The Last Girl (27 page)

She brushed a hand through her hair. ‘They took him,' she said; her voice sounded strangely hollow, as though she had been emptied out. ‘A couple of them stayed on. “It would be better for your husband if you told us what you know, “ they said. “It will be worse for him if you don't tell us.”'

‘What did you tell them?' I said.

She looked at me. ‘What would I tell them? What is there to tell?'

A little later she made tea and we drank it with honey. She did not switch on the light. ‘It's like in the forest,' she said. I nodded in the darkness, remembering walking up through the pitch-black forest taking her home. I moved closer to her. ‘I still dream about the forest,' she said. ‘I don't know whether I miss it or not. A part of me misses it, but whenever I dream of it I am afraid.' Again I nodded rather than answering. I took her hand in mine. She leaned closer to me. My lips softly brushed the jagged cut on her cheek. Her skin was cool. I searched in the darkness for her lips.

Rachael jerked back. She wrenched her hand from mine.

‘What are you doing?' she demanded. Her voice was sour with surprise.

‘I'm sorry,' I muttered.

‘What are you thinking of?'

‘I didn't mean anything.'

‘My husband has just been arrested by the secret police. What did you think that I would…?' Her words faltered in outrage. I heard scuffling as she got up. There were footsteps on the wooden floorboards and I saw her silhouette against the window. A match struck. The flickering light of a small lamp illuminated us. Her eyes sparkled with anger.

‘I think you had better go,' she said.

I stumbled to my feet, red-faced in the weak lamplight. I approached her but she backed away, as if she was repulsed. The words of apology caught in my throat. When they came out they seemed insincere, even to me. I stood behind her, speechless, my heart aching with misery. ‘Rachael,' I said, ‘I did not mean it like that, I had no desire to hurt you.' I flushed with shame, knowing that, truthfully, she was right to despise me. I had held her in my arms, had felt the soft weight of her body against mine, I had buried my head in her hair and held her hand, I had been overwhelmed by her closeness. I had longed for her for so long. And though now she was close enough for me to reach out and touch, I realised at last how far she was from me.

‘Go,' she said.

I turned and left, stumbling in the darkness, tears stinging my eyes. As I was about to put my hand to the door there was a soft knocking. I stopped short, my hand hovering above the door handle. Rachael, in the drawing room doorway, froze. As we stood silently, the knocking was repeated inches from me. Soft and hesitant. Rachael approached reticently. ‘Who is it?' she called quietly through the door. The brass letter flap rattled and a pair of eyes appeared, indistinctly.

‘It's me,' an old man's voice whispered. ‘Reh Azriel,' Rachael breathed.

She unlocked the door. Outside stood an old man whose long white beard straggled limply over his dark clothes. The skin on his face fell in folds, as if once he had been fat. Behind him stood a small woman, smaller even than he. Her scarf was pulled tight around her walnut face. Her eyes betrayed both fear and concern. I slipped out of the door around them. I hurried out into the street without looking back. Rachael did not call after me and before I had taken many paces I heard the door click softly shut.

I felt so ashamed of the way I had behaved that evening that I took care to avoid Rachael. I could not avoid hearing about her though. I was sat in a small café near the station when Fisk walked by. He noticed me and grinned. Before he entered the café he checked carefully that Jerzy was not around. He was in a cheerful mood and offered to buy me another drink. I agreed despite the fact that I did not want to speak to him. He insisted that we spoke in Russian even though we both spoke better Polish.

‘No Jerzy?' he asked jovially but rather apprehensively.

‘No. He's working on a play with Marcin Lunski.'

‘You should be careful with him.'

‘Lunski?'

‘Jerzy Szymonowicz.' The name rolled from his tongue like a bitter cherry.

‘Jerzy? Why should I be careful with him?' I asked coldly, over the top of the volume of poetry I was reading. Fisk winked at me, knowingly. The action infuriated me. I closed the book of poems and slipped it into the pocket of my coat.

‘Going?' said Fisk unhappily. ‘You haven't drunk your coffee.'

‘It doesn't taste so good,' I said.

‘Hey, I have some news for you,' he said, grabbing my sleeve as I stepped by him.

‘I'm not interested, Fisk.'

