Something bad. All right. But I looked him in the face, didn’t I? And it wasn’t me; it wasn’t a monster either. Just an old man ringing a bell. I’m not so scared, not so angry. I open my eyes to the dim light, close them again. The air is a grey damp; my skirt’s getting all crumpled in the humidity. And suddenly I remember the train car, the dry wooden floor-boards of the train car, voices calling me. Sometimes it’s right not to listen. Be good. Be good. No. I won’t. I want what I want.
I hear footsteps coming down the corridor: the Minotaur, the bogeyman. I open my eyes. It’s Raisa, her blue blouse pale, almost white. She doesn’t say anything, just gives me her hand. “Come on,” she says quietly. “The boys are worried.” Back outside, in the sudden daylight, they’re waiting in the shade of a chestnut, Ben’s back to me. He hears us coming, but doesn’t turn around. I can apologize later. We walk back up the ravine path in silence, the sun setting, flashes of light shifting, flickering between the trees with every step.
Chapter Four
As a child who had been transported by her parents’ will from one life to another, I hadn’t yet learned that other, larger forces could take all of us. In September 1939, Germany invaded Poland and the world was at war. My mother was right: if we had stayed in Canada we would have been caught in the capitalist war. But my mother’s country was at peace, thanks to the non-aggression pact that Germany and the Soviet Union had signed in August. So it wasn’t our war. Capitalist Canada was at war and capitalist Britain was at war but capitalist America was staying out. My mother didn’t say anything about that. But she did keep saying that everything was fine. In fact, once the pact was signed, it became easier to get sugar, butter, meat – everything. But, though salaries had been cut, both my mother and Poppa were working longer hours. Everybody was. And unlike my mother, few were at ease. It was hard to believe in our peace. People wondered whether Stalin was just buying time to build up armaments. No one was sure that the Germans could be trusted. My father was particularly worried about Joseph. Despite Daisy, despite the new baby, he might have enlisted. Or perhaps he’d been drafted. We didn’t know: when the war began, the letters stopped.
My father and Lev would meet in cafés and over tea, a delicate, delicious tea – we had everything in those days of Stalin’s peace – they would discuss the situation. What is to be done? Lev would drape his camel hair coat onto a bent-wood stand and they would sit at a table in a café in my mother’s beautiful city and talk things over. The months of someone else’s war went by and, over glasses of tea, they began to plan. In May and June of 1940, while my mother assured herself and everyone around her that, thanks to Comrade Stalin, her son – Ben was seventeen – would never be cannon fodder in a capitalist war, Germany took the Netherlands, Belgium and France. With no mail from Canada, we still didn’t know whether Joseph had joined up, but my father was convinced that flat feet would keep him out of uniform. In the fall of 1940, as London was being bombed in the Blitz, Lev and my father’s plans began to accelerate. Romania, whose border was only kilometres from Odessa, had joined the Axis powers. By early 1941, half the Jews of the city were leaving or preparing to leave. The difficulty was that my aunts Reva and Basya were as stubborn as my mother. Lev was at the end of his patience with them. It wasn’t as if he wanted to shuttle people off to Uzbekistan. We would go to Moscow. But they wouldn’t hear of Moscow. And Lev was determined that the family would all be together. What was rarely admitted in their café consultations was that Lev himself was finding it hard to extricate himself from the intricate web of business and work that he had created in Odessa. He had all sorts of irons in the fire, and there were all sorts of people who were depending on him. Besides, it took time to get the papers in order. He had to grease a few wheels. While Lev set his affairs in order, while my mother held onto her certainties, my father worried. Worrying was his specialty, he joked with Lev, even as Lev was arranging work for him at the Moscow Centrosoyuz, assuring him that, when the young men were mobilized, they’d need to keep the old dogs in harness.
By March, Lev had the papers in order. In eight weeks, ten weeks, they’d be set. He just had to get his work in Odessa settled. If Avram and the family got there a week or two ahead of Lev, it would be fine. And if Anne continued her resistance, they’d just present the move as a fait accompli. Reva and Basya would come to their senses. And once Anne knew that Manya and Lev were going, she’d come around, no matter how stubborn she was, no matter how irrational her sentimental attachment to Odessa. She wasn’t a complete fool. If they kept the wheels quietly in motion, everything would be all right.
