Ashes

by Christopher de Vinck

  ‘Simone, where’s your father? The Germans are going to invade!’ a neighbour called out as she washed a bucket in the street.

  ‘Invade, invade,’ I muttered to myself. ‘It’s all just talk.’ But my confidence was ebbing with the knowledge that Hitler’s army had invaded Norway and Denmark in early April.

  May in Brussels that year polished the boulevards and trees with brassy sunlight. The street cars seemed to move a bit faster. War was breaking out all around the borders of my little country, but I still felt secure and hopeful in our declared neutrality and in my secret belief that my father would protect me no matter where he was. I had his medal after all.

  As it was an early spring, Hava decided that we had to introduce ourselves to nature. ‘We have to seduce nature so that the weather stays warm,’ she said as she stood at my doorway with two drawing pads, two boxes of coloured pencils, and a false black moustache on her lips. She wore a man’s shirt, a pair of men’s trousers, boots, a wide, long cape, and a black beret on her head.

  ‘We must be on our way, Mademoiselle Simone. Spring has no patience,’ Hava said, as she tipped her hat and bowed before me.

  ‘Hava, who are you supposed to be?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I am the ghost of Paul Gauguin, and I died on this day, 8 May, thirty-seven years ago.’

  Hava wiggled her moustache and I laughed.

  ‘You mustn’t laugh at the great Gauguin,’ Hava scolded teasingly. ‘We must catch the spring before it escapes.’ She handed me one of the drawing pads and a box of coloured pencils. ‘We will hunt down spring with our equipment.’ Hava held up her drawing pad.

  ‘Hava, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Art, Simone. We are going to create art. We are going to draw spring and, once we do, it will be spring forever. Gauguin left his family and sailed to Tahiti. He wrote in his journal, “All the joys of a free life are mine. I have escaped everything that is artificial, conventional, and customary. I am entering into the truth, into nature.” I have a free life, Simone. I have escaped my conventional life and I, Gauguin, am going to escape to Tahiti with my friend Simone. Don’t you want to go to Tahiti with me?’ Once again, Hava twitched her fake moustache.

  Hava didn’t have to pretend to be Paul Gauguin, or pretend to be unconventional. She loved to dance because she was the dance. She loved opera because her voice was the opera. She loved to read sprawled out on her couch and become Madame Bovary or Daisy Buchanan. On 8 May 1940, Hava became Paul Gauguin the artist.

  After I grabbed a sweater and shut the front door, and Hava placed her beret back on her head, she stepped forward quickly and announced eagerly, ‘To Tahiti!’

  ‘Where are we going, Hava?’

  ‘Hava? Hava? Who is this Hava?’

  I looked at Hava and giggled, ‘Ah, Monsieur Gauguin, where are we going?’

  ‘We are going to Leopold Park to capture the spring season forever,’ Hava said, waving her drawing pad above her head.

  Leopold Park was located in the European Quarters of Brussels, a beautiful 25-acre park, with a large pond, ducks, swans, and grey herons. When I asked Hava if she knew that the park had Egyptian geese, she turned, rubbed her moustache and said, ‘My dear, I am Gauguin, and I know about all exotic things.’ Then she took my hand and said, ‘Do as I do.’

  Hava took one long step and hit the pavement hard with her right foot, and then with the left, and again with the right. I did the same beside her, and with each of our forward footsteps, Hava announced the items on her list of exotic things.

  Step. ‘John Charles Tillman.’ Step. ‘Chocolate-covered cherries.’ Step. ‘Ice cream.’ Step. ‘Paris.’ Step . . .

  Paul Gauguin and I marched down the street sharing our lists of exotic things.

  ‘White wine,’ she said.

  ‘Niagara Falls,’ I said.

  ‘Kissing,’ she said.

  ‘Oh la, la,’ I said.

  Hava looked at me, smiled, and said, ‘Egyptian geese.’

  We both giggled as we approached the entrance of Leopold Park that stretched out before us like Eden. Fresh spring leaves spilled from every tree branch. The manicured grass and gentle slopes undulated like emerald waves on the ocean of the gods: men in suits and fedoras; women in spring dresses with braided hair; boys on their knees shooting marbles; girls gathering flowers.

