The Song of the Stork Read online

  “Amid the maples an autumn whisper pleaded: ‘Die with me!’”

  Her voice trembled, no more than a hoarse whisper, yet clear, distinct, in the evening’s silence. When she paused at the end of the poem and looked up, she found that Aleksei was still watching her. His eyes glistened.

  “Did you like that?” she whispered.

  He nodded slowly.

  As the evening hours melted slowly with the wax of the candles, Yael read to him, poem after poem from the Akhmatova collection, her voice growing more confident, more expressive, whilst also remaining soft, little more than a whisper. Later they lay on the bed and she read once more from the Song of the Last Meeting. “This is the song of the final meeting / I glanced at the house’s dark frame. / Only the bedroom candles burning / with an indifferent yellow flame.”

  Aleksei’s eyes were closed. She shut the book and allowed it to fall onto the sheets. The candle extinguished at that moment, throwing the room into darkness. When she turned she could barely see the outline of his face.

  “Are you sleeping?”

  His eyes opened and he turned, hitching himself up, resting on his elbow. They were barely a foot apart. Yael could feel the soft stir of his breath on her face, the back of her arm. She did not speak. She rested her head against his hard pillow and closed her eyes. She listened to his breathing, felt the almost imperceptible movement of the bed with each inhalation and exhalation. They slept like that. Side by side. Woke in the morning to sunlight, her body curled, back to his, touching slightly.

  From then on it became their ritual, the reading. Pushkin, Lermontov, Tolstoy, Byron, Shelley, Blok, an old copy of Rilke Yael found pushed away at the back of the shelf, which Aleksei did not seem to understand, but listened to, and Yael struggled with. “Ich bin auf der Welt zu allein und doch nich allein genug um jede Stunden zu weihen.”

  When he touched her face, her cheek tingled as if he had caressed it with live wires. As they lay in bed she wrapped her arms around him, pushed her forehead between his shoulder blades, the scent of his sleeping body filling her nostrils, the wide warmth of him comforting her. During the daylight hours she could not bear when he was not in the room with her. She followed him from one room to the other, like a dog on the heels of a child. When, as the weather began to improve a little, he made the journey into Selo to trade a pig for some much needed provisions, she retreated to a corner of the house and sat there, fretting, biting her nails, her heart lurching at every sound, longing for him to be back. For the quiet order of their life to be restored.

  The first thaw broke her heart. The first blade of grass cut her like a knife. She could not bear the idea winter might end, that she might lose the tight intimacy of their circumscribed routines. As long as the snow bound them in, as long as the freezing temperatures made going outside difficult, she felt this peace might be preserved, that this unreal, tiny world, this dream of how a life could be, might somehow survive.

  As each day passed Aleksei allowed a little more of himself to be revealed. The rigidity of his fear began to loosen. Yael found they could look into each other’s eyes and he would not shy away. She could reach forward and run her fingers through his hair, and pull him closer, so that her lips touched the rough stubble of his jaw and he would lean in to her. She would smile and find it mirrored in his face. She loved the way it grew, building up slowly on his face, starting in his eyes, the skin tightening, his cheeks dimpling, the line of his upper lip rising, until his whole face was radiant with it.

  “You’re not crazy,” she murmured in his ear, using the Yiddish word. “You are not a meshúgener. It is the world that is crazy. This crazy world has made you sane.”

  Aleksei was gentle with her. His fingers fluttered across her skin. When he looked at her his eyes seemed full of wonder. When she undressed he would turn away, conscious of her embarrassment. Even when she desired him to look at her, to take in the wonder of her young woman’s body, he would shyly close his eyes and allow her to take his hand and direct him.

  As the days and months passed, the snow receded. The buds fattened on the branches of the birch and oak. Shoots pierced the dark earth. Yael was torn by the irony that with the spring, with this resurrection of the earth, war once more became possible; death could continue its rampage across the continent.

