Liv Unravelled

by Donna Bishop

  The father, flanked by two officers, stands upright, with quiet dignity. He swears that they have sent their children away; their daughter is in university and their son in boarding school, both in Switzerland.

  “You are lying,” the officer spits at him. He strikes Shoshanna’s father on the head with the butt end of his rifle and he falls on the ground. Detlef hears this and sees it as his chance to garner favour with his superiors.

  “Heil Hitler,” he salutes and moves forward, addressing his superior. “You are right, sir. These Jews are lying. I saw their daughter walking on this very street the other day — she was carrying jugs of milk. She’s not in university in Switzerland.”

  Detlef is glad to be among the group of soldiers that flood into the house, which fills with the sound of smashing china and stomping boots. They move through hallways and rooms ransacking and destroying, searching for valuables, which they pile up and drag down the stairs wrapped in the rich carpets from the floors.

  Detlef is excited, almost euphoric. He enjoys looting — moving in with his pack and laying waste to a house, ripping paintings from the walls, slashing furniture, searching for a cupboard full of silver or a jewellery box. He relishes the idea of Shoshanna seeing him in this new, powerful position.

  Detlef makes his way into what is certainly her bedroom — a charming, feminine room with a gabled ceiling, painted white with touches of pink. The others have already been in here — the linen has been torn from the bed and lies in a pile of white eyelet. The mattress is awry, the floor is littered with garments and belongings. He picks up a small cotton brassiere and feels something resembling regret. Not for what he’s about to do but for what he will never be able to do. He imagines what the soldiers might have done with Shoshanna if they had found her. It excites him. He looks under the bed, then walks around, inspecting, intrigued by her collections of miniature castles and cottages. He spots the miniature mirror, half-hidden in the corner and puts it in his pocket.

  He’s about to leave when he hears a muffled bump — there’s someone hiding in the wall behind the dresser. He instantly knows it’s probably Shoshanna and her brother. He stands quiet, his mind churning with possibilities. He could walk out — he’s the last to search, so the fault will not only be his. But perhaps this is a test of his loyalty, the strength of his commitment. They are Jews. They are ruining his country. It’s his duty to expose them.

  “Sir! They’re up here, hidden in the wall!” His voice rings loudly in the stairwell.

  His chest puffs with pride at their congratulations. He helps tear down the hidden wall, exposing the terrified Shoshanna and her younger brother. “Mother! Father!” they cry. Shoshanna tries to shield her brother and fights the soldiers, battering them ineffectually with her fists. “Leave my brother alone, he’s just a small boy, you filthy pigs.” They are both dragged out of their hiding place, down the stairs and into the dark street.

  As the family is roughly loaded into a transport truck, Detlef catches Shoshanna's eye, expecting to see recognition, some sign of regret for her treatment of him. But all he sees is blind fear and loathing.

  Later that night, lurching with drink, leaning against his friends in front of Shoshanna’s empty home, Detlef grins. It has been a good night for Hitler’s army and a good night for him. There has been much laughter and back-slapping as they celebrated, guzzling back fine liquor confiscated from Jewish homes. “Blood and Honour,” they chant in unison. There’s talk of a raid on a gypsy encampment the following evening — not as profitable for looting, but the gypsies put up a great fight. There’s sure to be blood. Perhaps now that he’s proven himself, the officers will initiate him into some of the fun that is to be had with those wild dark-skinned girls.

  ~ ~ ~

  Detlef’s bike bumps off the dirt road onto a narrow cobblestone street. He rides to a streetlight and stops and props his bike against it. He lights another cigarette and smokes it quickly, almost impatiently, looking around. He grinds it out and pulls a rag from his pocket and buffs the dust from his black boots, then inspects his trousers, brushing them off with his hands. It’s imperative he look his best — he’ll be reprimanded if his uniform is not impeccable. His face flushes as he recalls the humiliation of being upbraided in front of the others for having a smudge of dust on his pant cuff. That will not happen again.

