The Nature of Blood (17 page)

EVA looked all around. By the door to the boxcar a woman clutched
her baby to her breast, its small mouth hammering first one nipple, then the
next. After three days of travelling, clamour had finally given way to silence
and people were beginning to doze off, their heads bobbing forwards like comical
dolls. They were sealed in, going in one direction one hour, then back in
the same direction the next. Then they would stop. Then start again. Then
stop, and sometimes wait for long hours in one place. No one had offered them
food or water. It seemed impossible to Eva that anyone could find sleep, for
the stench from the bucket was overpowering, and its spilt contents had creamed
the filthy straw. But most had already passed the stage of caring. Once again,
the train jerked into motion and Eva twisted her body slightly to the left
so that she could peer through the wooden slats. She saw that the morning
sun had already taken the spring frost off the bare fields. She could see
neither animals nor crops, just a light mist that rose even as she watched.
Eva tried hard not to think of Rosa. She bent forwards and surreptitiously
licked the condensation from an iron-ring that was bolted into a side panel.
Then she looked at Mama and Papa, who leant helplessly against each other.
Humiliation had descended upon their lives, and they sat huddled and indistinguishable
from the others. Eva watched her parents, who, having tried and failed to
instil some order and discipline into life in the boxcar during the first
few hours, had subsequently chosen to remain silent. Other professional people
had also tried to establish rules of decency, but all were shouted down. Mama
and Papa were ageing before her eyes, but at least they appeared to be sleeping.
Eva's anxieties about what lay ahead kept her awake, as did her fear of separation.
While they were waiting to board the train, Mama had pleaded with her to fight
for her life should they ever be separated, but Eva had assured her that everything
would be all right. But now her Mama's fears were her own. And then Eva realized
that the two old men in the far corner were still staring at her. They were
bearded, and she imagined them to be religious men, but the leer which marked
their faces seemed to confound her assumption. The elder of the two men wore
a white scarf, and he flashed her a gap-toothed smile. Eva looked away from
them both, and in her mind she edged closer still to her parents.

Eventually, of course, we found a name for the collective suffering of those who survived. These unfortunate people have to endure a multitude of symptoms which include insomnia, shame, chronic anxiety, a tendency to suicide and an inability to communicate with others. They are often incapable of successful mourning, fearing that this act of self-expression involves a letting go, and therefore a forgetting of the dead, ultimately committing the deceased, often loved ones, to oblivion. Their condition serves a commemorative function, suggesting a loyalty to the dearly departed. Naturally, their suffering is deeply connected to memory. To move on is to forget. To forget is a crime. How can they both remember and move on? This is no easy task. To be frank, people who suffer from the extreme form of this condition are beyond all care. Eventually, they just lie down to sleep and refuse to rise up again. The truth is, with the experience that I now have, all I have to do is look closely into the eyes of a patient to have some idea as to the extent of the damage. But back then, before we learnt the full details of the disorder, before we had a name for it, none of us could be sure of what it was that we were dealing with.
I stare out to sea as the ship begins to labour in the face of the on-coming tempest. Navigation is a skill beyond me, but I am convinced that already we are some distance from our plotted course, and the wrath of the storm can serve only to drive us further from our intended destination. But these military thoughts, as worrisome as they are, do not dominate my mind. My wife. These days, always my wife. I recall our brief courtship and I remember her joyful acceptance of my proposal. And I remember the secluded happiness of our marriage, and, thereafter, the moonlit journey back to my lodgings with a new bride for company. When, as dawn was breaking over the enchanted city-state, the doge's messenger summoned me to the palace to receive my final instructions, I promised my wife that I would soon return to her side, which I did. However, we were betrayed by he who married us, and her father, upon discovering the details of our secret nuptials, raised bitter objection. This same man who had invited me to his table, and let it be known that it was he who had recommended to the doge that I be appointed General, now considered me to be unworthy of his daughter's affection. My wife and I were summoned to the palace and, before the doge and his most trusted senators, my wife's father – this small and impudent man – accused me of treachery, and his daughter of worse still. But this was a time of war, and I suspected that the doge might be inclined to overlook the unusual nature of this rapid connection in order to secure my services, and so it proved. He turned to my father-in-law and declared that no impropriety had occurred and, to his mind, his General was not guilty of any wrongdoing. This was the first time that the doge had ever addressed me with the title of his General, and it caused my breast to swell a little.

My father-in-law appeared shocked by the doge's words and, indeed, he swayed somewhat. My wife stepped forwards as though she might leave my side, but something within reminded her of her duty and she remained in her place. An attendant provided an arm for the distressed senator, who was clearly in need of fresh air. As he tottered towards the door, this man paused first to curse myself and then disown his daughter, implying that there was something false in a woman who could deceive her own father in this way. He reminded those gathered that his fair daughter had forsaken many notable matches, indeed broken many young hearts, and to what end? In order that she might betray her father, her family, and the republic, and marry one such as myself? He laughed bitterly at this notion, so much so that I was tempted to remind the gathered dignitaries that I, unlike my father-in-law, was born of royal blood, and possessed a lineage of such quality that not even slavery could stain its purity. But I chose to remain silent. As he left the chamber, my father-in-law concluded his performance by reminding all present that, henceforth, this woman was not to be considered his daughter.

