First the unleavened bread, dry and flavourless, to remember the suffering of the expelled tribes wandering the desert. Then the apple with honey, so we won’t go hungry or live in poverty, so we’ll have a sweet year. I dip the slice of apple in the honey pot and cover it entirely. I want a really sweet year. I’m tired of chewing on flour and water. There aren’t many of us around the table, perhaps seven. The bread is passed around and everyone takes a piece as they repeat: el pan de la afriisyon ke komyeram nuestros padres em tyeras de Ayifto. Then the apple: Shanah Tovah! There was nothing religious about the ritual. To me, there was always something missing. The truth. It was all a big enactment: we were Jewish for one day a year. We celebrated the New Year, but for us the year didn’t begin until 1 January. The year never began in September or October. So why the celebration? Why pretend to ourselves? I don’t understand why you say there was no truth in it. God wasn’t at the table, I agree; that was our choice. It wasn’t religion that was important to us, but tradition. We didn’t want to throw away everything our forebears had gone to such lengths to preserve. What mattered was maintaining the symbology. I wanted to pass on a little of what I learned to those who came after me. I know. I understand your gesture; I understand your intention. Breaking ties with the past once and for all is harder than we think — the guilt can kill us. I think that’s why we’re Jews even when we’re not. We say it’s genealogy, but it’s fear more than anything. We’re afraid of forgetting the past and being responsible for it. The past isn’t to be forgotten. If we don’t forget the past we don’t live in the present. You know, this pain I feel in my body, the weight on my shoulders, is the unforgotten past that I carry with me. The past of generations and generations. No, my child, what you carry on your fragile shoulders are the silences of the past. You carry what has never been uttered, what has never been heard. I warned you, silence is dangerous. But it isn’t my fault, I wasn’t the one who kept secrets. They came to me without my permission, and I don’t even know what they are. Yes, you do — your body knows all secrets, all silences, more than you can imagine. So, you do believe it’s an inheritance? That I’ve inherited all of the family’s pain? Nice present! Don’t be upset, it’s not worth it. Don’t shirk your responsibility either. You are responsible for your past too. You are responsible for what you carry on your shoulders and, above all, how you carry it. There are different ways to deal with inheritance, and you have surely chosen one of the most difficult, the most painful. I didn’t choose a thing, I already told you. I came into the world with this burden. I was there when you were born and I remember clearly — you were a cute, chubby baby, there was nothing heavy about your soft little body. Don’t be ironic. You know what I’m talking about. I’m not being ironic. I just want you to try to see things as they are. I want you to believe in this journey, to believe that you deserve to be happy, that you can be. I want you to understand that you don’t need to carry your family on your back, that you can be free of the past. But in order to do so you can’t ignore it, for the simple reason that you haven’t so far. You need to understand it and you need to name it. I’ve already named it: the name of the past is fear. I’ve never met anyone so stubborn. For each step forward, you seem to take one back. The name of the past isn’t fear. Don’t question things so much, my child, just carry on and you’ll see the surprises that await you, you’ll see how light life can be. You tell me this now, but don’t forget that it was you who taught me that before the sweet apple we must eat the dry bread. That’s right. The matzah serves as a reminder of the troubled past. The dry bread speaks of pain, of misery. And the apple with honey is so that we don’t repeat the past. If everyone talks about the past, why must I carry their silences? I understand your concern. Many things haven’t been said, and they are dragging you down. Fear has intercepted speech. But now it is up to you, it is up to those who remain, to tell the story, to retell it. It is up to you not to repeat the same mistakes. It is up to you to speak in the name of those who didn’t.
I tell (make up) this story about my ancestors, this story of immigration and its losses, this story about the key to the house in Smyrna, about my hope of returning to the place that my forebears came from, but you and I (just the two of us) know that the real reason for my paralysis is something else. I tell (make up) this story to justify my immobility, to give the world and, in a way, myself, an answer, but you and I (just the two of us) know the truth. I wasn’t born like this. I wasn’t born in a wheelchair; I wasn’t born old. There is no gust of ancient times at my back. I became like this. I lost my movements one by one after I met you. After I loved you, after I knew madness through love, our love. It was love (without boundaries) that slowly took away my movement, left me paralysed in this musty bed.