  As he stands upright and reaches for his bicycle, a shot is fired — Detlef’s head snaps back and he is thrust against the brick wall and slumps to the ground. Oh, the sickening rush of blood.

  I felt that enter my chest just as certainly as I felt the bullet that killed Veda in India — but this time, I have a chilling sensation as his soul flees his body like a whoosh of dark vapour. I’m instantly set free to hang weightlessly over the scene.

  Detlef’s body is propped against the wall, his head hanging to the side and his legs splayed before him. In the shadows on the other side of the street, there’s movement — I see the startled face of a young man, his jaw open, staring. He is dark-haired with an angular face, dressed in rags. It’s the gypsy boy Detlef beat up when he was nine years old. He has a rifle in his hands. He spins and runs away, his footsteps sharp on the cobblestones. He swerves out of sight down a side street.

  I look back at Detlef and notice a symbol scrawled on the wall above him — a white rose drawn in chalk on the red brick.

  Liv’s return is instantaneous — she sits bolt upright and clutches Celeste’s arm.

  “Oh my god, I feel so horrible about this lifetime as a Nazi! Could my spirit really have been in somebody as vile and hateful as him?"

  “We’re each capable of both good and evil, given the circumstances. Buddhism suggests that we have all been both the tortured and the torturer and we need to have compassion for both. Sometimes in that big library in the sky, maybe souls contract to be reborn into an existence where their main purpose is to provide a lesson for someone else.”

  “But this is just too weird, Celeste. When I was eleven, I read The Diary of Anne Frank and began having this recurring nightmare. I still have it occasionally.

  “In the dream, sometimes I’m a soldier, sometimes I’m just myself. People are seeking my directions — I have to decide which way to send them. I always tell them the wrong way. I’ve been told to follow orders and I do. It always ends the same, with me realizing, too late, that I’m sending people to their deaths. Now I have my own children, they’re in my dream too, and I give them the wrong directions and I send them to their deaths before I realize it’s them! I wake up terrified and feeling sick to my stomach.”

  “Liv, what a horrible thing for you to have to experience over and over.”

  “Do you think it’s connected to Detlef? Could his miserable spirit have carried over into this lifetime? I’m so relieved Detlef died young, before he could do more harm!”

  “I would certainly say the dream is an echo of your soul’s experience as Detlef. If you carried anything into this lifetime, it would be the fear you might be capable of evil. Knowing about your childhood and how you lived in fear of your abusive father, it could also have been your subconscious mind trying to find a way to make sense of it all, by making you feel responsible for everyone in the world. That’s what can happen with children of trauma, Liv. They either take on the addiction, or they take on the world.”

  “Well, that’s a heck of a choice. What I want to know is, how is my soul going to make up the karma points for being a vicious Nazi?”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Maybe you already have! Think of it — Detlef was one of millions of soldiers, on all sides in all wars! That’s universal karma — it aims to raise the awareness of all humanity. A Buddhist monk once explained to me that karma doesn’t work as we might think it would. It’s not a steady progression of lessons learned and insights gained. It doesn’t always progress logically toward enlightenment.

  “Sometimes, after many lifetimes of good deeds and happiness, we’re born into a ve
ry negative, challenging life, where we die of a terrible illness or where we inflict pain on others, like Detlef and your father.”

  “That really does help, Celeste. Now I feel so much better about being a horrible, racist, murderous Nazi! Just kidding, I actually do! It also helps me to understand that Ross isn’t evil. He’s not the bad guy any more than I am. He’s misguided and doing harm to himself and others and he needs to be stopped — just like every brainwashed, delusional soldier who ever fought in war created by evil. Mental illness is like a war in a person’s mind.”

  “I’ve really found Buddhism has been a blessing in my life. It helps me make sense of the world and my place in it. The other cool thing is that it doesn’t mutually exclude all of my other spiritual beliefs. One day I might get more in touch with my birth mother’s Ojibway or my father’s French roots. All this ‘accepting’ doesn’t mean we should sit back and do nothing about the bad in people or in the world — social action in Buddhism and also in First Nations societies are long-standing traditions.”