I knew nothing of my father’s plans, though I saw his worry. I was caught up in my own private dreams. It was spring. The windows in our high-school classroom were tall and dusty, the sunlight tall on the wooden floors. The teacher’s voice went on and on about geometry. I liked geometry – logic, Pythagoras, axioms, theorems, truth being divided into such tidy portions – but some days that voice just drilled into my head. I remember the teacher’s suit as grey, dust grey, like chalk dust or the dust that coated the window ledges. He was old, hopelessly old, our teacher, the few hairs on his head white. He must have been forty, ancient. Sunlight hot and tall on the floor, on my shoulders, I’d drift, watching Anatoly, who sat in the row beside me, just ahead. We walked to the library together sometimes, talking. Elena never liked Anatoly. She said he sold cigarettes to the students, got them on the black market. I would see him in unsmiling conference with other boys behind the school. But Anatoly was the only one of my friends who showed any curiosity about my life before Odessa. There was a restlessness about him that drew me. And in this last year, he’d gotten so grown-up. He must have grown six inches. And though there was only a hint of fuzz on his upper lip, his face had changed, grown more angular, masculine. I’d study his profile, the tender curve of his eyelashes, the way his ears were set close to his skull, the untidy brown hair curling over his shirt collar – much more interesting than geometry. All I wanted was to soak up the gift of sunlight and think about Anatoly, about touching his face, feeling the flick of his eyelashes against my hand, his eyes green behind the silvery steel of the spectacles. Proofs, theorems. It was impossible.
Ben and I are at the kitchen table, doing our homework, trying not to hear. Our parents are in the bedroom.
“What are you saying?” I can see my mother through the doorway, the tension in her, can read how taut her mouth must be as she speaks each word.
“I’ve decided, Anya. I know it’ll be hard for you, but we have to leave Odessa.” All I can see of Poppa is his back. He’s at the bureau, sorting through the family’s papers: our passports, residency permits. I can make out the glossy leather.
“Have you gone crazy?” My mother’s voice is sharp, frightened. “We have good jobs here. My whole family is here.” She doesn’t say that in the five years we’ve been here she has quarrelled with every member of the Odessa family except for Manya and Lev.
“Lev has things almost set up already to take the family to Moscow. All of us. And Pavel’s working on it from his end in Moscow. We’ll all leave together. And I’ve spoken with Reva. She and Basya are talking about moving east.”
“Lev is going to Moscow too?” She sits on the bed; her face changes. Is it possible that she can be persuaded?
“Absolutely. There’s no question about it.”
“And Manya?”
“Manya agrees it’s best.”
“Manya and Lev . . .”
“And, Anya, listen. I was thinking about Winnipeg – ” Poppa’s so eager that he doesn’t notice my mother’s features changing again, going hard. If only I could tell him to stop, to go back, not to say Winnipeg, but he’s not looking at me and it’s already too late. “I was thinking – and this is only if we really feel that it’s the right thing to do – there may be a way that we can go back, just for the duration . . . Maybe soon I’ll be able to reach Joseph somehow, find out what he thinks.”
“Back? Back where?”
“Winnipeg.” Poppa looks up, but it’s too late.
My mother’s head is up, her jaw set. “I’m not leaving Odessa. No one is leaving.”
Poppa settles the papers into the drawer, sits down on the bed. “Anya. Anya, listen, please.” He’s sitting straight, tall, even though he’s not tall. “We won’t talk about Winnipeg.” His voice is calm. “Let’s just talk about Moscow. We can’t pick and choose now, not now. Try to listen. Me, I don’t want to go back to Canada. Believe me, what I wanted was to come here. Just as much as you, maybe even more. But this war, Hitler – for him already Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, France, they aren’t enough. Hitler . . .”
“My country is not at war with Hitler. You’re not making sense, Avram.”
If only he hadn’t said Joseph, hadn’t said Winnipeg . . .