‘The government has nationalised the Troimans' factory and the shops too.'

‘lra's haberdasher's?'

Nathan Fisk nodded happily. A smug smile spread across his pasty face. His cheeks were rosy red and his blue eyes twinkled brightly. I should punch you, I thought. I imagined doing it; the feeling of my fist contacting with his soft fleshy cheek, the shock registering in his eyes, the impact catapulting him backwards, his chair overtuning, his head bouncing from the dirty concrete floor.

‘What about Ira?' I asked.

‘Still in prison. Lucky he hasn't been deported to Siberia. Not much left for him here now, though.'

‘He has a wife.'

‘I heard that she had been taken in by his cousin.'

If Ira was lucky to have avoided deportation, all did not share his luck. I met Jerzy on my way back to Rudnicka. He was running full tilt up Stefanska, his long coat billowing out behind him, giving him the appearance of a vampire. Seeing me he shouted. He could not speak when he reached me; he leaned forward, his hands clutching my shoulders, gasping for breath. His face became quite grey and he began to retch. When after a couple of minutes his breathing had calmed, he tried to speak. He was so agitated that he made little sense.

‘Steponas, thank God.'

‘Jerzy?'

‘She's gone.'

‘Who?'

‘They've… taken her.'

‘Taken who, Jerzy? Who have they taken? Who has taken her?'

‘The communists… the bastards.'

‘But who, Jerzy? Are you talking about Rachael?'

‘Rachael?' He stared at me puzzled. ‘Who is Rachael?'

‘You know who Rachael is,' I snapped angrily. ‘You're making no sense, Jerzy. Start from the beginning and tell me slowly. And clearly.'

‘They came early this morning. I was with her. They burst in through the door, swinging their guns at everything in sight.'

‘Who, Jerzy? For God's sake, who?'

He looked at me blankly for a second and then said, as if to an idiot, ‘Tzalka, stupid! Who else?'

‘
Blyad!
'

‘I couldn't do anything, I really couldn't.' He collapsed against me. A sob caught in his throat and racked his body. I held him. He began to cry; raw, ugly tears scarring his face.

‘Jerzy, Jerzy,' I said, patting him uncomfortably, ‘what did you think you could do?'

‘They took her away. They grabbed her by the arm and dragged her naked from the bed. “Get dressed,” they said. She pulled on some clothes and they pushed her out of the door. When I tried to follow they pointed a rifle at me and told me to get back into bed unless I wanted to lose my balls.'

We rushed together through the streets to the NKVD dungeons on Gedimino, overlooking the large square where later Lenin would stand and fall. From a distance we saw the commotion. We hurried towards it. Rows of Soviet soldiers were pushing civilians up onto the backs of trucks. A crowd had gathered. While some stood silent, wide eyed, others were calling, wailing to the unwilling passengers. The lorry at the front of the queue started its engine, farting acrid fumes over the distraught crowd. Tzalka was there on the back of the truck. We did not see her at first. She was crouched quietly. She wore around her shoulders the thick bright wrap given to her by her Russian husband years before. It was that which caught our eye.

The lorry rolled past us, its tyres hissing on the cobbles. Her eyes met ours as she passed. They were red from crying. She looked old. She blew a kiss and the young Soviet soldier stood by her blew one too, a big grin on his pleasant peasant's face.

They kept Ira in prison over Christmas. Visiting was not allowed and, ironically, in the end it was through Fisk that I was able to get information about him. Fisk had become a full time informant hoping to curry favour with the new puppet government. I asked for news on Troiman whenever I saw him and he was only too happy to revel in the haberdasher's misfortune. Whenever I had news from Fisk I wrote a short note to Rachael, telling her what I knew. She had moved into the home of her cousin. The notes I left unsigned. She would, I knew, recognise my handwriting but the pretence of anonymity would free her from feeling that I felt any debt was being incurred, or that I was doing what I did from feelings of guilt.

Christmas 1940 I returned to my village. I sat by the kitchen window looking out across the glittering blue-white fields. Crows, black as coal, dark as death, lingered in the naked treetops. Jan had been killed in the autumn, fighting in the Polish army. His mother visited wrapped in thick black clothes. She sat in the corner of the kitchen weeping. Pressing my head to her she thanked God for my mother's fortune, her voice trembling with bitterness. She nibbled at the bread my mother had baked, choking on the crumbs. Crumbs her young son could not taste, buried beneath the ice-iron earth.