The virulence with which my father-in-law delivered his parting volley stung the assembled throng. However, she who was newly my wife remained steadfast in her loyalty and chose to ignore her father's foul words. I turned to the doge and asked that my wife be allowed to accompany me to Cyprus, and she who bore that name pleaded that this might be permitted. The doge, recognizing the passion between us, acceded to this request and suggested that my wife might travel to Cyprus in a day or two, in the company of an officer of my choosing. We both thanked the doge most sincerely and took our leave, in order that we might occupy what little time remained. At noon I would set sail for war, but before my departure I intended to place my wife with an officer whose ship might be expected to arrive some time after I had secured the island of Cyprus. However, before applying myself to the task of seeking out a suitable officer, there still remained an hour or two for love.

The boatswain, having completed the examination of his rigging,
presents himself before me and then answers my enquiry by informing me that,
to his knowledge, Cyprus still lies some way distant and beyond the horizon.
He confirms that this storm will indeed make our journey both longer and more
treacherous, and then this good man advises me to take shelter below deck.
I thank him for his concern and assure him that I will soon join him, but,
as night falls, my mind is now populated with thoughts of my homeland. Alone
on these seas, and with none of my kind or complexion for company, there is
nobody with whom I might share memories of a common past, and nobody with
whom I might converse in the language that sits most easily on my tongue.
I know leadership to be lonely and painful, especially in times of war, but
this is a quality of isolation that I have never before experienced. I have
no doubt that the presence of my wife would help to alleviate some of my present
misery, but I can only speculate as to the degree to which she might mollify
the more fundamental pain in my heart. From the depths of the ship, a junior
man, a man of impeccable manners though not yet hardened in the heat of battle,
appears before me. He suggests that perhaps we should turn back before we
are enveloped in darkness, for some among the crew fear that the storm will
be both brutal and prolonged. I look at this man and try to do so with kindness,
for he does not understand. One cannot turn back. There is no turning back.
To do so would be to embrace disgrace. I cry, 'Let the storm do its work!'
And then I remind him that we are soldiers. We have a task ahead of us. To
turn back is impossible.

VENICE:
A city that lies on approximately one hundred and twenty
islands in the Adriatic Sea on the north-east coast of Italy. In the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries, the independent city-state built a colonial empire
that extended throughout much of the eastern Mediterranean. During this period,
Venice was renowned for the beauty of its art, the majesty of its canals,
and the economic and political power of its governmental system. The city
began to fall into decline in the late sixteenth century, although the city's
art treasures ensured that Venice maintained its reputation as a place of
great cultural significance. Today, the city relies largely upon the tourist
trade for its continued survival. It suffers from polluted air, contaminated
water, and is periodically subject to serious flooding.

GHETTO:
It is generally thought that the word
ghetto
was first used to describe the section of Venice where, in the sixteenth century,
Jews were ordered to live apart from Christians in a 'marshy and unwholesome
site' to the north of St Mark's. The Italian word
ghetto
means 'iron
foundry', the Venetian Jews being forced to live next to the site of a former
foundry. Ghettos are generally subject to serious overpopulation, and they
exercise a debilitating effect on the self-confidence of their inhabitants.

During the night, the elder of the two men hanged himself by attaching his
white scarf to an iron hook on the boxcar wall. Some of the men tried to stop
him, but he began to punch and kick with such force that eventually they let
him be. Eva turned her face away and blocked her ears. His friend, the other
man with a beard, removed him from the hook And then again, silence. Eva looked
at a woman who slept with her mouth open and wondered how she managed not
to choke, for the smell was unbearable. Was she truly resting? Dreaming perhaps?
And then again, the train stopped. The boxcar was near the locomotive, so
Eva was able to listen to the engine die. Silence. The world remained silent.
And then, some hours later, a roar and a shudder, and once again the locomotive
tugged against the weight of the train. Eva wondered if she would be strong
enough to survive the rigour of what she feared was to come. She looked at
her parents, who now clung to each other in a way that she had never before
seen. Their faces had taken on a clenched weariness that she imagined could
not be shed with sleep. And then she noticed a girl of her own age, perhaps
a little older. It was her time of the month, but she could no longer hide
the blood. More than any of the others, Eva felt for this girl in her moment
of humiliation. Lying in straw sodden with faeces and vomit, all classes and
social distinctions had disappeared. She watched as a young boy, like the
rest of them crazy with thirst, licked the sweat from his mother's fevered
arm. As fast as the wheels turned over, they all searched for clues that would
help them to explain their present condition. And then, undernourished and
tired, their minds eventually slowed to a pounding numbness, while the wheels
of the train beat on.

