The Grave of God's Daughter

by Brett Ellen Block

  I stoked the coal stove, put the big stew pot on to warm and went to shake Martin’s clothes out on the front stoop. Before I opened the door, I thought I felt something, an undercurrent of noise roiling up and coursing down Third. I stuck my head out the door tentatively.

  Two or three children flew past the apartment, racing for the end of the alley. Then the sound hit me. It was the angry cawing of women’s and children’s voices, all shouting out of time.

  A cart stood at the end of the alley. Though it was mostly obscured by the crowd, I could tell that it was the rag cart, Ragsoline’s cart. The women were screaming at him in Polish and he was shaking his head, confused, unable to understand them or what he had done. Slurs burst out over the din and jammed against one another.

  Get out of here. You killed her. The nigger killed Swatka Pani. Leave, nigger. Leave.

  With the front door open, Martin heard the shouting. He came out of the washroom dressed only in his long underwear.

  “What’s happening?”

  Ragsoline was backing away from the growing crowd and wrenching his mare’s reins in an attempt to flee. A few children were tugging at the rags hanging from his cart. Then others started throwing pebbles at him.

  “No!” Martin shouted. He burst past me and set off running toward the crowd.

  “Martin. Wait.”

  I ran after him. Martin’s tiny, shoeless feet hit the ground and came up black. Mud spattered onto his white long underwear. He dove between the legs of the women, pushing them to stop and flailing at them with his small fists. His shouts melted into the churning crowd. I tried to reach him, but he was enmeshed in the tangle of limbs.

  Soon the women were picking up stones too, bigger than the pebbles the children had been throwing. They hurled them at Ragsoline and his cart. One hit the horse and sent it bucking. Another caught Ragsoline on the cheek. The impact sent his head snapping back.

  Martin’s cry rang out over the tumult. “No!”

  Ragsoline stumbled and covered his head with his arms, still furiously yanking at his horse’s reins. Spooked, the old mare began to trot and Ragsoline took off running. Blood streamed from the cut on his cheek.

  “Stop!” Martin shouted, swatting at the women and older boys. I saw his hands and head bobbing between people’s waists. Then someone pushed Martin backward, sending him to the ground.

  “Martin!”

  He was pinned down under the crowd, trapped in the mud. All my anger at the Nowczyk boy boiled over and I slammed my body forward, knocking into anyone in my path. I jammed my elbow into the ribs of a young girl who stood in my way. One woman squawked as I pushed her aside.

  “Little bitch,” the woman hissed.

  I grabbed Martin’s arm, which was slick with mud, and wrenched him to his feet, my grip sliding up his forearm. The crowd was turning on us. One boy my age pushed me in the back. While still holding Martin, I whipped around and smacked the boy with a muddy hand, connecting with his nose. Stunned, the boy reeled and stumbled onto one knee.

  “Run,” I told Martin.

  We took off for our house, the shouts of the women at our backs, some of the children on our heels. I shoved Martin inside and slammed the door behind us, quickly bolting it with muddy fingers. The angry jeers of the kids rumbled outside as they pounded on the door and beat on the window.

  “What do we do?” Martin’s whole body was streaked with mud, his chest and face spattered. His long underwear was hanging off him, sopping with muck. He was shivering so hard his body quaked.

  “Nothing,” I said, pressing all my weight against the door. “The door’s locked. We stay here.” Through the door, I could feel the pummeling of the hands and fists against my back.

  “Are we safe here?” Martin asked.

  Were we? Were we ever?

  For once in our lives, this was the one place where we were safe.

  “Yes,” I said, unsure if this was another lie to add to the list. “We’re safe here.”

  After a few minutes, the yelling died down and the pounding ceased. I eased back from the door. The onslaught was over.

  Martin’s teeth were chattering loudly, the clatter falling in with the gurgle of the water boiling on the stove.

  “Go. I’ll get the water.”

