“Yes. But now, everybody’s asking my teacher why she’s not married. And when she’s going to be.”
“That’s because that teacher of yours should marry while she’s still young. While somebody still wants her!” offered Nana Novak, who had been sitting quietly in her rocker.
Kata sank into her chair. Nana Novak had a way of glancing sideways, her grumbling interrupted by guttural coughing. In her presence, Kata always felt she was in the wrong. She didn’t know where to place her hands, where to look. Even while reading, she was acutely aware of the reproving looks that caused her voice to falter.
A faltering voice was something Kata feared, especially when reading to Papa Novak. Reading to him was a privilege. Unlike other elderly people, he would have already read most of the articles, eager to recount the events. Sometimes he would ask her to choose: “Now, what will it be, Kata? An editorial? An exposé?”
Then he would quiz her to ensure she remembered the meaning of these words. On other occasions, he would ask her to read a particular excerpt he thought she would find interesting. And to her surprise, the stories he pointed out were most challenging and amusing. She sometimes wondered why he would ask her to read those articles he’d already read. Once, she found the courage to ask. His answer was equally puzzling.
“Every piece of news, every story, takes on a different meaning when read by a different person. I like to see your reaction to the events.” But what pleased her most is when he added, with a wink: “And most of all, I like hearing the music behind your words, my little princess.”
Ever since then, Kata had been acutely aware of the sound of her voice. She practiced, reciting passages aloud, listening for the music. But she could not hear it. Nevertheless, knowing that he did made her feel as if she could fly, as if she had magical powers no one knew about.
“And what’s wrong with marriage, Kata?” Grandma asked. “Everybody has to marry, some day.”
Grandma taking Nana Novak’s side? Kata felt her chest squeezing the air out. Not letting any new air in. She may not be able to emit any sound.
“Nothing’s wrong,” said Nana Novak on Kata’s behalf. “You’re one of the lucky ones. Miladin comes from an old, well-off and respectable family. It’s all arranged.”
Kata’s face felt scalded, as if she were one of the Roman snails she’d seen Grandma drop in boiling water in preparation for a special dish. She recoiled into her snail shell, feeling only her eyelids blinking. She could say nothing, nothing.
“Old customs!” Papa Novak said. “Who follows them? Have you forgotten when we were young, Nana?”
“Miladin’s a good boy,” Grandma said. “But I wouldn’t let my girl near that family, seeing his poor mother. A slave to all of them.”
“You know about that, Bako?” Kata heard her voice, like the air escaping from the snails in boiling water.
“Know about what, dear?”
“Miladin’s mom. I saw it.”
“Saw what, dear?”
“The door was open. I heard his dad shouting. But I walked in, just in the doorway. Then I saw his mom wiping the blood off her mouth. Her eye … all blue and swollen. Then his dad was shouting again. I ran …”
The others listened intently with leaden faces.
Grandma was the first to speak: “That’s one troubled family. I’ve talked to Miladin’s father. He says a wife shouldn’t provoke. Vera provoke him? That poor woman …”
“It’s the slivovica doing all the damage,” Papa Novak cut in.
“She left him a few times,” Nana Novak added. “Vera. Left the kids.”
“I told him to stop drinking,” Papa Novak scoffed.
“She came back pretty quickly. Each time.”
“Missed those darling children. Who wouldn’t?”
“There’s your value in marrying a priest. Has to be good to his wife.”
Grandma propped her arms on her hips. “My dear Lord! Is this called progress? So many drunks and wife abusers. Our young girls fear for their future instead of looking forward to it. My Mihailo was what I call a real gentleman. Never so much as raised his voice at me. Brought me little gifts, even flowers from the fields. ‘A flower for my flower,’ he’d say. Brought silk for my dresses from abroad. I still have some in the armoire, wrapped up with sprigs of lavender to save from moths. When you’re older, Kata, we’ll make a dress for you from Grandpa’s silk.”
