Relatively Strange

by Marilyn Messik

  “Ruth, we don’t need tea now.” Miss P the first, was impatient and her sister subsided, much as had Hamlet and I, landing on the sofa next to me with a resigned thump that shook its frame and shot fine dust motes into the air. Her eyes, I saw, confirmed the relationship the rest of their physical appearance denied, they were the same bright hazel, sharp with intelligence and much more.

  I was by that time so mixed up, I didn’t even particularly warm to Ruth although she was certainly an improvement on her tersely rude sister. It didn’t help that whilst I couldn’t read a thing from either of them, Miss Peacock could obviously stroll in and out of my head as she chose. As could Ruth also I assumed. Her mind was as smooth-walled and impenetrable as her sister’s and Glory’s. Whilst I was reflecting on this Glory came back in followed by Ed who didn’t return my tentative smile. She elegantly settled herself on the second sofa, the other side of the coffee table from Ruth and I – she obviously knew the room well because she made her way through with no faltering. Ed brought up a solid wood-framed chair to sit beside her and everybody looked at me.

  *

  There was an energy vibrating in the room, the like of which I’d never come across before but at the same time, none of the normal background babble which was as much part of my daily existence as breathing. I thought I could hear faint Frank Sinatra – Ed, I presumed – but other than that, nothing. Despite my mixed emotions, it was, I had to confess, a uniquely blissful quiet and one I’d have been mad not to savour.

  “So?” Miss Peacock had perched on the arm of Glory’s sofa.

  “I’ve told her a bit, shown her. Had to otherwise she wouldn’t have come.”

  “She’s not got much shielding.” Miss Peacock complained.

  “We can sort that.”

  “Quickly enough?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hey,” I interrupted sharply, “I am here you know, talk to me not about me.”

  “Take no offence dear,” Ruth placed on a hand on my arm for an instant, “My sister gets carried away, leaves her manners behind completely.”

  “Sorry.” Miss Peacock smiled briefly at her. It was a quite astonishing smile which lit up her sallow features with unexpected depths of warmth and humour. However, I was in no mood to be charmed, neither by Ruth’s ostensible concern nor by one unexpected smile. Miss Peacock turned back to me.

  “We asked you here because we need your help.”

  “I’ll want to know a lot more than I do already.”

  “She’s got a lot of questions.” Glory confirmed. Ruth snorted,

  “She’s entitled.”

  “I’m not arguing.” Miss Peacock pointed out. “Ask away.” I hesitated, it was like being handed a big box of chocolates, way too many choices – and I couldn’t be certain I was going to like everything I picked.

  “Can we start with this child, I’ve forgotten his name. I’ll ask other questions as we go along.”

  “Agreed and it’s Sam.” Miss Peacock moved off the arm of the sofa and slipped down next to Glory who eased over to make room. “He’s six years old, we think he may be autistic he’s certainly very withdrawn, although that’s hardly surprising. He’s very frightened and he’s very dangerous.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s killed.” I digested this.

  “Who?”

  “A nurse.”

  “How?”

  “Very easily.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Did he mean to?”

  “Who knows? I told you, he’s terrified. She was clumsy with a needle, kept trying over and over to take blood, she hurt him. He hurt her back.” There was silence for a moment. Poor little boy was my first thought and then a shocked second later, poor nurse too of course. I glanced up, appalled, but there was no judgement on their faces. Maybe I’d have preferred it if there had been. I cleared my throat,

  “What about his parents?” Ruth shook her head,

  “No parents. Foster-care from a baby. Father unknown. His mother abandoned him at a few weeks, probably frightened of him, it’s a familiar pattern.”

  “Familiar?”

  “Of course. Those of us who are different …” she paused, “I don’t know how you term it?”

  “Strange,” I said, “I … we, my family I mean, we’ve always just called it Strange.” She chuckled,

  “I like that – Strange, yes, a good word, and you’re comfortable with it. Not just the word, your family have much to be proud of my dear, they’ve done a sterling job with you. Now where was I?”

  “Ruth, for goodness sake.” Miss Peacock obviously felt any niceties were a waste of everyone’s time, her sister ignored her.

  “Those who are – Strange are just born like that, but sometimes it doesn’t surface until around five or six years of age – sometimes not until puberty. Occasionally an ability remains latent for nearly a whole lifetime and is only brought to the fore by some overwhelming injury or deep psychological trauma. But in children like Sam, the abilities are there from the start and that’s an alarming and dangerous combination.” She paused, “With me so far?” I nodded, I was way ahead. I could clearly remember the strength of emotions in my baby sister.

