September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘He can’t wash it off his soul, though,’ says Kevin. ‘He can’t cleanse his memory, not completely. I think he’s gone through a period of denial, a better beginning, he called it. To live with you, he got new wings.’

  I lean back, beg support from the chair. ‘And he’s living the worst part of his life all over again.’ Would I have treated him differently had I known his history, his youth? Would my pity and sorrow have shown? He wanted no pity, my Ben. He wanted a start that was fresh enough to squeak like a new shoe. Yet he wrote it down. ‘He wrote it down,’ I say. ‘And he wants more wings.’

  ‘Understandable,’ offers Danielle. ‘He’s worn out a few pairs in his time.’

  How much do they know, then? I am surprised that the answer jumps so quickly into my head. It doesn’t matter. If Ben told Danielle and Kevin any of it, then at least he has managed to share the weight with strangers. A stranger can often be so much closer than a friend, as the picture arrives in black and white, no colours lent by preknowledge and prejudgement. ‘Was he confused when he first came to you?’

  Kevin thinks for a moment, nods. ‘Yes, he thought he had started with Alzheimer’s disease, though he was still together enough to know that he was missing a lot of stuff. That was the sad part, the fact that he realized what was happening to him. He came in a taxi with the address of the flat on a piece of paper.’

  ‘Where did he find your work?’ I ask.

  ‘The book of poems was among some stuff he picked up at the university,’ Kevin tells me. ‘I was lecturing there, taking a couple of writers’ groups. I was a bit worried about him, because he kept jumping from one subject to another when he visited us here that day. Anyway, the taxi waited, and I went down in the lift to make sure that Ben would get home OK. The driver knew where to take him, so I guessed that your husband had provided for what he was calling his gaps. We’ve never forgotten him. There was something about him that stayed with us.’

  ‘We had a new kitchen.’ I am remembering again, but audibly this time. ‘Ben attacked a very close friend. I was getting some After Eights out of a cupboard that wouldn’t shut properly. Until then, I hadn’t noticed anything unusual about Ben’s behaviour. Sometimes, I’ve hated that cupboard, even though the firm came and made it close. It was as if I’d let something out with the After Eights and the Kenya coffee. Perhaps if I’d managed to close the door …’ I flounder, stop in my tracks. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’

  Neither speaks, neither finds me silly.

  ‘I’ve got to read the rest of it, haven’t I?’

  ‘Ben asked for my work on Sachsenhausen,’ says Danielle. ‘He sat there, in your chair, read every word and pored over the photographs. When he passed it back to me, he thanked me for being a new witness. He made me cry, Laura.’

  Oh God, what am I going to do? The new wings he needs are to be made by me. I have to plan, stitch and sew, make sure that the ailerons will take my man upwards, ‘fishtailing and chandelle’ as Kevin says in the poem. ‘Having wings just means being unusual, doesn’t it?’ I’ve got past trying to sound intelligent.

  Kevin agrees, up to a point. ‘We’ve all got wings if we want them,’ he tells me. ‘But most of us don’t like them to show. Don’t forget that this poem can be hopeful, too. At the end, he feels the feathers threatening to erupt again.’

  I haven’t read it that way. ‘But I thought the tugging between his shoulder blades was regret. Like a man who has a leg amputated – he still feels when the missing knee aches or when the absent foot itches.’

  ‘You were low when you read it,’ says Kevin. ‘You weren’t flying when you found the words.’

  We can all fly. He is telling me that and I am believing it. The girl on the cushions has known for years that she can take to the air. It’s something to do with integrity, then. ‘Why did Ben need more than one pair of wings?’ I wonder aloud.

  ‘To fit his many circumstances.’ Kevin has probably travelled deeper into my husband’s thoughts than any other living creature.

  I decide to go further. ‘Which wings does he need now?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Only you know that, Laura. He told me his past and a little of his present, but the present he discussed has become history now.’

  Danielle has a brainwave. ‘It might not help, but if it does …’ She is excited, has risen onto her knees. ‘Take the papers in, and the poem. Read them to him, let him know you’re sharing it. That might bring him forward a bit, tip him out of the worst part of his past.’

