The Singing Forest

by Judith McCormack

  Something he hadn’t realized, hadn’t understood with his own children — that they would grow up, establish other anchors for her. That she would no longer be so isolated, that the walls he had built around her would shrink. Too late, he understands that some shift has occurred, that his hold has been eroded. And he has been lax over the years — letting her join the church groups, the choir. He realizes now there is no end to her possible disloyalties. Would she take this chance to leave him? No, impossible. Impossible. Look what a good husband you have.

  So dark in this room, even darker than before. Dark as a tunnel, a cavernous tunnel. He is standing in it, dirty water at his feet, a foul smell in the air. The other end is dim but lighter, he can see a figure, shrouded in grey mist, carrying something. A pail of ice water.

  Stand up, shouts the man, the sound bouncing down the tunnel.

  Who are you? he says.

  Stand up, shouts the man again.

  I am standing up.

  Stand up. Stand up. Stand up.

  Then the tunnel is empty, echoing with hollowness, a hollowness that bounces off the walls, that engulfs him, engulfs everything.

  He is awake again, in a sweat, heart pounding.

  Why has he been singled out for this — this humiliation, this punishment? Why are they pursuing him? There must be other people with worse to their names. This country. This preachy country, its ignorant, windy ideas of justice. Egged on by the Jewish groups.

  So much self-pity, says the woman coming towards him, out of the grey mist. The lawyer. Do you have even a grain of compassion for the people you tortured, the people you killed?

  He stands up, reaches towards her.

  Sliucha. Whore.

  ···

  The cellist’s bow is fraying, a few hairs swinging from the end as it moves back and forth. They shimmer faintly in the light on the small stage, the stage itself a glowing pocket in the dark evening air. Neither he nor the violinist seem to notice the hairs, although surely this is impossible, at least for the cellist.

  The sun is gone, but in the distance, the sky over the lake is still not entirely black, still tinged with dark blue, traces of yellow. The air is warm, almost downy.

  A distraction, Nate says.

  He has been tender, carefully picking his way through her despair. But he is convinced that she needs to have her head filled with other thoughts, that new things will rouse her, stir her, will wake her from this numbness.

  You need taking out of yourself, says her aunt.

  Taking out of yourself. Is that possible, can one existence be pulled out of another?

  She can see that Nate is becoming impatient with her grief, with its balkiness, its persistence. Yes, yes, this is sad, he seems to be saying, in his posture, his gestures, but dwelling on it is pointless.

  So far they have hiked in a ravine, seen a sculpture exhibit — blue tentacles descending from the ceiling — gone to a greenhouse with a collection of bamboo and papyrus. Now an open air concert.

  She goes along with all this because she is too listless to object, and because he may be right. And even if he is wrong, this is what he wants, and what he wants means something more to her now. She is hungry for the feel of his skin against hers, lying against him in a way that brings the surface areas of their bodies into the most contact. Applying him to herself like a balm. Or sometimes her hands stray across his body, lost in a silent dialogue of their own. She inhales his clean breath — is it more powerful, more sustaining than hers? She is now entirely persuaded by his physical being, by how legible he has become.

  At the moment, though, she is transfixed by the hairs on the cello bow, by the possibility that the hairs might fray through completely. One last stroke, a snicking sound, and the bittersweet, melancholy notes would come to an end. How likely is this? She doesn’t know. But if some of the hairs can break, why not all?

  As she sits there listening, though, it is the notes that begin to fall apart, scattering over the grass, rolling towards her. They become distorted, jarring, the flow lost. She wonders if there is something she should be doing. Holding out her hands to catch them. Picking them up. Rolling them back.

  She shakes her head hard, and the notes fall back into line.

  The program is almost over, this piece Glière’s “Berceuse,” the haunting sound of the violin over the dusky cello. The music glides and soars and falls, drawing exquisite patterns in the night air. But she is fixed on the bow again, barely noticing the surroundings.

  This park, where they are sitting, where the concert is taking place. Built to embody a piece of music itself, a Bach suite given physical shape, winding trails of greenery and boulders. Rolling, waving, the paths are in motion, filled with old rhythms — prelude, allemande. Beside the paths are tall grasses spilling over in waterfalls, long drifts of blue sage, the scent of lavender in the dark.

  She has an odd, restless feeling in her chest, something that has been growing slowly — very slowly — all evening. What is it? Something elusive, just out of reach.

  And then the piece is over. The cellist holds the bow up, suspended in the air for a second or two, the hairs swaying as the sound fades away.

  Let’s walk, says Nate.

  They wander through the park, along the spiralling paths — the dance movements in the suite. Courante, sarabande. Tall plumes float in the dark, their stems invisible, white phlox loom up suddenly and then disappear. The air is mild and fragrant now — earthy, coppery.

  Nate is talking about a case, holding forth about the witless client, the judge’s crustiness.

  He sounds like Louis, she thinks. Is this what we’re going to become?

