The woman translates. Micha imagines Elena Kolesnik listening, wonders if she is smiling, what she is feeling.
—
I will come in a couple of weeks. I will book a train and write to her
.
When Micha goes back into the bedroom, Mina is dozing, and the baby is lying next to her, arms flung over her head. He watches them a while, and then whispers, careful not to wake them.
—
Jozef Kolesnik is dead
.
He will tell Mina in the morning.
That will be soon enough
.
The journey is familiar now. Micha is prepared for the waiting, the slow trains and the crowded bus. It is not difficult for him to remember that Kolesnik is dead, that he won’t be seeing him, and he is surprised at that. Micha thought he would expect the old man to be at the bus stop, that it would be a shock to walk to the house on his own, but it isn’t.
Elena Kolesnik is on the porch, waiting for him. She waves as Micha comes around the corner, and he waves back. There is another woman with her, a younger woman. Micha thinks she was probably the voice on the phone.
Elena Kolesnik offers Micha her bedroom, hers and her husband’s. Micha declines, but the neighbor says Elena wants it that way.
—She will sleep in the kitchen, that is the way she does it with guests.
Elena slams the plates onto the table, cuts the bread in huge slabs. She is angry with Micha. Can’t understand why he won’t stay
for longer. He asks the neighbor to tell her that he must return to work, he has taken leave.
—
They only allowed me two days. I have to leave tomorrow. I am sorry
.
He unpacks the photos of Elena and Jozef from the top of his rucksack, and Elena stares at them while they eat. Micha knows he should have sent them months ago. Before Jozef died. He apologizes again, through the neighbor, and Elena nods, but is not really listening. Absorbed in the images in front of her.
Jozef looking at her, in the next room. Just a few months ago
.
After they clear the plates, Micha shows the women pictures of Mina and the baby, and Elena smiles again, but she is still hurt. Micha knows he should stay longer, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to sleep where Kolesnik slept and where he died. He wants to tell Elena that he was not her husband’s friend, not even her friend, but the words won’t come. Too cruel, too ungrateful.
The neighbor says good night.
—Elena will take you tomorrow to see the grave. In the morning, she says, when you get up. You can walk from here.
In the bedroom, Micha pulls the blankets back off the bed, messes up the sheets a little and dents the pillow. Then he lays out his sleeping bag on the rug under the wide windowsill and rolls his sweater up under his head.
In the graveyard Elena smoothes the new grass with her fingers. There are fresh flowers laid next to the grave. Not from Elena, not from Micha.
Jozef Kolesnik is mourned
.
Micha is not sure what he should do. The morning is warm. Bright sun through the few clouds. He is still half asleep. Tired from the journey and the night spent on the wooden floor.
No headstone yet
. Nothing to mark Kolesnik’s grave but the high mound, the fresh turf, which Elena presses down, kneeling on the ground next to Micha, silent, laying her cheek, her forehead on the
ground. Micha looks away, down the slope toward the village and the river. Trying to feel something; failing; wanting to go home as soon as he can.
Micha expects to go back to the house, but they walk in the opposite direction, out of the village. South toward the marsh, and then, after ten minutes or so, east toward the forest. The neighbor is not with them, so Micha can’t ask Elena where they are going. He just walks with her in silence, and follows her into the birch trees, waking up, taking in the landscape now, the beautiful day. Clear, strong sun through the leaves. Light falling in shafts on earth and grass. He walks with Elena in the birdsong and cool forest smell.
Elena takes hold of Micha’s elbow, and he sees the tears on her cheeks. Wet, sudden; Micha is shocked, that he was distracted, paid so little attention. That she should cry and he shouldn’t see.
—
Frau Kolesnik
.
They are still walking, Elena slightly ahead, pulling Micha with her. He reaches for her hand, but she pulls it away, points farther into the trees. Up ahead, farther along the forest path, Elena keeps them moving, pointing toward a clearing, bright and green through the dark and brown of the trees.
Micha looks and then he sees it. It’s like a blow to the head.
He stops walking and Elena turns around. She looks at him, tears flowing now. Micha puts his hand to his mouth, feels the wet breath on his palm, the hot, spinning feeling that comes with it. Elena raises her arms, one hand at her shoulder, the other a fist in the air in front of her. She mimes shooting with a rifle, but Micha already knows.
He shouts. She makes the bullet noise, a puff of lips and air.
Micha squints. The sun is loud and bright on the leaves. He sweats, and the salt stings his eyes.
Elena stands ahead of him. Micha squeezes his lids shut. There is forest around him, a thudding pulse in his stomach, and blood hot and black behind his eyes. She is waiting for him, but his legs have
turned to water. He doesn’t want to be here. Wants to open his eyes and be back at the house, back at home, in the kitchen, with his daughter on his lap. Elena mimes shooting again and he shouts at her. That he knows; that she should stop.
—
Please. Stop
.
He holds his hands up, covering his eyes, and she lets her arms fall to her sides. She stands there, small and sad, and Micha hears the faint, dry noise in the back of her throat, thinks,
She has lost her husband, her Jozef
.
Elena wipes her face with her sleeve, but her tears only wet her cheeks again. She walks on. Narrow back, stiff shoulders turned to Micha, sun falling full on her head as she walks out of the trees onto the wide, bright grass.