  At night Yael curled up against Aleksei, seeking comfort in his proximity. Is it possible, she thought, that here, in the middle of war, as on all sides carnage and murder stalk the world, is it possible that there can exist this pocket of peace? Of joy? Of sanity? Are there more? She pictured then this hideaway replicated across the fields, across the country, across the continent, a string of candles flickering in the darkness, fragile flames. If this is possible, she thought, then there is hope for earth. There is hope.

  14

  April 3rd was Yael’s birthday. In the corner of the field, in the shade of the old oak, was a dark hill of ice, it was all that remained of winter. The trees were alive with spring and when Yael walked out early, down the field and stood at the edge of the trees, the sound of the birds seemed brash and forceful after the tranquillity of the snow. The leaves curled from their tight buds, sticky with sap, their green almost yellow. Delicate. Insistent. The grass was thickening beneath her heels. She could feel it almost, the explosive fecundity of earth, its sharp, dark stink. Life bristling, thrusting, surging. It frightened her.

  Seeing her stood there, as the sun rose and the thin mist rose from the earth, dissipating in its soft warmth, Aleksei rushed out down the path and took her arm and pulled her back to the house. He shook his head and from his throat uttered unintelligible syllables that nonetheless emphasised his fear.

  “It’s early,” Yael said, “Nobody will see me.”

  But Aleksei shook his head. For the first time in months Yael saw the look of panic flicker in his eyes. His fingers shook as they fingered the cloth of her skirt. She lifted her hand and stroked his face.

  “It’s fine,” she whispered, comforting him. “It’s all right. I will stay inside. Don’t worry.”

  Later, she put aside the book she had been reading. Aleksei had been working outside for most of the day, mending fences, repairing the tiles on the roof and she had been bored alone in the house. Aleksei was at the kitchen table sharpening a knife.

  “It’s my birthday,” she said.

  He looked up and fixed his eyes upon her. The knife hung in his hand, reflecting the last ray of sunlight falling through the kitchen window.

  “Today,” she said. “I’m sixteen.”

  Aleksei laid the knife on the table, but did not move to get up. He continued to gaze at her. The expression in his eyes, the slight rise of his brows, suggested confusion, rather than joy or interest, as though he was searching somewhere in the back of his mind, attempting to interpret her words into a language he understood. She checked her Russian, tried it again, enunciating it with care. His forehead creased and slowly he shook his head.

  “It’s all right,” Yael whispered, “we don’t need to celebrate.”

  He stood then and stumbled over to her. Grasping her in his arms he hugged her tight and she laughed. Aleksei’s body shook and a moment later Yael realised he was crying. The tears streamed silently down his face.

  “What is it?”

  He buried his head in the crook of her neck and she felt the warm tears trickling down her skin, tracing a line between her breasts. She ran her fingers through his hair, bewildered.

  “What is it, Aleksei?” she whispered, “What is it?”

  But the answer was lost in his silence.

  One morning, as spring advanced, Aleksei opened the large old wardrobe stood in the corner of his bedroom and emptied it of clothes. Methodically, with utmost care, he laid the shirts and trousers, the one suit and sheets kept there across his bed. From beneath an old blanket he removed a parcel wrapped with brown paper. This he held reverentially. He laid it on the top of the other clothes, with delicacy, skimming his han
d across its fading surface, his finger teasing the thin string with which it was tied.

  “What are we doing?” Yael asked.

  Aleksei pointed not at the clothes but at the back of the deep wardrobe.

  “Cleaning?”

  Aleksei shook his head. From the work shed he brought tools and a large sheet of wood so thin it buckled as he carried it, reminding Yael of the young man who had sat at the side of the stage, before the war, during Rivka’s performance of The Slaughter creating atmospheric sound effects with half coconuts and a sheet of metal and a little drum.

  At the back of the wardrobe Aleksei created a partition, no more than a foot and a half wide. He hinged it from the inside, so that when he pushed it shut it was impossible to tell that it was not the back, unless you had seen the true depth of it before hand. He indicated for Yael to climb in.

  “Inside?” Yael said, uncomprehending. “Why?”

