The Illusion of Separateness

by Simon Van Booy

  I waited for day.

  First light.

  Day.

  I kept touching where my head should have been. I wanted to know why and understood nothing. I said nothing but watched all.

  I nodded yes. I went along with all.

  I was afraid and had nowhere else to go. I wondered about outside. I wondered from where I was.

  Later on I was taken to the hospital garden. Amazed by wind. Wanted to be alone to watch ­people passing. There were so many ­people outside the hospital. I couldn’t believe it. Thought we were the main ones.

  Years passed. I started to understand what they said. The same sounds over and over. I got used to them. I learned them and used them, too.

  I spoke and understood some.

  Paris liberated seven years ago, they said.

  Everyone had a story. Nurse just a girl, father tortured.

  I had been shot in the face, they said, and showed pictures of me in a magazine:

  Years tossed things upon the shore. Souvenirs of what was.

  Knew the faces of those I had slaughtered but said nothing. You have to understand that I was one of those: hated.

  I remember the gray sleeves. Could feel the weight of a rifle. The helmets got cool at night. Buildings on fire. Flames drowned out the screaming. Watching calmly as a man scoops up the remains of his child with such gentleness we thought she was asleep.

  There was a time before when I was a boy.

  One memory is of a man with ropes in his hands, bumps of hot soup against my lips, then the bowl crashing to the kitchen floor. Soup fills the cracks beneath. Pieces of the broken bowl like teeth.

  Father maybe.

  Another memory is an open door. The smell of mud. Delicate, wet feet. Bare feet. A woman is outside. An open door. Mud. A woman is out there. Buried. Find her, I’m telling myself, find her. But it’s a dream.

  Mother maybe.

  It took years to speak again. My French was not perfect. But any sound was a miracle.

  It wasn’t an easy life in there, but not bad. Other patients kept me company, and there were always others coming and going. Some liked talking. Some lay on the floor and wouldn’t get up. Some smashed their heads against the wall so there was blood. Then nurses running. A struggle. Injection anywhere. Carried away in sleep.

  One day they said I had to go. I packed a bag with my clothes, shoes, and soap. My name was written on the case (in case).

  Driven to Gare du Nord. Sat in Gare du Nord. Slept in Gare du Nord. Beaten in Gare du Nord.

  I found petrified bread in the bins and drank from a tap. Mostly I sat watching. The clap of the timetable. Even at night, in darkness, the applause of letters falling.

  I slept under newspapers. Hid in the stories of others.

  At night, I watched distant lights grow into bright eyes. Trains approaching. Then in summer, there were tourists and the gendarmes made us leave. I went outside and lived on the streets then. No more applause. No more beating. No more wet platforms or bright eyes.

  Outside was okay. There were so many others. The sky very open. Unlimited breathing, I thought.

  I used to watch the river. A cool muscle. There were always boats in the rippling with music inside. ­People dancing. No sound except rushing. I couldn’t see the river at night but heard it. ­Couples walked along its banks. The rhythm of shoes. Chains of lamplight flickering on the water.

  Also, the sound of laughter. Children up late, pointing, shouting back to their parents, then running, not away but deeper: ­happiness, not fear.

  ­People were always staring, of course. You can imagine. Who can blame them? Half a man’s head is missing. From one side I looked normal. Like before but with no memory of before. Then I, Mr. Hugo, turn my head, ­people gasp. Afraid of what is not there. From the front my eyes look okay, my neck looks fine—­but then suddenly half a head is missing, and did I mention that I have only one ear?

  I didn’t mind sitting. I got numb, but it was quiet. I waited for night. Night came. I fought to keep warm. With the armor of dawn came relief. I watched day unfold from inside, then slept where sunlight pooled.

  Anyone who is desperate or alone will agree there is comfort in routine.