  “Well, when my life feels more in order, I’m going to take a long, solo holiday by the sea, take along a couple of dozen of those books you keep lending me that I never find the time to read, and figure out what, if anything, I truly want to be — a Buddhist, a Wiccan, a Quaker, or some crazy combination of all of them.”

  “There’ll be time. If not this life, then the next.”

  Liv ponders their conversation. The injustice and the horror of that war plays havoc in my mind, juxtaposed with what my unconscious mind plays out in my Nazi nightmares. Is every human capable of great good and great evil and everything in between? Will I be able to find a way to move forward in my life with this knowledge, with more compassion or with more forgiveness?

  Liv suddenly feels grateful for this knowledge and experience. Guilt and horror have been replaced by insight. She could be someone who helps people because she understands both sides of human nature. Instead of pointing people in the wrong direction, out of malice or ignorance, like in her nightmare, she could learn how to help people find their right trajectory and do no harm. Her mind dances at the thought of signing up for college classes as soon as she can. Let the learning begin.

  20

  ~ Crisis and Catharsis ~

  The call comes in shortly after noon. Celeste has just finished adding fresh thyme to a large pot of tomato soup. She intends for it to last her a week until Jacques gets home. He’s still away working in the bush but will return in a few days for the Christmas break.

  Liv’s voice is breathless and harried. “Ross has barricaded himself in his office at the college and the police have been called. They want me to come and try to talk him out, but I need someone to be here when the kids get home. Could you possibly do that, Celeste?”

  Celeste has been expecting something like this would happen. Ross’ bizarre behaviour has been escalating steadily for months, so it was only a matter of time.

  “Of course. I’ll be at your house at four when the bus arrives. Don’t worry about the kids. Actually, I’m coming over right now and we’ll spend a minute doing some breathing and talking about how you can get through this. You shouldn’t drive when you’re so distraught. And you can take my car instead of your farm truck. It’s not safe to go to town in that thing.”

  As Liv pulls up to the faculty building, the rock-hard knot in her stomach tightens and blood rushes to her face. She sees two police cars and an ambulance with flashing red lights. Oh my god, has he hurt himself…or someone else?

  In a panic, she hurriedly parks the car in a No Parking zone and runs toward the building. Just inside the door, in the hallway outside Ross’ office, are several RCMP officers, emergency workers and — thank goodness — Ross’ good friend and coworker, Drew, who is talking to Ross through the door.

  “Ross, are you okay? Are you drinking? Maybe you just need to come out of there and I’ll take you home?”

  “No, Drew, you don’t get it.” Ross' voice sounds slurred. “They want to get rid of all of us — mark my words, these people are KKK. They’ve taken all the money now they want all the power. I can stop them. God wants me to stop them.”

  “You don’t even believe in God,” Drew interrupts. “Come on out of there. The police are going to break the door down if you don’t come out now. We can talk. Liv just got here. The three of us can go out for coffee.”

  “The shit is going to hit the fan, we can either be the ones getting hit or the ones doing the hitting.” Then in a quieter voice. “Why is Liv here?"

  “Sir, do you have a weapon?” an RCMP officer interjects.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Ross yells. “No, my only weapon is my mind and they're trying to destroy that too!”

  As Liv walks toward into the scene, she’s nervous, absolutely unsure about what she can do that could possibly help the situation. An RCMP officer approaches her and takes her aside, now she’s been identified as “the wife.”

  He asks her a few questions about Ross’ drinking and whether he’s done things like this before. Even though Liv tells him her concerns about Ross' mental health and his behaviour in recent months, the officer seems determined it’s an alcoholic episode and all he needs is to dry out. He does want to determine if there’s a weapon, though, so Liv assures him Ross only has a shotgun for farm use and it’s at home to the best of her knowledge.

