The Mascot Page 5

  I was now growing slightly impatient with my father’s inability to recollect all the details. He, too, seemed frustrated by the gaps in his memory.

  “Let’s go on,” I suggested and then reminded him, “you were in the kitchen with your mother…”

  My father began to speak slowly and meticulously. “My mother said to me that we would all die tomorrow.”

  “How did she know?” I asked, unnerved by the harshness of my tone.

  “I have no idea. I only remember what she said to me. But I don’t see why it’s important how my mother knew.”

  My father seemed to retreat into his shell. Then, after some moments, he went on. “She said that I mustn’t be afraid.”

  “But you must have been.”

  “I don’t know how I felt. I suppose I didn’t want to die. Of course, I didn’t really know what death was. But I knew it was something bad. I’d seen my father kill chickens and things like that.

  “My mother said that I must stay with her. She said I should help her with my little brother. She said that the soldiers would take us down the hill and not to be afraid. ‘I will have the baby with me,’ she said, ‘so I want you to take your brother’s hand and not let go. No matter what happens, stay beside me with your brother so he isn’t frightened. Then when I tell you, just close your eyes and hold on to me. Don’t be afraid.’

  “My mother helped me into bed then. My brother was already asleep in the same bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and put a blanket over me. She bent down, kissed me on the cheek, and then, whispering gently, urged me to go to sleep. I watched her climb into her own bed with my baby sister. I think it must have been the moonlight coming through the window because I could see her silhouette cuddling the baby. I can see it now.

  “I must have dropped off to sleep after that, because the next thing I remember was waking up. I opened my eyes. It was still dark outside. I could hear my mother’s breathing across the room. I lay there and suddenly this thought came into my head—‘I don’t want to die’—as if someone were whispering it into my ear. I just didn’t want to die like the chickens in the back garden. I didn’t want anyone to wring my neck. And then I couldn’t get rid of that thought until I did something about it.”

  My father’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I got up as quietly as I could and got dressed. I walked across to my mother’s bed. I looked down at her face. She was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her. But I bent down and kissed her good-bye.”

  My father could now barely get the words out.

  “I kissed my mother good-bye,” my father said again, falling completely silent. After a moment he continued, “I went through the dark house and out of the door. I stood on the doorstep. I remember rain falling on top of me. There were big drops coming off the edge of the roof. It was dark…”

  “You said just now that the moon was shining.”

  He looked at me as if my comment were absurd.

  “Well, perhaps it had gone behind the clouds or something. But there was no light at all,” he replied, and then continued unperturbed. “Nothing was moving. It was so quiet. I went down the back garden, past the apple tree that I always played in with my friend—”

  “Do you remember his name?” I interrupted.

  My father shook his head.

  “I came to a fence at the back of the garden. I knew a way out. There was a loose plank that I would sneak through when no one was looking—coming and going from our house secretly. I began to climb through but suddenly I was trapped. Something was holding me back. I panicked. I thought that one of the soldiers had sneaked up behind me and grabbed me by the pants. I struggled alone, lashing out in the dark, and somehow I got myself free. When I was through onto the path on the other side I could tell that there had been no soldier there, only my fear. My pants had been caught in the fence.

  “I was frightened. But then suddenly something came into my mind—a safe place at the edge of the village, a field where I used to play with my friend. If I could get there first of all, then from there I could go on farther to the hill behind it where there were lots of trees. It must have been in my mind that I could hide there. I must have had my wits about me. And at that age! Hardly born!”

  My father shook his head in a mixture of pride and disbelief.

  “By day I knew all the pathways. But now I was like a blind man. I couldn’t see anything. But somehow or other I got to the village hall. I remember seeing a movie there, a silent one. It might’ve been Charlie Chaplin, or the other person—Buster Keaton.” He smiled nostalgically. “I remember being there with my friend, having an ice cream. My father must have given us some coins. They used to have dances there, too. All us kids would be there laughing at our parents’ dancing!”

  I was torn. This was likely the first time my father had ever shared these memories with anyone, and I wanted to hear more. But first I wanted to know what had happened that night.

  My father seemed to have read my mind.

  “After that I kept walking. It was only a couple of minutes from the village hall to the edge of the field. I knew I had to cross it to get to the hill and the trees. I was frightened then. It was the noise this time, not just the dark. I could hear someone crying. It was a woman. But I couldn’t see where she was. I waited until she quieted. Then when I thought it was safe to do so, I started to walk across the field. It was tough because the rain was almost torrential. A couple of times I got stuck. I couldn’t lift my feet and kept falling over in the mud. Then the rain stopped. I wasn’t sure how far I’d got, but I mustn’t have been as quiet as I thought I’d been, because suddenly I heard a groan as if I’d woken someone up. I froze to the spot. After some time—I am not sure how long I stood there—the groaning stopped. Slowly I took a step; there was no sound, so I began to take another one when all of a sudden a voice called out to me. ‘You!’ It was a woman’s voice. I just stood there unable to move, like a statue.