  I don’t think so. I cannot believe that a story read aloud can darn the holes created by Alzheimer’s. But I’ll try anything, anything at all. I’ll even make those wretched wings if necessary. The young people go into the kitchen for coffee and food. I am left with a rat called Basil and a poem that is breaking my heart.

  Van Gogh sits all around the walls, his gorgeous insanity translated, printed and framed. A native American stares down at me, arms folded under his woven dress. Beneath him sits another stark truth.

  ONLY AFTER THE LAST TREE HAS BEEN CUT DOWN

  ONLY AFTER THE LAST RIVER HAS BEEN POISONED

  ONLY AFTER THE LAST FISH HAS BEEN CAUGHT

  ONLY THEN WILL YOU FIND THAT MONEY CANNOT BE EATEN

  Laurel and Hardy linger in a corner, their closest companion a tiger, a big fellow, possibly from Bengal. Books teeter on top of books, Stanley Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange is announced on another poster. Above it all, the dream catch turns on the end of its thread. Nothing is expected of me. I can stay or go, I can be myself.

  She reminds me a little of Diana and Jodie, this calm-faced girl whose hair is free, whose mind has found its own liberty. She is educated, I think, but she is not hidebound by her achievements. And Kevin is a man whose ideals have made a bypass round all middle-class mores. This is what my daughter meant then, when she announced that she would find herself before settling down to practise what has been preached at her across a hollow lecture hall. The young are cautious these days. They have stopped jumping onto the roundabouts we created for them, have learned to step slowly and carefully across into adulthood.

  I eat with them, read more of Kevin’s brilliant work, ask if I might return. ‘Any time,’ he says. ‘And we’ll visit you, too.’ I have told them about Chewbacca, about Handel and the fluff-ball kitten. Kevin and Danielle came late into my life, but they arrived at the right time. They know Ben and they care. I come away relaxed, ready to face the rest of the story.

  Chapter Seven

  My Darling Laura,

  You may not have noticed just yet, but I am beginning to lose my memory. At first, just the small details of everyday life were fading, things that were too unimportant to cause concern. If we went out, I could not always recall where we had been, with whom, for how long. These problems I dismissed as trivial, until I started to struggle with addresses, names, pieces of business. My dear wife, it is possible that I have been launched on the slope that leads to dementia. It is a slippery road and I can find no purchase beneath my feet. We are both powerless to stop what is probably coming. As I descend, I shall no doubt gain momentum. While I can still reach for words, I shall use my lucid periods to write to you.

  Our marriage was not blessed by a priest, but the church knows of our difficult and unusual circumstances and accepts your divorce. Although we married in a registry, we shall still meet again in heaven, because all my sins are now forgiven. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the happy years we have had. My love for you is undiminished – I wish I could say the same about my brain power, which seems to be lessening daily. Laura, I am forgetting our yesterdays. How many gulls did we have then, did the thrush die, have I eaten breakfast? I am not ready to discuss this with you, yet I am guilty about the grief you may soon feel. I fear my steady diminution, as it is difficult to assess and understand. Dementia is a state about which little is known – as a potential sufferer, I do not possess the ability to think clearly about a situation that already clouds my
judgement. I am living in a vicious circle, though I do hang on to the hope that I am mistaken. If that is the case, then I shall improve and this letter will not be needed. However, should I deteriorate, you will find this in the bottom safe. The key and the combination will be in a place I shall remember. It is so important that I know it will not be forgotten, no matter how sieve-like my mind might become.

  I do have some vivid memories. They are so strong that they are threatening to take me over, so I must explain to you some details. My life has been difficult and I find myself talking aloud sometimes, as if I am re-entering the times that were most terrifying. Your terror must be precluded. I shall go gently with you, but it is vital that you understand the place and the time into which I seem to be disappearing. Do not fret if I begin to rant, because I am speaking to ghosts or to people whose powers have been taken away. Do not pity me, do not weep.