  She should be saying something, laughing at his descriptions, scoffing along with him, reassuring him. But summoning up thoughts, words is too hard — her brain is flat. He keeps on, though, working hard to carry both sides of the conversation.

  A bed of irises, their petal tongues hanging down in the dark, as if they had just finished talking. The dizzying scent of the lilies. The paths curl and uncurl in their formal patterns — minuet, gigue. For a moment, she can almost see shadowy dancers in their satin dresses — ivory, pale grey — winding under the trees, pacing out the steps, their transparent bodies turning and bowing.

  The feeling in her chest seems to be rising, expanding, hardening. What is it? A decision, she realizes with surprise. A decision she has made without knowing she was even considering it, the various parts of it gathering together silently. A decision so clear that there is no arguing with it.

  She turns to Nate.

  Have you lost your mind? he says a minute later, interrupting her. You have to let this go.

  You have to let this go, says her aunt.

  The case is in, finished, he says. Credibility is up to the judge.

  I need to know, she says.

  Now his voice is rough with irritation, with something else.

  Louis will be furious.

  A man brushes by them on the path.

  Louis will know nothing about it unless I get the wrong answers. And if I get the wrong answers, he should know.

  How can you possibly think he would agree with that? says Nate, his mouth tense. Look, your perspective is off right now. You’re not seeing things clearly. At least take more time to think about it.

  No, she says. I’ll lose my nerve.

  Please, he says in a lower voice, looking at her strangely. Don’t do this. You’ll ruin things for both of us.

  She turns, a half-question on her face. Isn’t that a little excessive?

  I don’t want this to end, he says.

  He looks miserable, crossing his heavy arms tightly in front of his chest.

  This? Could he possibly mean their soft, drunken sprawl of a relationship, this thing that envelops her, absorbs her? He would do that? She searches his eyes
for something, something that isn’t there.

  She is speechless, impaled on his words. Then she is angry. And then she is furious, the blood rushing into her head, her head tight.

  I think I see things clearly now, she says.

  ···

  She is lying on the bed, holding the pillow in her arms. Gus, the smell of his shaving soap, old sweat. The antiseptic for his incision. Cigarette smoke, even though he had stopped smoking for the operation. She inhales deeply. Perhaps the smoke had embedded itself in his fingers, his hair, over so many years. Something else he has left behind.

  There must be other things — skin flakes, oils, microbes, hairs on towels, sheets, clothes. His DNA, his genetic essence, on his glass on the bedside table, on door handles, light switches. Forensic evidence of his own, of his existence. But slowly this will disappear too, the sheets will be washed, the handles wiped, his imprint gradually erased. Some residue might stay for longer — on the things he touched, the things he handled that are personal, that are only his — reading glasses, belts, shoes.

  The things he touched.

  A massive sob erupts deep inside her chest, and then a spate of other sobs come bursting out of it, primitive sounds buried inside her body. She clutches the pillow convulsively, unable to bear this torrent of despair, but unable to stop it, her body shaking. She sobs wildly, harshly. On and on it goes, until her lungs are aching, her body exhausted, her throat hoarse.

  An eon later. The spasms are weaker, further apart, and her clenched hands begin to loosen. And then a narrow opening, an old understanding, an understanding that begins spreading through her. The very last thing she wants to know, a brutal, queasy truth. That there is no life she can live that will not be pierced with agonizing losses, that these losses are not avoidable, not negotiable. That she will not be able to prevent them by keeping her head down, by asking for too little, by clinging to the rules. By summoning up enough fears in advance to ward them off.

  And running through this, another truth: that her only chance is to go out to meet these losses, these casualties. To go out to them unarmed, crooning hopeless songs to them to save herself from despair. Only this will allow her to throw herself into her own life, into the chaos of living, to wrestle with its risks, its scarred beauty. Only this will allow her to summon up the perverse courage necessary for existence, for living with the ruthless edge of happenstance.

  She is unable to move for a second or two, unable to think. But then she is overwhelmed by a sense of coherence, a growing symmetry, something that holds the possibility of other ways of being.

  In a single sideways moment, she realizes that if she, too, has a damaged, obstinate heart, she might still survive it.

  ···

  The future becomes a snake, straightening itself out from a cramped position.

  ···

  Come in, come in, she says to them. What a night, so much rain, although at least the thunder has subsided. Let me give you a drink. Go ahead, dry yourselves off by the fire. How are you? Look, the candles are on the mantel. See, the barley porridge, the honey, the eggs are on the table. Sit down, take a break from your shadowy labours. I’m curious about them, I admit, but this is your night. A night to settle down, to be at rest, if only for a while, to sit here in quiet company. Near, but not too near, close enough to feel the touch of hazy fingers, to hear the rustle of limbs, to feel the sighing of sweet dead breath. Close enough that we can even hum a scrap of a song together, a few bars of something low.

  But take your time, there is no urgency, no rush. Linger as much as you like, take all the solace as you can find here, let yourself be soothed by this rare truce between the living and the dead. Take all the time you want, all the time you need. Take all the time in the world.

