The Knife Sharpener's Bell

by Rhea Tregebov

  “Joseph,” Pavel says, “we have to know.”

  Raisa’s holding my hand, which is cold and damp. I can see Joseph’s mouth moving, but it takes a moment before I can focus on the words.

  “ . . . so as soon as I heard that Odessa was liberated, I caught a liner in New York. I didn’t bother writing; the mails are too slow. I had to find things out.” He stops, licks his lips. “I couldn’t just sit there not knowing,” he says in English, looking at me, though I won’t look back. And then he switches back into Russian. “I was ten days in Odessa. And there’s good news.” He takes a breath. “I’ve seen Manya.”

  “Manya!” Raisa’s hand goes to her mouth. “Manya is alive!”

  Joseph nods.

  “Did she tell you about the others?” Pavel asks. “She’s all right?”

  “She’s in hospital,” Joseph says. “She’s weak, but she’ll be all right in time.”

  “What did she say? Lev? Avram?” Pavel asks.

  “Pavel,” Raisa says, “let him talk.”

  “Lev,” Joseph says, “joined the Partisans. He had valuables – jewellery, ammunition, weapons – so he bought a place with the Partisans for him and Manya. They went into hiding with a group, about eighty of them altogether, in the catacombs.”

  “ – the catacombs?” Pavel asks.

  “Poppa.” Vladimir’s voice is still childish; it hasn’t broken yet. “Don’t you remember seeing the picture in the papers the day Odessa was liberated? All the Partisans in the square coming up from underground?” There must have been at least fifty of them in the photograph, the men in patched padded jackets and felt boots, the women in babushkas and shawls. And they’d looked solid, triumphant, as though the months and years in darkness, below ground, hadn’t touched them.

  “Annette,” Joseph says, turning to me again. Now he’s going to tell me. He holds himself tight though his voice is gentle, tender. “Manya told me that Poppa and your mother didn’t want to join them. Lev had arranged for them to come too, but they refused to go into hiding.”

  I want to stop his mouth. For a moment, I want to choke the words from his throat, anything, any violence to prevent the violence of what I know he is going to say. But I do nothing, wait for the words I know are coming, the rage freezing over inside me into something else, numbness, till I feel I can hardly make the effort to breathe, to let my heart beat.

  I’m watching his face. His hand goes over his chin again.

  “They died,” he says, “with all the others, in October, in the first few days of the occupation. Basya and Reva and their families must have gone then too.”

  Poppa and my mother. Both gone.

  I’m not crying. Gone. First Ben and now Poppa and my mother. I’m alone. They’re gone. Gone to bones. Shot. Or worse, not bones: gasoline and a high wooden fence, the fire that day, ash. The fire would have made a fine, sooty layer on the Odessa sidewalks, that people would have swept, the next morning, trying not to think.

  Vladimir’s crouched beside me on the floor, his head on my lap, his arms wrapped around me. He’s crying quietly. “Don’t be sad,” he whispers. “You’re ours. You have us. We’ll look after you, Momma and Poppa and me. We’ll take care of you.”

  I put my face in his hair, breathe. They’re dead and I’m still alive.

  “Annette?” It’s Joseph, the delicate weight of his hand on my arm. Relieved of his news, he can bear to touch me. He’s handing me something. “Take a sip of tea.” Vladimir lets go of me, walks to his father. Now I’m so light. If it weren’t for the weight of Joseph’s hand, there’d be nothing to keep me to the ground. “Annette,” he says again.

  I put the rim of the glass to my mouth.

  He goes back to his chair. “The Partisans were well organized, Manya said. They had supplies, arms, provisions; even an infirmary. Lev and Manya both survived underground for two full years.”

  Underground. I close my eyes and see the guide opening the steel gate, letting us all down into the cool mouth of the tunnel, daylight fading. Two years. How many days without daylight? Dense air clinging to the inside of my throat and that sound at the back of my head, two beats, the knife sharpener, his bell, metal clapper against bronze mouth, the second note utter, final. Vladimir beside me. Don’t be afraid, he said, squeezing my hand. The taste of moths on my tongue, stale and damp. The floor’s smooth, soft, almost polished. The top of my head brushes the ceiling and the grit falls onto my scalp. The second note final. It’s final now. Nothing left to do but look it in the face. You go down to live. Manya lived. And my mother and Poppa died.