  Perhaps these revelations are a form of self-indulgence, a cleansing of conscience. As you are aware, I am now a Catholic, but my past was so cluttered and confused that I had to apply to Rome for absolution. Because of the unique situation, I was granted time with the Holy Father, who prayed for me and intervened on my behalf. I am now forgiven, though I still tremble at the thought of Judgement Day. I am tired now, so I shall continue tomorrow when I hope to have a clearer picture.

  We walked on the beach this morning, my love. That silly dog wagged his tail so hard that it seemed ready to drop off. I am good today. I remember that we had Alpen for breakfast and chicken with green salad for lunch. How I wish that every day could be like this! You wore that old blue coat and the green wellies, got a speck of sand in your eye.

  Where to begin? I shall give no names, or perhaps I may decide to append false names to some of the characters in what is intended to be an accurate account. This is an attempt to help you make sense of who and what I am. I was born on the island of Corfu in 1918. My family fished, kept a few animals, helped in the olive groves occasionally. I had several uncles and aunts on the island, some Jewish, some Greek Orthodox, as my mother was Jewish and my father was a Christian.

  My father had one brother in Athens, so I moved to the mainland and was apprenticed to my uncle at the age of fourteen. It was he who taught me the arts of gem-cutting and polishing, jewellery design and manufacture. I remained in Athens until 1938, in which year I gained my qualifications as a fully fledged jeweller. As my father had become ill, I went home to Mother, because my brothers, who were fishermen, could not spare sufficient time to tend my parents. Fishermen are at the mercy of the tides; I was elected chief nurse and goat-farmer. My father died on Christmas Day in 1938.

  The day of Papa’s death is so clear to me, clearer than the view from Benaura’s window. My three brothers were drinking Mother’s wine and singing Christmas songs. The gentle woman was hurt because her sons were drunk as they celebrated the birth of Christ. She did not object to our Christianity, but there should have been no singing while her husband lay dying. I sat with my father. He was so happy to hear the lovely music that he died with a smile on his face. His joy and her sorrow have remained with me down the years. She berated them for carousing, yet the boys could not possibly have known that their father had chosen that moment to slip away. He had been ill for so long that we never knew how many more weeks or months he might linger. He died happily, because my brother’s voices were so beautiful. We were a melodic family, though I was the exception, since I have always been tone deaf.

  This cat of yours is chasing my pen. I have never met a lazier animal, yet he taunts me when I need to concentrate and be quiet. Chewbacca is growing, is almost as big as the guard dogs. The guard dogs were German shepherds, but their intelligence had been directed along the evil path chosen by their masters. I digress, Laura. I must try to keep things in order, or you might become as confused as I am sometimes. The river is beautiful today, because the sky is clean.

  I did not return to Athens. Our bit of land had been neglected during Papa’s decline. I did what I could, but the livestock were feeble and sick. When all but the cow had died, I built her up and sold her, then opened a little stall on the market. I sold jewellery made from shells, polished pebbles, cheap stones. Children became my labourers, their small fingers proving eminently suitable for assembling little brooches and necklaces for the young girls on the island. I achieved hardly any profit, but my brothers fished and made merry, brought home enough money and food for us to survive. My mother became old very quickly, always wore sombre clothes, seldom smiled. Do not let this happen to you, my Laura. Father was but a man, just as I am but a man. Be strong, be calm and face the storm, find a lover who will keep you sheltered from the worst of the wind and rain.

  The war began in 1939 and we were not much affected. Our island seemed too small and unimportant to play any part in a conflict that promised to swamp the whole of Europe. Corfu changed little, because it had not yet been targeted by masses of tourists. We ate, we slept, did our work and talked to sweethearts on the beach. Nothing could have prepared us for the horrors to come.

