Dead Europe

by Christos Tsiolkas

  Arabic, Hebrew, Italian, German, English, French. Jude. Juif. Juden. Jew. Each seemed to have as its subject the history of the Jews. I rose and walked over to the window, and picked up a book from a pile lying face-down on the sill. I flicked through the pages. The photos were familiar. The death chambers, the dying prisoners in their striped uniforms, the fields of massacred civilians. A mass of arms raised in Nazi salute.

  The old man came over to me and looked down at the book. He nodded, agreeing with something in his own head. He stooped and searched a cupboard beneath the small kitchen sink, then smiled and triumphantly hefted a bottle of brandy. He poured two glasses. I was still holding the book. He took a seat and picked up my camera. He was now grunting furiously. He skolled his drink and poured another. He pointed at the camera, then to me and to the book, making odd, rasping, grunting sounds. Again he pointed to the camera, and then to me and to the book.

  It was then I realised that he could not speak. I realised too, with embarrassment, that the old man thought I was a Jew. Though I also knew I had not pretended to give this impression, part of me also felt inexplicable guilt. It was as if the old man had assumed a sacred trust, mistaken though it might have been, that I did not wish to break. But inadvertently I was shaking my head, and as if to answer for me—or possibly to betray me—the crucifix that Giulia had given me slipped out of my shirt. I closed the book I was holding.

  Signor Parlovecchio, I am in Venice.

  His grunting stopped. He stared at the gold of my crucifix as if transfixed by it. Then a shadow passed across his face. He skolled his drink again and poured another. His hand was tightening around my camera. He pulled it close to him, under his arm and glared at me defiantly.

  I reached out my hand.

  —Give me my camera. Please.

  He smiled, enjoying the hint of panic in my voice, and tightening his hold on my camera.

  —Give it to me.

  He smiled and shook his head. I rose from the chair, and as if mocking my actions, he rose as well. I lunged and he jumped back. I was astounded by how sprightly he was. I grabbed after him but he had dashed into the next room. I stumbled and kicked over piles of books as I followed him. He led me around and around the small central room, crashing against books, making bizarre squawking sounds as he ran. His grip on my camera never loosened. At one point I grabbed him and he turned around and viciously bit my hand. I shouted, pulled back, and looked down at my hand. The teeth marks were clearly visible, deep in my flesh, and I waited for the blood to appear. But there was no blood. I was transfixed by the raw pink wounds. There was no blood.

  I was alone in the room. I went back to the kitchen. The old man was by the sink. He was examining my camera.

  —Give it to me. My order was loud.

  His back was to me. I heard a click. He had pulled out the canister of film. He began to unwind it from the spool, exposing the negative to the dying light streaming through the kitchen window. I moved towards him but I was too late: he flung the ribbon of film out of the narrow window. It billowed and curled in the wind, a frenzied serpent; it glided for a moment, then fluttered and spun quickly onto the rooftops below.

  He turned to me then, his breathing long and hoarse, his body shaking. He was still holding my camera. I walked up to him, looked down at his old wrinkled face, his decaying, dying face.

  —Give me back my camera.

  He spat at me. He spat at me. The phlegm smacked my cheek. I wiped it from my face and stared murderously at him. He was hissing, a continuous low sound that cautioned and threatened like a snake.

  —Give me back my camera, you fucking Jew.

  I had never uttered this curse before. A rush of power surged through every particle of me. It was as if I had been yearning to utter that curse since the beginning of time.

  The eyes that stared back at mine were not those of an old man. They were black and luminous. They were mocking me. He was nodding in happiness. I had made him happy. The power I had felt just a moment before drained from me. Standing in front of this pitiful old man I could only feel despair and shame—bitter, stinging shame. He was laughing now. From his throat the sound was a combination of hissing and of groaning, but I knew it was laughter.

  Mister Old Talk, I’m in Venice. I’m in fucking Venice now. I’m in fucking Europe.