They were ready for bed when she announced categorically: I got us asylum at the Costa Rican embassy. He pretended he hadn’t heard. She repeated herself: I got us asylum at the Costa Rican embassy. He kept pretending he hadn’t heard. She said: I can’t live in hiding anymore. Let’s do as so many others have. We’ve held out more than most. We’ve been underground for four years. Don’t you see there’s no more hope for us here? When things improve (and one day they will, have faith) we’ll come back. He climbed under the covers and lay down, still pretending he hadn’t heard. Irritated, she said: Well, I’m not going to keep on talking to the walls. If you don’t want to come with me, I’ll go on my own.
A few days after you died, the doctor phoned to ask how our return to Brazil had gone, if everything was under control. No, I said, nothing’s under control. There’s nothing else anyone can do, not me, not you, not the best hospital in the world. He spluttered and then was quiet. I was afraid I was going to hear my verdict in his voice. I thought he was going to say that it was my fault, that I’d broken the rules by laying beside you in the hospital bed, that I hadn’t worn a mask or gloves, that I hadn’t doused the catheter with enough alcohol before injecting your medication (remember that when we left the hospital they trained me to be your private nurse?). I thought he was going to say that if I’d followed his instructions to a T you wouldn’t have died. When I heard his silence, I was sure I was about to hear my verdict: guilty. But no, the words I heard were unexpected; they were sweet and caring. He had become involved, Mother. His doctor’s carapace had given way to a compassionate man.
So I won’t get confused, I write the things I should say on a piece of paper: who I am, where I’m from, why I’m calling, what I want. I start by calling Salomon, since there is only one in the phone book. The phone rings and rings, but no one answers. I call again. After several rings, a woman picks up. I ask if she speaks English. She hangs up. I wish I could just give up, not have to go through it all again. I take a deep breath, dial again, and the only thing I say is Salomon. She says something in Turkish and I don’t understand a thing. I repeat: Salomon, and she continues speaking in this language that is completely alien to me. Once again I ask if she speaks English, and she hangs up again.
This isn’t going to work, I think to myself. And in this wave of pessimism I think how naive I am, and wonder how I could have believed I might actually locate my relatives. I pick up the phone, but this time to call Brazil: Grandpa, I found the names in the phone book. I called Salomon’s house, but a woman answered in Turkish. If I don’t speak Turkish, how am I supposed to communicate with them? He starts to laugh, and I snap: What’s so funny? Sweetly, he manages to turn my mood around, convincing me that these setbacks are part of the journey, that he never imagined it would be simple and that it isn’t the end of the world: Stay calm, sugar plum, it’s too early to admit defeat.
But how am I going to talk to them?
Try French. We all studied at French schools. And if that doesn’t work, try Portuguese, or whatever you know of Spanish, because they’re very similar to Ladino, which they still speak, no doubt.
Okay, I say, but I still have three different Raphaels to try.
See if one of
them lives in Bornova, says my grandfather, and if so, try that one first.
None of them live there, so it’s going to come down to luck. I choose the one in the middle and make the call with my fingers crossed, hoping it’s the right one. A young man picks up and, to my relief, says he speaks French. I tell him I want to speak to Raphael, but when he says it is he, I suspect I have the wrong one. But I don’t give up, and say: I’m from Brazil and I’m looking for my grandfather’s cousin, who has the same name as you, but I don’t have his number. I’m trying the Raphaels in the phone book. I found three, and you’re the first one I’ve called. He asks what my grandfather’s name is. He sounds surprised. He wasn’t expecting such an unusual call. My grandfather’s name is Raphael too, he says, and he does have cousins in Brazil, who left many years ago. He offers to call his grandfather for me. I think it’s a great idea — that way I won’t have to start all over again. Give me the number where you are and I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve spoken to him, he says.