Micha stands on the edge of the clearing and watches her. Feet on the boundary where forest floor gives way to grass. Fists, teeth, stomach clenched. The old woman moving ahead of him, across the broad, flat space, in the bright light beyond the trees, dropping to her knees.
Micha waits. Elena kneels. Shoulders shaking.
Crying
. He can hear her now. He moves.
Walks across the clearing that is also a grave.
Elena wipes her tears and strokes them into the ground. Micha’s head swims. He tries to, but he can’t stay with her. Can’t stand here on this soft ground, on this grass and moss. He turns away again, leaving Elena in the bright sun, crossing the damp ground to reach the dry cinder track through the trees. He doesn’t even want to wait for her now, but he does.
They walk back to the town in silence. The sun high in the sky and hot. Micha still feels faint, sticky. Can’t wait to get away.
Elena rides with him in the bus to the station. Dries her face on a large gray handkerchief; angry with him. He knows he has ruined it for her; her day for honoring the dead. They don’t talk. Micha can think of nothing to say. Furious, too. Fighting his anger down.
She has no children. A young woman in an empty village, she told me that. She knew how many were killed. And when he came back, she loved one of the murderers. Had no children. Found her measure of blame and loved him
.
The train pulls in and they stand together and wait for the guard to open the doors. Elena pulls bread and fruit from her bag for Micha to eat on the journey home. He thanks her and climbs into the train. He puts his bags on the rack and goes back to the door, which is closed now, but Elena is still there. He pulls the window down.
Elena speaks now, and Micha doesn’t understand anything. The few words he might have recognized are smothered by her tears. She speaks and speaks, gripping Micha’s hands, knowing he doesn’t understand. She doesn’t seem to care. The words fall on and on and on until the guard slams the remaining doors.
Elena keeps hold of Micha’s hands until the train moves off. Then she drops them. Silent now, she walks with the train, with Micha, to the end of the platform, and then she waves and Micha watches until she is out of sight.
It is dusk. The train rolls away. The bright leaves around the clearing are still in Micha’s head, the soft earth. The terrible thought catching up with him, through the day of sickness and sunlight and Elena’s voice and tears.
Jozef. Opa
.
Micha knows why she did it, why she took him there.
Micha is alone in the compartment, and the moon is high outside. He keeps the light off and the curtain open, watching the passage through forest and marsh. Black shapes, white-edged. Sharp outlines framing the dark.
I didn’t go to Opa’s funeral. Luise went, but Mutti said I was too young. I think I spent the day with a friend. I don’t remember
.
Later, Mutti took me to see the grave. Perhaps two or three years later. I remember all the dark yew trees, and walking along the rows of gravestones. Some had fresh flowers, and others had bunches that were fading. Dried up. Rotting, even. Green water in the tall vases. It was hot
.
I don’t remember expecting to see Opa, but when he wasn’t there waiting for us, I cried and cried and cried
.
Dilan walks next to Micha on a blue day. Bright and warm. He has her jacket tucked under his arm and her discarded hat in his pocket. The walk from the bus stop runs through the landscaped grounds, and Micha takes small steps so his daughter can keep up; their pace matching that of the residents out enjoying the day, crunching slowly, arm in arm, along the yellow gravel. The trees are fuller and taller than the last time Micha was here, but otherwise he thinks that nothing has changed. White building, green lawn, gray parking lot, the cloudy, empty uncertainty inside. Dilan trips and falls and cries briefly until he picks her up.
—
No tears today
.
He brushes away the gravel that has stuck to her hands, checks the skin for punctures, kisses the tiny blue-black dents in her palms. She wipes her eyes and smiles. Small teeth. Dark cheeks.
Like Mina’s
.
Micha doesn’t go straight in to the entrance but carries Dilan beyond the block to the edge of the parking lot, and she hums as they walk, small fists tucked into the folds of his coat. When he gets to the curb, Micha turns around and looks up, eyes to the top of the white high-rise.
—
See, Dilan?
He points for his daughter, and she follows the line of his finger to the sky, still humming, squinting in the sun.
—
If we start with the top-right corner, then count eight windows down. And then one, two, three across. That’s where Oma Kaethe lives. That’s her bird’s nest. And if we’re lucky, she’ll be out on her balcony, waiting for us. Can you see?
—Oma Kaethe?
—
My Oma Kaethe. Can you see her?
Micha looks into his daughter’s face, watches her accept another family member without a flicker. Her family map spreads out; unproblematic, curious, unhesitant. Painful for Micha to see. He lifts Dilan onto his shoulders.
—
Is she there?
—Where?
—
Wave. If you wave, she might wave back
.
Dilan waves. Micha can feel her weight shifting gently against his neck. Lets himself enjoy this moment, down here with his daughter, humming and waving, steadying herself with a small hand pressed on the top of his head.
—Is she there, Papa?
Micha’s eyes smart. Watery. Blurred vision against the blinding sky.
—
Yes. Can you see?
—Yes.
Dilan doesn’t sound too sure, but she keeps waving, and Micha keeps his eyes on the tiny speck of movement which comes in reply.