  There came the sound of a key twisting in the latch and I heard the door opening. I walked into the main room. The old man was sitting primly on the sofa, my camera on his knees. An elderly woman, wearing dark glasses and with her white hair in a bun beneath a black scarf, was standing in the doorway, a shopping bag and a green umbrella in her hand. The old man was smiling towards her. She said something sharply to me in Italian.

  —Scusi, I answered, no parlo d’Italiano.

  Then, fear in her voice, she barked out something in Arabic. The old man responded by calling out a series of soothing calm grunts. She turned towards me and spoke in accented clear English.

  —What has happened here today? What do you want with my husband?

  —I’m sorry. I think there has been a misunderstanding.

  The old man’s grunts were getting louder and more agitated.

  —You must leave, she continued.

  I looked over at the old man.

  —I’m sorry, he still has my camera.

  She was blind. Hands outstretched, she made her way slowly to her husband and searched for my camera. He touched her hand, stroked her face. She found the camera, slowly took it off his lap and held it out for me. I walked over and took it. It felt alien in my hands. I could hardly bear to touch it.

  —Thank you.

  I looked down at her husband. He did not look at me. It was as if I had disappeared completely from the room. I wanted to say something to him, but no words came. The old woman ushered me to the door. Her movements were brisk and before I knew it she was about to shut the door in my face. I had to say something.

  —I am so sorry, I said weakly, I meant no disrespect to you and your husband.

  She hesitated, and then whispered to me.

  —My husband was made sick by what they did to us. He has never recovered from what they did to us.

  —The Germans?

  An astonished smile spread across her face.

  —No, she answered. We are not from here. She was indicating the earth below her feet but I understood that she did not just mean this city, this fantastical disintegrating city, but the whole world around it.

  —They tore out my husband’s tongue for marrying an Arab. They blinded me for marrying a Jew. This is what they did.

  —Who?

  —Our families. She stated this simply and quietly.

  —Where?

  She shook her head.

  —It does not matter.

  —Where? I was insistent, I wanted to know.

  It was as if she was gazing at my crucifix; it was as if she could see it. For a moment I thought she was about to answer.

  It was as if she was about to raise her finger to the Cross itself, to plead with it, to ask something of it, or to accuse it of something. I would never know. She closed the door in my face.

  The rain had again begun to fall and dark clouds covered the city. I turned through alleys and narrow streets, crossed bridges, and I realised I was lost. Finally, sweating, I found myself on a promenade at the edge of the city where blue plastic trashcans were lined up in a neat file outside a row of apartment blocks. I sat on the stone wall; the sea was black and the sun was dropping, and a mist was rolling across the water. The long wooden poles of the buoys formed thin sentinels across the horizon. I waited till night, till I could see the lights spread slowly across the mainland and then wearily I asked directions and walked back to the pensione.

  When I got back to my room I collapsed fully clothed onto the bed, did not even take off my shoes, and fell into weary sleep. I dreamt. I dreamt that I was in the back of Paul Ricco’s van. In my dream I smelt the mouldy perfume of the frui
t. Paul was driving. I knew this even though I could only see the back of his head. He drove me to a grove in a tall forest. Signor Bruno Parlovecchio opened the doors to the van and beckoned me to follow. We walked further and further into the forest until we reached Colin, who was digging in a garden in a wide clearing. A brook cut through the clearing. Colin’s shirtsleeves were rolled up and he was wearing an old pair of trackpants. I ran to him and he looked up and smiled. But as I approached I heard a hissing sound. I turned around and where Signor Parlovecchio had been standing, there coiled and hissed a tremendous black snake. It raised its thick head, its coal-black eyes piercing into me. It hated me, that creature hated me. I turned to look for the comfort of Colin but he was gone. His spade lay across the newly dug ground. I reached for it. The snake hissed fiercely, aware of my intent. I went to grab the spade but the creature leapt for me, its fangs white, gleaming, sharp and wet, its eyes burning, fixed on my throat. There was childish laughter ringing all around me. I awoke, screaming, alone in the dark room, clutching at my throat. The laughter continued. I slapped at my ears until I could hear nothing more than the echoes of my slaps. I switched on the light.