  ‘Follow me,’ Hava said, sweeping her drawing pad through the air, as if casting a spell over the entire park.

  ‘Here,’ she said as we approached a small stream. ‘Here is where we will capture spring for eternity.’ She approached a flat stone at the edge of the slow, flowing water. ‘For you, mademoiselle.’ Hava pointed to another large rock.

  She placed her drawing pad and pencils on the grass, unlaced her brown shoes, rolled off her socks and sat on the rock, easing her pearl-white feet and legs into the cold water.

  ‘Oh! This is not like the warm waters of Tahiti,’ Paul Gauguin declared, as Hava gave a shiver. ‘Brrrrr! Now you, Simone!’ she called out.

  I didn’t think it was a good idea to take off my shoes and socks in public. After all, I was the daughter of General Joseph Lyon, not Cleopatra dipping my bare legs in the Nile, in the company of her slaves and Egyptian geese.

  ‘Simone, you have to dip your legs into the water if you want to be a painter like Gauguin.’

  Sighing, I placed my drawing pad and pencils on the grass, stood up straight, and looked around, expecting the eyes of Brussels to set upon my awkward body.

  ‘Simone, it’s not like you’re taking your clothes off. It’s just your shoes and socks!’

  I stood like a stork on a single leg, untied my right shoe, pulled off my sock, and dropped it on the grass. I did the same with my left shoe and sock, and there I stood at the edge of the water, feeling skinny and awkward.

  ‘Mademoiselle Simone,’ Hava said, as she tipped her beret and pointed, ‘your throne.’

  I sat on my rock and slipped my feet and legs slowly into the water.

  ‘Very good. Now, Simone,’ Hava said as she handed me my pad and pencils, ‘look around and stop spring for a second. Draw what you see and it will be captured forever on your paper. We have to remember: art, books, and music are the albums of our memories and feelings.’

  I looked at my friend, at her face, the contours of her cheeks, the colour of her gold-polished hair. How did others see my friend? How did they view Hava? Pole? Jew? Esther? Eve . . . in Leopold Park?

  ‘The water is delicious,’ Hava said, as I picked up a green pencil, placed the sharp tip gently onto my drawing pad, looked up at the trees, and began to take hold of the spring. Hava paddled her legs gently back and forth in the clear water and she too began to draw.

  In the end my trees looked like drunken, green squiggles, and my daffodils looked like tired trumpets. But in Hava’s drawing, I could see the veins in each leaf, and the grass looked like as it was saying, ‘Take off your shoes. Feel the softness under your feet.’ Her daffodils looked exactly how Wordsworth had described the flowers in his most famous poem, ‘tossing their heads in sprightly dance’.

  We laughed, Hava and I, as we compared our drawings. ‘I don’t think you will be an artist, Simone.’

  ‘But that’s not fair. You’re the great Paul Gauguin. How can I compete?’

  We did capture the essence of spring that day in our drawing pads, and Hava taught me that Eden can be found in a single flower.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Slavs are to work for us. Insofar as we do not need them, they may die . . . The fertility of the Slavs is undesirable. They may use contraceptives or practise abortion, the more the better.

  Dr. Markull, Ministry for Occupied Eastern Territories, to Reich Minister Rosenberg, 19 August 1940

  ‘You spend too much time with that girl, Hava,’ my Aunt Margaret said one evening over dinner. ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘We met last year, at the Red Cross,’ I replied, as my aunt cut meticulously into the steak on h
er plate. ‘We have opera tickets for tonight. She likes the opera . . . and dancing.’

  My aunt’s fork and knife clicked on the porcelain dish.

  ‘Who likes dancing?’ she asked.

  ‘My friend, Hava. The one I met at the Red Cross.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Simone. I’m a bit distracted.’ My aunt looked down, attacking her steak once again.

  ‘Hava’s favourite opera singer is John Charles Tillman. He’s an American baritone.’

  ‘Stop!’ My aunt exclaimed suddenly, as she slammed her fork and knife onto the table. ‘Stop, Simone!’ She looked at me with a glare I had never seen in her eyes before. It frightened me. ‘Don’t say another word. I’ve heard enough about your friend.’

