by Judy Nunn
‘Ruth,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s right. Ruth Stein.’
The disfiguring scar on his face shocked her, but she’d been prepared for whatever she might find. She’d been prepared for this meeting for some time now.
Lucky had undergone no such preparation, and he stared at her dumbly, unaware that he was holding on to her hand far too long.
Ruth tried to signal him an apology. She had not intended it to happen like this, her eyes said. Then she turned away, withdrawing her hand.
‘We need some more chairs.’ Rob Harvey thought it was a bit much, Lucky ogling Ruth like that, and in front of his fiancée.
‘Yes, of course.’ Lucky sprang to his feet.
The exchange had gone unnoticed by Pietro and Violet, who themselves had been openly admiring Ruth.
‘She should be in the pictures,’ Violet had whispered.
But the moment had not been lost on Peggy. Lucky and this woman had shared something, she’d sensed it. Did they know each other? If so, why were they saying nothing? What did it mean?
Lucky offered his chair to Ruth and he and Rob Harvey fetched two more from a nearby table. Lucky’s mind was reeling. She was alive, she was here. It was incomprehensible As he sat, he tried not to stare at her.
Rob ordered another round of drinks and they discussed the luxury of late-night licensing. The long awaited change had come into being only several days before.
‘We were out at the work camp,’ Rob said, ‘but I’d bet a penny to a pound there was some partying going on in town that night.’
‘There sure was,’ Violet nodded. ‘You could hear them all over Cooma.’
‘Here’s to the end of the six o’clock swill,’ Rob said as Peter Minogue arrived with the drinks. He raised his beer glass and the others joined in the toast, explaining to Ruth the meaning of the term, which she found most colourful, which led to a discussion of other Australian colloquialisms.
‘Running around like a headless chook.’
‘Mad as a cut snake.’
‘Flat out like a lizard drinking.’
They all had their offerings, even Pietro, who admitted to finding it rather confusing, and Ruth finally shook her head.
‘I obviously have a great deal to learn,’ she said, and the others laughed.
‘How long have you been here?’ Lucky asked, finally forcing himself to look at her directly.
‘I’ve been in Cooma for a week, but I arrived in Australia ten days ago,’ she replied.
‘You will like it in Cooma,’ Pietro said. ‘Cooma is very nice place. You will stay here?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Course she will,’ Rob insisted heartily, wondering why she sounded uncertain. ‘Ruth’s just got a job with the SMA – she’s going to work as an interpreter and an English teacher.’
‘Oh.’ Violet was most impressed. ‘Peggy’s a teacher too,’ she said.
Peggy smiled. She was trying to join in the conversation, but she was having trouble – her feminine instincts were working overtime. She sensed something between Lucky and Ruth, something unspoken, but electric and palpable. Yet no-one else seemed aware of it. Was it just her own insecurity? Did she find the woman’s beauty a threat? Perhaps she was jealous. But she’d never been so superficial in the past. She’d never envied women their beauty; she’d admired them for it.
She continued to reason with herself as they adjourned to the dining room, but her feelings persisted. And Violet didn’t help.
‘I think we should have champagne,’ Violet said when the men asked the ladies what they’d like to drink. ‘We have to toast Lucky and Peggy’s engagement.’ Violet didn’t particularly like the taste of champagne – she preferred orange juice – but champagne was essential to romance. ‘They only got the ring last weekend. Show Ruth, Peggy.’
Peggy extended her left hand. Was she imagining it, or could she sense discomfort in Lucky beside her? He was no longer being physically demonstrative either, he hadn’t put his arm around her once since Ruth had arrived. Peggy felt mortified and she wished Violet hadn’t brought up the subject of the ring.
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ Violet said. Pietro was going to buy her her own engagement ring soon, now that she could openly wear one, and tomorrow she was taking him home for Sunday lunch with the family. Her mum wanted to meet him, and her dad had calmed down – well, at least that’s what her mum had said over the phone – so things were working out fine. And when they bought the ring she’d choose something really flashy. Pietro had said she could have whatever she wanted. Not that she was critical of Peggy’s choice – it was very tasteful.