  I spread my photographs on the bed and again examined the photograph of Giulia and Andreas standing stiffly on the narrow path leading up to the coffee shop at my mother’s village. The pale thin face of the boy was still laughing behind them, his thin, poisonous face mocking and malevolent. I pored over the photograph, searched all three faces, and figured out where the sun had been when I had pressed on the shutter. With my finger, I traced Giulia’s and Andreas’ shadows, then traced the reflection the boy threw on the dusty dirt road. The elongated shadow was broken, scattered by a clump of rocks and a bunching of camomile grass growing on the bleak road. But his shadow matched those of my cousin and of Andreas perfectly. He had been there; and looking into his eyes, I saw then that he was indeed looking straight at me, confidently, triumphantly. I threw the photographs across the room. The marks on my wrist were burning. I scratched at the toothmarks left behind by the old man but I could not draw blood. I lay down in bed and shut my eyes to get some sleep. I did not dare turn out the lights.

  In my time in Venice I did not watch the sunset from Harry’s Bar, I did not visit the Guggenheim, I did not have tea at a palazzo or take a ferry to the Lido. I did not feed the pigeons at San Marco’s Square, nor did I travel on a gondola. I did not eat seafood in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canal, I did not step inside any basilicas or cathedrals. I saw no great paintings by Titian and Tiepolo. Instead I visited the ghetto and I drank coffee at the Café Beirut. I saw swastikas washed by the rain. And I looked into the wretched face of a despairing man, and saw the ceaseless misery in his eyes, and yes, an eternal exhausting vengeance. The hatred in his eyes was fierce and passionate. They demanded something of me and they promised no forgiveness. I wanted to forget those eyes, to never ever look into such eyes again. For one deranged, terrified moment—I promise, only a moment; it passed, I willed it away immediately—I wished that not one Jew had ever walked on the face of this earth.

  MARITHA PANAGIS HAD stoked the fire all night and when the first light of dawn filtered through the open shutters she crossed herself, rose to her feet and tossed bark and twigs into the flames. The child, still feverish, had fallen asleep but even in its dreams its body moved towards the surge of warmth that erupted as the flames leapt to devour the wood. The boy’s breaths were forced and spent, as if in exhaling the poisoned air, he was straining his thin body to breaking point. In the corner of the room, his mother sat silently, watching her son, her eyes now dry but still blood-red from the exhaustion of her tears. The sun’s early light fell on the child. Every thin snaking vein was visible on his shivering body. Maritha sighed with relief as the sun banished the night, and indeed, the boy’s breathing had seemed to calm with the arrival of dawn. Whatever demon had been with them all of the night had now disappeared.

  All her life, Maritha had been able to see the spirit world. She saw the sad young girls who twisted their melancholy locks of hair on the banks of rivers. She saw the men in their ragged uniforms still searching for the battles of long-forgotten wars. She knew which corners housed affectionate spirits, and she avoided the cellars and fields in which banshees and malevolent ghosts shrieked against their human masters. Her own mother had noticed the girl’s talents, and fearing that she would be accused of gypsy blood, she forbade Maritha to make her gift public. But there would be no village they entered, no house they passed, no road they took, when her mother would not turn to her, and whisper, Maritha, what do you see? Tell me. Are we safe? The young girl would search the woods, the rooms of a house, the path ahead, and she would describe all that was visible to her. She often did not understand what she was seeing. A youth in shepherd’s attire would be before her eyes and she would think his smile kindly and innocent. But her mother would make the sign of the Cross and lead her onto another path. An ogre of an old woman would be rocking her monstrous body in a corner of the house, and though Maritha would be filled with terror at the sight, her mother would nod to the fierce apparition, smile, and take a seat beside it.