Kata realized that a long rehashing was on the horizon.
“My Mihailo. At least if I found his body I could give him a proper burial, to have a grave to visit. Instead, I sit at an empty grave! I talk to an empty grave!”
****
“Your empty grave,” Grandma sighed and passed her hand along Grandpa’s headstone, “waiting for me. Waiting to relieve the burden of this life.” She handed Kata a few candles to be lit. They recited prayers and sprinkled wine over the crumbled earth and the coarse grass and the wild pink carnations with powdery leaves. This was Saint Ilija’s day, Grandpa Mihailo’s patron saint. Grandma spread out a linen tablecloth from her hope chest and set places for three, complete with silver cutlery she’d hidden from the communists. Then came the food – cabbage rolls and roast chicken and freshly baked apple cake. They dined from their own plates as well as the absent Grandpa’s while Grandma reminisced about the good old days.
Roza approached, walking between mounds and tombstones. “So many people, like a fair. My poor mama and papa must be smiling in their graves, God bless their souls. To see all their neighbours.” She laughed and scorned at once, and Kata wasn’t sure whether to smile or look sad. Which was appropriate? So she picked up a piece of cake and offered it to her.
Roza’s eyes flashed with fear: “No! Take that back the same way!”
“Never pass the food over the grave, dear,” Grandma said. “That’s a bad omen. Somebody could die in the family, or in the village.”
Roza propped her hands on her hips. “Now, circle the grave three times, and keep your eyes downcast ’til you’re done. Or the first person you look in the eye is doomed, my girl.”
Kata did as she was told, and when she stopped and looked up, she met Angela’s gaze.
Roza stepped up to the approaching woman and placed her arm around her shoulder: “Let’s go visit your dear sister’s grave.”
Angela nodded, her arms crossed on her chest, shoulders slumped. The two walked away, stepping over the mounded earth as Roza’s voice trailed over the headstones: “Her blessed soul in heaven soaring like a swallow …”
****
Grandma heaved a sigh then continued. “Some people think he was killed by the Nazis for hiding our Jewish friends, the lawyer’s family from Obrenovac.”
“The communists, Jovanka,” Nana Novak said. “Many people think so. Easier to confiscate his land that way. Agrarian Reform.”
“The same people who professed progress? Freedom and equality for all? What equality? What progress? Drunkards and wife abusers. And killing my husband who stood for truth and hard work.” Grandma scoffed at no one in particular. “But if it’s the Nazis, well, that wouldn’t surprise me. If they could execute thousands, including school children in Kragujevac …”
Kata closed her eyes, pressed her hands over her ears, and blocked the words out. But the vacuum cracked and let another voice in – her teacher’s. It was her grade one excursion.
Some of these pupils were your age.
In the darkness of her vision, the tombstones glittered in the autumn sunshine, as far as her phantom eye could see.
They were marched out of their classrooms, lined up, and shot. The teacher’s voice rang out, clear as a church bell. It was in retribution. That means punishment, for the ten Nazi soldiers that were killed in this area. And the twenty wounded. A hundred people for every dead soldier. Fifty for every wounded. But here, in Kragujevec, they killed five thousand. That’s five and three zeros. The voice was firm. We all must remember the date, October 21, 1941.
“
October 21, 1941. Five and three zeros.” Kata never forgot.
No end to the tombstones. Everywhere. Some huge, shiny ones. Black granite, the voice had said. Letters of the alphabet, scribbled: a, b, c. Notes, ‘I love you, mom.’ ‘Don’t forget me, dad.’ Poems beginning with, ‘Here lies little Nada,’ ‘Here lies little David,’ ‘Here lies little Kata.’ Kata remembered the first four lines on that tomb:
as the winds blow
the rain and the snow
my heart will sing
waiting for the spring
And then four more that she had unsuccessfully tried to forget:
but the spring won’t come
into my tomb
and the birds won’t sing
the upcoming spring
“ – hustled the children and the teachers from their classrooms, and shot them,” Grandma’s voice jogged Kata back to the present, “and anyone else they found, whole families. While the world watched. As if there was no God. And no laws of humanity.”
