The Singing Forest

by Judith McCormack

  During the time I was in the cell, at least two people were suffocated to death. Their bodies were not removed right away.

  After ten days of this, I agreed to sign a confession. A younger man was brought in to write out the confession, and then I signed it without reading it. I heard the officer call the younger man Stefan.

  The younger man was about five feet, nine inches, with wide cheekbones, dark brown eyes and hair. I have examined a picture of Stefan Drozd, attached to this my affidavit as Exhibit A, and he may well be that man.

  The mill, my house, and all my possessions were seized, and I was deported to Tomsk Oblast in the north of western Siberia.

  I make this affidavit in good faith and for no improper purpose.

  Sworn before me this twenty-third day of October, 2009, in the City of Minsk. Ivan Stasevich, a Notary Public in and for the Republic of Belarus.

  Another nightmarish story. The identification is a little better, but still not enough. He may well be that man. And how many people are called Stefan in Belarus?

  The spiders wake up again, all talking at the same time.

  Stop, she says to them. Slow down. Take a breath. Think about this, consider it for a moment. Close your eyes and imagine this. Could describing these horrors be an end in itself, not merely a means to a deportation? Perhaps setting them out in writing transforms them into something more concrete — not only memories, pieces of thought, now they have a physical form, even if it is only ink on paper. Now they are tangible, they have outlines and edges, they can stand on their own. The testimony of ruined lives, miserable deaths.

  And then, because of that, is it possible that this case is not really necessary? Do you really want law to start meddling with all this, to start cutting and stretching these memories to fit into its own categories? Perhaps these documents can clear a place in all the babble instead, can stand as eloquent tributes in themselves.

  Nonsense, says her aunt.

  Nonsense, say the spiders. What about responsibility? What about accountability? What about punishment?

  But this case is only a deportation. Yes, that can be a death sentence for some people, many of their refugee clients. Here, though, will there even be a trial at the other end of it? In Belarus, the country that still has an NKVD of sorts, now the KDB, the Kamitet Dziaržaǔnaj Biaspieki.

  We only ensure there will be no execution, no capital punishment, Owen says. We obtain diplomatic assurances on that because we have no death penalty. Whether there is a trial is not our problem.

  Even if there is really more to it, even if he might have been involved in international human rights violations, or crimes against humanity?

  Even then. Criminal prosecutions are too difficult, we’ve lost a number of those cases. So we revoke their citizenships instead.

  Whose job is it to provide a reckoning, then? Whose millstone is he?

  His own country.

  Which country is that? He has lived here over three times as long as he did in his country of birth.

  But he should not have been here. And we can only do so much in the real world, a world of arbitrary borders, accidental landings. He stole his place here, and we want it back.

  ···

  This time she will speak to the man, she will nerve herself to say something. This man, her next Andrew Jarvis. She has moved down the list, begun watching again, outside a small set of flats. And yesterday, she spotted him, a dark-haired man with a sprinkling of grey, emerging in workboots. Not only spotted him, followed his car to a warehouse in an industrial park, a place with unearthly blue siding — distributors of hard goods, according to a sign. Does he look like her uncles, like herself? He is not unlike them, anyway. And he is the right age as well — middle-aged, perhaps a little older. How would someone feel at that age, confronted with a child they abandoned?

  Middle-aged, Louis said once, the word dripping with scorn. An idea he despised, possibly because he qualified.

  But these are weathered people, she thinks. Seasoned people, people who might have discovered their own strengths and flaws by stumbling over them. People with scar tissue from prolonged exposure to the absurdities of being. People who might welcome a daughter into their lives.

  And if not, then at least she will know.

  Know what?

  More than she does now.

  This is how she will do it: She will walk up to him on the sidewalk and say hello — casually, lightly. Then she will ask him if he has a minute, there is something she would like to talk to him about. Yes, she could telephone or write, give him some warning. But she wants to reduce his chances of saying no. No, I won’t talk to you, no, I don’t want to see you, no, I have no explanation, I have nothing to say.

