The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  “Promise.”

  “All right.”

  “When I’m gone, you may hear them say anything about me, and what happened. Then you will need faith in me, and it will be hard, very hard. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. Now, she had gotten up, walked to the basin, and was washing herself. It was time to go, David needed her to leave.

  He said, “I don’t mean that you never should accept that I failed.” He hesitated, “That I died trying. But you will know that only because time has passed—and that if I had succeeded, I would have come back for you.”

  “I’m so scared, now. I don’t think there is any way out of here, even for you. No one leaves. They say no one ever left. People only leave to be taken East and sold into slavery—or because they died.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me, then,” she said, drying now, hurrying.

  ‘I won’t. Just this. If I fail, just keep on here, as you have. Fit in, don’t deny yourself any peace, any pleasure you can find that feels right. Because, Hannah, the steps to end all this—” he gestured around him—”started with me, but it won’t end there. So wait, just wait.”

  She did not answer. She was at the door. He came now, took her in his arms, held her. They did not kiss, she did not want that, now. And, after a few moments, he released her. “I love you, Hannah.”

  “I love you,” and she was gone.

  Chapter 27

  “Being Dead Doesn’t Change”

  She walked in the garden, as she often did, but the swathes of flowers, the sky, the fountain scintillant in sunlight all seemed more intense, never to be forgotten. At dinner, she took more than she had intended, famished. In all ways, she acted as she always did, as though nothing had changed—although everything had. When Rachael slipped into the seat beside hers, and asked, “What are you doing after dinner?” Hannah replied, “Read, maybe. I want to read more.” And Rachael smiled with a rare pleasure. “That’s what I always want to do, but I always have to do it alone.”

  “Not tonight,” said Hannah, grinning.

  “Do you know I read Urdu and Hindustani?” She had lowered her voice. “Those are languages of India, but there are only three books, here, in Sanskrit, and I’ve read them. But I grew up with English, too.”

  “You just told me where you came from,” said Hannah. She said the words in a voice scarcely audible and, as she did, glanced around the room. Rachael smiled sadly: “You looked so happy, this afternoon, I just wanted to tell you. Because in India I was happy, too, as a child.”

  “Still, we shouldn’t,” said Hannah. “Let’s go read,” and they got up together.

  Later, on her bed, nude, brushed by breeze from the open window, she summoned the moments of rising excitement and felt her body respond. She did not want that tonight, though, to permit any experience to supplant the memory of being with him. So she thought of him, wondered if he had begun and was in danger. She could not sleep, not tonight; that was all right, she would be awake, her mind with him. But the storm that had risen, then swept through her body that afternoon, shaking her, had left a profound ease. Not even images of his danger could dissipate it, and she slept.

  He was not at breakfast, in the dressing room, in exercise. Fear edged into her mind, nagging, but he had said he might not even be at dinner last night—and hadn’t been. And so it must have begun. No one took note of his absence; Maria did not seem to inquire. By day’s end, Hannah was preoccupied with the itch to ask where he was, what anyone knew, but she did not. If they took no notice, said nothing, she must do the same. But through dinner her tension increased, like a band drawn tighter, compressing her chest. She felt as though she must choose to take each breath, take deep breaths, and exhale.

  She still lay awake as the moon rose, filling her window. She should sleep; it was her duty to David. He had said: survive, live. She flipped over. Was he outside somewhere, under that moon? Hiding? Swimming? The latter thought almost panicked her. When she did sleep, at last, she dreamed of swimming out to sea toward the moon, getting no closer, wondering in fear how she would regain shore. But she kept swimming, the fear growing, because now she never could return to shore—yet, nothing was ahead of her.

  Were they all blind? Had everyone but Hannah been told? He had not been seen for two full days! By dinner, her resolve had been weakened by her own inner assault of rationalizations. It would be strange not to ask! She timed her exit from the dining room with Darlene’s. They were not chums, but Hannah had avoided coldness toward anyone. As they came through the doorway, she asked, “Hasn’t David been missing?”