  I hit the usual benches, boulevards. Notre Dame. The cinemas were safe for sleeping if you didn’t get caught. Parks were safe, too, if others joined. There was one park we all knew, where a small boy, a baker’s boy, came running (young thief), with a sack of croissants, chocolate buns, bread, tarts, whatever he grabbed. We gobbled. Always gave me extra, and didn’t mind my head. Ate fast, we all did—­despite the agony of teeth.

  I liked mornings there. I felt light. I glanced up even—­to Him. I talked quietly to Him. I felt Him listening. Lost my way, I told Him. But He knows. Was there when it happened.

  I started to stop at every church. I hunched below colored windows, and drowned in stories of mankind. Some faces drawn in the glass had small but powerful eyes. Sometimes a priest would come and sit with me, talk to me, touch my hand. It felt nice. I wondered if His hand touches all, or if ours touch His. I remembered then, books in an attic. Small hands. Forbidden but they crawled through boxes anyway. Boxes of books and other boxes. Then I thought of the boy who brings cakes to the park for us. I wanted to boast to the priest. I felt proud to know someone like that, he knows Him, but I know Someone, too. A child with the power to save us.

  There were always men beside the river. In summer we were there all night. Some had red faces and staggered when they stood. I was offered drink and something to smoke. But it wasn’t allowed at the hospital, so I wasn’t used to it. It was the right idea sitting under bridges, though. There were many shady places away from the crowd. It was cool in summer, with my back against the stone. I didn’t mind being alone. I watched all. I listened. Slept. Felt okay if I never woke up.

  Sleeping under the Pont des Arts one day. A doctor from the hospital out with her kids noticed me sleeping (knew my head of course). She was shocked to see Mr. Hugo.

  She drove me back to the hospital. There was lots of pointing and raised voices.

  The chief visited the next day. He said he needed a janitor. I would live in another part of the hospital near the attic. It was the perfect solution, he said, and gave me money for new clothes, soap, a comb, shoelaces, even. I lived in the old part, above wards that were closed in 1890. There were many empty rooms. Most were locked.

  I was maybe in my thirties then. At least young enough to still dream of what I would never have.

  I spent free time in the parks, sometimes recognizing an old face—­I was happy to share lunch, I wanted to, even, and brought more.

  I often went to the library. I was reading by then. I read a lot. I liked poetry. I read it in French. I learned some English too. Great escapes. I will admit I knew what German was, had the sounds in my head, like eggs ready to hatch when I heard it spoken in the street. Those sounds belonged to me, yet I had no memory of them. I felt dread when I heard it, shame, even. I went home after and defecated on myself. I sat there in the smell. I made myself. I made myself sit there in the smell. I was one of those, remember—­one of those: hated.

  Anyway, as a janitor I woke up at 5:00 a.m. Beyond each pane were the outlines of things coming—­a world drawn fresh from the memory of yesterday.

  My job started at 6:00 a.m. I wore blue overalls. I had a heavy key. There was a cupboard of mops, brushes, and basic tools. There were insects living in the cupboard, but they were there before me, so I tried not to disturb them.

  I shared ideas with the ­people who came. They were not all idiots and criminals; there were intelligent ones too, respected men and women with jobs and homes, families who would visit and sob quietly.

  Patients came and went. Some escaped and left their bodies behind. I thought I’d die in there too, and I wanted to, mostly in the evening.<
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  Yet here I am, years later, between this page and your eye. Part of someone else’s story.

  After nineteen years, the hospital closed down. The same chief came to see me. He was a widower by then and about to retire. His children had grown too. I have to admit we were used to each other.

  He made phone calls for me. Would arrange things, he said. There was a janitorial position at the Manchester Royal Infirmary in England. Same job, he said. Room to grow, even.

  He drove me in his car to England.

  It took two days. We had to share a bed in a small hotel.

  He talked about his wife. Cried. I listened to all. I watched all through the car window. When we got there, he helped me find a place to live.

  It had taken months to get a passport.