  Miss Peacock opened her mouth to take over again but I interrupted,

  “Why’s he at the Foundation?” Ruth slipped in,

  “In addition to supervising the research project there, which, as you may recall, is not all above board as regards its aims, Dr. Karl W. Dreck,” she rolled the syllables around her mouth and spat them out as if they’d gone off, “Has developed a high-profile practice, dealing with severely disturbed and disabled children. Sam was referred there because his foster parents were having so many inexplicable problems. When Dreck suggested he hospitalise the boy for observation and treatment the foster parents and Social Services were only too pleased to hand over responsibility.” Her mouth tightened, “If there’s one thing they can’t abide, it’s children who make their case-books look untidy. The clinic is run on the same premises and under the auspices of the Foundation, it’s earned itself a considerable reputation for successful treatment.”

  “But don’t people know?”

  “What?”

  “What goes on there?” She arched an eyebrow,

  “Research. What could be wrong with that?”

  “But they can’t keep him sedated forever.” I said, “What then?” Miss Peacock and her sister exchanged the briefest of glances and Miss Peacock took over,

  “You need to be quite clear. Dreck is a man obsessed. He knows there are people out there with different abilities. In years of searching, he’s only been able to identify one or two who’re this naturally talented. Sam’s his Holy Grail, he can’t and won’t miss the opportunity of taking him to pieces bit by bit to find what makes him tick. There are no parents to interfere and the social workers are being fed a steadily deteriorating case progress. If a death were to occur, there would be no undue investigation.” What should have sounded melodramatic somehow, in her evenly neutral tone, merely sounded factually accurate.

  “What can you do?”

  “Get him out.”

  “How?”

  “We need to move swiftly. As you point out, they can’t keep him sedated forever, his system won’t take it. But they’re scared to death of what he’ll do if they bring him out of it – you’ve seen the protective clothing.” She snorted, “Goodness knows what good they think that’s going to do. The point is, someone has to go in there and get him.” There was a pause, they all looked at me, I looked back.

  “Surely, you can find someone better than me?” For just a second I felt the lash of her restrained fierce irritation, before she masked it.

  “Unfortunately not. You look younger than you are, we hope he’ll see you as another child, far less threatening.”

  “There must be someone else, surely?”

  “You’re our best chance. He’s learnt, the hard way, not to put his trust in any adult he’s ever
met.”

  I’d inched forward during this exchange so I was sitting on the very edge of the sofa. Now I pushed myself back into its comfortable depths and shut my eyes for a moment. They waited while I mulled over what I’d been told. I opened them again.

  “Why should I trust you, believe what you’re saying?”

  “Don’t be obtuse girl, how d’you think? If we were lying you’d know.”

  “I can’t read you.”

  “Doesn’t matter, you know full well you wouldn’t have come with Glory if you hadn’t believed she was telling the truth.” She was right of course. I’d seen the boy, I knew in the deepest core of me what I’d been shown was genuine but I wanted more.

  “I don’t understand this whole set-up. Who are you anyway? What’s it all got to do with you? And – oh yes, last time I saw Glory, she was actually working with Dreck and that ghastly assistant.”

  Miss Peacock tutted briskly,

  “We haven’t time to go into everything.” This time it was Glory who intervened.

  “Rachael, she’s right, I’d want to know more.”

  “We’ll be talking till the cows come home.”

  “She needs some background.” Glory argued, “Or she won’t co-operate, you see how obstinate she is.” I shifted crossly, polite, obviously wasn’t something this lot did.

  “I don’t know.” Miss Peacock was dubious. Glory was firm.

  “No choice. Ruth?”

  “Agreed.” Ruth said quietly

  Swivelling my head from one to the other, I felt like an enthusiastic spectator at Wimbledon. Miss Peacock raised an eyebrow at Ruth who nodded,

  “I’ll do it now.” she said. Miss Peacock turned back to me.

  “Right. If you know more, it might make up your mind but because time is short it will be intense, do you understand?” I nodded. I didn’t at all, but presumed I would shortly. Ruth moved a little closer to me,

  “Give me your hands dear, that’s right. If you’ve had enough at any time, just pull away from me. Don’t look so apprehensive, I’m only going to share some memories with you. I’ll try and keep things brief and in order but remember, these are my recollections – from my heart as well as my head – not edited like a film or a book. Close your eyes.” Her plump little hands encircling mine were warm and dry and held me very firmly.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They were two sisters, Ruth younger, Rachael eighteen months older. Father was as tall as the ceiling. Waist-coated; fob-watched; balding; distinguished; a doctor; heart specialist; highly respected. People from all over, in fear and need came to him to be cured or comforted. With colleagues and patients he was cool, calm, reassuring, with his wife and beloved daughters he played the clown and they sometimes laughed until they cried. He’d bend, sweet-cologne smelling and gather both girls in his arms, rising with them to his full height and it felt to them as if they were going to touch the sky and catch the clouds, but they knew, in his arms they were safer than safe.