When I hang up, I feel my body relax. I’m on the right track, I think. Finally, I repeat in silence and smile to myself.
No words hurt more than the absence of words. You weren’t stupid and knew it very well. You’d impose devastating silences on me. You’d disappear and I wouldn’t hear a peep out of you. You did it on purpose, to see me close to death, paralysed, sapped of strength. I’d wait for the phone the ring; it wouldn’t. And if for some reason it did, it wasn’t your voice on the other end. I’d wait for my computer to let me know a new email had arrived; it wouldn’t. I’d wait for a letter, a text message, a smoke signal. I’d wait for you to show up, bringing words with you. I’d wait and wait and wait. But you never came. You’d leave me alone with this silence that hurts more than a piercing scream, than a deep cut to the flesh, than the word pain itself. I’d talk to myself, sing in the shower, call friends. I’d go crazy, desperate for a voice, for words. But yours never came, and the more time that passed, the harder I looked for them, the less hope I had of ever regaining my movement.
They carted her off to prison one afternoon when he wasn’t around. Early in the evening, when no one answered the phone, he presumed the worst. He called the flat for days on end, and didn’t return. She was kicking herself for not having left the country. Why had she given in? Out of love for him or for the homeland? But she wasn’t furious. She was terrified, and the terror emanated from her eyes, her nostrils, the pores of her skin. She wished she could leave. Please let me go, sir. I have nothing to do with this story, I’m not who you think I am. I’m a nice girl from a respectable family. This is all a mistake. But where she was, such words meant nothing. The only valid words were the ones she didn’t want to utter. And wouldn’t.
I have a really big secret. So big that sometimes it grips my body and makes me repeat over and over: I can’t take it anymore I can’t take it anymore I can’t take it anymore. Silence is dangerous, you always told me. This danger is present daily and I feel the discomfort of not being able to speak. I feel the secret corroding me, slowly mutilating me. It’s a terrible, monstrous secret; there is nothing even remotely beautiful about it. It stinks more than sulphur, more than rotten food, more than a sick person’s vomit. If I could hold it in my hands, it would be viscous as phlegm, as a secretion. It is an ugly, ugly secret. Which is why I decided not to tell you, because I didn’t want you to suffer any more than you already had. But it was also out of fear. I once told another person this secret, and they said: You’re brave not to tell your mother. But the truth is, I’m not brave, I’m fearful, and that’s why I never told you. I still live with the danger of this silence. I carry, in my paralysed body, every word never uttered. Even now, Mother, with me here and you there, I don’t have the courage to tell you. And yet I need to speak, I need to tell you the truth. But I’m afraid, very afraid, because I know how painful it will be, and I don’t want to hurt you.
Do you remember how, when I was young, every time I wanted to tell you a secret (like my first period, my first kiss), instead of speaking, I’d write it on a piece of paper and leave it in your room for you to find? I was so afraid to speak, but at the same time I wanted you to know, I wanted to tell you. So I used a pen and paper. I know I’m a little old for this strategy now, and I also know that we were intimate enough for me to have looked you in the eye and told you. But I was afraid to see the fear and pain on your face and feel responsible for it. Since I can’t think of any other way to tell you what I’ve kept secret for so long, I’ll write you a letter to reveal what has brought me so much agony, the terrible secret that torments me to this day and makes me repeat over and over: I can’t take it anymore I can’t take it anymore I can’t take it anymore. Then I’ll find a park, a garden, or perhaps a forest, where I’ll dig a hole and bury the secret. I’ll put a little honey on the letter to disguise the bitter taste. I’ll cover the envelope with earth and then I’ll plant a rose bush. The rose bush will be the most beautiful in the park, the most showy. That way, Mother, when you find the letter, when you discover the secret and feel a knot in your heart, accept the roses that will be there as if they were a kiss from me, a small solace.