Christmas Eve was more sombre than sober, as ritual demanded. The house was cleaned. We fasted, as was the custom, and my mother and grandmother prepared the Kucios table. A new white tablecloth was laid and beneath it spread stalks of hay to remind us of the birth of Christ. The best cutlery was brought out and places were laid for us all and a place set too for my dead grandfather. His chair was pulled up and a candle lit and placed on his plate. The twelve traditional dishes were set on the table. Herring, slizikai with poppy seed milk, pickled mushrooms, steaming boiled potatoes. Only meat was missing, according to tradition. My father took a wafer and said, ‘God grant that we are all together again next year.' Mother said ‘Amen' fervently and crossed herself. I crossed myself too.

Later, the sound of the village church bells drifted up over the fields. I stood in the snow smoking a cigarette. My father came out of the house and stood beside me. The night was dark and the stars seemed very small and far away. For a while we stood silent just outside the soft glow of the lamp in the kitchen.

‘Old Mendle died,' my father said.

‘Really?'

My father nodded in the darkness. ‘They buried him a month back. The earth was like rock, it was a wonder they got him in.' The night's silence drifted between my father's sentences.

‘He had lost the farm. They took it from him. It cut the heart out of him. He withered away to nothing.'

‘Who took the farm?'

‘Who?' said my father, his breath small frail clouds in the freezing night. He clicked his tongue and turned and trudged back through the thick snow to the kitchen door. ‘Don't stay out too long, you'll catch your death…'

I left the day after Christmas.

On New Year's Eve Alexei Jankowski, the expressionist painter, invited us to a party. It was there I met Rita, a Lithuanian girl with flaxen hair and a face as white as the village snow. She was a painter. She was very pretty and I was gratified that she knew my name and had read some of my poetry.

‘Did you like it?'

‘It is very sad.'

‘I have a lot to be sad about.'

‘Do you?' she asked, smilingly sceptically.

‘What do you paint?'

‘Perhaps you would like to see?'

Jankowski had introduced me to her. She was sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair near the back door of his house. Through the open door it was possible to catch glimpses of streetlamps reflected on the iced surface of the river. From the way he introduced her I gathered that Jankowski was having a relationship with her.

‘I would love to see your paintings,' I said. ‘Is your studio far?'

Jankowski was drinking with Jerzy. I pushed her out through the door into the snow. She looked a little startled but did not protest. We walked slowly through the silent streets. Thick frost sheathed the trees, giving the impression of a thousand stumpy fingers stabbing at the brittle air. She held my arm to avoid slipping. Her frozen breath seemed delicate beside my own.

Her studio was cold and I made love to her angrily. Almost violent. She lit a thin feminine cigarette and slouched against the wall in the darkness. ‘It's midnight,' she said after a while. I grunted. I had found out from Fisk earlier in the evening that Ira had been released just after Christmas. I lit the stub of a candle and examined the canvases leaning up against the wall. What were they doing?

‘Are you angry at me?' she asked from the shadows.

‘Angry? Why should I be angry?'

Her easel stood by the small window. I picked up the candle and wandered over to it. Were they celebrating together? The canvas was covered with a thin cotton cloth. Rita shuffled to her feet. Her flaxen hair fell loose across her shoulders. When she walked close to me her blue eyes shone in the candlelight. Clear and as blue as the spring sky. She lifted her hand and caressed my cheek softly. Were they embracing? Kissing? Rita leaned forward and pulled my head gently towards her. ‘It's customary to kiss at the turning of the year,' she whispered. Her breath was sweet, tainted only vaguely by the tobacco.

Kissing? Loving? His hand slipping up under her blouse as my hand now slipped beneath the loose shirt that Rita was wearing? Rita's flesh was cool, rough with goose bumps. And hers? And hers?

I grabbed Rita's young breakable body and made love to her again. Thrashing, desperate, sad lovemaking. Love making to forget. To bring on oblivion. Fucking to annihilate thought.