  Mother was soft, rose-petal cheeks, warm, soap-smelling neck with long brown braided hair which she wore coiled and pinned up, held in place with tortoiseshell pins which she took out at night and laid on the dressing table ready for the morning. Sometimes she let the girls brush her hair with the silver-backed brush, gift from her own mother. She was a cushiony bosom and baking and bedtime stories, a warm lap when they were cold after the long brisk walk home through snowy streets from school, a cool hand on a fevered head when they were sick and sweating.

  There were two Grandpapas one strict, stern, generous with pocket money but needing a perfectly recited times-table first. Another, Zaider, soft like butter who let them do whatever they wanted, from plaiting his beard to riding on his back. No grandmas sadly but variegated uncles and aunts and cousins some in the city, lots in the country for weekend visits – late nights, full stomachs, falling asleep lulled by the rhythm of the adults talking downstairs. Happy days, swinging on a tyre suspended from a tree, a bloodied knee bringing pain but also a pleasant shower of attention. Ruth and Rachael watched their mother light candles on a Friday night and yearly they sat with the family around a Seder table. Life was good. They spoke another language, but I understood everything because these were Ruth’s memories.

  What the two girls knew they could do was shared simply between themselves, taken for granted, nothing out of the ordinary. They were very close, in age and affection and it seemed entirely logical that they shared each other’s thoughts, along with everything else. They assumed this was the way it was with sisters. Because they didn’t know they were different, there was never any reason to talk about it. By the time oddly unsettling incidents started to emerge, objects accidentally smashed in transit, fires inexplicably ignited, their parents were preoccupied with altogether different concerns.

  Ruth and Rachael were, naturally, aware far earlier than their contemporaries of what was taking place, reading if not quite understanding what their parents sought to keep from them. At first their father was not unduly perturbed. Of course he didn’t like what was happening in Germany, despaired of the direction in which things were headed although, as he reassured his increasingly anxious wife, nobody at his level, in his profession, was likely to be affected in any way. But he was wrong, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Unbelievably swiftly the whole structure and fabric of their lives began to unravel in unimaginable ways. I saw yellow stars sewn onto sleeves of coats by women too fear-filled to cry. Listened in on visits from anguished relatives who thought they’d lost everything, but were not yet aware of how much more they were to lose. Familiar streets became foreign territory, changed and corrupted by shattering glass, crackling fire, shouts of hoarse hatred. Father – and surely it was only their own growth, Ruth and Rachael’s that made him look shorter, diminished in size – no longer went to the hospital, no longer clowned. He was allowed to see a few patients at home but gradually even the neediest of patients deemed it better for their health to seek treatment elsewhere. Once, more frightening than anything, they thought they heard him crying, rusty, gut-wrenching noises more like retches than sobs. Over the months, Mother’s plump cheeks sagged and paled, her hands shook now.

  Rachael and Ruth, with their parents were taken in 1939, they were amongst the first. They became separated from Mother and Father when they were herded into different carriages of a train with no windows. I was Ruth, clinging to her sister, the two of them inundated into near unconsciousness by, not only the smells and sounds of fear and despair, but the sensory overload of what was going on in the minds of the three thousand desperate men, women and children who travelled with them.

  I jerked my hands away convulsively, tears streaming still, mine or hers I couldn’t tell.

  “My dear, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I just needed you to understand who we are so you would know us, I forget, stupid woman me, how intense it can be.” Ruth’s arms were around me as I shook. Her own face was pale and strained, chin quivering, her stress doubled by mine. The others weren’t in the room any more, how much time had elapsed I couldn’t tell. I tried to tell her she shouldn’t apologise, I wasn’t crying for me. But of course she knew that. She pressed a tissue into my hand, watched while I blew and wiped. “It’s important Stella, my dear, for where we go from here, that you know as much of us as I can convey in the short time we have. Look, let me just talk you through the next bit.” She reached for my hands again, I couldn’t help but flinch. She shook her head, “No, not sharing, just telling, all right?”

  “We were ten and twelve when we entered the camp, sixteen and eighteen when we were liberated. We survived because of what we were, though we knew enough by then to make sure nobody else guessed. If there’d ever been even the slightest suspicion, we’d have been taken for experimentation immediately. There were things, my dear, we had to do that I will not talk about, but we did them to survive and survive we did. We developed our abilities beyond anything we had thought possible and we learnt m
ore about human nature than we would wish anybody else to ever know. We learnt, as you have done, how very easy it is to kill and how powerful is this thing we have, although it wasn’t powerful enough to get us out of that place.” She paused for a moment, eyes closed lost in thought and I waited hands quiescent in hers.

  “We tried,” she said softly, “Never to forget that for every man or woman who sinks to untold levels of wickedness, depravity and sheer inhumanity there are others who rise equally in the opposite direction.” She opened her eyes to look at me, “That’s something very important to know, to remember, to hold in your heart whatever happens, do you understand?”