She smells, inhales. The richness is almost uncontainable.
Hearing a sound, she leaps up to her feet. False alarm: down in the gulf, in the sea, a wooden beam clattered on the rocks.
A little sapling. Tiny leaves. Leaflets, full of life. Perhaps there’s also a stalk, though she’s not sure now, and she needs urgently to know: Is there a stalk? More than one? And how are the leaflets arranged? Crowded? Spacious? Or in pairs, facing each other? How did she fail to notice these things? She’s too afraid to lean down and touch it again. But the touch lives in her: like thin velvet, because the leaves are downy. Everything is so delicate. Vera sighs longingly. It’s so slight and fragile, and it’s clear to her that the little sapling doesn’t stand a chance in a place like this, in this sun, without a drop of shade.
Then there is a short period of time, like the instant between a strong blow and the pain, or between the moment bad news is uttered and when it seeps into comprehension, and in that particle of time Vera feels nothing and does not think, but she knows. An ugly, crude laugh bursts out of her, a vomit of laughter, and her body recoils from the plant, and she just wants to run away, not to be anywhere. How stupid she’s been—a blind cow. Because she suddenly understands what she’s doing here on the mountaintop, what they’re doing with her and how they’re using her, using her body, from sunrise to sunset.
* * *
—
Yesterday at four in the afternoon there was finally a lull in the storm, and we sailed to the island. The forecast said it would only kick up again at night. By then, we thought, we’d be on a plane back to Israel. We paid a fortune to a man who owned a little fishing boat, the only person who would agree to ferry us to the island in such bad weather. He demanded payment in advance, and cursed and spit into the water after Rafi handed him the cash. He hated himself and his greed, but mostly he hated us. He would wait for an hour after we disembarked, he said, tapping his watch, not a minute longer, and then he’d sail back to the mainland with or without us. We did the math: one hour on the island, forty minutes to sail back, two and a half hours to drive to Belgrade—we could do it. It would be down to the wire, but we’d make our flight.
I’m trying to recount the events in an organized fashion, as they occurred, to maintain continuity.
For most of the passage we stood close to the bow. We swayed with the boat, the wind and seawater whipped at us, and the air stank of dead fish. The fisherman grunted about the approaching bora—the strong northern wind. The police were already closing off roads: the wind would be powerful enough to pick up cars.
And then I saw the shadow of the island through the fog, and my knees went weak.
I went into the cabin. I wanted to be alone for a moment, before stepping onto the island.
The rain made a surprising comeback. Heavy, dense rain.
This is what I wrote: The island is visible now. How does it feel? Some fear. A kind of awe.
I step back outside.
Nina says something to me. I can’t understand. She shouts in my ear: Goli looks so much like her island in the Arctic. They both resemble the head of a giant crocodile lurking in the water.
The boat enters a little anchorage. Decaying wooden bridge. Wood beams floating around. Swollen carcass of a rabbit stuck in a clump of seaweed. Harsh, sweeping wind. Hard to talk and hard to hear. The rain prickles every inch of exposed skin like needles. The fisherman ties the boat to a small stone post on the shore and secures it against the concrete harbor wall. He doesn’t help us off the boat. Rafael climbs onto the stone pier and holds out his hand. First Vera steps off, then Nina, then me.
I’m on the island. I’m on Goli.
Empty and barren. We’re alone on the island. Only a madman would come here in this storm. The fisherman unties the rope and quickly sails away. I hope he’s just looking for a safer spot to anchor for the next hour.
I still find it hard to grasp that we’re on Goli Otok. The cold wind and the rain make it impossible to feel celebratory. Of course none of us thought to bring an umbrella, but it wouldn’t have helped in this wind anyway. Vera darts among the puddles, agape. I’m afraid she’ll fall, and then what? Rafi follows her with the Sony. I leave them. Again—I want to be alone to absorb my first encounter with the place.
I’m surprised to see a number of stone structures. Two-story barracks. This was not what I imagined. There’s a train track, too, probably for transport between the island’s two camps. I read somewhere that the Croatian tourism board wants to turn the island into a tourist attraction. But what most surprises me is the flora—trees and bushes. When Vera was here nothing could grow, and I imagine the changes happened after they shut down the “reeducation camp” and turned the island into a prison for criminal offenders.