  The ghoul that had sat beside the boy all night was far from hideous in appearance. His body was naked and his skin was chalk-white, as pale as the sick child in the bed. All through the night he did not move from the sick boy’s side, at times stroking the boy’s skin and forehead, at times getting into bed next to him and tightening his spectral arms around him. The sick child’s fever would rage in those moments, his body would twist and shudder in pain, and his mother would groan out her despair. Early in the night the child’s father had attempted to come into the room, to stay and comfort his son, but the spirit would lash out cruelly if the man was in the room. It would pinch and bite at the boy, kick at him, scratch along his legs and arms and chest, as the horrified parents stared insensibly at the streaks of torn flesh appearing on their child’s dying body. They could not see the demon, and Maritha believed it best to neither describe it nor attempt to make it manifest to the grieving parents. She had ushered the father out of the room, forbade him to enter till morning. The spirit stopped its thrashings. Again he had put his arms around the frail sick child and, as if making amends for its behaviour, had licked at the blood and the torn skin. All through the night Maritha prayed.

  —How is he?

  Maritha looked across at tall, strong Stavros, at his grim face.

  —He is better, now that it is morning.

  —Will he live, Kiria Panagis?

  Stavros wore a plain black shirt and held his cap rolled tight in his fist. He had entered the room quietly and had knelt down before his son’s bed. Even though the sickness had ravaged his small body, Kyriakos shared his father’s large honey-coloured eyes, the man’s thick brow and full mouth. If he lived, he too would be a good-looking man. Stavros turned to his wife.

  —Yiannoula, bring the child some food.

  Yiannoula’s scared eyes darted to Maritha. Stavros followed her look. His smile was bitter.

  —We can trust her.

  Yiannoula fell to her knees, lifted a stone from the floor, and beneath it Maritha could see a bundle of dried wheat and a few scrawny cobs of corn. Her stomach knotted and she exhaled slowly, praying for the hunger to leave her. Yiannoula stripped one of the cobs of its kernels and threw them into a small black pan over the fire. She turned to the old woman.

  —Are you hungry, Kiria Maritha?

  The old woman shook her head. The couple had two other sons and four daughters, and they all needed to be fed. She could not take their food. Instead, she came and stood before the man and whispered to him, Make sure your wife eats as well. Stavros took the old woman’s hand and squeezed it tight. She and the children will eat, he promised her.

  Stavros had already lost a son in the war. A year ago the English had dropped a load of provisions from their machines that flew in the air—he crossed himself—and the crates of food had been stored in the
town hall in Thermos to be divided among the King’s soldiers. The news had flown quickly through the villages. It had been expected that the guerrillas would come down from the mountains and storm the building. A garrison of troops had been installed in the town to ensure the food was kept safe. In the end, it had not been the guerrillas who had attempted to steal the food. Four of the oldest boys in the village had hatched a plan together, and one of them had been Stavros’ Emmanuel. The idea had been to have the two oldest boys start a mock fight, hoping to draw the guards’ attention, and then the two youngest boys would climb through one of the small louvres in the back of the hall and cram as much of the food as they possibly could into their pockets. Afterwards, everyone agreed that it had been a ridiculous and incompetent plan. The youngest boys had not even managed to squeeze through the window before a soldier raised the alarm. On hearing the shouts of their friends, the two boys engaged in the diversion had set off at a run that was halted by swift bullets. The four corpses had been returned to the village, their heads severed from their bodies in retribution. It had been assumed that the boys had been guerrillas. The guerrillas had exacted their own revenge within a week. It had indeed been their plan to storm the hall and to take the provisions. But the military presence had increased after the failed attempt by the boys, and so, instead, the guerrillas swooped on the families of the dead youth and requisitioned any grain or food remaining in their houses.

  Is it my son, Yiannoula had asked Maritha the night before. Has he come back to haunt our village?

  —Quiet. Maritha had been stern. It is not Emmanuel. But he’s not in peace, wailed the dead boy’s mother, How can he be in peace with his body so desecrated?

  —It is not Emmanuel, I promise you. It is not Emmanuel.

  Maritha opened the gate to her own cottage, and on entering the courtyard, she unravelled her long black scarf. Her hair fell thickly around her shoulders; it was as white as the asbestos with which her son had dusted the courtyard trees. She shivered in the darkness and moved to the kitchen to light the fire. From across the courtyard she could hear her daughter-in-law singing. Maritha crossed herself and set the kindling alight.