  “Obviously,” said Darlene.

  “Where, do you think?”

  Darlene shook her head. “They do with you what they want. People get sick, sent places.”

  “I don’t think anyone has been gone two days.”

  “Not since you got here.”

  “We’ll see I guess.”

  “He’s a special guy of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Not guy, but I’ve talked to him some. He’s different, you know.”

  “No skin on his dick.”

  Hannah managed to giggle. “I think it’s cute, but, no, Jews are different. I never had a chance to talk much with one. Not many in…” she stopped. “My town.”

  Darlene wanted to be the one who could give you things, the dispenser of favors. Now, she said, “Sometimes Charles knows what no one else does. I don’t know how. Ask him.”

  “I might. Now, I want to find a book I heard about. Thanks, though.”

  Darlene only nodded, turning to another girl. Now, it would be even harder to be friendly to her. To her, David was a funny prick.

  The one person she avoided was Charles. She didn’t feud; she smiled when they passed. She chatted. But what they had said to each other since the night of the fight would add up to a poor paragraph.

  Another day. Now, it was Rachael who asked Hannah if anyone knew about David. It became exhausting for Hannah to get through the day. Always there was the demand for attention, focus, and to do that, dragging her mind away from David, drained her energy before she began what she had to do. Charles was leaving the dressing room. She caught up. What price would he exact? What humiliation? She turned to him, with what she hoped was a quizzical frown, and said, “No one knows what happened to David, do they?”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  “I am now.”

  “What’s so important?”

  “Don’t you get worried when someone just disappears? I mean, what do they do with people? And when will it be me? Or you, Charles? Besides, I like David a lot.”

  Charles shrugged. “I heard he was sick. Really sick. I heard they were in a panic that it might be contagious, kill us all.”

  “He’s with Dr. MacLeod?”

  “Was when I heard.”

  “Thank you, Charles—really. I hope no one else gets sick.”

  They reached a stair and Charles started up. “Thanks!” Hannah called. He did not answer.

  Sick, very sick. And they were worried he might die? But how much did Charles really know? How could he know so much? Someone said he was close to Maria, the only one of them who was. Perhaps.

  But David had said not to believe what they said. To believe no reports, rumors, to have faith in him. He made her promise. Just to wait, to go on with things, to see. But the duke came in two days. Or was it three? That shouldn’t be hard to find out. For weeks, the others had been preparing, working specifically, now, on roles, lines, songs, and dances—although never in the same room as Hannah. She wouldn’t be part of the show—only afterward, in the duke’s room. Then she was the whole show.

  Hadn’t David been gone long enough for something to happen—if he hadn’t failed? Three days would be enough. What could he be doing? Not sick, not lying in some room, tended by Dr. MacLeod? How likely that that would happen the very day he planned to leave?

  By the next morning, she admitted that David ha
d foreseen this, given her the only possible advice: believe nothing, wait. She hadn’t slept much; if she remained gripped by the rage to know, she would be able to do nothing. And how to explain that? She hurried to breakfast; today was just another day, things to do. She was eating alone, focusing ahead on the day, when Charles sat down across the table. He leaned forward, folding his hands. She said, “Hello, Charles.” Did he hear her voice shake?

  He said, “You asked about David.”

  She nodded, staring at him; she couldn’t help herself. “Did you tell me the truth?”

  “What I knew. But now I know more and it’s bad.”

  Her hands took hold of the edge of the table. “Oh, it’s contagious?” Now, it was obvious her voice was shaking. She squeezed the table harder. Charles glanced down at her hands.

  “He died. Yesterday. Last night, they hauled the coffin down to the wharf. The person who told me saw from her window when they loaded it on the cart.”

  He looked up at her. She saw in his face nothing but concern. He was watching her expression. She was telling herself: believe nothing you hear. Have faith. Don’t listen. Just wait. Her heart was thudding. Would she cry? She squeezed till her fingers ached. Charles was studying her. Now, he asked, “Are you all right, Hannah? I know you liked him… But, here... You can’t let it get to you. Or you don’t survive.”