  “Annette?”

  They keep repeating my name. Who’s calling me? They keep calling and calling, but not one of them is Poppa. Raisa’s arm is around me.

  “ . . . then Manya got typhus,” Joseph says. “Lev managed to nurse her through it and then got sick himself. He died within a week.” Big strong Lev. And Manya is alive.

  Raisa’s pacing the room. “Do you think Manya will want to come here?”

  Joseph shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She’s still not well.”

  Lev is dead, my uncle Lev. Poppa. My mother. Gone. Like Ben.

  “Annette?” They’re calling me again. I open my eyes: Joseph.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “No.”

  I’m in the kitchen, toasting a piece of bread over the burner, a dishtowel over my arm. Since Joseph’s news, I’ve been sleepwalking through days, work, meals, sleepwalking through sleep, no dreams, no thoughts, nothing to feel. But now something wakes me. This merciless sunshine is spreading itself across the room, blue sky, sunshine, why? Thinks it can go anywhere, take anything, barging into this kitchen. I don’t want it. Not sunshine, not toast. I don’t want bread in my mouth, don’t want to eat. I want nothing. Want the night rising up in me to take everything, want night in my throat. Why did they? How could they bring me here, why? Why did they come, why did they stay, why did they take me, why did they leave me? In the train station, why did he get down? And leave me. What did she need? Why didn’t she need me? I need them and they’re gone.

  Something dark and burning in my eyes, my throat. Good.

  “Annette!”

  The dishtowel’s yanked from my hands.

  “Annette, for God’s sake!”

  Pulls me. Grabs my arm, takes me from the room.

  “Are you crazy? Are you trying to burn the place down?”

  Burn me down. Burn me with them.

  Hands shoving me onto the davenport, a cloth on my face. I have a glass of water.

  “Drink this.”

  I drink it down, cool rage down my throat. Rub my eyes; my hands come away black.

  “You’re all right.”

  I can hear him now, Joseph, pulling me against his shoulder.

  “It’s just smoke. The toast caught fire, and the dishtowel. But it’s nothing. I’ll clean up later. You’re all right. It’s fine.”

  And now I can hear him crying, feel him shaking with anger, sorrow. I set my face against his sleeve. I can feel it; I can feel everything. I want them back.

  My head aches, bulges with it. I’ve been at my desk all day but I can’t work, haven’t gotten anything done. Not all week, not since Joseph. I put my hands against my temples, rub. The cold feels good. I have to work on little bites of it, nibbles: they were shot with the others. Or in the square by the port, burned. It would have been the smoke that killed them first . . . I have to stop thinking about this. My arm hurts. Yesterday I almost set the apartment on fire making toast. I wanted to burn. A little bit of my arm did. Joseph ran and got Raisa; she bandaged me up. I have to stop thinking about how they died, have to.

  Someone’s standing at the door to the office, a man in a tailored overcoat. A foreigner.

  Joseph, my brother.

  “Joseph . . .”

  He smiles, comes towards me.

  I have him. I still have Joseph and in him I have Winnipeg and the delicatessen and Poppa and
Ben. Have even my mother. So much to carry inside me, to remember. With Joseph here, at least there’s someone to share the cargo.

  He’s standing by my desk, hands at his sides as if he’s still afraid to touch me. “Did I startle you?”

  “I’m just surprised. I wasn’t expecting you.” The good cloth of his overcoat, the sturdy leather shoes – everything about him is new, good quality. This is how foreigners look. This is how my brother looks.

  “I was running a few chores for Raisa, but I’m all done now.” He’s talking English, his eyes gentle on me. “Stuffy in here.” He takes off his fedora, loosens his tie – every little gesture so like Poppa. “How’s your arm?”

  “My arm?”