  Martin scurried into the washroom while I went for the stew pot. Without thinking, I grabbed each of the metal handles. I heard the hiss of my palms being scalded before I felt anything, then came agony. I jerked my hands away, but it was too late. A pink line rose in the center of each hand.

  “Hurry,” Martin pleaded from the washroom.

  I took two dish towels to grasp the handles with and tried to ignore the pain. Filled high with water, the stew pot was nearly too heavy for me to carry. I hauled the sloshing pot off the stove, holding it out in front of me so I wouldn’t get burned again.

  Martin shivered in his mud-caked underwear as I dumped the boiling water into the bath. Steam rose, sizzling as the hot water hit the cold water that was already in the tub.

  “I can’t feel my feet,” Martin said through chattering teeth.

  “Get in. The bath will warm you up.”

  He was about to strip off his pants, then he said, “Don’t look.”

  “Sorry.” I faced the door and heard him dip his foot in the water.

  “It’s too hot.”

  Careful not to turn my head, I leaned over to run more water and winced as pain shot up from my palms when I touched the faucet, but Martin couldn’t see my face. “Try it now,” I told him.

  Martin tested the water with his finger and swirled it around to mix the cold in with the hot. “Better.”

  He climbed in, and seconds later, the water darkened to a pale brown. “Uh-oh,” Martin intoned.

  “It’ll have to do. She’ll be home soon.”

  “What about my hair?”

  “You’ll have to wash that too.”

  “By myself?”

  My mother usually helped Martin with his hair because he didn’t like dunking his head underwater. She would hold his hand while he held his nose.

  “Well, if you don’t want me to turn around, how am I supposed to help wash your hair?”

  Martin weighed his options. “Okay, I guess you can turn around. But don’t look.”

  I swiveled around slowly, and the sight before me was almost amusing. Martin was hunkered down in the dirty water with his chin above the waterline. I tried to contain a giggle.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure how we’re going to get your hair clean if the water’s already turned back to mud.”

  “That’s not funny. And you can’t dunk me,” he added. “Not in this stuff.”

  “I won’t. I’ve got an idea. Hand me the soap.” We’d used up all of the hot water, so I refilled the stew pot in the sink, gripping it with my fingers instead of the palms of my hands.

  “This is going to be cold,” I warned.

  “I’m already cold.”

  “Then you shouldn’t feel the difference.”

  “All right,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut in preparation. “I’m ready.”

  Though it hurt to grasp the pot, I poured it over Martin’s head, drenching him. Clumps of dirt sluiced out of his hair and down into the murky bathwater.

  “Is it over?” he groaned, eyes still clenched.

  “Halfway done.”

  “Do you think Ragsoline’s okay?” Martin asked as I worked the soap into his hair with the tips of my fingers.

  I hoped so, though I knew better than to say as much to Martin.

  “He got away. I’m sure he’s all right.”

  The soap built into a thick lather as I scrubbed Martin’s head and neck and ears. My palms were pulsing with pain as I ran the water to refill the stew pot but I didn’t want to tell Martin what I’d done to myself. In my mind, it was another punishment for my lies.

  “It’s going to be cold again,” I explained.

  “Okay.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t open your eyes.”

  Martin trembled as I spilled the icy water over his head. The water gushed down over his shoulders, washing away all of the dirt and the soap at once. He was finally clean.

  With a shiver, he asked, “Now is it over?”

  “It’s over.”

  I opened a towel wide, held it up, and closed my eyes. Martin hopped out of the tub and into my arms, wrapping himself in the towel. I got him fresh pajamas while he dried off, then left him alone to change.

  He came out of the washroom holding up the towel. “Look,” he said. The pale, worn towel was a grimy mess.

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that, not now.”

  “Come look at the tub.”

  The brown, brackish water sat in the bathtub like a murky soup.

  “She can’t see this,” I said. “I have to clean it.”

  “I can help,” Martin offered.

  “No, you’re already clean. You can’t get dirty all over again.”