  Not this morning, though. And perhaps not another morning, when he might be in a rush. Some evening, when he is almost home, when he will be in no hurry. But not quite yet — she is not entirely ready, not absolutely ready, she will need to brace herself, to fortify herself for this odd encounter. She will need to talk herself into this again.

  ···

  Carp, whitefish, pike. Glistening on the cutting board. The fins, heads, bones, and skin go into the pot with carrots, onion. A pinch of sugar, says her aunt. Go ahead. Maybe two, your fingers are small.

  While the broth heats up, they drop the slippery fish bodies into the grinder. Grey coils fall out below as her aunt turns the handle. They add them to a bowl with matzah meal, black pepper, eggs, parsley, then pat the mixture into pale ovals.

  Her aunt hovers over the cooking broth, tasting it with a spoon, skimming off the foam. Then she slides the gefilte fish in, a stir from time to time to prevent them from sticking to the pot.

  Now we wait, says her aunt, sitting down, holding her back. This recipe is from the old country, it takes its sweet time.

  The old country? says the girl, her legs dangling from the chair.

  Where are you people from? The question asked by a curious parent in the hallway, after she had said something, used one of her aunt’s Yiddish words.

  Where are we from?

  I’m from here, says her aunt. You’re from here. Your grandparents? Some shtetl in Lithuania.

  You people.

  Later, they arrange the gefilte fish on a plate, put a slice of carrot cut into a flower shape on each one. In the middle, her aunt sets a fish head, goggling with radish eyes.

  Isn’t that something? says her aunt, although she is suddenly tired again, she has to sit down.

  A Seder with Marvin and Ida, the neighbours, every year. Slow, comfortable, remarkably kind, these two. Ida will make up the Seder plate — charoset, roasted egg, karpas, bitter herbs. Marvin will chant long lines of Hebrew — this is the bread of affliction — and they will make little stacks with matzah pieces, horseradish and apple-walnut paste. At the end, they will sing looping, hypnotic songs — one goat, one goat which my father bought for two zuzim — that will swirl in her head for days.

  Time for a nap before we get dressed up, says her aunt.

  Leah pokes at the fish head.

  Can he still swim? she says.

  I doubt it, says her aunt.

  ···

  The white fog is still there, her relationship to Nate still soft and blurred. She tries to restrain herself from looking for tiny cues of intimacy on his part — unable to decide what she is hoping for. Even the smallest gesture suggesting closeness makes her draw back, alarmed, but any hint of distance leaves her forlorn. And what does he want? He is unhurried, unworried, but his physical presence is more palpable. And he is slightly stranger — as if he had been replaced with another version of himself, but with a number of subtle differences. There is something more inquisitive about this version as well, like a man suspended in the middle of asking a question.

  Still, she is peculiarly happy, she finds herself content with all thi
s formlessness, at least for the moment. They slide into a rhythm of going to his house several times a week, bringing Thai food back with them, exploring each other’s bodies, their fingers, their breath still smelling of lemongrass, cilantro. There is a largeness about him, something about his size, his heavy shoulders, the length of his back, the weight of him on top of her. She can feel this largeness slowly seeping into her — in some way making her small body larger as well.

  Eventually, she thinks, eventually they will begin writing tiny stories of themselves on each other. There is no way to stop this, no way to prevent it. Then later they will add to these stories, they will alter them, fine-tune them, fill them in. But for now, there is still white space, still room for possibility.

  That night.

  She is lying in bed with him, one of his collection of objects in her hands — a small frame with an outline of a woman’s face inside, a profile. The front of the face is made up of a thin chain, so that shaking the frame changes the profile — one minute an enormous chin, tiny mouth and nose, the next all lips.

  He puts down his book and watches her for a moment. Then he takes her hands, turning them over, studying them seriously. The burns are healing, scabbed over now, her nails are short, uneven.