  The authorities said I didn’t exist. There was only one official document: the hospital admission form for an unidentified male with a rifle wound to the head. Former hospital staff were telephoned. But there were so many injured. Most died.

  Then an old woman who once worked in the kitchen said she could faintly recall: Left to die in the street, she said. Without any identification, rags for clothes, pockets empty except for a novel by Victor Hugo. It was the admitting doctor’s idea for a name. Didn’t think I’d live.

  I had to go down to the passport office with the chief. I had to show what was left of my face.

  They stopped what they were doing.

  Was a victim of war, he explained, no first name known, he said. No last name known, he said. Exceptions had to be made.

  Exceptions were made. Passport: Victor Hugo. Born Paris 1922. Number: 88140175.

  The English streets are dark and gray. It’s hard to understand what ­people are saying.

  And the damp!

  I learned to take hot baths before bed.

  Three major things happened in the decades after Paris:

  1. I joined a monthly poetry group.

  2. I became friends with a boy who moved in next door for a few years.

  3. I built a greenhouse for the cultivating of tomatoes.

  One day I was told I had to retire. Why? I asked.

  Laughed, they all did. Told me was time to enjoy my life. There was a small party. ­People who didn’t know me got drunk. I sat down. I watched all. Listened. Wondered if He could see.

  I spoke English well by then. But still they looked, still they pitied, still they feared and sometimes spat.

  And life kept going . . . kept dragging me along in its teeth.

  A man came to see me last month at the house. At first I wouldn’t let him in. Then he told me he worked at the BBC. I wondered if I was watching too much. Had a friend in America, he said. Asked if he would deliver a letter to an old neighbor called Mr. Hugo.

  It was something I had been too afraid to wish for. Some days I wondered if I had imagined him.

  He told me to read the letter. Think it over. He would come back in a ­couple of weeks and help make arrangements if it was something I wanted. He told me to consider the next few years. He asked if I would get lonely. (I laughed at that one.)

  He said California is always sunny. He said Danny is a famous director now and his films are shown all over the world. Would be a nice place to spend time, he said. The retirement center even has a pool and small garden.

  I asked him to stay for dinner and cooked fish fingers. He arranged french fries in the oven dish. I put on children’s programs. We watched and ate off trays. It got late. He touched my hand before he left. I gave him tomatoes.

  Went to bed. Lay awake with my eyes open. Would have to leave my home. Would have to leave my poetry group—­would not catch the bus twice a month on Tuesday, would not sit at the back and read names and messages scratched into the glass. Would not know that:

  Daz luvz Raz

  Gareth is a Twat

  Lizzie is a slag

  Declarations of love or anger.

  To think:

  Most fought until the end,

  Murdered until the end,

  Hated until the end.

  And I was one of those, remember—­one of those: hated.

  I should tell Danny. He has a right to know what Mr. Hugo did.

  On nights when the poetry group meets, I boil an egg in the kettle. I take it with me on the bus. It keeps my hands warm until eaten. Sometimes I take a bag of tomatoes that I cultivated in the greenhouse and give them out. I will miss all that. I am attached to things most ­people find insignificant.

  I will miss this house and the birds outside every morning. Just open your window at dawn and you’ll understand. ­People who sleep through it wake to silence.

  New ­people in the poetry group always want to know where I lived when I was a boy. Far away, I tell them. They think I’m wise—­think I have a story. But the older I get, the less I understand.

  So I make things up. The smell of hay. Falling asleep under trees. Riding a bicycle across an entire country, picking vegetables in a field. No point going on about the starvation, or father’s fists, or the ropes and how much I screamed—­not so much for pain but because I loved him, and wanted our lives to be different.

  Though it is true I grew up in an old blacksmith’s cottage. Best place to live in winter, I always add, as the fireplace is larger than normal.

  Inside, I go on, a stone floor worn down in one place. It’s where horses stood. A shoe is being fitted. A horse’s leg has to be lifted with strength and gentleness.

  Outside, cows tearing across hillsides.