  “I was petrified. Then the woman spoke again. This time her voice was softer. ‘Help me! I am over here!’ I don’t know why but I trusted the voice. I took a step to where it was coming from. And then I saw it. I could just make it out. An arm. Coming out of the ground. It was waving to me. I couldn’t understand. How could an arm rise up out of the earth?

  “‘Can you see my hand, boy? I can see you! Don’t be frightened,’ she said to me gently, just like my mother would. ‘Come here!’

  “I took another step toward the arm. And then another. I could hear her breathing heavily now. In and out. I kept my eyes on the arm. I put one foot in front of another when suddenly the arm disappeared as if it had been sucked back into the earth. I went closer to where I thought it had gone. Then you know what happened? It shot out of nowhere. It grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me forward. I was tumbling over, dragged down, sucked into the earth.”

  My father began to breathe heavily, slightly out of control, as if his memory had taken over and was forcing the words out of him. I made a move to help him, but he waved his hand to stop me.

  “I was struggling, kicking and fighting,” he said. “Suddenly I stopped falling. I was lying on top of someone. The lady.”

  “Terrifying,” I said gently.

  My father shifted his gaze slightly to look at me.

  “No. It wasn’t. It was beautiful. I was lying against her. She had her arm across me. She was so soft and warm. I could feel her breathing, her chest was rising and falling. She was like my mother. I don’t know how long I lay there like that.

  “I know that sounds strange now that I understand what was really going on. I was in a sort of big hole in the ground. And it wasn’t only this lady and me. There were lots of other people there. Now that I was nearer to them I could also hear their groans and other squeaking, wheezing noises.

  “I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was her arm shaking me. She was crying, ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ She told me that I had to help her out of the hole. She told me to climb out f
irst. I don’t know how long it took me, but I got out in the end. Then she told me what to do.

  “I lay on my stomach at the edge of the pit and stretched my arms out to her. I could just make out her hand in the darkness. I clasped it in my two hands, and when she told me to, I pulled as hard as I could. She tried to raise herself up as I tugged. But it was in vain. I wasn’t strong enough.

  “Then, without warning, the lady’s arm went limp. She whispered to me in a weak voice, ‘Leave me!’ But I didn’t want to. I had to help her.

  “I don’t know, perhaps I went crazy, I was tugging at her arm over and over, but it was limp. I realized much later that she had died there and then with me yanking stupidly at her. But then at that time I just didn’t understand. I felt that I’d let her down; I didn’t want to leave her alone but in the end I did. I just got up and ran. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back.”

  Even now my father looked distressed by his inability to help this woman. I wanted to offer him words to ease his guilt. All I managed was a limp “What else could you have done, Dad?” before urging him to continue with his recollections. “Where did you run to?” I asked.

  “There was a thin light now so it must have been around dawn. I ran up the hill and into the trees. I didn’t know what to do. I just wandered among the clump of trees for some time. Eventually I found one that looked comfortable and curled up in a hollow in its roots.

  “I must have fallen asleep because a terrifying noise woke me up. It was like a crack of thunder. Then I heard the sound of people screaming, shouting, crying out, women’s and children’s voices. I knew something dreadful was going on, but I had no idea.

  “I was very quiet. I didn’t want anyone to find me. I moved from tree to tree until I was near to the top of the hill and could see down to where I’d been with the lady and where the noises were coming from. I peeked around a tree trunk.”

  My father lowered his head, shaking it repeatedly. He seemed disconsolate and his voice got very quiet. “If only I hadn’t looked.”

  He let out a deep sigh and shrugged. Finally he looked up. He squinted and spoke steadily, carefully.

  “Blood was everywhere. And mud. And people, naked, in a big pit. Most were dead. But some of them must have still been alive, because the whole pit seemed to be moving; it was rising and falling like a wave.

  “Then it dawned on me that’s where I had been the night before. In the pit. Where I had slept with the lady. They must have killed some people the day before.

  “There were soldiers everywhere with guns. They were making women and children stand in front of the pit. Then I heard the cracking noise again and all the people fell forward into the pit.

  “The soldiers were killing them with their rifles, with their pistols. Later I understood what was going on, but I didn’t get it at that time. All I knew beyond doubt was that what was happening was terrible. I must have been able to sense fear and terror.”

  “Who were these people?”

  The expression on my father’s face tightened as he tried to remember.

  “People from the village. Some faces I knew. There was one man. I’m sure that he had come to our house. I remember sitting on his knee. He had this very long beard. His clothes had smelled musty. Then I saw this other lady, one of our neighbors. She would march up and down the street with her umbrella rain or shine. She was always telling off me and my friend, but she was nice, really. Sometimes she gave me a plum from her tree.”

  For just an instant my father seemed to recollect a happy moment from his childhood. “I remember,” he said gently, as if caressing the pleasurable memory itself. The reverie dissolved in the next instant: “They just looked like ordinary people to me. But now I am sure they were Jewish.”