  He gave me no argument, just lent his support by keeping me company while I drained the tub and sopped up the muck with the towel he’d dirtied. In spite of the pain in my hands, I refilled the stew pot over and over, rinsing the tub with fresh water to force the mud down the drain.

  “You’re good at this,” Martin said. “You’re like her. You’re both good at cleaning.”

  He meant to be helpful, to rally me along, yet the compliment stung worse than my hands. It was difficult for me to believe that my mother and I had anything in common. To think that, of all things, cleaning was all that we shared.

  The tub was finished, back to its normal state of spotlessness. The towel, however, was an oozy brown. Martin grimaced. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I guess I could wash it too.”

  “Where? In the bathtub?”

  “I guess not. What do you think I should do with it?”

  “Throw it away.”

  “No, she’ll know it’s missing.”

  “If she asks us, we’ll say we don’t know anything about it.”

  “Martin!”

  Before, my brother would never have tempted fate by uttering such an idea. I reminded myself that I had changed us.

  “Well,” I relented. “Where are we going to put it?”

  Martin thought for a second. “Throw it out back. By the laundry lines. Then she’ll think it got blown down and got dirty that way. I can do it.”

  “No,” I insisted. I had dragged him too far along with me already. “You’ll get dirty out there. Stay here. I’ll do it.”

  I BUNDLED MY COAT over my clothes only to discover that they were also splattered with mud. My boots were caked to the ankles. My tights were streaked as well. My mother would undoubtedly notice.

  “Maybe you should bury it a little,” Martin suggested. “You know, push it down in the mud back there.”

  “All right,” I answered, too busy checking to see if the coast was clear outside our door.

  “Are they still out there?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. But lock the door behind me. I’ll take the key. And don’t open the door if anyone knocks. And don’t go near the window.”

  Martin took my instructions seriously. “What if they’re hiding? Hiding and waiting for you around the corner?”

  “I’ll find out, I guess.” I inched open the front door cautiously, preparing to run. Third was clear. “Lock the door behind me. Do it now.”

  Martin slammed the door and swiftly locked it, sending a gust of air rushing against my back. As I neared the corner of the apartment, I steeled myself for someone to jump out at me. There was no one, no waiting ambush, nothing except the rutted, narrow path.

  The sight of the outhouse up ahead made the memory of that night with Swatka Pani rear in my mind. The wind mimicked the hissing of her voice, beckoning me back into what seemed like a nightmare, something apart from reality.

  This is all your fault. You did this. I shook my head to dislodge the thought from my ears.

  You hated her. You’re happy she’s dead.

  I tried to cut between the laundry lines, but the wind started kicking up the clothes, sending them flapping and twisting, keeping me back. The sleeves on the shirts and the legs of the pants swelled high, waving, lifelike and warding me off.

  You hated her so much that your hate killed her.

  I felt as though I was sinking, being sucked down into the mud, into the depths that I imagined Swatka Pani had inhabited. I dropped the towel right where I stood and pried my boots from the mire, backpedaling from the groping limbs of the empty clothes, then I slipped on a stone and my feet skidded out from under me. Arms flailing, I collided with the ground with a sickening thud. Mud oozed through my fingers and sucked at my legs.

  I’ve got you now.

  I scrambled to get up, but slid down onto my knees. I clawed at the mud and my fingers caught on the very rock I had tripped on. Using it as an anchor, I pushed myself to my feet and took off running.

  With trembling, mud-slick hands, I fished the key from my pocket to unlock the door, but it was already open.

  “Martin, I told you to—”

  My mother was standing at the stove, taking off her coat. Martin was at the table, warning me with his eyes.

  “What happened to you?” she demanded.

  The front of my clothes were spattered with mud while the back of me was black with it.

  “You’re filthy.”

  “No she’s not,” Martin protested. “The Germans are filthy. That’s what—”

  A fierce glare from my mother stopped Martin in midsentence.

  “I fell,” I said. “I tripped and I fell.”