  After a moment, he asked: “All right, Hannah?”

  She nodded. Kept nodding till she realized it, made herself stop What did her face look like? She had to answer. She said, voice low, “Sure, Charles, and thanks. Thanks.” What else? What next? She said: “Just… so sad, to come here, away from everyone, and… and die.” Her face contorted, but she held back the tears. “Thinking of myself, really,” she said. “That makes it so sad.”

  He nodded. “I’ve felt that. You die—first out there, then, someday, you die in here. Twice.” His head was bowed.

  “Is it contagious, dangerous?” There! A normal question.

  “Well, it took him so fast. Just three days, less. I hear they were terrified, the guards. They wouldn’t approach the body; the doctor had to put it in the coffin, nail it shut, before they would come near it.”

  “So what will everyone do?”

  The doctor says do nothing. It might not be contagious. It was quick.”

  “Thanks, Charles. You helped me. I want to be friends, do you?”

  He was rising. The dining room had emptied. “I’m over it, whatever it was, with us. If you are, then we’re friends.”

  “Good. Wait, I’m coming. We can’t be late.”

  During exercises, she leaped and bent, stretched and twisted, like an automaton. Once, seeing herself as she had not for some time, she felt the absurdity: she was naked, among naked men and women, hair flapping, breasts jouncing, as her whole mind fought off the most terrible imaginings about the man she loved. As the class neared its end, she had repeated to herself David’s words, “believe nothing,” a dozen times—a dozen-dozen—and lost the struggle.

  As her feet hit the floor, her knees gave way, her muscles went slack, and she crashed to the floor, the back of her head striking it with a thud, bouncing, and she lay still. “Halt!” snapped Maria, and hurried to her. The others hesitated, looking down at her, and then crowded in.

  Maria knelt and said, “Hannah!” The body did not move, lying slack, one arm thrown back, the other to the side. Hannah’s lips were parted and now foam came to them, oozing between the lips. “Hannah!” said Maria, again, and shook her. The eyelids slid open, but the eyes were upturned, showing mostly whites. “Charles, Alan, Edward, pick her up. One at her shoulders, one at her waist, one at her legs; slowly, be careful. Keep her body straight.”

  They stooped, got their arms beneath her, and lifted easily. Her nude body across the trestle of arms had no tension, head back, arms dangling. Lilly was whimpering, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

  “Come, you’ll have to move sideways,” ordered Maria. “Follow me.”

  A few minutes later, Dr. McLeod had closed his door and turned to the nude body on his examining table. He walked over and looked down. He called, “Hannah?”

  She opened her eyes. He said, “Good you’ve come round.”

  “I had to talk with you,” she Hannah. She began to sit up.

  “No, don’t get up. You’ve had some kind of seizure.”

  Hannah had sat up and swung her legs over the side. He came forward, arms out to catch her.

  “There is nothing wrong. I had to see you.”

  “But what happened in exercise?”

  “When I was a girl, a man in my town had a fit. It scared me terribly; I never forgot it—his eyes, the foam at his lips. People wouldn’t go near him; they said it was insanity. But my mother called it ‘epilepsy,’ and said the man would wake up by himself. He did.”

  The slightest smile was on Dr. MacLeod’s face. “I see. All right. You had to talk with me.”

  “What happened to David?” she demanded.

  “Didn’t you hear? The students aren’t supposed to be told anything, but somehow these things don’t remain secret.”

  “I heard that he died. I don’t believe it. What happened?”

  Dr. MacLeod frowned, shrugging slightly, and said, “It happened very quickly. I’ve seldom seen anything like it. Just three days; he lost consciousness the second day. His fever was almost unbelievable. I’m sorry, did you…?”

  She was shaking her head, lips compressed; she still watched him intently. He asked, “Well, all right. Why don’t you believe me? I closed his coffin myself and they loaded it and took it to the wharf. People saw. I just don’t understand.”

