The Singing Forest
Judith McCormack
A John Metcalf book
Biblioasis
Windsor, Ontario
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Acknowledgements
Copyright
For Peter—wise, yet inexplicably hopeful
One
A man should stay alive, if only out of curiosity.
Jewish proverb
Children found the bones more than once. This was one of those times.
They should have known something, of course. They did know. They didn’t know. They had no idea it was as bad as that.
It was a soft, deadly secret that had settled into the small forest, blanketing the ground, wrapping itself around the rough skin of the trees. The people nearby tended it silently, patting its edges, smoothing it, the metallic taste of it always in their mouths. As soon as they thought they knew it, though, as soon as they believed they could run their hands along its contours in their sleep, they would remember something else, hear about something else, something they had forgotten or perhaps never knew. Then the secret would assume a different shape, a new form, still soft and baleful.
The black vans. The barking dogs. The shooting in the night. They closed their eyes, their ears, they stuffed their fists in their mouths, desperate to escape the clammy terror. They knew instinctively that secrecy was the only possibility for these things, that this was the only way to survive, even after so many years. They knew it without a word to each other, a mute understanding that bound them — reluctantly — together. But even after these things were gone — and who would know when they were gone forever? — the fear remained, settling in along their spines, so much a part of them that eventually they began using it to place themselves, to find their bearings.
This secrecy, this silence had an existence of its own, though, its own offshoots. Other things sprouted in it, unbidden, unexpected.
Two boys. Suddenly there, scuffling through the layers of dead leaves, needles, surrounded by the smell of sweet decay. Shafts of autumn sun glinted off their hair, their arms as they wandered through the copse, kicking at fallen branches. From a kalhas nearby, their family was part of the collective dairy farm — herds of coarse-haired cows, vats of buttermilk and soured cream. The older one, Efim: stubborn, wearing a faded red shirt, a mole on his hand. His brother, Makar: pudgier, round-faced. The dog: a dirty white hound, pushing his nose into piles of leaves, digging with his front feet, and then loping on to the next pile, the next rotting branch.
They were curious, recklessly curious — the eleven-year-old cocky with it, the nine-year-old his loyal follower. Something so hidden, so lied about must be worth knowing, and they wanted to know.
They had slipped off after the first milking, dodging around the cows in the sheds, slapping their flanks, the grassy breath of the animals rising in the cool air. Naturally, they had been warned over and over to stay away from the forest, to stay away from these very trees, the spiny larches, the spruces with their drooping boughs. But they had been warned so often that exploring the place was irresistible, and all the evasions had made the older one itchy.
They wandered through the trees now, kicking at clusters of red chokecherries in the undergrowth. The air was old, undisturbed, as if no one had been there for years, something that was almost true. A place of shadows, lost in an uneasy sleep.
The older one picked up a stick and swiped at a tree trunk, marked with the wormy tracks of bark beetles. The stick cracked in the silence and the dog bounded off, lost in a geography of smells. The younger boy stopped to kick at a log beside a buckthorn, the sides fallen in, the wood shredded with decay. A current of wind rustled through the branches of the trees, a hint of the cold weather to come.
Then, suddenly, the dog was back, leaping with young dog joy. He dropped a white knob in front of the older boy, and stood, panting. The boy picked it up, rolled it around in his fingers.
What is it? said his brother.
They followed the dog, watching him pounce and whirl through the undergrowth, attacking bushes, a brown puffball. Then a hollow, a broad depression in the ground, a stretch of sandy earth. The dog was digging into the sand, and poking out of it were odd-shaped branches, blunt ends, an old boot half-buried on one side. He picked up something large, globe-shaped and began shaking it, and they saw the sockets in the front, the gaping mouth, a broken tooth.
Recognition. A hair-trigger shock. The younger boy grabbed his brother in fear, and they began to run, tearing through the scrub, twigs scratching their bare legs. They ran panting, out of the forest, into the secret.
Shush, shush, shush, said their mother comfortingly, as they gabbled away, the smaller boy shivering. It was nothing. Deer bones. Bear bones. Badgers. It was nothing. Nothing at all. No more talking about it.
A few days later, the older boy woke up in the middle of the night, in the middle of a bone dream, and thought:
But what about the boot?
···
This is Belarus, a country of shifting boundaries, a map reshaped so many times that its edges are frayed. Home to godwit birds, red deer, and a collection of wary people, people given to fits of yearning, bouts of knifelike courage. No accident that their folk tales are filled with mischief, with sudden twists of fate.
A landlocked country, bounded on all sides, not an ocean to be found. Someone looking for salt water would have to travel south down the Dnepr River, through Ukraine, and all the way to the Black Sea. Or go west across the Dvina River, through Latvia, and into the Gulf of Riga to arrive at the algae blooms of the Baltic Sea. Or — less likely — travel west again along the looping Nyoman River, through Lithuania, to the Curonian Lagoon and into the Baltic by that route. Ukraine, Latvia, Lithuania — together with Russia and Poland, the five countries that surround Belarus, that fence it in.
