d always thought of as the start of her new life, after she’d recovered from the horrors of Bergen-Belsen.
After she’d got married to Archie, Susannah had wanted to stay in Wilmington to be close to Paul, Helena and Reuben. They’d all settled there because of a farm specifically set up for Jews fleeing Europe, and because the coastal plain most resembled the landscape of the Netherlands, which was where Paul and Helena occasionally said they were from, because sometimes – just sometimes – it wasn’t exactly helpful to your social life to say you were German.
Now Susannah and Archie had been married for two years and, although neither of them could bring themselves to admit it, they’d been two pretty horrible years.
Archie had been trying to control her. Telling her how much drink she was pouring down her neck. And he kept on telling her not to buy so much food, that there was no shortage in the stores and she didn’t need fifteen tins of this and twenty boxes of that, and especially bottles and bottles of you know what.
She’d confessed to Aunt Helena that they were having difficulties, that Archie was trying to control her, and although Helena hadn’t exactly taken his side, she didn’t seem to be much help either, saying she should try to see things from his point of view. It was about then that Susannah and Archie had had their first major argument – the one where Archie had told her she had to see the doctor again.
And that hadn’t helped. She just wanted them all to butt out and let her sort out her own problems – her way.
And her way meant drinking as much as she wanted, whenever she wanted.
The housework piled up, the only time she seemed to leave the house was to buy more groceries she didn’t need but somehow had to buy ‘just in case they ran out’, and she felt like Archie was hardly speaking to her. Of course, years later she realized that he was talking, just not saying what she wanted to hear.
It was about then that she had the car accident. She reversed the car straight out of the drive, then her foot slipped off the brake pedal and she carried straight on across the street into Mr Carlton’s new Buick.
At first Mr Carlton accepted the accident as exactly that. He asked whether she was all right, and told her not to worry, that these things happen. Then, when she got out of the car he started sniffing the air around her like a wild bear. At that point he changed. He went very red in the face and became short with her, saying he would sort things out with Mr Morgan later on – after he had put her car back onto her drive because she was in no fit state to do it herself.
It was to be another two years before Mr Carlton said another word to her.
However, the real problems started when Archie came home and saw the damage to the car.
‘So which came first?’ he said. ‘Did you get drunk because you smashed the car or did you smash the car because you were drunk?’
It was a fair, if sarcastic, question.
But Susannah matched it. ‘You know, honey,’ she said, ‘to tell you the truth, I’m too sozzled to remember.’
‘I can believe that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re too sozzled for anything. As always.’
‘Perhaps I like being too sozzled,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Like or love?’
She shrugged but didn’t answer.
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I can’t handle this.’
Then he started swearing, saying he’d been good to her and given her what she wanted, and didn’t understand what her problem was or what he’d done wrong. Then he stopped himself, thought for a moment and just said quietly, ‘For God’s sake, Susannah, I know what you’ve . . . I mean, I have some idea of what you’ve been through, but if you want to kill yourself there are quicker ways of doing it.’
He turned towards the door and started walking.
‘Isn’t that what you want?’ she said, spitting the words out.
Then he just gave her a pitying look and shook his head.
As he reached the door she shouted out for him to stop.
‘Why should I?’ he asked.
‘You . . . you haven’t eaten, and you’ve still got your work clothes on.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
And he said it with that annoying calmness again, the air of normality he must have known wound her up like a toy racing car.
‘Please stay,’ she said, her face now cracking.
‘I just need a break from it.’
‘From me?’
He ignored that and reached for the door handle. She ran to him, her hands mauling him.
‘Archie, please don’t leave me.’
He brushed her hands aside and sighed. ‘I’m not leaving you, Susannah. I just can’t cope with this – with you like this.’
But, then again, he always said that – always denied he was leaving her.
‘Please, Archie. Tell me the truth. I can take it.’
‘I always tell you the truth.’
‘I can give up the drink if I have to. Just tell me you’re not going to leave me.’
He looked her up and down.
Like she was a whore.
‘I’m not going to leave you,’ he said.
Sure, he looked her in the eye when he said it, but he paused, he definitely paused.
‘I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It’s just . . . when you . . .’
Yes, he definitely paused, like he had to give the matter some consideration rather than let the instinctive answer fall out.
Then she stood in front of the door. He sighed and shook his head, this time giving his brow a wipe for good measure.
‘I can’t talk when you’re like this,’ he said, pushing her to the side.
‘Please don’t leave me.’
‘I am NOT . . .’ He took a moment to calm himself down a little, then, seeing the tears streaming down her face, lowered his voice. ‘I’m not leaving you, Susannah. I just . . . I need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk, that’s all.’
And with that, he left.
I’m not leaving you, and then he left.
Susannah spent a few minutes – no, it was probably only a few seconds – staring at the door, then she went into the kitchen to open a bottle.
And after the first glug she knew why Archie had hesitated. It was guilt over his other woman. Yes, that was it, guilt over the woman he was planning to leave her for.
