Papa and I had stopped at the cafe on our way home from the funeral of one of his colleagues. Over the weekend, Dr Singer had suddenly died from heart failure, and his death had shaken Papa badly. Two years younger than Papa, there had been no sign of illness, no shortage of breath, no putting on of weight, nothing. After hearing the news, and sharing it with his family, Papa sat slumped at the kitchen table. We left him to his thoughts and followed Mama into the drawing room. Three days later, neither Mama nor Margot were interested in venturing out on a cold November day to attend the funeral of someone they barely knew. Papa looked so lonely that I simply could not bear the thought of him leaving the house alone, so I pulled on my coat and boots, and slipped my arm into his.
There were only three others at the funeral. An old woman dressed in black, who I presumed to be the doctor's mother. A younger woman in a worn coat and ill-matching hat, who I imagined to be his faithful receptionist or housekeeper. And an older man, about Papa's age, who I immediately presumed to be another doctor. It soon became clear that Papa knew this man, for, once the brief service was over, they shook hands warmly and Papa introduced his daughter to a Dr Lewin. This done, Papa turned to the two women and introduced me to Dr Singer's mother and his housekeeper, and then we stood together, a small awkward knot of people, until it began to rain and hasty excuses were proffered. For some reason, Papa and I were the last to depart. We stood together on the stone steps and watched the three mourners fan out in their separate directions.
As we began the walk home, the rain became more insistent. I looked across at Papa and knew that his mind was churning. We would soon have to give up our beautiful house, and most of our possessions, and move to a special part of town. Papa had already been forbidden to practise medicine, and, although people still sought him out, he was able to prescribe only patience. These days, he spent his time at home either staring into mid-air or trying to occupy himself by reading a book What little money remained was slowly draining away. All of this he tried to hide from his children, but there are some things that cannot be hidden. And then it occurred to me that perhaps Papa's friend did not die of heart failure. Perhaps Papa's friend had no one to live for. Like Papa, he was no longer permitted to practise as a doctor and, his elderly mother apart, had no family. What else was there?
There was humiliation. There was the daily anxiety of being easy prey for groups of men who ran through the streets yelling slogans. There was the torment of their cruel laughter. There was the fear of being betrayed by a gesture, a slip of the tongue, or an accent. There was the waiting and the worrying. There was the knowledge that you might be pointed out by classmates or friends or colleagues. There was the constant bullying. (Remove your hat!) I knew why Papa stared into mid-air. I, too, stared into mid-air. I, too, had tried to bury myself in books. There was blackmail. An earring. A watch. There were muffled tears at night. Margot and I both understood this. There were those who had already gone into hiding. The classroom was shrinking. And everybody dreamt of escape to America. But in the meantime, there was humiliation. Forbidden to ride on a trolley-car. Forbidden to sit in a park. Permitted to breathe. Permitted to cry.
The rain continued to fall, and there was now a sizeable cluster of people huddled in the doorway waiting for a table. Occasionally the door would open and one or two would leave, having decided that they should try elsewhere. I turned from both the drama by the door and the antics of the couple sitting opposite, he now pressing her smooth, well-manicured hands between his own, and I began once more to observe life in the windy street. As the afternoon gave way to early evening, there were fewer people struggling against the wind. I imagined that most had either reached their destination or had decided not to venture out at all. The streetlights were now lit, and the mysterious half-world between day and night fascinated me.
'What do you want, Eva?'
Papa's voice was tired. I turned from the window and reached for the menu.
'No. What do you want. In this life?'
I panicked inside, realizing that Papa was asking me an adult question. In fact, an impossible question. I searched his face for some clue as to how I might answer him, but I discovered nothing.
'I want to be happy, Papa. To marry. To have two children.'
And then I stopped, disturbed by the realization that I was answering as a child might answer. But what did Papa mean? Really, what kind of a question was this?
'You want to be happy?'
Papa smiled as he asked the question. I nodded.
'That is enough, Eva. That is a fine answer.'
The woman opposite glanced across at me. I was sure that she had overheard some part of our conversation, but she smiled quickly, then averted her eyes. Meanwhile, her friend released her hands, broke off a piece of bread, buttered it, and then placed it on her plate. The woman looked quizzically at him and I wondered if my glamorous woman was truly happy with her old man.
The door opened wide and cold air rushed in. It was now dark outside and the rain was cascading down. A tall, elegantly dressed woman, in a thick black coat with an elaborate brown fur collar, made her entrance. Quickly, somebody moved to close the door behind her and keep the heat inside. The woman hardly broke stride. She was led past those who still congregated in the doorway to a space where a single chair and small table suddenly appeared. Papa looked up at her.
'That's the singer, Leyna,' whispered Papa.
Other heads turned.
'She's going to America next week. It's all arranged.'