  He insisted, however, taking her arm and pushing her forward. The wardrobe stood about seven feet tall and four feet wide. Two dark wood panels ran across the bottom, between which it was possible to see the floor. She stepped onto these carefully, unsure they would hold her weight. Turning, she looked at Aleksei enquiringly. He pushed gently, until she was stood at the far back of the wardrobe, then pressed the partition closed, squashing her.

  “No!” she protested, but Aleksei held tight to the wood, holding it from the other side until she stopped struggling.

  The space behind the partition was barely enough for her to stand in. The tightness of it was overwhelming. A thin light shone by her feet, but the space was too narrow for her to adjust her head to look down. Yael felt the pressure grow in her chest. A weight seemed to press down upon it, stopping her from breathing. She gasped. Perspiration prickled her skin. Panic surged through her veins.

  When at last Aleksei opened the partition, she stepped out quickly, her face red, and gasped deeply at the fresh air.

  “I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t go in there.”

  Aleksei merely nodded. She sat on the bed and watched while he carefully repacked the wardrobe, making sure access to the space behind the partition was easy. Yael was angry.

  “It’s too small,” she complained. “I couldn’t breathe in there.”

  The last item he picked up from the bed was the paper package. He lifted it with care and carried it across to the wardrobe, but then turned and hesitated. Slowly he turned and looked at Yael.

  “It’s true,” she moaned. “I couldn’t go in there again.”

  He walked back across to her and lowered himself onto the bed beside her. The package he placed on her lap.

  “What?” she said, “What is it?”

  Aleksei nodded at the package.

  “You want me to open it?”

  Slowly, seriously, without smiling, he nodded again. The paper and the string were old and dusty. Yael struggled with the knot and was tempted to simply pull the string off and rip open the paper, but the reverence with which he had carried it and placed it on her lap stopped her.

  Finally the knot gave and the string unfolded. She turned the package over and opened up the sheet of paper. Inside, neatly folded, were some women’s clothes. She looked up at Aleksei, but he was no longer looking at her, his eyes were fixed upon the flowered silk blouse Yael felt between her fingers. She lifted the blouse, allowing it to fall out of its creases.

  “It’s lovely,” she gasped. The silk felt exquisitely smooth between her fingers. She brought it close and rubbed it gently against her cheek. “It’s beautiful.”

  With the blouse were a trim black skirt, a dress and two more blouses. She laid each one out carefully across the bed, revelling in the beautiful material, the fine tailoring. The clothes were obviously expensive and well made. Though they were old, they were well preserved, and, Yael discovered as she held them close to her face, delicately fragrant. She held one up to Aleksei.

  “Smell it,” she said.

  Aleksei breathed in, nervously. The scent seemed to cut at his nostrils, a muscle twitched in his cheek. He lifted his hand and took the dress and pulled it closer to his face and smelled it again. His face seemed to crumple then. A tear slid down his cheek, settling in the crease of his tight-pursed lip.

  “Aleksei,” Yael whispered. “Are you all right?” And then after a while, “Were they your mother’s?”

  For some moments she did not think he was going to answer, but then he nodded and looked up at her. She put her hand on his. His lips twitched and then he smiled, a small, frail smile.

  “Oh Aleksei,” she whispered and leant forward and took him in her arms. But he pulled back and indicated the clothes. He pointed at Yael and held up the blouse.

  “You want me to try them on?”

  By late spring Yael had regained most of the weight she had lost during the autumn in the forest. The clothes fitted her neatly, and gazing into the small mirror, having tied back her hair with a ribbon, Yael surprised herself with her own attractiveness. Aleksei gazed at her from the edge of the bed and in his eyes she realised for the first time in her life the power she was able to command over another. The thought did not bring her joy, as she might have imagined; rather her heart squeezed with sympathy for him and she took off the elegant skirt, the fine silk blouse and wrapped them tenderly back in the wrapping paper. Aleksei did not protest. He tied the package and placed it back inside the wardrobe and they did not take it out again.