  Probably 1938.

  My father convinced the men in town I was older than I was.

  Thought he was helping me.

  He said, When you come back, a kiss for every Jew.

  JOHN

  FRANCE,

  1944

  I.

  JOHN AWOKE IN a stew of mud and dead leaves with a fierce pain in his foot. His wristwatch had stopped a few minutes before nine.

  He expected the enemy would return with more men or dogs, and so untangled himself quickly from the bush.

  Here was a landscape John had always loved. Roots poked up through the ground on their way to deeper earth. Heavy mosses wrapped dead branches and smoothed the gnarls of dying trunks. It was an old wood that had seen many wars, and once even hosted a gang of deserters from Napoleon’s Grande Armée, whose uniforms and weapons were still tucked into the hollow of a dead tree.

  Harriet had several sketchbooks of John’s drawings. They were lush and messy. She liked to look at them. Over the course of their lives, she hoped he might teach her how to draw. It could be something they did together, a way to fill the Sundays ahead.

  John’s escape from this place would have to be a work of art, something original, something the enemy would not anticipate.

  He stepped slowly through the forest, trying not to break small branches underfoot, when two arms grabbed him from behind. He struggled and kicked his legs violently, but the person holding him was much bigger. A voice told him to relax, and he did. The thick arms loosened.

  The man wore a long waterproof coat with tall farmer’s boots.

  “I knew you were here somewhere,” the man said with a French accent. “We saw you land, but you fled before we could get to you.”

  The farmer led John through the woods to a pile of potatoes at the edge of a plowed field. There was also a cart and a muscular horse that looked up when they approached. Pheasants were penned in a wire basket and pressed their feathered bodies against the mesh.

  The man told John that his cousin’s farm was on the other side of the village, and that’s where they were going. John watched as he filled several sacks with potatoes and then hauled them onto the cart.

  When the farmer picked up the final sack, he motioned for John to get in. Then he filled it with a few handfuls o
f potatoes and stacked it against the others.

  After a jerk, they began to move. A short time later there was a sudden echo of hooves, and John realized they had left the field for a road. The pheasants were flapping against the sides of the basket. John closed his eyes and tried to block the pain in his foot, but it was hard to keep still.

  When the cart stopped, men spoke quickly in German. The farmer said in French, “Come and see what I found.”

  The soldiers stopped talking and followed him.

  After the farmer had presented the pheasants to the soldiers, John heard matches being struck. The odor of cigarette smoke. Nobody talking.

  His foot stung so wildly that he felt in danger of being betrayed by his own body. Just as he began to stir, there was a great weight on the cart, and John felt a large back lean against him.

  When they reached the house, John was carried inside and released from the sack. The farmer’s name was Paul. He had witnessed the invasion from the fields. The sky full of parachutes. Equipment stuck in the mud, wheels spinning. The rattle of machine guns upon anyone who resisted. Paul said that ­people he once trusted were profiteering from others’ misery, or openly walking with soldiers in the square, out of fear or for advancement. He attended the public executions of his friends, helped bury them afterward, and listened to the stories of soldiers sneaking out of their barracks in search of girls they had seen. Nobody was safe, he said.

  He told John other things too, about his horses and the weather.

  How high the river was.

  He gave his American guest hot coffee, and asked how he would like his potatoes cooked. John thanked him and rolled up his sleeves to help, but had to sit because of his foot.

  In between mouthfuls, John confessed how he didn’t consider himself much of a killer. Paul nodded. “We all felt that way at the beginning,” he said. “Probably even a few of them did too, but now it’s too late.”

  When Paul questioned him about his crew, John told him they were dead and then changed the subject.

  John was part of Operation Carpetbagger. They had taken off at 23:12 from RAF Harrington. His B-­24 Liberator was called the Starduster. His best friend was Leo Arlin from Brooklyn, who flew with another crew. The B-­24 bombers had been adapted for special operations, and painted black.