  My aunt took a deep breath and slowly stroked her left cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Simone,’ she said in a softer tone. ‘I just want to protect you.’

  ‘But, Aunt Margaret, what do you mean? We’re home. We’re safe. And my father will be back soon.’

  My aunt looked into my eyes again, but this time with the eyes of a woman who could see the future. ‘There are clouds forming over Europe, Simone. A storm is approaching, a violent storm. I don’t want you to be afraid, but please, don’t associate with this friend of yours. She’s Polish. I won’t have you associating with that Hava girl any longer. Have you seen what the paper says today?’

  She stood up from the table, entered the parlour, and returned with a wrinkled newspaper in her hand. She opened it at a particular page, handed it to me, and said, ‘Read what the Chancellor of Germany said to his chief military commanders in Obersalzberg back in August. It’s only being reported now that the war is getting nearer. Read what Adolf Hitler actually said.’

  I reached for the paper and, using my finger as a guide under each word, I read carefully:

  . . . send to death mercilessly and without compassion, men, women, and children of Polish derivation and language. Only thus shall we gain the living space which we need. Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?

  I placed the paper on the table and tried to wipe away the creases, tried to erase the words, and tried to understand what I had just read. This cannot be true, I thought. ‘Did he really say these things, Aunt Margaret?’

  My aunt nodded.

  ‘Does Hitler actually believe the world has forgotten about the Armenian Genocide? And will he really do the same to anyone Polish?

  ‘The world has forgotten, Simone.’

  ‘But, Aunt Margaret, Hitler won’t kill millions of people. Surely the world remembers!’

  ‘Simone, only twenty-five years ago hundreds and thousands of Armenian people were tortured, shot, murdered, and sent into the desert to starve. It was just twenty-five years ago, yet no one remembers. No one cares. Hitler is right: who today speaks of the annihilation of the Armenians? Hitler actually said to his commanders, Let’s kill all Polish people and the Jews, because in the long term, no one will remember and we need more space for our country.’

  Hava is both Polish and Jewish, I thought, frightened for the first time. But Poland was still 1,100 kilometres away and Hava was here. But where was the German army now?

  My aunt picked up the newspaper from the table, crushed it between her hands, and threw it into the fireplace. ‘Light a match, Simone.’

  I reached into the cabinet and curled my fingers around a small cardboard box of matches. After I lit one and tossed it into the fireplace, the dry paper ignited quickly. The orange glow of the flames illuminated my aunt’s face as grey smoke rose up the brick chimney. We both watched as the words disappeared. The paper twisted then shrivelled between the grate and formed a small, insignificant pile of white ashes on the flat stone hearth.

  ‘Your friend is Jewish, as well as Polish, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ I almost whispered.

  As my aunt was about to leave the room, she turned, looked at me, and said, ‘Go to the opera with your friend Hava, but then you must leave her behind. Don’t stay by her side. Enjoy the American baritone tonight, but have nothing more to do with that girl. You need to think of yourself and your own safety. I also wanted to tell you that I’m planning to return to Luxembourg soon. I don’t like what I’m hearing in the street. You’re eighteen now, so it’s up to you if you want to stay here or come with me. I’ll feel safer in my own home.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Luxembourg believed that its international pact of neutrality would protect it from a German invasion, though it was suspicious. Radio Luxembourg, an English-speaking station, stopped broadcasting and the country began work installing concrete roadblocks along the eastern border with Germany. Luxembourgers heard the news about the invasion of Poland and Finland and worried about the rumours of an impending invasion.

  I did attend the opera with Hava that night, and a few mornings later, suitcase in hand, my aunt said her goodbyes.

  ‘There’s enough money in the bank,’ she said. ‘Your father will return soon.’

  Aunt Margaret offered again to take me with her to her home, but I refused. I had my school, Hava . . . ‘And besides,’ I said to my aunt, ‘Papa said that I was to stay in the house, no matter what. I’m safe here. And when he returns from the Foreign Ministry, I want everything to be in order, just as he left it, so that he and I can continue living as we were.’ There was no explaining my optimism; that of a young woman pretending that there was no danger lurking in the alley.