  With the improved weather they fell into a circumscribed routine and Yael, though frustrated that she could not leave the house, except after dark, felt a sense of contentment she could only wonder at.

  Was this then love? she wondered. Not a fairy tale, not the romance and passion she had dreamt of. Not dramatic. Not inexplicable. But rather this deep, penetrating thankfulness for the kindness of another. This wakening with the faith that somebody would care for her. Late in the evening she read some Mayakovsky. The simple refrain caught her heart and she whispered it again, before they slept.

  “Beside your love / I have / no ocean… Beside your love / I have / no sun.”

  She was not sure why the words seemed so meaningful, except that she could conceive of no other world beyond the confines of those two rooms. Beyond the two of them, no other people.

  15

  The summer was endless. Long, claustrophobic hot days when the sun rose almost as soon as it set and scorched a slow path across the cloudless sky, lingering late into the evening, losing little of its power. Yael lived for the moment when they would lie down on the bed, the windows open to the night, covered only by a thin cotton sheet. Even then, there was little escape from the oppressive heat and the sheets would be damp with sweat within minutes and Yael would wake from some dream, her whole body prickling torturously.

  “I have to go out,” Yael begged. “I’m going to go mad stuck in these two rooms day after day!”

  Aleksei made the trip into town more often and brought back with him books and newspapers and from these she kept track of the fighting. One day he brought the newspaper home and laid it flat upon the table pressing his finger against the text. Persons found disobeying existing orders against the Jews, by hiding them, maintaining them or helping them by any means are committing a serious criminal act. Any person found to be disobeying these laws within the district, irrespective of age or sex, will be arrested and detained. If Jews perform acts of sabotage, all residents of the locality where the accused Jews lived, will be held responsible.

  The acts of sabotage had become more frequent as the weather improved. A railway line had been blown up just outside Selo and a German unit had been fired upon. Twenty miles to the south, two German soldiers had been killed by a homemade mine. In response, the Germans had taken five men from the village and shot them in the market square as an example.

  Late one evening in September, the sun had gone down and a low mist had settled over the field at the back of the house. Aleksei had been out to feed the chickens whil
e Yael had cooked porridge on the stove. They ate less meat since the Germans had issued an order in late August confiscating the last of Aleksei’s pigs.

  She had just served it into two bowls on the table, when Aleksei came in. He nodded and grinned seeing the steaming bowls. The summer lingered still, with bright cloudless days, the sun too hot to sit in at midday. But in the evenings, it had begun to grow colder and the scent of autumn hung on the damp air.

  There was a knock on the kitchen door. Yael and Aleksei froze.

  “Hey!” a voice called and the door creaked open.

  Yael dashed through to the back room and threw herself onto the floor of the bedroom, knocking the air from her lungs. Gasping, she rolled beneath the bed. She heard heavy footfalls on the kitchen floor. Aleksei’s grunt as he was thrown against the table.

  “You alone?” the voice demanded in Polish.

  “There are two bowls,” another voice said.

  “Who else is here?”

  With her ear pressed against the floorboards, Yael felt the reverberation of the men’s footfalls as they entered the bedroom. For a moment they hesitated. Two boots stood close beside her. They were old and tattered, the sole breaking free of the upper part of the boot. Thick socks were turned down over the ankles. Yael pressed her eyes closed and muttered a silent prayer.

  “Va!” a man said. The voice sounded amused.

  A hand grabbed Yael’s arm and pulled her out from under the bed. She fought against him, but the grip was too hard.

  “Oi! A little vixen!”

  “Hold her tight.”

  “Ach! She bit me.”

  “Wait. I know her…”

  The voice trailed off. Startled, Yael looked up. The man holding her was young, perhaps no more than twenty. His thin face was covered in mud and beneath his eyes were deep shadows. His cheeks were sunken, his chin unshaven. The other man was older. Grey hair flowed down to the collar of his coat, a military one of the style worn by the Polish army in the Great War. He had a large moustache that drooped over his mouth, giving him a hangdog expression, matched by watery blue eyes.