‘How exquisite,’ Ruth said as she examined the ring. ‘It’s quite lovely. Congratulations, Peggy.’ And she turned to Lucky: ‘Congratulations to you both.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucky replied, and Peggy wondered why she felt a shiver of foreboding.
After dinner, they returned to the lounge where the band was striking up. The best tables had been taken and they had to make do with a small one in the corner where they were rather cramped for space.
‘Who cares?’ Violet said with gay abandon. ‘We’re here to dance.’ She was in a very flamboyant mood: she was unaccustomed to alcohol and the two glasses of champagne had gone to her head. ‘Come on, Pietro,’ she said as she whisked him away.
‘Peggy?’ Lucky knew it would seem odd if he didn’t ask her to dance.
She stood, feeling wretched. She could tell that Lucky, who was normally so eager to whirl her onto the dance floor, didn’t really want to dance at all.
Ruth and Rob Harvey were left at the table, and he turned to her apologetically.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m not much of a dancer.’
‘That’s all right, I’m quite happy to watch.’
They watched together; it was a waltz, and Lucky and Peggy were executing each step like true professionals.
‘They’re very good, aren’t they?’ he commented.
‘Yes, they are.’ Samuel had always been an excellent dancer.
The waltz ended, and the next number of the bracket was a samba. Peggy loved the samba, they both did – she and Lucky loved all the Latin American dances.
‘Shall we go back to the table?’ she said. She didn’t love the samba tonight.
‘Sure.’
Normally he would have insisted on dancing the whole bracket, she thought as they returned to the table.
The four of them sat in silence watching the dancers. To Peggy it was a most uncomfortable silence; she was sure that Lucky and Ruth were avoiding each other’s eyes. She couldn’t bear it any longer, and, painting on a smile, she stood.
‘Rob, I insist that you dance with me,’ she said brightly, taking him by the hand.
He was forced to rise to his feet. ‘I’m not much of a dancer, Peggy, I have to warn you,’ he said, embarrassed.
‘Then I’ll teach you. Come along.’ And she dragged him onto the dance floor. She would give Lucky and Ruth time alone to sort out whatever it was that rested so uneasily between them.
A minute or so later, as she glanced over Rob’s shoulder and saw the two of them leaning close to each other, deep in conversation, Peggy felt the sickest feeling in the pit of her stomach.
‘I’m sorry, Samuel, I didn’t mean it to happen like this.’
They spoke softly, and they had to lean in close to hear each other above the noise of the band.
‘I thought you were dead, Ruth. I searched everywhere.’ As he looked at her, Lucky was engulfed by the past.
‘I know. I know you did. But I’m here. I’m alive.’ She would have liked to have touched his face – her beautiful Samuel, so scarred. ‘I’m alive, just as you are.’
‘And Rachel?’ He held his breath as he asked the question.
‘She didn’t survive.’
‘Ah.’
He nodded as if he’d expected as much. But Ruth had seen the flicker of hope in his eyes and she wan
ted to hold his hand, to offer him some comfort. She made no move.
‘We mustn’t talk any longer,’ she said, aware that they were looking conspicuous and that Peggy was watching anxiously from the dance floor. Ruth was guiltily conscious of the fact that Samuel’s fiancée had sensed something between them.
‘Can I meet you tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Some time in the morning?’
‘Of course.’
‘Centennial Park, do you know it?’
She did, the little park on the corner, right in the centre of town. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘At ten o’clock.’
By the time the others returned to the table, they were once again sitting in silence watching the dance floor.
Peggy tried to make conversation as she and Lucky walked the several blocks from Dodds back to her cottage. She didn’t ask him about Ruth, she had decided not to. She would wait until he told her. Told her what? she wondered.
But he said nothing. And later, as they lay side by side in bed, he remained deep in his own thoughts. By now they would normally be making love. Why weren’t they? she asked herself. What had happened? She rolled over on her side, with her back to him.