  ‘Don’t open the door to anyone, and remember to keep away from that Jewish girl and her family.’ She handed me the house key. ‘I must run. The train leaves in an hour.’ She didn’t smile.

  I kissed Aunt Margaret goodbye, and as I watched her walk down the road with her suitcase, I wanted to call out, ‘Vive la Belgique!’ But instead I just sat on the doorstep and cried. Goodbyes under any circumstance are never good.

  ‘Mademoiselle Lyon?’

  I wiped my eyes and looked up. There was little Nicole.

  ‘Is the corporal coming back with his horse?’

  ‘Non, ma petite.’

  The girl sighed, then skipped down the street in the city of Brussels, in the country of Belgium – a place that would soon be changed forever.

  CHAPTER 15

  The German Panzer tanks were fuelled. Nazi soldiers cleaned their rifles. All of Europe knew that Adolf Hitler was poised to order an attack.

  Before the war, life in Brussels was civilized, orderly, and ordinary. People visited the spas, the economy had improved following the Depression that had swept through the United States and Europe. Strawberries were plentiful in the summer. Brussels hosted a World Fair in 1935, celebrating colonization. The Belgian architect, Joseph Van Neck, designed the fair, and Belgian artists were lauded. Over twenty million people visited the exposition.

  I liked that Brussels had no suburbs at that time. I could step out of my house in the city, walk for fifteen or twenty minutes, and soon find myself among farms and fields. Hava shared this delight with me.

  After Aunt Margaret left, I decided to spend the rest of the day reading my book, Lost Horizon. I loved that book about Shangri-La, a magical place hidden somewhere beyond the Himalayas. I read until my heavy eyelids beckoned me to doze, then I slept until awoken by a loud, persistent knocking at the door. My aunt had told me not to open the door, but maybe she had come back.

  I jumped up from the couch, looked through the window, and there, standing with a basket, was Hava in a bright yellow blouse, hiking shorts, and boots. I opened the door. ‘Let’s go for a picnic,’ she said, and raised the basket over her head. ‘I’ve got brie, bread, wine, and two apples.’

  ‘But it’s late. It’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘So?’ Hava said. ‘We’ll be Egyptians and worship the setting sun Ra as he disappears on his ship and sinks over the horizon.’

  I looked at Hava and smiled. ‘Let’s sail to Shangri-La.’ I grabbed a light sweater and locked the front door.

  As we walked further and further a
way from the city, the landscape curtsied under a gentle breeze. Farms spread out before us like quilts; fields of wheat, potato farms. Rich tomato plants stood up boldly and greeted us with each advancing step.

  The flat landscape bowed before Hava and me as we walked through the Belgian countryside, a paradise of amazing fertility.

  For centuries the land of Belgium had been cleared for farming. The fields rested on their backs, waiting for Hava and me to roam their bellies. Distant hills heard us laugh and sing as we looked for the perfect place for a picnic.

  Hava pointed to the hidden lichen in the wild grass, small clumps of greyish-blue material like a sponge, with little red caps at the tip of each column. We called them ‘wooden soldiers’.

  We ate wild raspberries which grew along the edge of a path we followed. I plucked the berries one at a time until my cupped hand was full, and then pressed them into my mouth all at once. Hava ate her berries slowly, one by one. When I made a sour face, after having eaten a small beetle I hadn’t seen that was hidden beneath the green leaves, Hava laughed and said, ‘Good protein.’

  We found the perfect spot for a picnic, on a tuft of wild grass tickling the edge of a shallow stream.

  After we ate, Hava and I picked black-eyed Susans and wove them into crowns. We looked for quartz crystals on the path and found a pond. As we walked, we realized we were lost, but we didn’t care. A person had to take risks if they sought paradise as their destination.

  To the east, through the trees, we discovered what we called ‘the secret place’. Branches scratched our faces as we walked through a thick grove of pine trees. The setting sunlight dimmed the deeper we entered into the woods, but then suddenly, we came to a light beyond the trees, a brightness that ought not to have been there.

  In the centre of the pine forest was an open circular space, like an empty room. The pine trees formed tall green walls and completely surrounded this hidden place. Hava explained how this secret spot had been created.