  “The burn.” He points to the bandage.

  “It’s nothing. I don’t even notice it.”

  “You sleep okay? You look worn out.”

  “I’m fine, Joseph. I mean . . . I’m all right.”

  “How about coming to dinner with me, Sis – what do you say?”

  “I thought the restaurants were all closed for the duration . . .” I’ve never seen the inside of a restaurant in Moscow.

  “A couple have opened lately. Come on, kiddo.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Sure, let’s go.” And it’s as if, speaking English to him, I’ve fallen into some self that never was: the girl who grew up in Winnipeg, who went to St. John’s High. Whose brother Joseph helped her with her algebra problems. Whose parents are alive.

  He takes my coat down from the bentwood rack. “Or we could stand in line for drinks at the kokteil-kholl on Gorky Street . . .”

  I shake my head. They haven’t turned me into a drinker yet. “No cocktails, thanks. But dinner, that would be great.” I can’t help it; my mouth starts to water at the thought of a restaurant meal.

  He helps me on with my coat, turns the collar down, rests a hand briefly on my shoulder. The first time he’s touched me. “Good. It’s just a couple of blocks to the Metropol; we can eat at the restaurant there. I plan to fatten you up some.”

  As we leave the building, the wind comes up. It’s still chilly today. Joseph’s walking fast – I have to quicken my pace to keep up. It’s always better when I’m moving, when I’m outside.

  “Hey, button your coat up. That wind’s cold.”

  He wants to look after me. I remember him kneeling in the snow, tucking my mittens into the sleeves of my jacket. He wants to look after me but no one can. I slip each button into its slot. From where I’m standing I can see the heavy bronze doors of the GUM, the walls of the Kremlin, still camouflaged.

  Joseph touches my elbow, another tentative touch. “When you wrote me about Pa putting you on that train without him, staying behind in Odessa, you know, it didn’t surprise me. Your mother, she had such a hold on him.”

  Had. I have a new tense for my parents now. I had parents. I had a mother and father.

  I can’t say anything, just nod.

  “We don’t – Annette – we don’t know if anything would have turned out differently if they’d left Odessa with you. We can’t know. There’s no saying . . . there’s no saying they would have survived anyway. You know how hard it was even here in Moscow.” He touches my elbow again, squeezes my arm, his hand firm now, as if he wants to make sure I’m really here. “Are you mad?”

  “At who?”

  “Them. Are you mad at them for staying?”

  For dying. I’m mad at them for dying. I can’t say that out loud. “And what about you?” I ask. “Aren’t you mad? All those years ago, he left you here, left you and your mother . . .”

  “My mother left him.”

  We’ve never spoken about this.

  “But then when you came to Canada, and he let my mother treat you like that, kick you out of the house – ”

  Now it’s Joseph who’s silent.

  “It wasn’t right, Joseph. I always knew it wasn’t right.”

  “I did fine, Annette. I am fine. I knew Pa loved me, even if, even though she put up all these obstacles. And I had you. I remember the first time I saw you, how you took me in with that look little kids have. How you made me yours. And now I have Daisy, and Nathan. More than I ever thought I’d have. I have the business too.” He smiles quietly. “I’m doing really well now. Putting money aside, saving.” The smile broadens. “See? I can even take you out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town.”

  We’re here. We stop in the middle of the sidewalk, take in the hotel’s winsome little turrets, the mural in watery blue mosaics arched above the entrance.

  “That figure in the centre, Joseph? She’s called The Princess of Dreams.”

  “Some building.” He chews at his moustache.

  “The height of art nouveau.”

  “The Princess of Dreams. Hey, Annette, what was the name of that guy who used to call you ‘princess’? The lodger?”

  “Mr. Spratt. He used to call me princess because Princess Elizabeth and I were born the same year.”

  “Spratt? He’s the skinny one, the one – ”

  “The one who drowned. Who killed himself.”