Some time later – there was no way of telling how long except by fingers of gin – she stumbled out onto the front lawn, bottle in hand, and prepared to address the scary and unwelcoming neighbours – those anti-Semitic sons of bitches who had ignored her, had twitched those drapes whenever she’d left the house, and who she knew for certain were talking about her behind her back. Well, she was just going to have to tell them she couldn’t give two green figs for what they thought about her, that if it was true that America was a free country, then she was free to drink however much she damn well wanted to, and they could gossip about her and give her disapproving looks as much as they wanted. She simply didn’t care for them and their like. In fact, they could all rot in hell – not that any of them had the slightest notion of what hell was really like.
Back in the real world, however, she spoke no words at all.
In her stupor she tripped on the edge of the driveway and felt her feet pull away from underneath her. She twisted her torso – because the only important thing right now was trying to keep the bottle she was holding upright. After all, losing any of that precious juice was hardly likely to make life better, was it?
And because she was unable – or unwilling – to use both hands to break her fall, her ribcage took the brunt of the fall. The pain, although dulled by drink, made her pass out.
When she came to, prostrate on the lawn, she could feel something slight and delicate r
esting on her outstretched hand. She didn’t move, but slowly opened those bleary eyes to see a wagtail perched on her thumb.
The bird was small, plumper than it had any right to be, but with warm dark eyes and skinny legs. It started chirping, and for a second Susannah saw Ester in feathered form, singing to her, and heard her giving that old pep talk. ‘You must keep hoping,’ Ester says. ‘You have to do your best to survive and hope that things will get better. Otherwise there’s nothing – no point in living.’
And, while her head was spinning like a fairground ride, she wondered what Ester would have told her to do had she really been there. Would she have told her to stop drinking, or to try to forget what had happened?
And what if Susannah were to say she couldn’t imagine a life without drink – could see no escape, no way of living without her unquestioning liquid friend? What would Ester have said to that? Of course, she would have told her that nothing is impossible if you think hard enough, that there’s always a way out, that you’re never a prisoner in your own mind.
And that was more or less what Susannah heard the little wagtail say. Then she watched it stretch its wings out one at a time, then crouch down and leap into the air. Its wings took care of the rest, and it circled Susannah a few times before swooping away, over the fence and into the small wood beyond.
Susannah closed her eyes again and stilled herself to think on.
That didn’t take long, and a few minutes later she lifted herself up, wincing at the pain in her side, and turned her attentions to the bottle still in her hand. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly turned it upside down. Then she watched until every last drop of the liquid had drained out and been sucked into the parched lawn. And, as those last drops fell, she thought she heard a final encouraging chirrup from the small wood beyond the fence. She struggled to pick her disorderly body up onto its feet and took her old friend, the bottle, back inside the house.
The next few weeks turned out to be a lot easier than Susannah thought they would be, because whenever those three cracked ribs made her wince in pain it reminded her of Ester’s words.
And she never touched a drop of alcohol for the rest of her days.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Susannah felt refreshed enough to open her eyes. The audio-visual presentation had seen fit to stop – or, at least, to stop the old fellow talking about his wartime experiences – a few minutes ago. It was as if it knew she took a side salad of quiet with her solitude. How understanding.
She looked around to find out she was still the only person in the room. Good. Those seats were mighty comfortable. Having a rest had made her feel sleepy – and that wasn’t a contradiction but a self-indulgent advantage that came with age. She took some slow, deep breaths through her nose and closed her eyes again.
Susannah hears a voice – a foreign one – and she feels simultaneously shocked and desperate to find out what is happening to her. She tries to wake herself up but can’t; her body refuses to obey orders and does nothing. But she can feel her body even if she can’t move it – and it feels slim and young, but at the same time fragile. Although she can’t open her eyelids there’s now a light forcing its way through them, warming her.
She feels her shoulder being nudged again – this time not by Ester’s delicate hand. She hears gentle talk in a language she doesn’t understand. Could it be English? She feels warmth pressing on her shoulder, and tries to open her eyes. But they’re like sticky, cobwebbed doors. Then she sees only a blur and language is irrelevant. She looks up and the blur moves. Her eyes follow it. She hears more words, and even though it’s in that foreign tongue again she senses the anger, a controlled anger but, nonetheless, one that contrasts with the gentle touch that woke her up.
There’s more touching – her hair, her shoulders, her legs. Then she hears the sound of a grown man crying, which is the same in every language. She’s left alone while this happens, and she senses the moment has gone. There isn’t even a jot of worry at being left alone again.
Because she doesn’t want to live.
She strains to lift her eyelids fully open, then moves her lower jaw up and down. It’s an effort, and she knows her lower lip moves only a fraction of an inch. Her tongue is stuck to the arid interior of her mouth. The vague figure, now a few feet away, starts to move closer again. He starts talking. It’s English – definitely English – so the words could be anything, but there’s a special comfort in the voice that gives meaning beyond words. It makes her feel calm and safe in a way she hasn’t felt for months or years.