The woman opposite reached into her handbag and again pulled out her cigarette case. She gave a cigarette to her friend, lit it, then took one for herself. One of the two waitresses bolted the door to the café, turned the sign in the window, and drew across a curtain. But the large windows to the street remained undraped. Papa turned from Leyna, raised his hand, and beckoned the waitress who had previously served us. She was tired. It was nearly time to go home. Papa ordered another large glass of wine and a coffee and then, with his eyes fixed firmly on Leyna at her single table, he idly wafted smoke from his eyes with a slow branch-like movement of his arm. The old man immediately stubbed out his cigarette, but the young woman did not appear to notice. I looked at Papa and realized that his family and his dead friend were far from his mind. Papa continued to stare at Leyna.
I SAT on the side of the bed and watched as Margot packed her suitcase. I wondered if I should tell her about Mama's strange behaviour, but I decided against doing so. It seemed better that Margot should leave without this additional burden. As she folded her clothes, Margot spoke loudly and with the recently acquired confidence that her new friends seemed to have instilled in her. 'You see, Eva, in spite of everything that we have lost, they still hate us, and they will always hate us.' I did not want my sister to see me cry. I looked at the window where the snow was banking into the corners and beginning to obscure the view. 'Papa must not wear spectacles in the street because they love to hit such people straight in the face. And men will probably start to ask you to prostitute yourself for them. They pretend it is a joke, but there is more to it than this.' Margot closed the lid of the suitcase and sat next to me on the bed. For a moment, she followed my gaze and looked up and out of the window. 'You see, in some ways it is easier for us women.' Margot shrugged her shoulders. "There is no trouser check, for one thing.' I wondered if Margot might talk now about her boyfriend. I knew that she must have one. But Margot stood up. 'You too must go into hiding. But we mustn't be apart for too long.' I tried to smile, but I couldn't. 'Peter says it is painful to have to walk on earth that is saturated with the blood of our people. He says we should have seen what was coming.' I looked at Margot. 'Peter?' For a moment our eyes locked. And then Margot pushed me back on to the bed and started to laugh.
Yesterday they beat me. Having wiped my tear-stained face, Mama insisted that, in future, she would walk with me to school and then meet me again at the end of the day. And so this morning we had set out together,
with Mama tightly clutching my hand. I looked around as we passed through a grubby courtyard, a short-cut that Mama was introducing me to. The truth was, I was ashamed that I had let Mama know the true nature of my distress. I had run home, my face streaked with tears, but once she had cleaned me up, Mama simply sat me down and changed the subject. Three boys had pushed me and kicked me and called me names, but it appeared that all Mama wanted to talk about were her daughters. About how different we were from each other, and how I was the more studious and determined, and Margot the more fanciful. And then, when Margot returned from her club, the three of us sat together and Mama told us about the problems of young girls, and how they differed from the problems of young boys. And then, looking closely at Margot, she began to share with us her understanding of the many difficulties of love, and offer advice as to how best to cope with boys. She even spoke about Papa's courting of her, but this was a story that she had related to us on many occasions, although Mama seemed to have forgotten this fact. As the candles burnt low, and Mama began to revel in the warm glow of her private memories, it began to upset me that she never once referred back to the fact that I had just been beaten. Finally, after Mama's anecdotes and advice had run their course, and as Margot and I began to make our way to bed, she looked at me and confirmed that, from tomorrow, she would be accompanying me on both the journey to school and the journey back home at the end of the day, but she mentioned this as though it were an afterthought.
We passed out of the filthy courtyard and turned right on to the main street. On this broad thoroughfare the destitute former musicians gathered, and all day the place was awash with mournful song. In a week or two, I knew that most would have been forced to sell their instruments, and they would be reduced to merely standing on street corners. But there were always new musicians to take their places, with old violins wedged hopefully under their chins. Mama quickened her pace and then, from a small alley, a column of men swung into view. They walked in perfect step under the assiduous scrutiny of a pair of youths in uniform. The prisoners' faces were emaciated, the details of their crimes almost certainly invented. Mama tugged at my hand to tear my attention away from these men. But what else was there to look at? The skies were grey, the buildings dull, and the other people who walked these streets did so with their hands pushed deeply into their pockets and their eyes peeled, searching for crumbs and morsels that they knew did not exist. All about me, shoulders were habitually hunched and hats were worn with sad resignation, for there was nothing rakish or jaunty about people's lives. What else was I to look at besides this column of prisoners?
As we neared the school, we passed the place where the boys had cornered me on the previous day. Assaults in the street were becoming increasingly frequent, and even decently dressed people were being waylaid by uniformed brutes and ordered to scoop up dog filth with their bare hands, or lick clean the windows of a nearby shop, or simply hand over their money and valuables. Only the previous week I had witnessed the sight of a lady in a fur coat being forced to remove her lower underwear and scrub the icy streets with the garment. She was then made to put the dirty wet rag back on and proceed on her way. Mama knew about such incidents, but they were not to be talked about. And then something had happened to me. It appeared that even this was not to be talked about. Just before we reached the school, a uniformed man passed by. Mama stopped, and there was silence. In fact, everybody stopped until this man had passed from sight, and then, as though being awoken from a hypnotic trance, we all resumed our lives.