I’d wake up and before I even made a coffee, I’d turn on my computer and mobile phone. I’d check my email and voicemail for any sign of you. My thoughts had a single objective: you. Twenty-four hours a day, as I ate, as I worked, as I bathed, as I slept, all I could think about was you. After breakfast I’d head straight for the study. I’d read newspapers on the internet, a blog post or two by friends, and check my email again. I’d leave my mobile on the desk beside me. Then I’d start to write. I’d write a word and then another, and then I’d check my mobile again for messages or missed calls (I might not have heard it, it might not have rung — these things happen). I’d delete the two words on the screen and write another three. I’d get up and wander through the living room, through the kitchen. In my mind, a single thought: you. An obsession. I’d have a second coffee. I’d wander around the flat looking for inspiration, but all I’d find was you, in every corner, every idea. I’d go back to the study and start writing again. A few words would appear on the computer screen, and they’d all feel like the same one: you. I’d delete everything and check my email: advertising, friends inviting me out or asking favours, information on lectures and courses. From you: nothing, not a word, not a sign. Forget him, I’d repeat to myself. Focus on your work; write. I’d look at the screen again and see a blank page. I’d change the formatting: the spacing, the font. Sometimes it would work — I’d change the font and would manage, as if by a miracle, to write a whole paragraph in one sitting. Then I’d get up and wander through the living room and kitchen again. Third coffee. Study. Emails, mobile: nothing. Suddenly the phone would ring and I’d leap to answer it. It might be you. Telephone operators offering services, Dad asking if everything was alright, Grandpa, the odd friend. The computer screen again, the inability to write. I’d go into the bedroom and lie on the still-unmade bed. Curtains closed, as if it were night. From under the blanket, I’d stare at the ceiling and ask myself if one day it would pass, if one day I’d stop thinking about you.
My nights are taken up with nightmares, and between them there is only a brief moment of fright, in which I wake up and realise I’m covered in sweat. Then I go back to sleep and have another nightmare. I’m in a house I don’t know but I recognise many things: my grandfather’s portrait on the wall, my grandmother’s crystal glasses, the Turkish rugs from my apartment, black-and-white photographs, the table with the glass top, the musty smell of things kept in cupboards. The whole house is made of dark wood, the floor lined with handmade rugs. A flight of stairs leads to the second floor, and I don’t know what is up there. It is the house I’ve spent my whole life in, the house I’ve never been in. I’m alone, and solitude frightens me. I’ve spent my life in this house and have been trying to leave it forever, in vain. The door is locked with a key, and I can’t find it. The walls are solid: the
y must be made of stone. The door is large, heavy, as if it were composed of different layers. I hunt for the key incessantly, rummaging in the same places over and over: the same drawers, the same corners. I can’t find it. I try to call for help, but I have no voice. I don’t know what’s outside — or even if there is something, or if I’m in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. I wish I were Alice in Wonderland so I could slip through the keyhole, see the other side of the world. I wish I could see the sky and the trees that must be out there. I wish I could meet someone and walk hand in hand through the night. I wish I could stroll through the garden that I imagine around the house and pick strawberries and collect them in my skirt. I wish I could walk away from the house, see what I have never seen, never experienced. But the door is closed and there are no windows. My body wastes away; my story is intertwined with the walls and the death that awaits me.
Pain is in everything. It is in every corner of the globe, every corner of ourselves. There isn’t a pore of our skin that is free from it. Feelings change, but pain persists. In everything I have experienced, there it was, one way or another. In love, in happiness, in sadness, in suffering, in mourning, in dreams — I never knew any of it without pain. I don’t agree when you say that I always focus on pain. It isn’t me, Mother, it’s life; life is like that.
This journey I am undertaking, this strange country I find myself in, it all hurts. It’s beautiful, it’s interesting, it’s funny, but it hurts. This inheritance hurts. The things I bring with me without choosing to hurt. This conversation of ours, Mother, hurts too. The love story that exacted a pound of my flesh hurts. Grandpa’s story, your story, your torture, our exile; it all hurts. And, above all, it hurts to talk about the hurting. It hurts to write this story. Every new word I find hurts. Writing, Mother, hurts immensely. It hurts as much as it has to.
The House in Smyrna Page 8