  Look, he says tenderly. Your thumbs are different lengths.

  He holds them up so she can see. I’ll fix that for you.

  He presses them together, recites a mock incantation.

  What’s the matter? he says when she laughs. You don’t think I can do it?

  Yes. Yes, she wants to say. I think you can do it.

  ···

  Owen, in person. They are in a boardroom, black leather sofas along the sides, an oak table, muted grey walls. A sober room, except for a framed print on the wall at one end, a view through a window, a field of grasses, a field after that, a quilted landscape of greens — sage, olive, moss. The wind is blowing in through curtains, lifting them so lightly, so carelessly that they are almost floating. Like a Wyeth, she thinks. She finds it distracting, her eyes drawn to it, this picture that promises so much freedom, such breezy escape — she can almost smell the fresh air.

  She pulls herself back to the room with an effort.

  It’s a little disconcerting, isn’t it? says Owen. I keep looking at it myself during meetings — I can almost see myself with one leg over the windowsill.

  A surprise — this is a man she would have thought was truly wedded to his job. And someone who personifies civility, the way he talks, the way he listens — elliptical, careful.

  Louis agreed with your assessment of the evidence, he says.

  Naturally he would have called Louis, why would he have accepted the opinion of junior alone? She realizes this is a tactful way of explaining what happened, how Louis heard about their conversation.

  But here you are, he says, pausing slightly, making the point that he had angled to get her.

  Yes. Although he did it under the guise of cost, she thinks, he covered himself perfectly. And her contract is only for the length of the case.

  Still, there is no doubt he is a man who does what he can, the good that is available to him. And he does it gracefully, sincerely. His weakness, his failing is that he limits this good — the available good — so narrowly. Only those things that will have no effect whatsoever on his work, his prospects, no possibility of consequences to him. In a world of endlessly colliding circumstances, so little is left, so little fits within these limits.

  But he is asking her about the gaps in the evidence now, the additional testimony they will need. They talk for a few minutes, and she feels the riffles of his courtesy spreading out around her. She suspects this has little to do with her, that this is how he talks with everyone. Is he cautious about treating people differently on the basis of their importance? He must have seen the quick rise and fall of numerous politicians, dignitaries, officials. Better to cultivate everyone, no matter how insignificant they seem at the moment — a discreet formula for reducing risks, an insurance policy. Regardless of the reasons, he does it so well, it is almost impossible not to like him, not to enjoy this flow of cordiality.

  And perhaps there is some substance to it, something of a reflection of himself, not merely a strategy. Perhaps it shows some fundamental niceness — not niceness in the usual shallow sense, but a deeper, hardier form.

  We need someone to interview potential witnesses in Belarus, he says now. To make sure we get the evidence we need this time, someone who knows the law, the evidentiary thresholds. And we’re still trying to track down whether he was involved in some kind of mass killing. We usually use our own lawyers and historians, but we’re still overrun with secondments and maternity leaves.

  She imagines Minsk as a grim place — crumbling buildings black with age, side by side with squat apartments from the Soviet era. Institutional department stores with bare shelves, tired-looking merchandise. People in drab clothing, lineups for buying bread or meat. Trucks rumbling through narrow streets. A place of shortages, scarcity — colourless, chilly.

  I’m looking forward to it, she says.

  ···

  You weren’t interested in going to Belarus? she says to Nate.

  Among other things, he says.

  ···

  All Men shall be Ready to Pursue Felons

  And forasmuch as the Peace of this Realm hath been evil observed for lack of quick and fresh suit making after felons in due manner, it is provided that all men generally be ready and appareled at the commandment and summons of Sheriffs and the Cry of the Country to sue and arrest felons, when any need is, and they that will not so do and therefore be attainted shall make a grievous fine to the King.

  ···

  The racetrack is a strip of dizzying light beyond the shade of the stands, the sun so bright she can barely see for a moment, until her eyes adjust.