At school I always sat near the window, for, when the teacher was not spying on me, I liked to look outside. From my classroom window I could see the street, and I could therefore follow the lives of the people down below. Mama had warned me about dreaming at school, but these days she did not seem as interested in how well my studies were going. We both knew that I would soon have to leave this school. Last night, when talking to Margot and me, she again told us of how she had given up her studies at the university to marry this serious young doctor. He was a young man of medium height, bespectacled and shy, a man who dreamt of a future he could not afford. She told us of his diligence, his determination to learn to dress himself in the fashion of this big city, and his desire to secure for himself and his family a life of leisured comfort and happiness. And in spite of her parents' feelings, Mama had insisted on marrying this man, and, having done so, she watched her own future walk away from her. Mama paused at this point, and she looked closely at her daughters. And then she reminded us that although she loved this shy, bespectacled man, she had prepared her own girls for something else. Hadn't she always encouraged us to dream beyond marriage and children? The world would be ours in a way in which it could never be so for her generation. Mama reminded us of this.
It began to snow. I looked out of the classroom window and watched the ground receive a thin sprinkling of what appeared to be sugar. However, I knew that, should I taste it, the snow would be bitter. I watched people huddling under arches and stairwells, with a profound fear of the forthcoming winter etched clearly across their faces. In the summer, I would look out at this same street and see men with abandoned jackets and loosened ties lounging about idly. The windows to the apartments would be thrown wide open and the curtains tied back, creating wide holes that were desperate to suck in fresh air. I imagined these same windows at dusk, after I had left school and gone home, beginning to close, one by one, a thousand eyelids slowly shutting. But today, as the snow continued to fall, they were all tightly sealed.
This morning, before I left for school, I heard Papa shout at Mama. I was lying half-asleep in bed, but I clearly heard him asking her for something that he claimed she had taken. And then I heard Mama begin to cry, and then Papa evidently discovered whatever it was that he had been looking for. There followed a quiet period in which I assumed that Papa was begging Mama for her forgiveness, which I knew she would eventually give. I rolled over. Relations between them were not good. A week earlier, they had left their two daughters and gone together to the woods. On their return, they had told their daughters that today they had buried some precious family objects beneath a large oak tree, and that Margot would have to go into hiding. Margot looked dumbfounded. Both she and I had assumed that she would be coming with us to the small apartment, and, in a peculiar way, we were both looking forward to this new enterprise. But a grim-faced Papa went on and reminded us that, these days, people were hiding in every imaginable place. People were building tunnels under hallways, widening cellars, creating hiding places inside furniture, in woodsheds, in fact anywhere. Until these ugly times passed by, it was better to be safe. In less than a week, we would have to leave the four-storey house for the apartment on the other side of town. It made sense that we should take precautions now, for after the move it might be too difficult. Luckily, Mama and Papa had found a family who would take Margot. They were still looking for a family who would take me. And then, before either daughter had a chance to protest, a tired-looking Mama and Papa left the room together.
The Mama who met me at the end of the school day seemed suddenly older. A week had passed by and nothing further had been mentioned about Margot's imminent departure. As we began to walk home, a fatigued Mama started to speak, but she spoke in a manner which suggested that she was wandering in her mind. I knew immediately that today was the day we would lose Margot. 'Remember, Eva, you are a guest in this country. And you must never speak with your hands.' Mama stopped and began to demonstrate. A man whose pride remained intact, despite his unshaven face and his unwashed skin, looked on. Only in his expensive clothes, now filthy, could I see the quality of his past. He stared, and for a brief moment his eyes met mine. Mama did not notice as she finished her demonstration. And then, without warning, she began to walk away from me. I turned from the man and chased after Mama, who by now was speaking aloud to herself. 'Eva, where in the world is the United States? Where is Russia, even? One day you are neighbours, the next day they spit on you. W
e are stupid for being proud to be what we are not, do you understand? Stupid.' I took Mama's hand, but she did not seem to notice. 'In this world, you do not shoot people without a reason. There has to be a reason. How is it possible to be so angry with people who have done you no wrong?' The afternoon light was prematurely fading, and the snow continued to fall.
Margot pulled on her coat and picked up her suitcase. The man took the envelope from Papa, tucked it into his pocket, and said that he would wait downstairs. 'No,' said Papa. 'There will be no farewell scenes. This is only a temporary measure.' Papa quickly kissed Margot, and then Mama hugged her eldest daughter. Over Mama's shoulder, Margot winked at me. And then she was gone. That night, I lay in bed and listened to a volley of dull thwacks as, somewhere, a restless housewife beat the dust from a hanging rug. But above this sound, and dominating the night, was the sobbing of Mama, who had now lost one daughter. Through the window I could see that it had stopped snowing, although the sill remained thickly crusted.
ON GOOD Friday 1480, the Christian faithful of Portobuffole began to congregate in large numbers at the Church of St Marie of Settimo. The altar had been carefully dusted many times over, and the crucifix was covered with a black veil. Three purple cushions had been placed on the altar steps, and the failing light at the end of the day evoked the darkness which covered the earth during the death of Jesus. As ever, the service was both austere and moving, and towards the conclusion the priest joined his hands together for prayer and exhortations. The first oration was said for 'Omnipotent God', and then six more followed.
The Nature of Blood Page 9