‘Goodnight,’ she whispered.
‘Goodnight, Peggy,’ he replied, and he remained gazing up at the ceiling. He knew she was puzzled, and possibly hurt, that he had made no physical overtures. But he couldn’t make love to her – he no longer had the right. And what was he to say to her by way of explanation? I am married? My wife has come back from the dead?
Lucky’s mind was in turmoil. His lives had collided – he was two men now. What was expected of him? What must he do?
In the morning he was still preoccupied and there was an awkwardness between them. Peggy cooked breakfast as a matter of course, but they didn’t eat much. Peggy thought how they would normally have eaten Sunday breakfast in bed, rolling about and making love among the crumbs.
‘I have to go out for a while,’ he said.
She started clearing the table. He never went out on a Sunday morning. She knew he was going to meet her.
‘Will you be coming back?’ she asked. ‘For lunch, I mean? Will I get lunch?’ She walked over to the sink so that he wouldn’t see the tears that had sprung to her eyes. She hated the way she sounded so pathetic. She should have yelled ‘tell me what’s going on’, but she couldn’t. She could only wait until he told her it was over.
Lucky registered the strain in her voice and crossed to her, seeing the tears that she tried to blink furiously away.
‘Yes, I’ll be coming back.’ He held her close. She was hurt, confused by his remoteness. He owed her an explanation, but he was confused himself. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. So he told her the truth about his feelings instead. ‘I love you, Peggy Minchin,’ he said. ‘You are the world to me.’
The words which had meant so much only the previous day now had a hollow ring to Peggy, and when he’d gone she busied herself with unnecessary household chores, filling in the morning until his return, all the while fearing the worst.
Maarten Vanpoucke popped into the newsagents and bought himself a paper to read over his coffee and pastry, as he did every Sunday morning. Then, browsing the headlines, he ambled down Sharp Street towards the little cafe which he regularly frequented just opposite the park.
Ruth walked briskly along Bombala Street. It was a few minutes to ten and she didn’t want to keep Samuel waiting, but the park was only a block away now. She could see it up ahead, just the other side of Sharp Street.
She increased her pace but, as she reached the junction of the two streets, she was so intent upon crossing the main road that she collided with a man who hadn’t seen her coming, his attention focussed on his newspaper. The man looked up, rescuing his spectacles which had threatened to fall off, and for an instant their eyes met.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. Then she continued on her way.
Maarten didn’t move. He stood and watched as Ruth crossed the road. Then he tucked his newspaper under his arm and followed.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not late, am I?’
Lucky was sitting on a bench and he stood as she approached. ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘ten o’clock on the dot. Do you want to walk or shall we sit?’
Ruth looked around. It was a fine day and the park was a popular place on a Sunday: young couples sat on the grass, children played, families gathered. She and Samuel weren’t within earshot of others, and no-one was paying them the slightest attention.
‘Let’s sit,’ she said. She took a deep breath. They sat. ‘Who’s going to start?’
‘You,’ Lucky said. ‘Yours is a more important story than mine.’
She knew he meant Rachel, and calmly, succinctly, as she’d promised herself she would, Ruth recounted the facts exactly as they’d happened.
They shot the babies as soon as they arrived, and usually the mothers as well.
As he heard his daughter’s fate, Lucky clearly recalled the brutal words of the Auschwitz inmate he’d met at Camp Foehrenwald.
She told him about Mannie too.
‘I tried to save him, Samuel. I had “connections” in the camp, a “benefactor” – that’s how I survived.’
She said it with self-loathing, and Lucky was taken aback; it was the first time she’d shown any emotion as she’d talked.
‘But it was my “benefactor”, the very man whose help I sought, who ordered Mannie’s execution.’ She stared down at her hands, her fingers laced together, kneading her knuckles, her resolve to remain detached starting to crumble. ‘I realised later that I was responsible for Mannie’s death.’