Kata surveyed her surroundings. Nana Novak was scrunched up in her rocker, eyes half closed. She was shrunken, her breathing raspy like a cat-purr. Most of the time she said nothing. Then she would cut in as she pleased. Will she say something? Even her hurtful words would be better than having to remember the other four lines in the song – the four lines that burrowed their way into Kata’s mind – the four lines that do not even exist – unless I let them in. Unless I let them be remembered.
“If it’s the Nazis that killed my Mihailo, than somebody in this village must’ve snitched.”
Grandma’s voice was stronger. “Our families have lived in this village for centuries. And if I’m breaking bread on Mihailo’s Saint’s Day with the scum that snitched on my husband and had him killed, with his murderer, well, that’s worse than death. I’d like to at least know who my enemies are. But what vexes me is that he allowed himself to be killed, by anyone.
“‘Go hide, Mihailo. Like so many others,’ I said to him.
“‘Why should I hide? I’ve done nothing wrong, Jovanka, my dove.’
“‘Men are vanishing, Mihailo. Men of position. Wealthy men, like you.’
“‘And admit to guilt? I am an innocent man.’
“‘People know, Mihailo,’ I told him. ‘They know about Braća Baruh. They know you were friends with Boro. About your involvement with the choir.’
“‘This is our village, my dove. Our home. We’re simply helping friends.’
“I thought he was the smartest man on earth. Too clever to allow himself to be killed … and leave me here … and break my heart, forever.”
Papa Novak had heard this recital before. As always, his expression swung between sorrow and pity, but with such tenderness that Kata felt as if she could hear his heart cracking.
Grandma sighed. “Who am I to complain, stir up old anguish, again and again? You lost the apple of your eye, your heart and your soul.”
Papa Novak lowered his gaze, his features set in a sadness Kata had not seen before, as if in the last few moments he had aged 100 years.
“The price of war is our children, my dear. We pay with our children. That’s the price of war.” His voice was glacial.
“I have a tummy ache. Please, Bako, can we go home?” Kata asked.
“Yes, dear. You can read next Sunday. We get carried away. Old people, old wounds.”
Relieved, Kata bowed to Papa Novak and kissed his hand. As usual, he also bowed to her, bashfully, his kind eyes smiling, as if none of the war-talk had happened.
And then came time for Kata, forced by custom, to kiss Nana Novak’s hand. This part she minded. Bitterly.
Every other time she somehow managed by closing her eyes, thinking happy thoughts. But so far, this day had been dismal. Images of Miladin’s mother’s bruised eye, of the empty hole in the ground below her grandfather’s tombstone waiting for Grandma, of a war-devil killing children, mingled in her head.
Cautiously, she approached Nana Novak’s rocking chair. Her eyes focused on the arm in a brown sweater that resembled a crocheted tablecloth, with a dark navy shirt sleeve protruding from it, with another brown shirt sleeve peeking out from the navy one and from it a skinny, leathery hand with two prominent black moles. Gazing at the moles, Kata moved her face, ever so slowly, toward the hand. She could see the knotted blue veins bulging through the leathery skin littered with brown patches. On the index finger, the nail that had remained black since last summer had grown even longer. Now it seemed to have curled under, looking more like the black claw of a strange animal Grandma called a pig turtle, the one Kata and Miladin had pulled out of a mud puddle in the marsh last spring. She remembered Grandma saying that they should not have stuck their hands in the deep mud, that they could have been bitten. And when Kata had asked if anyone had ever been nipped by a turtle, Grandma had sighed and said: “Do you want to be the first one?”
As she got closer she could smell the putrid warmth of cooked cabbage that always clung to Nana Novak. Now, it reminded her of the stale mud hiding the turtle. She recalled that the turtle did not even have the bony shell she’d seen on other turtles. Instead, it had a leathery back with crusty patches, just like the hand she was about to kiss. And then she saw the black claw move.
