The Nature of Blood (5 page)

The woman seems to be losing patience with me. I can tell by the way she looks down at the paper and taps her pencil against the desk. She is quite pretty, with short dark hair and hazel eyes. Even the drab, lifeless colour of her uniform cannot entirely detract from her glamour.

'Are you waiting for anybody from home?'

Stupid woman. Waiting where? Who knows where I am. I am not sure myself. I refuse to speak.

'Do you intend to go home?'

How can she use the word 'home'? It is cruel to do so in such circumstances. I cannot call that place 'home'. 'Home' is a place where one feels a welcome. For a moment, her eyes meet mine, but now she drops them again, and once more she resumes her tapping.

'I'll put you down for a D.P. camp. You can decide later what you want to do or where you want to go.'

She prepares to write, then she pauses. She looks up at me. When her teeth show they glisten beneath a thin coating of saliva.

'I have your home town and your family details. Is there anything else that I should know?'

I shake my head. I will not tell her about Mama. That is my business.

'All right, you may go.'

And now I understand that I am being dismissed and another person is to take my place. Fine. I understand the terms of this game. I am here, then I am gone. I matter only as long as I answer questions. I decide to stand my ground. She glances up at me, but this time with a puzzled look.

'You may leave.'

I will not torment her hazel eyes any further.

It is early evening, but the sun has not yet descended beneath the horizon. I am in another line. I am waiting for a second bowl of soup. I know nobody will question me. They have learnt when to see me, and when not to see me. How to ignore me effectively. I am a strange one. I know this is what they think. She is a strange one. But I cannot stop them thinking whatever it is they need to think The man knows that this is my second bowl of soup, but these soldiers seem to take pleasure in our returning for more. He smiles and drops the spoon deeper into the pot. He makes sure that I get vegetables too. I smile back at him, then scurry off towards the hut with the bowl cupped between my hands. I do not look around to see if anybody is watching. My eyes are fixed firmly upon the ground in front of me. Mama is sitting on the edge of the cot. I hurry across and hand her the soup. She touches her daughter's hand as she takes it from me. Then she begins to drink the warm soup, and I edge back towards the door and lock it shut. Safe. Just mother and daughter. This is how I always want it to be.

Again, I hear the knocking on the door, but I remain where I am. I will not open the door. For two days and two nights, I have lain on this cot without venturing outside. Mama is worried that they will think something is wrong if they do not see me, but I do not want to leave her. I cannot afford to lose Mama again. Despite her pleadings, I have stayed with her for two days and two nights. The knocking begins again, and this time swells into a pounding. The man's voice is ordering me to open up. He assures me that he means no harm. Mama looks at me. The expression on her face is clearly designed to urge me to do as the man wishes. So I walk to the door and open it. Before me stand two men in uniform: an older man who is clearly responsible for the knocking, and a younger man who stands nervously behind him. It is the older man who speaks.

'Nobody means to intrude on your privacy, but we're worried. I'm a doctor.'

I stare back at him, urging him to continue.

'You have to understand that you must mix with people. You cannot allow yourself to just fade away. You've been through a lot.'

I hold the door so that it is impossible for him to see inside the hut. I do not want him to see Mama.

'I am fine.'

I say this quickly, for I now want him to leave.

'Are you ready to go to the D.P. camp? We need to evacuate this place. The air's not good, and it'll be better for you there.'

'I'm ready to leave. Not today. But I will leave.'

This seems to satisfy him. A smile creeps across his face. While I have the upper hand, I speak again.

'I will come and meet people.'

'Good. There are those of us who wish to help you.'

I nod curtly, then close the door against this doctor and his silent friend. I turn to look at Mama, who lies fearfully on her cot. She cannot continue to live like this.

I wait a few minutes before venturing out to get Mama another bowl of soup. Now I am back, but Mama will still not talk to me. I ask, 'Is it Margot?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, what is it?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, are you not well?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, have I done something to offend or upset you?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, is it Papa?' She turns to me and puts down her bowl of soup. It is Papa.

'Last night, Eva. I had a dream in which Papa told me that we were on our own now. Just you and me, my child.'

'And Margot?'

Mama begins to shake her head and sob.