  At this point my father tensed his shoulders, as if bracing himself for an even more shocking revelation. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

  “I could see the soldiers forcing more people down the hill using bayonets on the tips of their rifles. Then I saw that my mother, brother, and sister were among them, and other members of my family. I can’t remember who they were, but I know I belonged to them somehow.” My father looked ahead, transfixed by the memory.

  “I wanted to call out to my mother; I wanted her to know where I was. I wanted to show her I was okay. But I was too far away from her. I wanted to go to her but somehow I knew that I couldn’t. If I joined them, the same thing that was happening down the hill would happen to me.”

  He spoke these words as if he were hoping for some sort of absolution, a comforting word that might tell him that it was all right, that the situation would have made it impossible for him to do so. But I was mute with shock.

  My father was pale. “I have this terrible impression from those moments. I don’t know if it is memory, but what else could it be?” He hesitated.

  “Go on,” I urged him.

  My father cleared his throat. “Well, while all this was going on I noticed other people from the village in the distance. I can see them now just as they were then. They were standing on the balconies of their houses. They seemed lighthearted, smoking and talking, some even laughing. I wanted to get them to do something to stop this. They just stood there, watching.

  “I couldn’t understand why they didn’t help my mother, my brother, my sister, and all the other ones. I felt like I was burning up inside…” My father’s face reddened now, as he seemed to relive his hopeless frustration.

  “I saw my mother again. By then she was at the bottom of the hill. I could see her struggling to hold on to my brother. Then I remembered I’d promised to take my brother’s hand. I felt guilty that I’d let my mother down.”

  My father maintained his matter-of-fact tone.

  “The soldiers shot my mother. They put the bayonet into my brother and sister. I cried out and then bit my hand to stop myself. So that no one could hear my scream. I kept thinking, ‘Don’t let anyone hear you, or they’ll do the same to you.’

  “I saw it all,” he said evenly. “All day. The shooting went on all day. I covered my ears to block out the noise. The horror went on and on. I believe I must have gone mad, coming in and out of consciousness.”

  An eerie stillness descended on my father, and he stared blankly into space for several moments. I realized that he’d never spoken about what he’d seen, and that while his manner seemed composed he was struggling to find the right words to describe the extermination of his family. Then he leaned forward in my direction.

  “Sometimes I wished I’d died with them that day,” he said. “Held my brother’s hand like I’d promised my mother. Gone into the pit and died with them. Even now.” The remorse and despondency in my father’s voice shocked me, as did the revelation that he had lived with this guilt throughout his life.

  His face betrayed his turmoil, and finally he asked, almost pleading, to stop for a moment.

  I felt the same way. It was as if I had been transported from the safety of the family kitchen to a cold autumn morning in Russia more than fifty years before.

  I filled the kettle at the sink and put it on the stove. I remained standing where I was, wanting to separate and reclaim myself from my father, who remained frozen on the other side of the room.

  I placed a mug of tea on the table before him. He gulped from it so greedily that for a moment I was afraid that he might burn his throat, but the hot liquid revived him almost immediately. He stared at me resolutely and began to speak again.

  “I was there all day, among the trees, watching what went on,” he said, picking up where he had left off. “All the time I kept biting my hand, rocking back and forth like I was having a fit.

  “I know it’s frustrating,” he said, “but I don’t have any choice about what I can remember and when. My memories are here inside me like vipers inside my bones gnawing their way out.”

  My father had accurately read my concerns. Some of his memories were unnervingly acute while others were no more than vague impressions
containing many gaps. Still, he was only a child at that time.

  I looked at him now, suddenly shocked by the coolness of my appraisal: I still recognized him as my father even if I had never seen him in this state before. It was as if the face I had known all my life had been peeled back to reveal the unadorned man, the raw human being.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after 2:00 a.m., but my father showed no signs of flagging. I waited for him to continue.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  INTERROGATED

  When I woke up among the roots of the tree it was dark. I crawled back to the edge of the wood. The moon was out, so I could see back down to where”—he paused, lowering his voice—“it had all gone on.

  “That place,” he added pointedly, “was all covered up now, and I couldn’t hear any sound. I didn’t know what to do. I simply stood there. Then suddenly I heard a twig snap, and turned and ran back through the trees. On and on, away from my village—my home—I kept on running, too frightened to look back.

  “It got colder and a heavy mist had descended to the level of my neck. I didn’t want to be caught, so you know what I did? I crawled along under the mist. I couldn’t see much, but I knew nobody would be able to see me, either.”

  My father seemed pleased by the recollection of his ingenuity.

  “I was freezing. That’s what I remember more than anything in those first days. I’d run away from home with only what I had on—short trousers and a jumper. I couldn’t stop my entire body from shivering. Sometimes I had to grip my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering. My feet were really burning, as if the ice were eating into them.”

  I thought of my father’s feet now. He was in his early sixties, and ever since I could remember his feet were gnarled and badly swollen, which doctors later attributed to the cold and damp of the forest penetrating his delicate child’s bones.

  “How long were you in this forest?”

  “I have no idea. I was lost. I just wandered. Then I would fall asleep, wake up, scavenge for food, and go to sleep again.”