  A racetrack? Hopeless, says her aunt, shaking her head.

  Nothing like the trots, says Malcolm defensively. He says this as if having drivers, their sulky carts, made the races more welcoming to children than the thoroughbred races. And for once, Rudy and Gus are on his side — they are weary of arguing with him when they need him to look after her.

  Malcolm is in his element here, this is his natural habitat. He loves the antsy, expectant crowd, the sense of excitement hovering over the stands. The glee they feel in winning, kissing their tickets, crowing, leaping up on seats, arms outstretched. Or the disappointment, the collapse of anticipation until the next race, when it begins all over again. And for him, an endless number of people to become fond of — and then fleece.

  At first, she was caught up in the jarring glory of the horses as they rushed by, the thudding of their hooves, their muscles bunching and releasing, their sleek coats — bay, black, chestnut — gleaming in the sun. The moment when the gate car folded its wings and the horses lunged forward, manes and tails streaming out, sulkies flying behind them — carts that weighed less than a sack of rice. Then hurtling around the track, the drivers in their coloured silks leaning back, hitting the shafts with the poppers on their whips.

  But now she has been here too many times, she is restless, this is not like the books she reads about horses, full of mild peril, the endings buoyant. This place is race after race, the smell of roasted peanuts, stale beer, horse bodies rushing past, again and again.

  Have a little flutter, Malcolm says today, to keep her interested, as if he were grooming a future mark. He knows she has ten dollars from Rudy, he is remarkably alert to the presence of money, even a small amount. But he refuses to let her decide on the horses herself. Spice Blossom, she says, racing card in hand. Every Man Jack. Ladyslipper.

  Stabs in the dark, he says, smoke drifting from the cigarette between his thumb and first two fingers, cupped by his palm.

  Stubborn as Gus by now, she goes off on her own.

  On Spic
e Blossom, win, place, or show.

  We don’t take bets from kids, says the man.

  It’s for my uncle, she says, pointing him out.

  A loyal customer, a crony.

  Tell him just this once, says the man, looking around.

  The gate car closes and the horses thunder past, the drivers splayed out on the sulkies.

  Spice Blossom, snorts Malcolm. Not in a million years.

  The announcer, a rich, swampy voice, running a continuous line of words. At the quarter, it’s Seascape in the lead, with Coal Harbour coming up on the outside, Breathless on the rail, a damp track out there today, folks, still Seascape in the lead, but there goes Ladyslipper punching through the pack, moving up, now it’s Seascape, Breathless, Coal Harbour, and then Ladyslipper, and Ladyslipper coming up on Coal Harbour, then Every Man Jack and Spice Blossom, the rest of the field trailing at the half.

  Now Ladyslipper moving up on the outside, Breathless still on the rail, Coal Harbour in the pocket, Seascape still in the lead, Ladyslipper passing Coal Harbour, at the three-quarter pole, it’s Seascape, Breathless, Ladyslipper, and Coal Harbour, all going well, then Every Man Jack, Spice Blossom, the rest of the pack trying to close the gap.

  Oh, no, no, this is bad, look at that, Seascape is down, the horse is down, the driver on the track, we’ve got an accident, Breathless running into him, two horses down now, Coal Harbour swerving into Ladyslipper’s cart, this is a bad one, we’ve got horses loose on the track, repeat, horses loose on the track, three men down, no, one is up now, two, where’s that ambulance, what a pileup, hold your tickets, repeat, hold your tickets. Only five horses left in this race, although we’ve got Ladyslipper up and running without a driver, what a mess, all the drivers up now, coming into the stretch, there goes Every Man Jack in the lead now, then Spice Blossom and Ask Around, Spice Blossom moving up, head to head with Every Man Jack now, Ask Around behind them, the driver out there trying to catch Ladyslipper, Spice Blossom and Every Man Jack nose to nose now, but Every Man Jack is coming back strong, opening up, he’s back in the lead and it’s Every Man Jack at the finish.