A restless group of neighbours, something of a misfortune at least, if not an actual curse. Some of them are on the peevish side, quick to give offence, even quicker to take it. Or they attempt to lay claims to pieces of the country from time to time, to use it for their own ends. The result? A nation invaded, divided, annexed, given away, retaken. A place of turbulent beauty, forced into constant rebirth.
But it was in the late eighties, the tail end of the last century, when a hawk-eyed archaeologist began asking questions. He had heard whispers about the bones, and he had his suspicions. Tell me, he said to the people who lived around the forest, tell me what you know. And because he sounded as if he knew already, that it was only a matter of filling in a few facts, they did. They told him stories that had been building inside them for years, the details spilling out. It was my nephew, my cousin, the schoolteacher. My son. It was the vans rumbling by in the dark, the crack of the guns, the dogs, always the dogs. It was the blood in the earth, the blood that made the garlic head mushrooms grow in pink. The archaeologist took it all down in notebooks and saved it, waiting until the time was right, waiting until he thought someone else might listen.
A flickering, a loosening of the climate, and he was ready. Finally, the Procurator’s Office was forced to do something. A flock of people — criminologists, doctors, more archaeologists — descended on the sunken earth in the forest. They measured and dug intersecting trenches, they drank ho
t tea, they made drawings and took photographs. When they had excavated down to the first layer, they drew maps, noted depths, the smoke from their pungent cigarettes curling around their heads. Then they began — methodically, gingerly — exhuming what they had found: bones, skulls, rotten clothing, combs, buttons.
Bullet holes, said the medical experts, turning over the skulls.
Russian guns, said the ballistic experts, holding cartridge cases up to the light.
A grim job, said a young criminologist later, studying his glass of vodka as if there might be some additional findings there, a finger bone or a vertebra.
Grim, but fascinating, he said reverently after two more glasses. In a terrible way, he added quickly.
A report was submitted to the Procurator’s Office, full of treacherous facts. Among them, though, this one stood out, this one was the starkest:
Thirty thousand bodies.
Thirty thousand? The official number. Unofficially: two hundred thousand.
Consternation, alarm. How could they make these facts smaller, fainter, how could they blame them on someone else, how could they make them disappear?
But it was too late. Around the forest, a long, quiet sound began to spread, something that was part sigh, part whisper. The sound of relief that this place of hidden graves was no longer deniable. Relief that the exhaustion of keeping this secret was over. Relief that this distant piece of time, these bodies would in some prickly, solemn way be finally given their due.
They were wrong, of course.
···
2019, a new century, already leaking away. And Leah Jarvis is in the thick of it, called to the bar a year ago, her head still full of radiant law. She is surrounded by doctrines, tenets, precedents, all waiting for the right case, the right time. They rattle around in her brain at odd moments, like scraps of songs impossible to dislodge.
Full of random truths, these doctrines, but high-handed as well. The fruit of the poisonous tree. The doctrine of odious debt. The spider in the web rule. A collection of fables, rumours, hopes, lies. Not only perfect, but so far almost perfectly useless.
She is sitting at a counsel table now, a quizzical face, smooth skin, a flood of dark curls down her back. Ashkenazi hair, says her aunt. Strands of DNA sliding down an ancestral ladder. Although genes can hardly be blamed for a headful of disorderly thoughts, a rueful laugh.
She is almost startled to be in this courtroom today, even though she should know better — she does know better. But sometimes she thinks of herself as a small mutiny against the world of law, a stone in its shoe. You flatter yourself, says law. Still, the idea means that she is often slightly puzzled to find herself performing legal acts, as if these things had climbed out of her law books and taken on lives of their own.
Soon this will all become second nature, though, these hearings and motions and trials. She knows this because other lawyers tell her so, sometimes slapping her on the back a little too heartily. Before long, in spite of herself, she will have acquired the elements of practice, its customs, its quirks in the same way that they have — less of a profession, she thinks, than an unfortunate habit.
She is not much of a mutineer, in any event — she admits this. Too undecided about law, one day a heretic, another day a believer, always hoping for the best. And her face is too transparent, expressions flit across it too easily — serious, mocking, a trace of hilarity. She is working on this, working on developing a more impassive manner, but for now her face, her voice sometimes betray her, her gestures often give her away.
Beside her, the senior lawyer stirs restlessly. Louis Rappoport, in his fifties, bear-bodied, thick-fingered, not a comfortable man.
That morning:
Come with me today, he says. A motion to stay, an interesting case. A war criminal.
He says this casually, gathering papers into his briefcase, as if it had only just occurred to him that a junior might be useful.
Now? she says pointedly. Right now? This very moment?
This very moment, he says. Lucky you, he adds.