Vera keeps pointing to things, slaps both hands to her cheeks: this was like this, and this was like that. Her eyes glimmer: “Here was the first time we got off the ship Punat, and longtime prisoners stood in two lines and made a Spalier for us, a sort of fence, like an honor guard, and we had to run between the lines, and old-timers screamed at us like animals and spat and hit with hands and with planks that had nails and with whips, and girls lost eyes, lost teeth, almost died. That was our welcome, and a month later we ourself stood in two lines and new girls ran down the middle. And here was Commandant Maria’s hut, there is still its floor. Later they built all houses from stone. Where’s Gili? Come see—” She pulls me by the hand, moving lighter than I do in this place, practically floating in her puffy down coat. “Here stood Maria when new girls arrived on the ship, and she screamed: ‘Ispadaj! Out!’ Girls were so terrified they wet their pants. And here was headquarters, and here drainage ditch for the kitchen and latrine that we dug with our hands, here you can even see its line going down to the sea.” Vera talks quickly, breathlessly. “And here was barbed-wire fence we put around, like as if someone would even want to come in here, or as if someone had strength to run away. The Adriatic Alcatraz, that’s what they call it still now.” Rafi hurries after her, filming and offering a supportive arm.
Nina is still in shock. I think she’s taking the blow of the island harder than all of us. She gazes about as if she cannot understand where she is. I go over and link my arm with hers. It’s hard for me to imagine that she might waste our single hour of grace here staring into space.
Vera claps her hands: “And this was toolshed. Here they gave us in the morning hammers to break stones. And here they kept the tragać, stretchers, and also on them we put rocks to carry up, and here was the yard for roll call, where they would punish you in front of everyone and you had to confess and be beaten in front of everyone. This is where we lived, in huts. Here is our row, here is my hut. Here stood my bed. Wooden bench with a bit of straw and bedbugs. Look, there are marks from beds on the floor.”
Everything is ugly, the way violence is ugly. Doors ripped out, objects burned beyond recognition. Rust and ashes. A concrete surface sprouting crooked iron rods, barbed-wire spears twisting in shattered windows. Vera hurries along the walls, pointing and murmuring the names of prisoners who slept in each bed. Her feet step lightly, as if they’re thirty years old again. She skips over cold mounds of embers, over planks with nails sticking out, over shreds of tires and rusty cans.
The rain stops. A pale sun comes out for a moment and disappears behind the clouds. The light is gray and murky. What will we even be able to see in the remaining half hour, and why did we put ourselves under this constraint? We’re such a screwed-up family. Such an ungenerous family. What would have happened if we’d stayed on the mainland for one more day and tried to sail here tomorrow, when all the forecasts promised almost springlike weather? In other words, why does everything that has anything to do with Nina end up crooked?
All at once the initial wave of excitement tanks, as if it’s been worn out. We keep walking around, but more slowly, and each to ourselves. We pe
er into collapsed buildings, walk through perforated walls. Vera points to the sky: it’s turning black again. The clouds suddenly hurtle toward the island from all directions, like a mob hurrying to a fight. We’re going to have a rough passage back.
I walk on a path paved with stones, feeling strangely limp. As if I’d had a strong desire that was sated too quickly. I reach a spot from which you can see the mountaintop: Vera’s mountain. The cliff where she stood for fifty-seven days in the blazing sun is now hidden in a mist. I look for the place where the path starts climbing up, but it’s covered by a giant puddle. There obviously won’t be time to climb to the top. I won’t be able to stand there for even five minutes above the gulf. I won’t put my feet on the spot where she stood, and I will not retell the things she told me about those days.
From the window of one of the huts I see a strange scene: out on a large field stand a few dozen boulders, almost human-sized. They are all slightly rounded and seem to be hewn. They stand darkly, they stand together—not just side by side—and there is something troubling about them, as though they have a consciousness.
My father sees them, too, and he runs over. I don’t remember ever seeing him run. He shoots the massive rocks from every angle. Then he puts two hands on one of them, tries something, and moves on to another one. He tries again, then moves to a third. He puts his hands straight up against the rock, takes a deep breath, and pushes. I run to help him. He makes room for me next to him.