“Look around you.” Her voice is grim with certainty, smug. “Are people running away like rabbits? No. Only my sisters would run! What are people thinking about? They’re thinking about what they’ll be doing for their summer holidays, about the beaches. Right this moment the workers are out planting the flower beds. Planting flowers. There is no war in my city. I don’t want to hear any more about your bad dreams!”
“Anya, you have to listen to me. We’re just kilometres from the Romanian border. Lev says plans are being made right now to evacuate the factories east. People have already left. Lots of Jewish families have left already. Odessa is not safe. If we go to Moscow – they’ll never take Moscow. This peace . . . Lev and I, even Manya, we don’t think it can last.”
“So! You know better than Joseph Stalin what’s best for my country?”
“Anya. I’m afraid for you, for the children. We’ll just go for a little while, till things calm down. Pavel knows what’s what. He’s already finding work for us. Pavel and Raisa are good people. They’ll help.”
“A little while,” my mother says. “When I left Odessa the first time I told myself I was going just for a little while. And look how long it took me to come home. Don’t you ask me to leave again. Go. If you’re afraid to stay in your own home, go. But you go without me. And without the children. Annette, Ben: they’re staying with me.”
June 22, 1941. Ben and I are arguing. Poppa’s birthday is coming up, and Ben hasn’t saved his share for the gift. He’s smiling that smile he puts on whenever he knows he’s in the wrong. As we turn the corner onto Deribasovskaya Street we’re so busy being angry with each other that at first our words override the loudspeaker. A crowd has gathered on the sidewalk, everyone looking up to the loudspeaker, as though the words, with their weight, were forming themselves to be seen as well as heard. Every one of them listening, silent in the warm June day, listening with all of the body. I find a place in the tightly packed crowd, rest a hand on Ben’s shoulder to steady myself. At first the Russian words won’t form themselves into meaningful phrases. I look down at the shoulders in front of me. A brown sweater, on this warm day. It’s an older woman wearing a babushka, white polka dots on navy blue cotton, small ones. In the bright sunlight, the dots dance. The woman’s straw basket holds a bunch of onions, of carrots, their green tops still fresh. She must have picked her carrots carefully, bargained for every kopeck. I look up at the loudspeaker’s open mouth, narrow throat. The broadcaster’s words coalesce into meaning: Hitler’s army has invaded the Soviet portion of Poland. Our peace is over.
Such a perfect day. The windows are open, a warm breeze blowing over the kitchen table, sun like a cloth over its surface. Poppa and Ben and I are at the table, listening to the radio. Poppa fiddles with the dial till the station comes in clearer, though it still crackles with some sort of interference. My mother is moving back and forth at the sink, noisily washing up, making a show of not listening.
The peace-loving peoples of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics did not want to be drawn into capitalist conflicts. It was for this reason that the non-aggression pact was signed by our great nation and the German government. For more than two years, our nation enjoyed peace and prosperity, an interval in which our citizenry became stronger and more resolute, and in which our armed forces gathered strength and preparedness. In the face of this treacherous military aggression by Germany, the people have no choice. The German army has already dared to set foot on Soviet soil. They boast that they are unstoppable. The Germans will quickly find that Hitler’s troops are no match for the unequalled courage of the Red Army soldiers. We are destined to win.
Somebody else’s war has become ours.
This sunlight.
“Maybe they are unstoppable.”
My mother turns around. “What did you say?”
I didn’t even know I’d spoken aloud. “Nothing. Nothing, Momma.”
My mother turns back to her dishes.
“Well.” Ben gets up. He’s so tall. “We won’t be sitting around like this much longer.” He turns a dial; it’s louder. The words crackle into the room – static.
“What do you mean?” I ask, my fingers moving along the edge of the wooden tabletop. I scratch at a crumb that’s stuck.
“The caretaker says,” Ben is watching my fingers, “that all civilian radios are going to have to be handed in to the local police. We’re going to have to trade in Old Faithful here, our first contribution to the war effort.”
I think about what else we’ll have to contribute, how tall Ben has gotten, how he’s filled out like a man. He is a man: the shoulders, arms, the moustache he’s affecting. When I teased him that he was trying to look like Comrade Stalin, he just shrugged, snorted.
