by Carol Coffey
My father doesn’t speak but sits beside Wilfred with his arm around his shoulders. He knows there is nothing left to say.
“You know how I feel, Andy,” Wilfred says flatly.
My father nods. “I do.”
Slowly my father moves himself off Wilfred’s bed and makes his way to the door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Wilfred,” he says sadly but Wilfred doesn’t look up. He is already lost in thought as we slip quietly from his room.
On my way down the hallway I meet Aishling walking Aron shakily towards the stairs. He is very weak and walks bent forward. He stops abruptly and looks straight at me as though he has never seen me before.
“Jacob!” he says aloud even though he has had only one whiskey.
I nod and he breaks into a huge smile. He will not last the week.
Chapter 4
Martin is getting worse. I am probably the only one in the house who is glad about his night-time fears, which distract me from the dreaded vibrations of the train. Even though I hate to use my voice, I told him about my fear of the train last night as I stood in his room again after an exhausted Aishling gave up pleading with him to settle down and walked out of his room in one of her huffs. I hoped it would help him understand that he is not alone in his fears. I watched later as Aishling made a note to call the doctor about increasing his night-time sedation which no longer seems to have any effect on him.
When morning came and Doctor Alder arrived, he just nodded as Martin listed the many people who visit him at night to torment him, all of whom have two things in common: they are all dead and they are all people he has wronged even though he would not agree with that fact. I watched with interest as Alder wrote a new prescription for him and agreed with him that the people were real and that, yes, he could see them.
Aishling stood with pursed lips. She didn’t think it was right to agree with Martin and couldn’t see how this would help him or help her get her work done at night. As she walked with Doctor Alder out of Martin’s room she could not hold her fiery tongue any longer.
“I don’t think it’s right to agree with him. The man is tormented and he depends on us to tell him it’s his imagination.”
Alder smiled. He has worked in this town for over thirty years and his father was the local doctor before him. He knows many of the home’s residents well, especially Martin who he has known since childhood.
“Miss, it is not his imagination. When he’s calling you, these people are in his mind and he can hear them. It’s his conscience and the conscience is as real as it gets.”
I watched Aishling frown at him and knew she was thinking that this was rubbish but something about his words stung her. Something about them rang true.
“Then why? Why is he troubled now after all these years?”
“Ah,” Alder said, “that’s the sad fact about life. We are forced to face our regrets when we are least in a position to do anything about them.”
Aishling could feel her heart quicken. I knew she had regrets of her own, regrets that she had no idea what to do about.
“Well, is there anything else we can do to help him?”
“Yes. When he sees them, agree with him. Tell him to say that he’s sorry, that they’ll forgive him. That they are just waiting to hear those words and then they will disappear and leave him in peace.”
I watched Aishling nod and knew she was not convinced.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try it,” she added doubtfully.
After Aishling goes to bed for the day, I wander into the living room where Victoria and Penelope are anxiously waiting for their nephew to visit. Henry Miller is the sisters’ only relative and has recently returned from Vietnam. When he wrote to his aunts stating the day and the exact time he would visit, my mother thought he must know how important details are to his aunts. But it turns out this isn’t so. When Henry marches into the lounge room in full uniform I can see my mother and Kora exchange glances and laugh discreetly at the how similar Henry is to the old ladies, but their smiles turn to worry as the women immediately start to shake at the sight of him. Penelope, being the older sister, puts her arms around Victoria and starts to sing to her as Victoria sinks her face under her sister’s armpit. My mother frowns and moves over to the sisters as the young man halts with his mouth open, not knowing what to do or why his aunts are behaving this way. He has not seen much of them since his father died and in truth he hardly knows them but he stands to inherit some money when they die so he feels the least he can do is visit them from time to time. My mother puts her arm around Penelope.
“This is your nephew, Henry. Your brother’s son. Remember?”
“Not Daddy?” Penelope asks.
“No, Penelope. It’s your nephew.”