‘You were responsible?’ The obvious burden of her guilt was more than Lucky could bear. ‘Ruth, he went in my place! It should have been me who faced that firing squad. I am responsible for Mannie’s death, not you.’
She looked at him. Poor Samuel, she thought. He had carried his remorse all these years, just as she had. He was trying to spare her now, but he couldn’t. He could no more save her from her guilt than she could save him from his.
‘My poor love,’ she said. Then she smiled and raised a hand to his cheek, gently tracing the cruel course of the scar with her finger. ‘My poor, beautiful Samuel.’
A smile, Maarten thought. He had never seen her smile.
From his position beside the rotunda, as he leant against the railings with his open newspaper in front of him, Maarten Vanpoucke studied Ruth’s every nuance. The fondness in her eyes, then the smile, and the tender gesture of the hand. Husband and wife reunited, he thought, how touching. He’d ached for her to show him such tenderness. He still did.
‘And after the war?’ Lucky asked, when he’d told his story briefly and without embellishment; having heard hers, his was of little importance.
‘After the war I lived in Israel for a number of years.’ She had no wish to talk about Israel and her purposeless existence on the orchard, or what had driven her to an empty life with a man she didn’t love. She never spoke of Deir Yassin and the massacre. She never would.
‘It was in Jerusalem that I saw Efraim,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘and when he told me you were in the Snowy Mountains of Australia, I’m not sure which I found more unbelievable: the fact that you were alive, or that there was snow in Australia.’
She asked him questions and he answered in detail. She wanted to know about his arrival in Australia, and about the Snowy and his life at the work camp. He told her that he loved the work, and he loved the country, and he talked about every aspect of his new life, with one exception. Peggy.
Finally, Ruth ran out of questions and Lucky ran out of steam, and they sat in silence, both conscious of the one question that still hung unasked in the air.
‘So what do we do?’ It was Lucky who voiced it.
‘We?’ To Ruth, the question had been answered long before she’d encouraged him to talk about his life on the Snowy. ‘We do nothing, there is no “we”, Samuel.’ An edg
e of practicality, even hardness crept into her voice as she continued. ‘You have a new life and a woman you love. What we had is over. It was a love shared between two different people, surely you can see that? We’ve changed, you and I.’
They had, he thought. He hadn’t been Samuel Lachmann for years, and Ruth, too, had changed, he could see it. Even her beauty had changed. She was more arresting than ever, the bloom of youth replaced by the sexual allure of a woman in her thirties, but her beauty had a remote quality now, a wariness. It was not difficult to guess why, he thought, recalling the self-loathing with which she’d talked of her ‘benefactor’ in Auschwitz. Her beauty had been the source of her survival, and she’d been left with terrible scars. Gone was the gloriously vibrant, supremely confident young Ruth, and in her place, through no fault of her own, was a woman who didn’t particularly like herself – or the world.
‘Yes, we’ve changed,’ he said, ‘but we can start anew.’ Even as he spoke the words, Lucky sensed their emptiness. ‘We must, Ruth. You’re my wife.’
‘No, my dearest, I’m not, and I have no desire to be.’ It was the truth, she realised. She’d intended to release him from any obligation the moment she’d seen him so obviously in love in the lounge room at Dodds. But relinquishing any claim was no longer a selfless act on her part. Being with Samuel had brought back the past with a pain too raw. And it would be like this always, she thought: they shared wounds too deep to heal.
‘We could never be together again, Samuel,’ she said. ‘Rachel and Mannie would be with us every minute of every day. I couldn’t bear that.’
Lucky had no answer; Rachel and Mannie were with them right now, he thought.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked out over the park, his attention caught by a little boy of around three galloping an imaginary pony on the grass.
They’d both lapsed into silence. Ruth, too, had focussed upon the child who, aware that he was being looked at, galloped towards them. He fell flat on his face several paces away, then sat up, unhurt, but unsure whether or not he should cry.
Ruth rose and picked him up, slinging him on one hip, while the mother, who’d been watching, made her way towards them. The child laughed, accident forgotten.