She feels something wet touching her lips, and then again. It’s water, and it trickles into her mouth and feels like a monsoon giving life to a desert. Her tongue can now move. Some water gets to the back of her throat and she gives a gentle swallow. More water follows, then more. It’s like an electric current flowing through her, enough to make her open and close her mouth.
Yet more water dribbles into her mouth, and then it stops. Next she feels a harsh graininess on her lips, almost cutting them. Her tongue slips out and touches the substance. It tastes of ecstasy, of life and of every good memory she ever had.
Sugar.
Soon her mouth is alive and singing with the nectar.
Then she starts to move a little more, but slowly, grabbing for more sugar. And her eyes start to function. In front of her, crouching down, is the man. He’s young and wearing a smart uniform. A metal bottle and a paper bag rest on his lap, and in one hand is a spoon. When he sees Susannah moving he puts them all away and starts touching her – her face and her shoulder. He takes a blanket out of his bag and puts it over her; it’s as soft as a crying baby’s first blanket. Then the man feels her feet, and she hears a disappointed groan, followed by what sounds like a curse under his breath. She glances across. He’s taking his shoes and socks off, and soon her feet feel warm for the first time in months.
But then, mysteriously, the man walks away, turning his back on her. Susannah hears more crying.
She starts to cry too, but silently and inwardly, and she doesn’t know why.
A minute later she feels her body being hoisted up and her head is spinning. And although she makes no sound she’s still crying inside. However, with the warmth of another human being, and another glimpse of that rainbow, she feels better. She feels like this man will hold her until her sadness flies away.
Then she passes out.
She’s woken only by the rage of daylight and immediately shuts her eyes to its harshness. But in that instant she sees enough; she sees she’s still in the man’s arms, and she sees the cabin door pass her by. The cool fresh air hits her like the rush of smelling salts, and then she hears a shout and a scuffle of some sort.
Then she hears the shout again, this time the words are clearer: ‘The Lucky One!’
Unlike the voice from the man carrying her, the mocking shout is in German. She hears more blows and angry words and then she feels her body being sharply twisted away from whatever is going on. She grips the arm that holds her, and then, as though the exertion is too much, she relaxes and passes out again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Susannah is now conscious of feeling weak and hardly being able to move – but also conscious of a voice – a friendly, recognizable one this time – a piece of the jigsaw of who she once was.
But no – there are two voices, two jigsaw pieces. That means she has twice the chance of working out what’s happening to her.
They are German voices, and as she starts to move her head, feeling giddy as she does so, the voices get louder, more agitated. She feels threatened by the emotion in the voices, but cannot understand. Through her eyelids there’s a pink brightness, a painful light.
Then there’s nothing.
Susannah wakes again, and the voices are no longer there. She feels it’s safe to listen, but there’s nothing except a drone. Then she hears cracks in the distance – at once sharp yet faint – one every second. She opens her eyes. There’s not
hing more than dimness. Good. No pain. But a faint yellow light glows in the distance.
Is this heaven?
She strains to focus, sees a shape drifting from left to right towards the yellow glow. The shape stops moving and with it the sharp cracking noise stops. Susannah starts to focus properly, on a human figure in blue. The figure starts to move and the regular tick-tocking cracks start up again.
Her eyes explore more. At the yellow glow there’s another human figure. It’s at a desk of some sort, one with a lamp on it. Her head moves to allow her eyes a wider view, and she sees beds with huddles on them. But here there’s just one huddle per bed. The beds are spaced out. The sheets are white. There are no huddles covering the floor. She strains more to focus, and sees clear tubes leading to her arm.
No, this is not heaven – only a heaven of sorts.
When Susannah wakes again she almost feels human. The brightness is now not so painful to her eyes, and after blinking a few times she can see quite clearly. She turns her head to the side, and in front of her she sees a man with hair instead of a face. No, silly. It’s the top of the man’s head. It’s a sight she has seen before somewhere. But where? The man is sitting in front of her with his head down, reading a book.
Susannah stares for a few seconds, but he doesn’t move. Then he turns a page of the book and looks up. Now she sees his face, and it’s a familiar one.
And a shocked one.
The book drops to the floor and so does the man, onto his knees. He leans forward, his face moving closer to Susannah’s.
For a moment her heart jumps with fear at the sudden movement.
The man turns away from her and shouts a few words in German. ‘Helena!’ he says. ‘Helena! Come here!’
Another face from Susannah’s past appears next to the man’s. And then she knows. It’s Uncle Paul and Aunt Helena. They both look well – thin, but not thin like the ghosts in her nightmares. So is she in heaven after all? Perhaps that’s it, Uncle Paul and Aunt Helena went to heaven and now she has joined them. Susannah feels tears tickle the side of her nose and twitches it.
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