The minute my hands touch the rock, something in me comes full circle and I burst into tears. I can hardly stop it. What am I crying about? About everything there is to grieve. In the rain and the wind Rafi senses immediately and he hugs me. He slowly strokes my head until I calm down.
Then we try to push the rock together. It will not budge. Vera walks out of the barracks and comes to help. I’m certain, absolutely positive, that the minute Vera touches the rock, it will start rolling upward. She stands next to me and puts her hands on it. The three of us groan and pant, but the rock is indifferent. I shout into her ear: “How did you push it?” She shouts back: “Nina is waiting for medicine!” I close my eyes and push with all my strength: Nina’s waiting for medicine, Nina’s waiting for medicine.
“Where is Nina?” Vera suddenly asks. Nina is standing some distance away, on a pile of gray rocks near the waterline. She motions for us to look away. She’s trying to find a spot to pee. A minute goes by, two minutes. We turn around slowly and she’s gone. Nothing but rocks and sea. The spot devoid of Nina fills us with terror. Rafi starts walking, then running, toward the shore. For a moment he disappears, too, then reappears, clambering up the rocks beyond a crease in the ground, and waves at us reassuringly: She’s here. We walk over. She’s lying behind a rock with her pants and underwear down, grinning. A little startled, completely soaked.
“I’m stuck,” she explains, “I twisted my ankle on the stones.”
Rafi wraps Nina in his coat and examines the rocks she’s trapped between. “Are you in pain?” “No. Maybe a little.” Her foot looks intact but twisted in a choreography I cannot comprehend. She tugs on Rafi’s beard: “Hey, what exactly are you looking at?” “You have the legs of a young girl.” “Glad you’re enjoying it.” “I’m going to get something.” Rafi runs. A fast man erupts from him. I can barely catch up. Vera falters after us. I think she’s getting tired. Nina is alone on the shore again, and we, as usual, feel it immediately. The us-square is always leaking from Nina’s side.
Rafi shouts and gesticulates to explain what we’re looking for: a stick or an iron rod to pry the rock off her foot. I check my watch: fifteen minutes to go. We won’t make it. We seriously won’t. A thought: Maybe Vera and Rafael should run to the dock and sail back to the mainland? Nina and I will spend the night here. I’ll take care of her. In the morning they’ll come back for us. I find a rusty iron rod, part of a collapsed barbed-wire fence. Rafi manages to extract it from the fence without getting injured. It’s been ages since I’ve seen my father such a man.
The idea grows on me. I like the thought of spending the night here, alone with Nina, in the purifying storm with all the family ghosts. We hear the boat honking from the dock. The fisherman is also looking up at the sky and seeing what’s coming. Rafi bolts over to Nina with the rod. She lies there, withering. I’ve noticed: all at once, sometimes within seconds, the life runs out of her. Vera always said Nina was spoiled. But it’s not that. What does being spoiled have to do with it? How dare she.
Rafi looks for somewhere to anchor the rod. He says something to Nina and she awakens to him, laughing. She’s lying there with her ass exposed in the pouring rain, and the situation amuses her. It’s amazing how her dignity is untouched even in that state. It might have actually been interesting to grow up with her for a few years.
The fisherman honks irritably. We ignore him. At this point there are sparks of illicit cheerfulness flying through all four of our heads. Rafi sticks the rod in the ground next to Nina’s ankle. His hands are covered with rust, and he washes them off in the rain. “One minute,” Nina shouts at him, “one minute I wouldn’t last in this place. How did she make it for two years and ten months?” Thunder rolls in over us. Nina is shivering. The top rock won’t budge. The rusty rod isn’t making a dent. Rafi tries to lodge it under the rock that’s trapping her foot, to release it a little so her foot will have some wriggle room. It’s hard for him to concentrate. “Can you smell my pee?” “Any minute now the rain will wash everything away.” The boat’s honks are becoming hysterical. Suddenly there’s the sound of an explosion, and a red flare sails through the sky and slowly nose-dives. “Leave me here,” Nina says, just as I was about to suggest they leave me here with her. “Yeah, right,” says Rafi, struggling, “that’s exactly why we brought you all this way.” “Rafi, I’m serious. Do me a favor, stop that for a minute!” She pounds on his chest with both hands and he stops. He hovers over her, swaying on the rod that separates them. Their bodies do not touch. They look into each other’s eyes. “Listen to me, think logically.” “Leave you here alone? That seems logical to you?” “It’s my logic. Give me one night here alone. A final act of kindness, Rafi.”