'Just you and me.'

I hug Mama, but I am not sure if she is aware of me.

Neither Mama nor I have slept. We have stayed awake all night planning. And now, as the sun pours through the window, I watch as an exhausted Mama collapses into sleep. Tonight, she will leave. For the big city by the river. We will meet in the market square in two days' time. There is bound to be a market square. On this, we both agree. Mama will go first and hitch a ride with a military vehicle. English, American, it does not matter. I will follow. If we travel together, we will only attract attention. And then we will go on together to America. Despite Mama's dream, we both know that Margot is alive and living in America. (Dear Margot in Hollywood.) And it is to Margot and America that we will flee.

We see the young soldier by the gate. We crouch behind the small wall and wait until he turns and marches off to resume his patrolling of the perimeter. There are a few stars in the sky, but the night is uncommonly dark. Perfect for Mama to leave. The soldier passes from view, and Mama and I begin to half-walk, half-dash towards the gate. I ask myself, why this furtive-ness if we are free? About one hundred yards down the road, Mama and I stop under an oak tree. This is as far as I will come, and Mama knows and understands this. I take her hand and squeeze. She looks beautiful under the night sky. Mama even manages a smile. I hand the small bundle to her, with its piece of bread and other meagre provisions. And then we embrace.

'Two days,' I say. 'I will see you in two days.'

I watch as Mama begins her adventure. And when I can no longer see her, I turn. I begin to wander back in the direction of the camp. But the young soldier has followed us. He steps from the gloom and presents himself. He says nothing, and simply looks at me. Then he takes a step forward and touches my left breast. He cups it, as though feeling its weight. And then he applies pressure. I hope that Mama does not find a reason to turn back and find me in this predicament.

I sit on my timber. Gerry stands over me. He looks older, as though he has passed through some terrible crisis. He tells me that there was another place to 'liberate'. He says the word slowly, carefully weighing it in his mouth as though distrustful of it. Whatever they have done or seen at this other place, it has marked them all. They seem somehow shabbier. But then it occurs to me that perhaps these are exactly the same men, but now seen through the lens of my own improved condition. Gerry tells me that I was the first person he came to look for. He was worried that I might have left. I think to myself, why should he worry? I tell him that I am going to find my sister, although I still don't know where she is. I tell him nothing about Mama. Gerry seems hurt that I am suggesting a course of action which excludes him.

'But I can help you find your sister. I'll be going back to England in the next few days, and I told you I can contact all the groups. People know about things like that over there. It's chaos here.'

I look at him. He's not a bad man.

'Thank you, Gerry.'

He seems relieved. But he does not move. He continues to stand over me.

It is evening. I am supposed to be packing a suitcase for a journey in the morning. But this is not my suitcase. To whom does this suitcase belong? It does not matter, for I have nothing to put in the suitcase. I will be holding my few possessions, much like Mama. A suitcase suggests a life. It seems appropriate that I should emerge into the world clutching a bundle. I kick the suitcase. I am not bitter. I just do not want to pretend. Not now. Not ever. Mama will be expecting me in the big city by the river. In the market square. But she will have to see me without a suitcase.

Gerry stands at the door to the hut. Behind him I can see people climbing aboard trucks. Engines are roaring and orders are being shouted. It seems that today is the day they have chosen finally to clear the whole camp. This morning marks the beginning of the end.

'I've brought you some food for the journey.'

Gerry hands me a paper bag which I take. I do not open it. I want to indicate to Gerry that I trust him.

'Thank you.'

'I have the address of your D.P. And here, this is for you.'

He holds out a piece of paper that is folded over twice, as though containing a secret.

'My address in London,' he says. He appears to be beaming with pride. 'You must write to me if you need anything. Otherwise I'll write to you.'

He pauses and looks around himself.

'You should come to London. I think you'd like it.'

I smile, and wonder just what it is that Gerry imagines makes this London so special.

'Here, take it.'

He thrusts the piece of paper towards me.

'Thank you, Gerry.'

'Don't thank me,' he says. 'Not till you've made use of it.'

It is almost evening. I am sitting on my timber. My birds still dare not cross the fence. And then I sense the presence of Gerry. I do not need to look up to know that it is Gerry.