A long-drawn-out whistle. Then a loud crash and a judder. The darkness begins
to echo with barked orders. Then the doors to the boxcars roll open. Plumes
of smoke spin into the night air. Somewhere in the distance, fires are burning.
Most cannot stand without support. There is no time for questions. Men clamber
in, odd-looking characters in striped shirts and black trousers, and they
begin to kick people out and on to the platform. How is it possible to be
so angry with people who have done you no wrong? And now, a sweet aroma slamming
into their defeated faces. They stand and look around. Bright lights flood
the dark night sky. They shuffle, unburdened by belongings which they have
been encouraged to leave behind. No, I must take this with me. Have you no
compassion? A single bullet answers the question. People step over the body.
Children look unblinkingly at the river of blood flowing across the platform.
An ever-blooming flower. Shuffle. Shuffle. Restive dogs on short leashes leap
vertically into the air. Hungry. Angry. Pathetic people clinging meekly to
the remnants of their lives and wondering if, through hard work, they might
earn the right to live. And now the official greeters, men who are made of
skin and bone. Faces hollowed, skulls grotesquely visible, temples sunken
in, ears standing out. Men who are acclimatized. They cast sidelong glances,
they wish to speak, they know too much, their tongues have been removed, they
have dared to survive this long. They address nobody in particular. You are
eighteen and you have a trade. Give the child to its grandmother. Give away
the baby. And now, at the end of the long platform, a uniformed man who possesses
the gift of supreme confidence in himself. He waves first one way, and then
the next, first this way, and then that, with no regard for affiliation. Destiny
is a movement of his hand. Perhaps a quick question to make sure. Looks can
deceive. How old? Healthy or ill? The old, pregnant, young, short, infirm.
This way, please. Walk quickly. Roll up. Roll up. Already, a loudspeaker is
blasting instructions to remove all clothing. Remove artificial limbs and
eyeglasses. Tie your shoes together. Surrender any undeclared valuables and
claim a receipt. Children go with the women. Where are we? The thin and the
handicapped, this way, please. All gold rings, fountain pens, and chains.
Roll up. Where is God? Where is your God? An old woman talks quietly to herself,
as though out walking in pleasant hospital grounds. The blunt end of a rifle
crashes against her forehead. Melting before this brutality like snow in the
sun. Roll up. Roll up. A uniformed adolescent kicks an old man. Then he laughs.
The old man stops and stares. I am your father. He reloads his weapon. I am
your father. Each time he fires the young man laughs louder. I am your father.
And then the young man removes his pistol from its holster and shoots the
old man in the head as though he were a sick dog. I am a bookkeeper. I am
a carpenter. I am a dentist. To the left. To work. Only later will they appear
in the Register of the Dead. I am pregnant. Her name will appear nowhere.
Not even counted. She joins the right-hand column (five abreast) that wheels
towards cleansing. A belt of rubbery flesh for a waist. To the right, please.
Hang your clothes neatly. Remember where. Put them on the hooks. Here is the
towel. Here is the soap. Here is the towel. Here is the soap. Undress, please.
You are going to heaven. Sanitary belts are ripped off. Blood everywhere.
Shame. Shame. Now! These men without the breeding to look away. Shower. For
the lucky ones, no gas. Thank you, God. Uniforms. Barbed-wire everywhere.
With electricity. Everywhere barbed-wire. Sky above. Where is God? Where is
your God? Mama and Papa are to go one way. Mama squeezes my hand and whispers.
Everything will be fine. Papa looks at me and speaks the same words with his
eyes. And then it occurs to me. He has known all along. Since the time in
the cafe, the couple opposite us, furtive lovers, and the waitress bringing
wine and coffee for father and daughter. And then Leyna. Papa knew then, the
day of his friend's funeral, that one day he would have to say these four
words to his youngest daughter. Everything will be fine. But now the time
has arrived and Papa has no words left. He turns from me and wheels to the
right. Mama's eyes are full of tears. A woman pushes me in the back and I
stumble forwards and in a new direction. And then all about me I hear voices,
at first quiet and nervous, and then stronger. We stare to our right at those
who continue to wheel towards cleansing. May His great Name grow exalted and
sanctified
Amen
in the world that He created as He willed. May He give
reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes
of the entire Family of Israel, swiftly and soon.
Amen. May His great name
be blessed for ever and ever.
May his great Name be blessed for ever and
ever. Voices are raised. Everybody continues to stare to the right. The chimneys
bellow smoke. A sweet aroma. We breathe deeply on the air that will enable
us to live. We fill our lungs and stare. Plumes of smoke spin into the night
air. A red glare. The smoke whispers the truth, but, at this moment, none
wish to listen.