My mother takes the young man by the arm and sits him in front of the sisters. Victoria doesn’t move her face from Penelope’s comforting body and refuses to look at him. I can see my mother’s eyes moisten. The sisters are afraid of this man who I realise must look just like their father.
When no one speaks, my mother sits down and tries to act as an interpreter, much like she used to do for me when I was little on the rare occasion that a friend called to play with me.
“I think the ladies imagine you are their father. You must look like him.”
“Em – yeah. So I’m told. I never met him.”
I can see sweat bead on Henry’s face and feel sorry for him even though I know he doesn’t love his aunts and only wants their money. I saw Kora say this.
“But you’ve seen photos?”
“Yeah. I guess he did look like me,” he replies.
“What was he like?” Mum asks.
I can see Victoria move her eye upward to view the visitor who she thought was going to be a little boy, not a man in a uniform, not a man like Daddy.
“Dad said he was real hard on them. That he ran the house like a regiment.”
Penelope looks at him. I can see her mouth moving but she isn’t saying any words, just thinking about it.
“That would explain a lot,” Mum says sadly, looking at the sister’s.
Henry relaxes a little. People do that around my mother. She never judges anyone. She has seen too much suffering.
“What about your dad? What was he like? They speak fondly of their baby brother. Don’t you, ladies?”
I watch as Henry’s face darkens slowly like a dying light bulb.
“He was a good dad but a lousy officer. He hated the army. Said Granddad pushed him into it. He could paint though. He was an artist. I still have some of his paintings.”
“What did he think about you joining up? The war in Vietnam isn’t popular, as I’m sure you’ve found out since you’ve come home.”
Henry sighs. It clearly feels strange talking about such personal stuff to this woman he hardly knows but it saves him from sitting in silence in front of his aunts.
“I think I joined to spite him. He was an unhappy man. We were close when I was little but when I got older nothing I did was good enough. You know, when Dad left the army Granddad wouldn’t let my aunts see him. He said he was a disgrace. Mum said Dad never got over it. He loved his sisters.”
I can see Henry’s chin shake.
“Anyway,” he says, pulling himself together, “that’s how it was.”
My mother knows she has asked enough questions to ease the sisters’ nerves and excuses herself from the room.
“I’ll leave you to catch up with your nephew, ladies,” she says. “See what a fine young man he is now,” she adds as she leaves, ensuring the sisters know it is not their angry father sitting in front of them.
I follow my mother into the office. Today is the day she normally does her paperwork and Tina comes to work with Kora. I know I should be studying but I have read all of my books already and even read some of them twice. The mail has arrived and I watch as she opens several bills, many of which I know she will find hard to pay. Halfway down the pile there is a letter w
ith a Sydney postmark on it. It is from the university and is signed Stéphane Laver. My mother reads it quickly and puts it down to move on to other mail so I read it over her shoulder. She is used to me doing this. I am her right-hand man.
Dear Sir / Madam
I am currently undertaking a research Master’s Degree which focuses on the life experiences of Australia’s aging immigrant population. I am also interested in the experiences of first-generation Australians who might provide information on how the previous generation of immigrants settled into Australian life. I would appreciate it if some of the residents of your nursing home would be willing to tell me their personal stories. Confidentiality is assured and pseudonyms will be used if requested. I have attached an expression-of-interest form that should be returned to me in the stamped addressed envelope. Please also provide information if interpreters are required. If you would like further information, please don’t hesitate to contact me on the number below.
Stéphane Laver
I read the letter again. I am unsure what “pseudonyms” means but decide it has something to do with hiding who you are. I realise that this is what I have been waiting for. I have been looking for someone with a voice so that the residents can tell their stories and, in doing so, be released from their regrets and mistakes so that when their time comes they can die in peace and I will not have to worry about them hanging around here.
I think about this as my mother works.
Some time later she is disturbed by voices outside her door and opens it quickly.
Henry Miller is about to leave and is smiling at his aunts who are waving from their chairs. My mother looks quickly into the Penance Room and relaxes when she sees that they are smiling back.