  She said doggedly, “He had been planning to do something, something he waited to do, and that day he was going to do it. Instead, he died. I don’t think things happen that way. Tell me!”

  He was scrutinizing her face. He spoke gently. “Do you know what a ‘coincidence’ is, Hannah?”

  She shook her head.

  “It is when two things happen that have no special reason to happen together. One doesn’t cause the other. And people think it is strange. Do you know that people can get struck by lightning?”

  “Yes…I guess so. Yes, I’ve heard it.”

  “But it doesn’t happen very often, does it?”

  She shook her head. He said, “Do you know a man once got struck and killed by lightning on his wedding day? It’s true.”

  “I see…” she said slowly. She began to cry, her face lowered, her shoulders shaking. After a moment, her arms came up and wrapped around her breasts. She felt naked. Dr. MacLeod was silent. Finally, she looked up, passing the back of her wrist across her eyes. “I’ll go back,” she said, and moved to slip to the ground.

  “Wait,” he said, quietly. “It’s all right, lay back. I can cover you. You’ll rest.”

  “No,” she got to her feet. She looked at him, “What will I tell Maria and the others?”

  “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

  “Much, much harder than I expected.”

  He stepped closer and reached around her head. His fingers slipped beneath her hair. He said, “You sure did! Tell them you fainted, but I don’t think it will happen again. When you fell, you hit your head and were unconscious; that’s why they couldn’t wake you.”

  She nodded. “Thank you,” she said, tonelessly, and started for the door.

  “What are you going to do, Hannah?”

  “Go back to exercise. It’s probably over, by now.”

  “No, I mean, you are very upset. What will you do?”

  “What can I do? Survive.”

  Again, he was watching her closely, a frown on his face. He nodded slowly. “Hannah, keep on doing what you’re doing, all right? Just do it. And remember that things you think will never change, cannot change, do change; that is the nature of life. Don’t assume that what is now will be always, all right?”

  “Being dead doesn’t change,” she said, d
ully. “Thank you, Dr. MacLeod.” She reached for the door handle.

  Behind her, he said, “Hannah…”

  She turned.

  He was shaking his head, eyes closed. “No,” he said. “Nothing.”

  She must sleep. But if she slept at the usual time, she might not wake till dawn. There was no way to wake herself. She thought of asking Rachael, but then Rachael would have to stay awake, then break curfew. So, Hannah found a place in the gardens, quiet and shady but where someone would see her on their way to dinner and wake her. That would be three hours, better than nothing. She stretched out on the grass, head on her arm, and ordered herself to sleep. She commanded the thoughts, heartbreak, and fear to go away. For a few minutes nothing happened, but the feelings of that day had drained her as no exercise regimen could. She slept.

  It was Charles who shook her awake, looking down at her with a smile. “Dinner,” he said. She smiled back and struggled up, brushing away dried grass. All right, her next assignment was to eat, eat enough, not too much. She felt no hunger; it didn’t matter, she ate.

  Back at her room, she looked around. Nothing was hers. They had thrown away the faded gray woolens she wore the day she was taken prisoner. Nothing had any personal meaning. She had the one thing she needed, a silver letter opener. It was incongruous like everything, here. She never had received a letter here and never would, but the opener was in her top drawer along with a silver hand-held mirror, nail files, small scissors. The opener had a sharp point, but a very dull blade—not even a blade, just edges. She might find a way to sharpen them, if she had time, but she didn’t. She tied a cord around the handle, pulled the knot tight, then tied the other end of the cord. She had a loop; she hung it around her neck, so the opener hung between her breasts under her blouse.

  That afternoon, as classes ended, Maria had called to her, “Hannah, stay.”

  When the others had left, Maria came over. She nodded to Hannah, but her gaze moved down Hannah’s body. Hannah felt no embarrassment, but wondered what Maria intended. Maria said, with what sounded to Hannah like unaccustomed gentleness, “Dress if you wish, before we talk.”