I look from Ben to the radio, Soviet-made, a present from Lev when we arrived, one of the many presents he “arranged” for us. Sort of a squared off beehive, about the size of a breadbox. There’s a circle of bronze-coloured mesh for a speaker, an ivory dial for volume, one for tuning.
The old radio in Winnipeg was massive, its rounded mahogany back taller than I was. I’d be listening on the davenport, my legs tucked under me, my fingers going round and round the mouth of the wooden griffin head carved onto the arm as if they were weaving a charm, round and round the tame mouth of the beast. Something bad.
We gave it to Joseph when we left. Is he listening to it now?
I want to be home.
Poppa carefully stubs out his cigar, leaves the half-smoked length in the black glass ashtray.
He goes to the bedroom, opens the wardrobe, pulls down the suitcases.
“What are you doing?” My mother’s in the doorway.
He walks over to the bureau, empties the drawers into a suitcase. “Lev has arranged everything. We can leave for Moscow as early as tomorrow; he’ll meet us at the station. He’s found train tickets, everything. We’ve got to pack. We’ll stay with Pavel and Raisa in Moscow till we get housing straightened out. I’ve already written them. As soon as we get there I’ll write Joseph.”
“Joseph?” I’ve said his name before I can stop myself.
“We’ll be able to write,” Ben says. “Mail will get through now we’re allies.”
We’re allies. We were enemies, and now we’re allies.
My mother shifts in the doorway. “I told you before and I’m telling you now. I’m not leaving my city.” Her face is in profile, the jaw working as if each word exhausts her.
Poppa’s walking to the bureau. His hands are on the handle of the top drawer. They start to tremble.
“We’re not going anywhere,” she says. She’s very straight in the doorway. No arguing.
In one motion Poppa pulls the drawer from the bureau, flings it across the room, into the corner opposite to where my mother is standing. It breaks; the fine dovetail edges split open. My mother’s faded cotton nightdresses spill onto the floor.
His whole body is shaking.
“Tomorrow. I’m taking Ben and I’m taking Annette tomorrow on the train to Moscow. Come or don’t come.”
My mother has taken a step back. She takes another. “You’re like an
animal.” She spits on the floor, takes her handbag, walks out the door.
Ben gets up from the table. “Annette? We have to help Poppa pack.” He takes my hand. I’m trembling too.
Ben puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, Monkey. We’ve got to help Poppa with the suitcases.”
The train hisses and snorts at the platform. I tip my head back, and my mouth holds itself open. The vault of ceiling is high, arched above my head. Poppa’s face is suddenly in front of me. I snap back into myself. Poppa’s here. It’s all right. The station is chaos, the platform seething with people – baggage being navigated on the men’s shoulders, women clasping babies against their light summer dresses, gripping the hands of their older children, holding on. But it’s all right – Poppa’s here. He’s kneeling beside me, tugging at the knots of the ropes our bulging suitcases are tied with. He’s here.
Where’s Ben? Just behind us, his arms filled with bottled water, packages.
“Annette,” Poppa says, “I’ve found our seats. Help me with the suitcases.”
We didn’t say goodbye to Momma.”
Poppa straightens, takes me in his arms. I nuzzle my face into the smoothness of his white cotton shirt. Poppa.
“I have to get you and Ben to Moscow.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Raisa and Pavel will be at the station in Moscow. They know we’re coming.”
He pats me on the arm. “Look, there’s your uncle.” Lev is plunging, pushing through the frantic crowd. Lev the conjurer, a big basket of sandwiches, fresh fruit, biscuits in his hands. In seconds he’s beside us.
“It’s good you’re leaving today,” he says. “Manya and I will be joining you very soon.” Lev is smiling, but he has to swallow before he speaks. “I need a couple more weeks – just a few things to finish up – and then we’ll all be in Moscow together. Manya’s fine; don’t worry.” His powerful arms swallow Poppa up in a bear hug. He whispers something into Poppa’s ear. They mustn’t have found her, mustn’t have heard anything.
The Knife Sharpener's Bell Page 11