“That went well,” he says. “I actually enjoyed talking to them. They were telling me about their time in Europe. They’re pretty interesting.”
My mother smiles. “You mean a lot to them. Eh, Henry, I hope you don’t mind me saying this but, next time, could you come without the uniform? It upsets them . . . you . . .”
“No need to explain. I didn’t think. It was thoughtless of me. I’ll wear civvies next time, promise,” he replies.
“Tell me. Did you ever make up with your dad?”
“He died while I was in ’Nam. Who would have thought one war would have lasted so long?”
My mother thinks about this for a moment. I can see the familiar crease on her brow.
“Some people’s wars last a lifetime,” she replies.
While my mother is talking to Mr Miller, I move the letter from Stéphane Laver to the top of the pile. She notices this as soon as she returns and takes a deep breath.
“Now what, Christopher?” she says as she lifts the letter and reads it again.
She is frowning and I know that the visit from Henry Miller has made her both sad and happy at the same time and that she is hopeful that he will come back and see his aunts. As she sits down she picks up a blank piece of paper so I know she is about to write to Mr Laver. I surge with excitement because I already know that when Stéphane Laver arrives, things are going to change around here.
Chapter 5
I wake long before the night train comes and instantly know that something is wrong. I leave my room quickly and make my way down the hallway.
Aishling and my mother are in the Kleins’ room. I tiptoe in and stand over the bed with them. Aron’s arms are clasped tightly around his wife and there is a faint smile on his lips. We wonder how long he has been dead. I see Aishling say that she checked him just before eleven and he was fine. It is now almost one. We leave the room and I watch as the women decide how best to deal with Iren. It is her that they are sad about as Aron was very ill. My mother knew he was in terrible pain and she felt he had suffered enough in this life, that they both had suffered enough.
They decide on a plan and my mother wakes Iren and takes her out into the hallway. She loves to eat and my mother takes her to the kitchen and sits her in front of a cup of steaming coffee and a slice of Li’s cake. Iren eyes my mother suspiciously. She understands a little English but can only say a few words. My mother’s eyes are filled with tears. Except for her friend David Berman and the staff at this home, Iren is all alone in the world now. My mother pats Iren’s hand and tries to plan her words.
“Iren, your husband was very ill. Yes? You understand?”
Iren nods but finishes her coffee quickly and hands her cup to my mother with wide child-like eyes. She is hoping for another one. My mother rises from the table and reboils the kettle, glad of the delay. When it whistles, Iren covers her ears. She is always frightened by sudden noise.
My mother places another coffee in front of her and adds lots of milk. Iren gulps her food down quickly even if it is too hot and has burnt her mouth more than once. Like Mina Jensen, she thinks there is a food shortage but, unlike Mina, she doesn’t think to hide any for later.
“Iren. Aron was very ill. He had lots of pain. Lots of hospital. Yes?”
My mother has now got Iren’s attention and she pushes her empty cup away and stares at my mother across the red wooden table. Her mouth starts to quiver and she looks more lucid than I have ever seen her.
My mother reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. At first she thinks my mother is going to hurt her and she pulls back and pushes her tiny shoulders up towards her ears. But my mother perseveres and grabs her hand. She wants Iren to have someone to touch. Tears are rolling down my mother’s face. She doesn’t want to have to do this.
“Aron died, Iren. I’m sorry. Do you understand me?”
Iren looks at my mother and then to the door. She tries to stand but her legs have been weak for some years now. My mother stands quickly. She knows Iren wants to go to him. She reaches out for Iren but the old woman has returned to her confused state as quickly as she left it.
“Please,” she says, “I give gold. Please have husband.”
My mother realises that she thinks we have taken Aron away.
“No, Iren. He is gone. He has died, sweetheart. I am so sorry.” She tries to hug Iren who is trying to get away from her and makes for the kitchen door.