I can’t kiss the turtle! She screamed, and ran out of the house.
At home she hid under the bed in the guestroom – and waited. She knew the drill.
Grandma would come home and look for her everywhere. She would call her name, first from the flower garden, then from the dining room next to the guestroom. With sighs of exasperation, she would walk in, sit on the bed, and then explain to the flowers on the table, or to Kata’s portrait on the wall, or to Kata’s doll, how the granddaughter Grandma is so proud of had embarrassed her today. She would list all the things the girl did wrong. Then she would make clear how things should have been done. Then she would offer forgiveness, if only the child would promise never to do bad things again.
Kata knew this was her cue. She would give her word from under the bed. Then she would sheepishly crawl out. She would be asked to repeat, word by word, what it was she had agreed to. After all the proper words were recited, freshly baked cookies and linden tea would be served.
This time, however, was going to be different. Kata knew that she could not promise to kiss Nana Novak’s hand the next time, or ever again.
So she lay under the bed, her back stretched on the wood planks, listening to the voice from outside.
Grandma is under the cherry tree, the young one by the guesthouse window. Now in the dining room. Now at the door. The doorknob squeaked. Kata turned on her side facing the door and listened. The beige-socked feet on the pine planks headed toward the bed. They stopped near Kata’s head.
Sit on the bed, Grandma! Sit on the bed!
But the feet turned away and headed toward the door. Kata froze. I won’t even have the chance to explain. Is she never going to forgive me? Did I embarrass her that much? I’ll promise to kiss the stinky turtle, even if it bites my face.
She was about to crawl out, when the footsteps stopped. She held her breath. The feet turned around, ever so slowly, and headed toward the bed again.
Grandma sat on the bed and in a calm voice announced: “From now on, my granddaughter does not have to kiss anybody’s hand. It’s a new world now. And some of the old customs are just that, old. Not all, just some. Are you happy with that Kata?”
“Yes! Yes!” The voice shouted from under the bed.
Chapter IV
The Dancing Bear
The summer of 1960 arrived, and so far the bad omens had remained just that. Grandma was relieved. But she was still watchful. After all, three bad omens called for three times the caution. Since then, the priest had blessed the house three times and had concocted three bowls of holy water. Grandma had been dunking the bouquet of dry basil into the bowl, motioning a sign of the cross, and casting droplets all around the house and the barn, cleansing all.
Grandma was pleased – it all seemed to be working. Gradually, she relaxed the rules. Kata was allowed to visit friends. Since the summer break had begun, she was even allowed to go to the library and the village store on her own. But the daily rituals continued and the bowl of holy water remained on the table.
The wheat harvest was on. The gargantuan thresher had begun its deafening journey from farm to farm. At the outskirts of the village, it was already gathering the early grain. For the next month, everyone would keep track of the thresher’s whereabouts. Helping hands moved along with it, taking on tasks that were assigned and reassigned from one household to the next.
Women took turns preparing food. All who came along with the thresher, including the ragged hordes of children, were fed well. The farmers in line for the thresher counted the number of days left to complete the harvest. Scything was now the main priority. A dozen or so reapers swung the long curving blades with their wooden handles, cutting the large fields, waves of wheat rising and falling like a sea of gold.
Kata, who had just celebrated her eighth birthday, was assigned a new chore. She carried pitchers of water straight from the well to the fields. She watched the reapers stop to cool down, taking long swigs, spilling the dregs onto the stubble for good luck. They mopped the sweat from their brows. Some drew stones from their pouches and whetted the scythe. Others rolled the wheat between their palms, blew off the chaff and bit the grain. They nodded at each other and spoke in low grunts that rose from some deep pleasure within as if the earth was proclaiming God’s blessing.
Summer of The Dancing Bear Page 5