A man who falls for nothing else, he falls in love with his cases as swiftly and easily as a cat rolling over. Seduced in a minute by a story with a manila folder around it. Perhaps this is what has sustained him over the years, has kept him from becoming jaded. Even now, after two decades, he is still able to pick shiny pieces out of some wreck of a file.
She is more dubious, a survivor of these enthusiasms, often finding herself stranded in a legal blind alley, cursing his sudden passions. But a war criminal sounds intriguing.
And this is not really an invitation.
Hurry, he says impatiently, and she hurries — running for her legal robes, stuffing them into their blue velvet bag.
Outside, on the street, he walks more deliberately, no sign of a rush. This walk — from his office to the court — is how he girds himself, the peppery city air around him, the rhythm of his strides settling him. A ritual that allows him to arrive at the courtroom door in a particular state of mind. Marshalled. Honed.
In front of them, a man in a reflective safety vest is hosing down the sidewalk, a stream of clay-coloured water running into the gutter. He lifts the hose and for a second — less than a second — the water spray in the sun turns into a prism, colours clinging to the droplets.
Then he lowers the hose again, and they skirt around the small lagoon on the road.
The case? she says.
A deportation. Revoking a citizenship for fraud, for lies and omissions on entry. We’re on the government side for once, asking for the deportation.
A deportation. She almost sighs, but catches herself between the inhale and the exhale. Part of their bread and butter, part of the waves of humanity in motion that make up immigration law. The flow of people coming in, the ebb of people going out, the tide pools of people in limbo. But usually they are acting for the deportee. What happened to the government’s lawyers? Why are they sending this out?
I know what you’re thinking, he says.
Does he? Very likely. A man adept at reading people, when he takes the time, when he takes the trouble. Not something obvious from his appearance — that heavy head, that fleshy nose. Or the offhand arrogance of his manner, an arrogance he wears naturally. He looks like someone more absorbed in himself than anyone else — true more often than not. And his greying hair also gives him a certain unearned distinction, something he finds amusing.
Counsel, says the judge abruptly, startling her out of her thoughts, back into the courtroom.
Louis shifts again beside her. But this is not meant for him, the judge is speaking to the lawyer on the other side, a man making long-winded submissions — all the more endless because the courtroom is hot, the sun pouring in one of the arched courtroom windows.
A trickle of perspiration is starting under her hair. Louis is wearing his summer robes — the sleeveless waistcoat, the lighter gown — but she has only the winter version, yards of black wool, a long-sleeved vest. This spring has been so fickle, so strange, though, that dressing for the weather has become something of a game of chance anyway. Spring? No, this is an imposter of a season. Racing back and forth from winter to summer, one day wet snow coming down in clumps, the next day unsettling heat, staying long enough to fool people into thinking summer has come. This is it, they say with conviction, as if they had some way of knowing, some inside connection to a moody weather god. Or they say it proudly, as if it were all their doing. Then the weather changes again, back into a chilly half-season — and they shake their heads, forgetting their declarations immediately.
Today — the heat, an old air conditioner buzzing uselessly in the corner. She lifts her heavy hair off her neck, twists it up for a moment, and then lets it fall. If the perspiration begins dripping down her face, she has nothing to mop it with except the wide sleeve of her robe. And even a junior should look composed, u
nruffled. Or at least not visibly sweating.
But they are all sweating, the spectators as well, pushing their hair back from damp foreheads, fanning themselves with statements of claim, statements of defence, anything else they can find. A crowd of applicants, respondents, their lawyers, waiting for their time to speak, to make their cases. All moving now, flapping and fluttering like a cloud of giant moths.
Is there a way to make the perspiration retreat into her pores? Think of something cold.
She thinks hard.
Ice. Ice water. Water. Rain. A storm.
She thinks harder.
The moaning starts in the distance, she can hear the heavy winds rising, filling with water. The sound starts out low, then the pitch begins climbing up to a howl. A storm? No, a hurricane. A few more minutes and there it is, gusts pounding at the courthouse, rattling the windows. The downpour starts, rain whipping across the roof. Then the glass windowpanes begin to shiver and fracture, shards flying across the room, the bailiff ducking, throwing his arms up to shield his head and face. The howling is deafening now, blotting out all other sound, and the pressure, the tension in the air, is impossibly tight. Suddenly, a piece of the roof lifts off, and wind and water come roaring through the room. A torrent catches the opposing lawyer — spindly-legged, sallow-cheeked, a paunch — tossing him into the air, slamming him against a wall. A piece of debris strikes his client on the side of the head, and he is carried off by the water, eyes blank, body spinning around.
Extreme? Probably. Justified? Certainly.
Although she is still hot.
Look, there goes the judge now, caught up in the flood, clutching for a handhold as his dais is swept away. And the spectators? All these anxious people, angry people, the leg-jitterers, the yawners, even the coughers. Thrown against their seats, motionless for a few seconds, their mouths gaping, before they are engulfed, clinging to the balustrades.
Isn’t this satisfying? Isn’t it exhilarating?
The Singing Forest Page 1