'What happened?'

I do not turn to face him. I feel content. The sun has shed her final shell of heat for the day.

"There were too many people.'

'You'll have to go tomorrow.'

I look up at him. Poor boy, with his silly moustache. I know I will have to go tomorrow. Mama will be waiting for me.

'When you come to London, will you many me?'

He pauses as though his own words have shocked him to his core. As the silence deepens, I can see that he desperately needs me to rescue him.

'Gerry,' I begin.

'Eva.' He pauses. 'When you're better, of course. Will you marry me?'

'I'm sorry. No.'

Gerry shrugs his shoulders in a theatrical manner. And then he begins to laugh.

'Nobody loves a loser. I suppose I'm just going to be left on the shelf.'

I do not know what he means, but I watch his attempt to enjoy his own laughter. There is something about this man that I like. But he can never understand somebody like me. None of them can.

It is morning and I am ready. After I leave, only the sick will be left behind. I carry my small bundle and climb up and into the truck I seat myself at the back and look around. Of course, there is Gerry. And beyond Gerry, the camp. The soldiers still scurry about and try to impose themselves upon the place. Now that there is hardly anybody left, they are almost succeeding. Small fires are burning and in some places the more energetic among the soldiers have begun to level the barracks. Others appear to be more fatigued, and they simply broom remnants into neat ridges. I want to tell them all, no. The camp must be renounced. Once we have gone, just walk away and leave it. See who comes to claim the remains. The engine thunders into life. As it does so, I cling to the side. Even before we have begun to move, Gerry starts waving. I smile in his direction. My liberator. Goodbye, Gerry. Goodbye.

We race through the countryside, turning heads as we do so. Myself and a dozen others, most of whom choose to ignore me, having no doubt been informed that I prefer my own peculiar company. I wish now that I had not sat at the back of the truck, for the fumes rise and curl their poisonous way into the vehicle at precisely the point where I am sitting. It is particularly difficult whenever we idle at a junction, or when we slow down to pass through a narrow lane. All around I can see the evidence of war. The lanes are littered with long lines of defeated soldiers and discarded vehicles. However, set against this there are strange visions of normal life. Schoolchildren. Pet dogs. Newspapers.

After many hours we eventually slow down, then cross a wooden bridge over a river, and now we are entering the outskirts of a city. Silence. And again, another of these strange visions. I see a woman pushing a pram in which I can see a baby. We all stare. The child has healthy red cheeks. My fellow evacuees cling to their suitcases and stare. The woman to my right offers me an English cigarette, which I take. She lights it. I am not sure how to smoke, but it cannot be too difficult. But now I feel it affecting me. My head feels light. An eerie feeling of indifference. I want to smile. I smile at her, my way of thanking her. There are other strange sights. In front of us, a military vehicle. Not English. Perhaps American. A khaki-curtained vehicle, so we cannot see inside. Now my head begins to spin. Up above, the poor clouds huddle together. And then they begin to weep. Light rain. We have reached our destination.

I sit on the edge of a bed. On the bed are clean white sheets. But the most disturbing sight of all is a pillow. I had forgotten that such items existed. The other women from my camp are in this makeshift dormitory with me, and they, too, sit on their beds. They talk excitedly to each other, and one of them jumps up and runs to a door. Another runs to a window and peers out. Then they sit back down again. They are making nervous plans. For Palestine. They speak with a sudden and miraculous energy, and I listen to them in silent fascination. Apparently, we have wandered long enough. We have worked and struggled too long on the lands of other peoples. The journey that we are making across the bones of Europe is a story that will be told in future years by many prophets. After hundreds of years of trying to be with others, of trying to be others, we are now pouring in the direction of home. I am not included in their plans, for they know not to waste their time. Neither Margot nor Mama are in Palestine. There is no need for me to go to Palestine. But, like them, I have feelings. I understand the passion that they must feel. I, too, have survived the storm. I, too, will soon be issued with identity papers. I, too, have dreamt of Palestine. And once we are together again, if either Mama or Margot wishes to go to Palestine, then to Palestine we shall go. And perhaps I will see these women again in the promised land.