Aishling comes into the room and tries to prevent Iren from leaving. She has woken my father who will help her take Aron into the lounge room until the funeral directors come. Iren runs straight into my father and starts screaming.
“Aron! Aron! What you do? Aron!”
My father pulls her close to him and smooths her hair like her husband used to do. She collapses against him and starts hitting him until she weakens and cries like none of us have ever heard her cry before. We know she understands now, if only for a while. Her frail body looks tiny as she leans into my father’s strong frame and my mother and Aishling are now crying freely in the kitchen. I try not to cry. I am thirteen now and I try to follow my father’s lead. I look down and focus on my stump which is bare on the linoleum floor. When she settles, my father thinks it is better to bring her to see Aron in their bedroom. My father is not convinced that she will remember he is dead but she lies down beside Aron and cries openly. She starts speaking Hungarian and kisses his face over and over, trying to bring him back to life. We leave the room and give her some time with her husband.
My father knows that Aron would have wanted a Jewish funeral but the synagogue closed almost ten years ago. Instead he has phoned Mr Berman. He is Iren and Aron’s solicitor and acts as their advocate when they have to make important decisions. He is also the Kleins’ long-term friend and will know what to do.
Ten minutes later my mother goes in, takes Iren by the hand and leads her back to the kitchen while my father prepares the body, following the directions Mr Berman has given him. I stay in the room and watch with interest. This is our second Jewish funeral and I wasn’t there for the first one for Mrs Levi, which was before I was born.
When my father is finished we sit in the room in silence as we are not to leave the body alone. He has forgotten some of Mr Berman’s dire
ctions and even though he remembered to cover the mirror, he is worried that he was supposed to do this earlier.
“Religion!” he says.
My father was raised as a Presbyterian and met my mother at her father’s church service but I know that he considers himself a man of science and doesn’t completely believe in the afterlife.
When Mr Berman arrives he helps my father dress Aron in a long white shroud. He cuts all of the fringes off Aron’s prayer shawl which hung in the wardrobe and puts it over the shroud. It is dusty and smells of mothballs and I have never seen Aron wear it. I watch Mr Berman place a tiny white hat on the top of Aron’s head. James and Robert, the funeral directors, arrive. They are brothers and we know them well. They have brought the simple pine coffin Mr Berman requested. When he is ready Iren is taken back into the room and she starts to cry again. Aishling has given her a strong whiskey and I worry for a moment that Mr Berman will be angry but he says nothing and goes about his business. He is saying words in a different language but it doesn’t look like Hungarian which is the language I have seen Aron use. I have never seen these words before. When they eventually take Aron away I go to my room. I am exhausted and very sad that Aron didn’t get to tell his story. I pray that he is in a peaceful place with his son where no one can harm him. I pray that he will not hang around here waiting on his wife to join him. I sit on my bed and look through my window into the darkness. I am alone now and feel that it is safe to cry. I notice that my watch is working again and that it is 3.30 a.m. I am amazed that I have missed the night train and didn’t feel its vibrations from the Kleins’ room. I ease myself into bed and drift into a fitful sleep where I can hear Aron and Iren calling each other through the night.
The following morning Aron is brought to the Jewish section of the cemetery on Rakow Street for burial. Mr Berman, who sat with the body all night, is at the top of our small group with my father and they help James and Robert carry the coffin with two other men I don’t know. I cover my eyes as we pass my grandparents’ grave on the main pathway and notice my mother stiffen and pause for a moment as she passes. Kora notices this too and squeezes my mother’s hand as they walk slowly with Iren who has not said one word since last night. Doctor Alder is there and looks sombre in his dark suit and black armband. I see Mr Berman mouth words to a special prayer that I have never seen before. I suspect that my mother has given Iren some medication because she is looking vacantly ahead and doesn’t look into the grave as her husband is slowly lowered into it. She is not crying and when she asks Mr Berman a question in Hungarian, he doesn’t answer her. Mr Berman is from Germany and he doesn’t speak Hungarian.