  Preparing you is difficult. You have already heard of these things, must have read about them in history books. I sit here at my desk in a house on the edge of the Mersey, cannot imagine war. The river is flat, almost glassy, a tanker is strolling along the horizon like a snail in the heat. No rush, no hunger, no need. Liverpool suffered. It is hard to envisage the blackness, the fires, the roar of sirens along this battered coast. But wars do happen, I was there, I survived. I don’t need to use my powers of imagination, because I have the memory burned into my mind. And into my flesh. The burn mark on my arm was self-inflicted. As a half-Jew, I carried a number, but again I am going too fast, am beginning to wander off course.

  The tanker was days ago, I think. Days, hours, minutes – these are all being swallowed up and I can no longer gauge the time, am unable to estimate how long I have been sitting here this morning. You have gone to the shops, I believe, have driven off in that little green car. I remember your dress – it is yellow. Have you noticed how I stare at you, how I hang on to your every word so that my responses might be appropriate?

  At about six o’clock one morning in June 1942, the Nazis landed on Corfu. We had noticed for some time a slight antipathy towards Jews, as if some Christians did not want to support Jewish traders. Even before the evil had landed, its doctrine had begun to contaminate our shores. It was as if propaganda infiltrated via some osmotic process that infected the whole world. Some believed that the Jews had started the war simply by existing. Had the Jews not existed, then Adolf Hitler might have kept a rein on his insane temper. But in June 1942, the Christians came out to watch 1,500 Jews being marched off to a collection of decrepit vessels. The Nazis had actually promised to pay the Greek government for ‘selling’ Jews, had vowed to send Athens a share of looted possessions. Some of our islanders smiled as their neighbours were marched away.

  We were overlooked that first time, even though we were half-Jewish, but we were taken a week later. My mother, who was very weak, was the first in our family to be hurled onto the boat. My brother and I stepped forward to protect her, but we were clubbed by the guards. I think my brother was bludgeoned to death and disposed of before we sailed. When I woke the first time, I was on a huge raft that was towed by a small German boat. There were only three guards on the raft, as the Nazis had worked out that terror and confusion are the most efficient gaolers. My eyes were full of blood that dripped from a gash in my head. I was unconscious for a long time, for days, became aware from time to time that I was no longer on the water, that I was travelling in an upright position wedged among a suffocating mass of people. I never saw my brothers or my mother after that journey of death. Many of us who stood in the cars were the dead who remained upright because of the congestion.

  Laura, I hope that you will never have to read this. Today, I have been quite well, but I am wondering now where you are. When you came back from the shops that other time, your dress was not y
ellow. I remembered it being the colour of buttercups, but I think you were really in a grey or beige suit. How many days am I losing, how many hours? How long is it since this amnesia began and why does it not apply also to the time I write about?

  I have told you about the journey, I think, about my family having disappeared. Now, I shall stick at this, because my behaviour is becoming noticeably odd. Did I go into hospital? Did I strike our friend Les? You are watching me, listening in the night. I must finish, I must win this race.

  I was thin and I was in Poland. The camp was called Treblinka. Some things I shall never forget! We all had beards. Well, there were not very many of us left, but those who walked out of the train had several inches of growth on their faces. I can hear it now, hear it, smell it, almost touch it. It never goes, Laura, even in my confusion I can hear the cries of children, the screams of women. They were taken away, the young and the female. We were left to stand, dried out, hollow-eyed, dying of a thirst that had become a part of us.

  There seemed to be hope for me and another Greek Jew. An aged interpreter spoke for us, conveyed to the guards that I was a qualified jeweller and that my companion was a graphic artist. We were separated from the rest. After the numbers were tattooed on our arms, we were pushed into a small hut where we could not sit down. In fact, the space was so cramped that we almost took turns to breathe. Later on, we learned that this was a punishment cell where men were often abandoned to die slowly of thirst. After some hours, the door opened and we were given a scoop of brackish water. Nothing before or since has tasted as good as that drop of filthy water.

  I keep reading this through, going back to the start so that I might remember what I have already written. It is so difficult. Memories from 50 years ago are bright and terrible, but I cannot recall what I wrote yesterday. Was it yesterday? I suppose it does not matter. You are worried, my darling. Are you concerned about me, are you ill? I must concentrate, must hurry. Time is not on our side, Laura.