The fisherman gives one more long, violent honk. Vera is standing next to me, looking sullen. Her hand feels around for mine and clasps it. The wind is going wild, and Vera’s lips are blue. I wipe her glasses with my finger, then pull-push her against the wind into the closest barracks. All the windows are broken and the walls are threadbare, but at least there’s a partial roof. I sit her down in one corner between two walls, as if she’s more protected that way. God, I think, how could we bring a ninety-year-old woman to this place? How is she going to survive the night? Outside, on the beach, Nina grabs my father’s shirt with both hands. The wind carries her shouts: “Tell me, what do I have to wait for in this life?” My father shakes his bison head. In moments like these he emits dense, furry growls. No, no, no.
“Pick up a stone, Rafi, I’m wiping you clean of everything. If you really love me, get a good stone and clobber me on the head.” He leans all his weight on the rod. She shouts and scratches his face with both hands.
He gets up and runs back to the field of rocks. She twists her body backward to watch him. I leave the barracks and run to him. A punch of wind almost knocks me over. And another punch, from inside: she came here to die. Nina. In this place where she’s lived her whole life. She came here to unite with her death, which has been waiting for her, right here, since she was six and a half years old.
Rafi waves his hands at me and yells for me to run to the anchorage. I mime a boat that’s already sailed. He yells, “Now!” I don’t understand why, but he is possessed of a strength that can move things. I glance into the barracks on my way to the shore. Vera sits on the ground exactly as I left her. Her eyes are glazed. She looks halfway between human and bird. Rafi roars at me to hurry. I run. I remember how he used to be a force of nature o
n film sets. The actors were like puppets in his hands, and they didn’t like it; they rebelled. That was another reason the whole thing fell through. I feel around under all my layers and find his nitroglycerin spray and aspirin in my shirt pocket. I run up a small hill. From the top I can see the boat sailing away, a black spot on the gray horizon. I take a picture with my cell phone, even though nothing will show up. It was dumb of me not to take the camera from Rafi. From up here I can also see Rafi running back to Nina with another rod, which looks more massive. He covers her with his coat again. So your ass won’t freeze, my sweet, he’s probably whispering. And she hits him furiously. Maybe she was really hoping we’d left her, the way she was used to. He talks to her. Strokes her hair. I keep filming them on my cell. Nothing will come out from this far away, but I can’t not shoot—this is the film of my lifetime.
I climb down and sprint to the dock. Rafi was right. On the wooden bridge, at the top of the steps, is a large, shrink-wrapped, bright orange package with the Red Cross logo and another symbol, probably the Croatian coast guard’s. Considering how large it is, it’s incredibly light. I wave a thanks with both arms at the fisherman, but of course he’s long gone and cannot see. I run back to Vera’s barracks, where I rip the nylon off and open the package. Inside, a treasure: a large blanket, which I spread out and wrap around Vera thoroughly. (I remember a thought running through my mind: I will know how to diaper a baby. I will know how to take care of him. I will stay with him, come what may. I have many flaws, but I’m not a person who abandons, and I’m not a person who betrays.) “Go see what’s up with them,” Vera says, and I run. On the shore Nina is smoothing my father’s face with both hands, tidying his scruffy beard. He says something; she laughs. He tries again to pull her foot out, but it’s useless, and I start to worry. What if she really can’t get out? I’m not far away, but they are so lost in themselves that they don’t see me. From my vantage point it looks as if the island is closing its jaws on her. Any minute it’ll start to devour her. I want to go and take the camera from Rafi’s backpack and shoot them. These are powerful moments, though I cannot penetrate their intimacy. My father is fighting a dragon: he sticks the rod gently under her foot and carefully presses down. Yesterday, in the hotel, I briefly held that delicate foot. Nina catches his eyes again. Poor, dear Rafi, says her face, I wish I could release you from it. From me. Right now the only one stuck is you, he answers. With both hands she pulls his face to hers. They kiss. They are indifferent to the rain and the winds and the gray sea. I have no words to describe the beauty of the moment.
More Than I Love My Life Page 23