  ···

  The music teacher first. There he is, on the screen, his creased face, his mischievous smile, pulling at one of his ears, scratching his neck. Polina is beside him, her dark hair shorter, a sleek, angular cut against her white skin. They seem delighted to be in each other’s company again, although they are still soundless at the moment.

  Fifteen hundred rubles.

  Polina is fiddling with one of the microphones, her bitten fingernails painted dark blue. She is working on the sound problem, going through the settings, checking the signal, the connection. Sorry, she mouths to the screen.

  Leah waits as patiently as she can, willing herself to be calm, to ignore her heart beating rapidly, one small thud threatening to overrun the next.

  It’s not too late, says Nate. You don’t have to do this.

  He is leaning against the side of the door with deliberate casualness, his hands in his pockets, head freshly shaven.

  Yes, I do, she says.

  For a moment, his face changes, the casualness slips, she can see the expression underneath — angry, forlorn. Then it is back, fixed firmly in place.

  Now they are both watching Polina try one thing and then another, looking puzzled. Still no sound, nothing.

  Why are you still here? she says to Nate.

  No answer.

  Finally, Polina holds up the unplugged end of the microphone cable and laughs, a soundless laugh, and then the music teacher laughs, bobbing his head, still scratching his neck.

  And then, surprisingly, a small laugh erupts in her own throat — rusty, a little painful, almost unrecognizable.

  We’re starting, she says to Nate. Time for you to go.

  Not yet, he says. He takes his hands out of his pockets. Not yet.

  The sound comes on abruptly. Polina’s cool, clear voice fills the office.

  Ready? she says.

  Acknowledgements

  In my last book, I described my partner, Peter Dorfman, as extraordinarily smart, kind, daring, and funny. He hasn’t changed. In fact, he has only become more so — living with him is an exhilarating experience, and his comments on the manuscript were invaluable. Other people I cherish include Daniel McCormack, Julia Dorfman, Ben Ferdinand, Elijah Ferdinand, Sacha Ferdinand, and Naomi McCormack — people who admittedly had nothing to do with the book directly, but who are so dear that they enrich my life and hence my writing immeasurably. I have also been inspired by the Jewish side of my family, especially my grandfather, Jules Herman, a tailor who came from Belarus.

  Of the people who did have something to do with the book directly, I want to thank first the experts who read and provided crucial observations on the manuscript: Professor Lynne Viola, whose book Stalinist Perpetrators on Trial was the source of much of my information about the Stalinist purges and the NKVD, including the “physical measures of persuasion”; and Max Wolpert, former counsel to the Crimes Against Humanity and War Crimes Section of the Department of Justice. Other experts who were extremely helpful were immigration and refugee lawyer Barbara Jackman, criminal lawyer Donald Bayne, and (then) PhD student Aleksandra Pomiecko. It goes almost without saying that any errors and liberties taken are my own.

  More specifically, the doctor’s evidence is inspired by the testimony of Volha Barouskaya, parts of the bookkeeper’s affidavit were informed by Professor Viola’s series on the Oxford University Press blog Academic Insights for the Thinking World and the quotes in regard to hearsay were taken from a turn-of-the-century article by John Wigmore in the Harvard Law Review. One of the quotes about glass is from Curiosities of Industry, an 1858 volume by George Dodd, and, of course, the allusion to hope and feathers is from Emily Dickinson.

  Kurapaty is a real mass grave where NKVD officers killed between 30,000 and 250,000 people between 1937 and 1941. All the doctrines and statutes are also genuine, as are the quotes from cases, although most have been edited.

  And speaking of editing, I am very grateful to Dinah Forbes as well for her superlative literary services, not the least of which was connecting me to my excellent agent, Marilyn Biderman, one of the most heartening people I have ever met. I
am also indebted to Dan Wells, my publisher, for his patience, editing, and counsel, as well as Vanessa Stauffer, John Sweet, Ingrid Paulson, Michaela Stephen, and the rest of the Biblioasis crew.

  To all my friends: thank you for your encouragement, your support, and your distractions. I am deeply lucky to know you. And thanks to Brent Knazan as well, who let me attach his reading habits to a person wholly unlike him.

  Finally, I must thank John Metcalf again and again — for his astute and inspired editing, for his help at pivotal moments, and for other kindnesses.

  Copyright

  Copyright © Judith McCormack, 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  first edition

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The singing forest / Judith McCormack.

  Names: McCormack, J. A. (Judith A.), author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210213299 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210213345

  ISBN 9781771964319 (softcover)

  ISBN 9781771964326 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS8575.C668 S56 2021 | DDC C813/.6 — dc23

  Edited by John Metcalf

  Copyedited by John Sweet

  Text and cover designed by Ingrid Paulson

  Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and the financial support of the Government of Canada. Biblioasis also acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,709 individual artists and 1,078 organizations in 204 communities across Ontario, for a total of $52.1 million, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates.