The Nature of Blood (4 page)

'Thank you.'

I look at him. I'm not sure what he will do, but I know that he wants to help. That's all I want. I just need some help.

There is a light tapping at the window to the hut. I am still lying down, my mind swirling about in a haze of dreams. Again, I hear a tapping, and now a voice. It is Gerry. At the window. A few days ago, the other women who shared this hut abandoned me. They became hostile and refused to talk to me. They accused me of stealing their food. They accused me of behaving without regard or concern for them. They accused me of being crazy. I am a twenty-one-year-old young woman. What harm could I possibly inflict upon these women? Why treat me in this way? I was no threat to them. I walk to the window and look at Gerry. He points to the door. He wants to come in. I smile and shake my head. He looks puzzled. He does not seem to understand that a lady cannot simply admit a man to her bedchamber in this manner. It would be unthinkable. He raises his voice.

'You must wait in the displaced-persons camp. I will get word to you about your sister.'

I nod my head.

'There are refugee committees both here and in England. I will find out about Margot.'

'Thank you.'

He smiles at me, but I know that he is unhappy. I know that he wishes I would open the door for him so that he might deliver his message in a more intimate manner. He wants to be my knight in shining armour. He wants to rescue me. And I suppose I am encouraging him a little in his quest. I see no harm in this.

I spend the afternoon sitting by myself. I have claimed a new berth, out in the open, in the full glare of the sun, close to the fence. I sit on a pile of discarded timber, squeezing myself into a crevice which holds me as though it were a comfortable chair. From this position, I can watch the sunlight moving like a cat along the palings of the fence. Since Mama left, I have grown accustomed to being solitary. But these days, even if I wished for company I would probably find myself alone. Tears begin to well in my eyes. These past years have hurt me in mind and body. I sit on this pile of wood. Close to the fence. On a warm spring afternoon.

Gerry stands and watches me while I drink my soup. I know that he will not approach until I have finished. I put down my still full bowl and walk towards Gerry. He begins.

'I wanted to talk to you.'

I do not express any surprise or concern. I know he wants to talk to me. This is why I have approached him. But I do not say this to him. I simply wait to hear what he has to say to me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bundle of notes.

'I want you to take this.'

I look at his money and begin to laugh. Money. I remember money. It is absurd to imagine that, for people out in the world, money has continued to be of value. I cannot control my laughter. Gerry does not understand why I am laughing. But he decides not to ask.

'There is a cinema in the town. You should go.'

I step back from him. How does he know about the movies?

'Please, take it. You have to get used to doing normal things again.'

For a brief second I hate Gerry. How dare he talk to me about normal? About what I have to do. I do not have to do anything that I do not want to do. He has no idea of what is normal and what is not normal. Just who, I wonder, does he imagine he is talking to? A child? I turn away from him, but I feel his hand on my arm.

'No. Eva. Take the money. Do what you want with it. Spend it on yourself, be selfish with it, I don't care.'

I look again at Gerry. Then at the money in his hand. He is trying to buy my affection. But if I am to find my sister, I need this man's help. I take the money. I speak as loudly as I can, but I know that it comes across as little more than a whisper.

'Thank you.'

Gerry smiles.

I have lain on my cot as long as possible. I can see through the window that the sun has almost reached the highest point in the sky. It is noon. The hut is empty. They continue to ignore me. I am too much trouble. I am naked. I decide that I will dress carefully. The clothes will, of course, be the same. But I will put them on as though they were the finest garments in the world. I will be new and I will look graceful. I let my head drop over the side of my cot. My fingers push into my shoe. I find the money neatly bundled up in its hiding place. It is not really a hiding place, more a place of safety. There is nobody here who will steal this money from me. There is nobody here. There is no reason to hide it. Sometimes I become confused.

A plume of smoke rises and twists through the cone of light. The sharpness and power of this cone of light seizes my attention. The picture is about America. A gangster picture with lots of shooting, and cars tearing after each other, and men shouting. In the gloom, I can see there are only a half-dozen or so other people in the cinema. But I watch the smoke. I watch the tall plume of smoke which rises slowly, twisting and turning through the cone of light.

The small park is surrounded by elm trees. I sit on a bench in the shade of these trees and stare at the fountain. There is no water. The park is deserted. Cloud-shadows slide past in a smooth parade. There is the kind of silence that convinces me that all around there are people. Watching and waiting to see what I will do. And then an elderly couple appear. They walk arm in arm towards me. They stare directly at me, then the woman looks from me and glances across at her husband. I know what he is thinking, but I do not care. He is free to think whatever he wishes. I have every right to sit in this park and enjoy the afternoon breeze. I am harming nobody, not even myself. As they pass by, she turns back towards me and smiles in my direction. But the man does not relax his severe expression.

I lie on my cot, but, as hard as I concentrate, I can hear no noise. This is the first night that I have heard neither shouting nor distant laughter. And it is a dark night. I lie suspended without sound, without sight, without distraction. Focusing on myself and my fears. Worried about everything. Simply everything. The tinned meat. A layer of lard on top, the meat underneath. Should I eat it? Can I eat it? And does the weight of the dead add itself to the earth? And if so, will the earth stop moving? Will it? Mama. Papa. There is not even a place where I might wear an uneven circle into the matted grass around your graves. And still I try to master these new gestures of life. How to use a toothbrush. How to fold toilet paper. How to say hello and goodbye. How to eat slowly. How to express joy. The rediscovery of smell. The smell of a tree. The smell of damp. The smell of rain. I worry about smell. A flower's perfume would knock me over. I worry about everything. The visit to the cinema has not managed to wash the anxieties from my mind. When I arrived back this evening, I looked for Gerry. I wanted to tell him that I did what he hoped I might do. I did not want to say, 'Thank you.' I just wanted to be able to let him know that I had done what he hoped I might do. But there was no sign of Gerry.

I look out of the window. The morning is overcast. The relative bleakness of the day causes my anxieties to resurface. I worry that there may be some return to the situation that existed before these men arrived. Camp life. The scream that deafens with its terror, the terror of deafening silence. The rigidity of motion, heavy stones weighing on everybody's hearts. Travelling daily beyond the frontiers of life with an obscene selfishness as one's sole companion. Forever hungry, no longer amazed at how quickly the body deteriorates, intrigued by the temporary peace with the skeletal, the unbearable pain of hunger, promising the shrinking body warm food, all night thinking of food. Killing only the lice, but not the eggs. Being bitten behind the ears and between the legs, in moist areas, little blood bumps that burst if you scratch. And always the violence of memory. Camp life. A return to the loneliness of this situation? There is no companionship in despair. But we are liberated and I choose to remain alone. (I want Margot. I want dear Bella.) I glance around at the empty cots, and I realize that I have created a prison. I have locked myself in this hut among the ghosts of strangers. Am I an offering? What is happening to me that I prefer to be in this hut? The humid atmosphere is foul, for the air has been trapped in this building for many days and many nights. But there are people who will talk to me. There are people who would be happy to talk to me.

I run to another of the men. He is climbing up and into the back of a truck, the engine of which is already running.

'Please. Where is Gerry?'

The man flicks his cigarette butt to the ground, and then continues to chew on his gum.

'Gone, love. Don't ask me where. Most of us are going.'

'Will you be back?'

By now, the engine is roaring and I can tell by the changing notes that the truck will soon pull away. I shout again, this time louder.

'Will you be back?'

'Dunno, love. But you'll be all right. You've made it.'

And then, almost as an afterthought, as the truck begins to pull away, he calls to me.

'If I see him, I'll tell him that you were asking after him.'

He waves, the canvas frame flapping around him, and then the truck begins to pick up speed. Behind me, the soldiers are trying to organize us into groups for processing. Everybody is on the move. Them. Us. People are leaving. And now I understand. Gerry gave me the money as a leaving gift. That was it. He wanted to give me a leaving present. I see a woman whom I remember from the long journey here. She looks at me, her dark eyes momentarily narrowed. I say nothing. I simply turn and walk in the opposite direction, back towards my hut.

I sit on my timber and angle my head towards the sun. My friend, the sun, has once more returned. And then I see them, in the distance. I rub the back of my hands into my eyes. A man with a camera. And other people, including a young woman. She is not much older than me. They are filming. She is fat. They are moving purposefully, like a slow train, towards me. I assume that they will want to know what life was like before the English soldiers arrived. I begin to undress slowly. We were happy. Every day was spring.

I stand by my window. I stare out at the world, then I turn and look around my empty hut. I rehearse in my mind the steps that have led me to this place. My empty hut. Then I disengage my mind from such disquieting thoughts and try to concentrate on the day at hand. But today there is nothing on which to concentrate. The film people are still here. I can see them through the window, wandering about in their sluggish manner. They did not film me. Cowards. I can see three soldiers (two men and a woman) who sit behind a clumsy wooden table. A single line of us queues in front of each of them. They are continuing to process us for D.P. camps. Slowly, they are emptying this camp. Gerry has already gone. I will stay in my hut today. I do not wish to be a part of their world.

I dreamt that nobody believed me. That I was in America and I was telling some people my story, the despondent words falling awkwardly from my mouth. Just
my
story. (. . .
dazed children wandering the streets, searching for their parents . . .)
They looked at me, their faces marked with respect, and they nodded with cultivated fascination. Nobody wished to offend me. And then a man looked at his watch. In America.

I like the way birds fly. At first you see the effort, how they flap their wings frantically as they build up speed and direction. And then they stop and glide confidently. And then comes my favourite part, when they suddenly start to flap their wings again and build up speed. That's what I do these days. I just sit here on my timber and watch the birds beyond the fence. I watch their communal flight. Every day, they beat a thin black ribbon across the sky. There are too many to give them names, or to get to know them personally. I just sit here on my timber and watch them. Every day. My name is Eva Stern. I am twenty-one years old. Just when I think I am going to fall, I flap my wings.

Again I had the same dream. (. . .
dragging her child behind her like a secret crime . . . )
This time I knew one of the people looking at me. Gerry. He was in America with all the other faces. This time they were trying hard not to laugh, for they wanted to hear more of my story. (. . .
the other woman was holding a tiny baby that was wrinkled like a foot . . .)

Today, Mama arrived back in the camp. At first I was angry, for I thought the person lying in the cot next to me must have broken in during the night in order to steal something. And this being the case, why lie down next to me? Why not go to one of the other cots? Before I could say anything, the woman turned her face towards me and I saw it was Mama. I wasn't frightened. I was expecting her to return, for I never truly believed that she had gone. And now she is back. I hold her hard and encourage her to tell her story once more. Of how they took her from this hut and left her for dead. Of how she took shelter in another hut, among people who spoke a language that she simply could not understand. But they fed her, and looked after her, and then they forsook her, for they were part of the group that, upon the arrival of the English soldiers, immediately fled. Mama tells me about how she struggled to look after herself on the far side of the camp. She touches my face as though still unable to believe her luck.

'But Mama,' I ask, 'why did you not come and look for me?'

Mama looks sad now.

'They told me that you were dead, and I believed them.'

'Dead?'

'Yes. They told me you were dead.'

I touch my Mama's face, her lips, her eyes, her nose. I stroke her wisps of hair. Mama is back with me. I can now begin to plan a future for both of us.

It is night. Neither Mama nor I have ventured out of this hut today. We are both hungry and thirsty, but we have spent the day together, talking. Mama is sure that Margot is fine and in America. Margot will not have stayed behind. We laugh at the idea of Margot in the movies. Dear Margot in Hollywood. Papa is dead. Mama and I know this. There is little further to say about this. We agree that we need not concern ourselves with how he might fit into our future plans. He simply does not. Outside, I imagine the night air is still heavy with the heat of the day. I tell Mama about my birds. I tell her about where I sit and watch them. I promise her that I will take her there. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. At present, I am concerned only with Mama and her words. She smiles at me and I know she understands.