  The system is not going to help, Liv realizes. He hasn’t hurt himself or anyone else at this time and it’s not illegal to rant about nonsensical things. The police want to take him to lock-up for the night so he can sober up, but Liv knows that won’t help at all and will just make him more paranoid. The officer lends her his car phone to call the emergency ward at the hospital to see if he can be admitted, but they tell her he’s not ‘commitable’ and she knows he won’t go willingly.

  Recalling her sessions with Celeste and calling on the strength of her past life characters, her fear and anxiety evaporate and she says, with confidence, to the officer, “I’ll be able to talk him out of there and take him home.”

  She walks up to his office door. Inside, she can hear Ross weeping. She can’t recall ever seeing Ross cry during their ten years of marriage. She’s frustrated the police can’t help, angry the college is so unsupportive — they just seem to want Ross gone. The lump rising up in her throat is extreme sadness, for Ross and for herself. The man she married seems to be gone.

  “Ross, it’s Liv,” she says. “I’ve come to take you home. Everything will be okay. You need some sleep.”

  He opens the door and falls into her arms. Liv feels a sense of control and calm in herself. She suddenly knows his behaviour isn’t about her, not at all. He’s not a bad man, he’s just a victim of circumstances. I can’t feel anything but empathy for him right now.

  Celeste has the kids settled in bed by the time Liv arrives home with a silent Ross. He doesn’t even look at Celeste, just shuffles into the den and shuts the door.

  “My head feels like it’s going to explode,” she whispers to Celeste, “I don’t even know the man I drove home.” She takes a deep breath, “Did the kids do all right?”

  “They were thrilled to see Auntie Celeste waiting for them — a bit worried that you weren’t here, but I told them you had an appointment in town. We made it into a party. The soup is still warm if you’re hungry.”

  “You’re fantastic.”

  Liv moves to serve herself, but Celeste frowns and guides her to a chair at the table and dishes her up a steaming bowl. It’s tangy and fresh tasting and it warms her insides.

  “Okay, tell me what happened,” she says, once Liv’s had a few bites.

  “Oh my god — such a nightmare.” She talks softly, aware of Ross in the next room.

  “I could have let them take him to jail. The police thought a night in the slammer would scare him straight and sober, but I knew it would just make it worse. I tried to tell them how unwell he’s been but they said unless he has a mental health history or
diagnosis, he can’t be committed against his will. He didn’t say a word the whole way home. He just passed out.”

  To Liv it felt like she was living in a movie about someone else’s life, only she didn’t know the script. She hesitates for a moment and takes Celeste’s hand in her own. “Thank you so much for stepping in with the kids, I’m so glad they didn’t have to see their dad like that.”

  “You aren’t alone Liv. You are going to get through this, I know it.”

  “Yeah, I know. I do feel I will. I’m worried that Ross won’t, but I’m even beginning to let go of that worry. Drew said he thinks, like us, that losing the election played a big part in knocking Ross off the rails. And the insane amounts of drugs and alcohol he’s been consuming for months. Drew and their other co-workers at the college know he dances on the edge of weird, but other than his left-wing shenanigans, Ross has been pretty good at keeping up the façade of normalcy at work — until the China incident, and now this.”

  How much worse can he get before he’s forced to get help? Liv wonders. Does somebody have to get really hurt? Maybe I should have let them take him to jail. No, I think I did the right thing but now I need to firmly hold my line and if Ross refuses to get help, the kids and I will have to leave.

  Celeste calls the next day to check in. Liv tells her that Ross has installed himself in the den, getting up only to use the bathroom and get more medication for his never-ending headache.

  “He’s taken to chewing his pills like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Now I officially feel like I’m living in a horror movie. Worse yet, I’m playing the dutiful wife, even though everything in me wants to grab the kids and run screaming out of the house.” Celeste laughs softly and encourages her, “Do it,” she teases, although she knows Liv is just venting.