  “I told you she went to the outhouse,” Martin said. He blinked purposefully, signaling me to play along.

  “Start running the bath,” my mother said, barely concealing her irritation. “And get those dirty clothes off. You can hand them out to me and I’ll wash them in the sink.”

  Wearily, I went into the washroom, turned on the tap to fill the tub, then slunk out of my grungy skirt and sweater. Flecks of dried mud skittered to the floor as I peeled off my stockings. My hands were throbbing from the burns. Tiny blisters had bubbled the skin. I caught my reflection in the mirror. Droplets of mud were sprayed across my face, and one solid slash of mud was streaked under my eye like war paint. Through the door, I heard my mother asking, “Where’s the stew pot?”

  It was in the washroom with me, sitting beneath the sink. I rushed to put my clothes back on.

  “It’s in the washroom,” I heard Martin say. “I took it.”

  “What for?” my mother demanded.

  I was yanking on my skirt, willing Martin not to say any more, not to lie for me again. I burst out of the washroom with the stew pot in my arms because I couldn’t bear to hold it in my hands.

  “What are you still doing in those clothes?” my mother admonished. “Go back in there and take them off. You’re making a mess of everything.”

  She’s right, I thought. I had made a mess of everything, in more ways than I could count.

  My mother plucked the pot from my arms and began filling it. Martin nodded to me to get into the washroom before she could say any more. I re-stripped the clothes from my body, each piece heavy from the cold muck that clung to it. Naked, I eased the door open a crack, slid my arm through, and held the clothes out for collection.

  “Here,” I said. There was no reply. “Here,” I repeated, more loudly. The water from the sink was muffling my voice. I pressed my body to the door while pulling it to me to keep it from opening all the way and exposing me. “Here,” I shouted.

  Footsteps followed. My mother flashed by outside the door and the clothes were snatched from my arm. I remained there at the door until she set the stew pot down outside. Two dishrags hung from the pot’s handles, a cruel reminder. I crouched down to cover myself and edged the door open enough to drag the pot into the washroom. I dreaded picking it up
, but it was that or bathe in the freezing water.

  With the tips of my fingers, I lifted the heavy stew pot to the lip of the tub and spilled it over the side. The pot wobbled along the rim, threatening to overturn, and I had to resist the impulse to brace it with my leg. The metal would have burned me yet again. I tested the water with my pinkie. It was lukewarm, though that would have to do.

  Climbing into the tub was the next hurdle. I couldn’t hold on to the edge because of my hands, so I balanced myself on my muddy knuckles and forearms, then threw my legs into the water. I tumbled into the tub, sending up a splash that caught me in the face. Once my body settled to the bottom, the waterline pushed up over my lips and under my nose, leaving me just enough space to breathe. Wisps of dirt curled into the clear water while the larger clods of mud from my hair and arms sank. Exhausted, I wallowed there, feeling the water’s temperature already dropping.

  See what you’ve done. You’ve made a mess of everything.

  I rubbed the soap cake over my head and scrubbed my hair. Soap bubbles drifted over the top of the water, eventually covering the surface and turning it opaque.

  You know what they say. God’ll get you.

  I hunkered down in the tub, lower still, holding my breath as my nose slid underwater. Fiercely, I continued to lather. My lungs began to burn from the lack of air.

  God will get you.

  My eyes and the tops of my ears were the only things left above the water. With a bobbing jerk, I dunked down below the surface, hoping to drown out my thoughts altogether. Feet braced against the tub to keep me under, I gazed up from beneath the water. Bubbles filled the space where my head had been, sealing the surface in a soapy film. It was as if I hadn’t been there at all.

  The world went mute, the thoughts hushed. Lungs throbbing, eyes stinging, I lay there. Perhaps if I punished myself, God wouldn’t have to. If I made myself suffer, He wouldn’t. Lightheadedness set in and I lost the strength to keep pressing my feet against the tub to hold myself down. My head burst through the water’s surface and I let out an enormous gasp.