  Joseph nods. “Poor guy. Listen, we can’t stand out here forever. You’re shivering.” He takes my elbow again, nudges me through the door into the lobby, then into the dining room. “So what do you think?” I’ve never been in a room like this. I tip my head back and space opens above us, a vault with stained-glass lozenges and medallions.

  “Smart place, isn’t it?” He’s almost grinning again. Nothing better for Joseph than giving me one of his treats.

  I nod. “Pavel told me the façade used to be full of bullet holes. It was damaged during the Revolution.”

  We both look up again, follow the shadows of clouds moving over the vault.

  “Hey, Annette, you wrote me once that you were thinking about studying architecture . . .”

  I nod again. “It was Lev got me interested. You know how I’m always drawing, sketching stuff? When I was just a kid, Lev taught me two-point perspective. And he has . . . he had . . . all these great books with illustrations of buildings. Even when I was little he’d let me look at them. I remember he told me to make sure I just touched the edges of the paper when I turned the pages. Otherwise the oil from my fingertips would stain the illustrations. He used to wear white cotton gloves – ” I stop. I can’t stand remembering. The waiter comes to my rescue, escorts us through the maze of tables to a small one at the back of the room.

  “Order whatever you want. Sky’s the limit. You need some meat on your bones,” Joseph says as the waiter hands over the menus.

  I pretend to read it over, swipe furtively at my eyes.

  “Annette.” Joseph puts his hand on mine. “Everything you’ve written me about them – I’m so glad you had Lev and Manya in Odessa. It sounds like they, Lev especially, like Lev could take some of the pressure off with your mother.”

  “He did. Manya too. I always felt they were on my side. Do you think I’ll be able to get to see Manya soon?”

  “It’ll probably be awhile. Did you read the letter?” Joseph brought me a letter from Manya.

  “Not yet.” I’ve been afraid to look at it, to know more than I already know.

  “So it was Lev got you thinking about studying architecture?”

  “He always said it suited me to a T. He even knew some bigwigs who taught here in Moscow. I remember him talking to Poppa about pulling strings for me.”

  “You know Poppa would want you to go to university.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t think about it now.”

  “A girl like you, with your brains.”

  “You never got to go.”

  “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen. I have to talk to you, Annette.” He puts the menu down. “I have to check with you before I start making any arrangements.”

  “Arrangements for what?”

  “I want you to come back with me.”

  “Ba
ck?”

  “To Canada. I want you to come home. As an orphan, it looks like you might be eligible for emigration papers.”

  I’m an orphan.

  “We can look after you, Daisy and me. Daisy would love to have you. You’ve never even met our Nathan.” His face is bright. He’s got another treat for me, the very best one this time, the prize in the Cracker Jack box. “You could live with us. You could go to university in Winnipeg –”

  I can see that alternate self again, can picture United College, the lawns of the campus a green dream, the traffic on Portage Avenue.

  “Before I do anything more, Annette, I want you to tell me: do you want to come home?”

  I take Joseph’s hand in both of mine – a small hand, not that much bigger than mine, the fingers intelligent. No wonder he’s so good at his work. I could live with Joseph.

  “Annette?”

  I turn it over, palm up, pat it.

  Home.

  I have everything. Even Manya’s letter, the one Joseph brought from Odessa for me. I take it out of its folder, put the paper to my face – is it possible that it still smells of lavender?

  May 15, 1944

  My Dearest Annette,

  Joseph will bring you this letter. I know you will want me to come and visit the family in Moscow, but I will have to wait some time before I’m strong enough to travel and, as you’re no doubt aware, travel is still difficult.

  I know also that you’ll want to hear more about your mother and father. I’ve picked up my pen many times and then put it away. I’m sure you understand how difficult it is to turn to those events.

  There was something unreal about the first days of the occupation. Even Lev seemed paralyzed at first, I think because he felt so bad that he hadn’t gotten us out of Odessa in time. And he’d failed to convince Basya and Reva and their families to leave, as well as your mother and father.

  Lev had had contacts all along with the groups that were forming into the Resistance. I guess he knew the occupation was inevitable. He’d arranged for all of us to join the Partisan cells that were planning to operate from the catacombs.