By now, the engine is roaring and I can tell by the changing notes that the truck will soon pull away. I shout again, this time louder.
'Will you be back?'
'Dunno, love. But you'll be all right. You've made it.'
And then, almost as an afterthought, as the truck begins to pull away, he calls to me.
'If I see him, I'll tell him that you were asking after him.'
He waves, the canvas frame flapping around him, and then the truck begins to pick up speed. Behind me, the soldiers are trying to organize us into groups for processing. Everybody is on the move. Them. Us. People are leaving. And now I understand. Gerry gave me the money as a leaving gift. That was it. He wanted to give me a leaving present. I see a woman whom I remember from the long journey here. She looks at me, her dark eyes momentarily narrowed. I say nothing. I simply turn and walk in the opposite direction, back towards my hut.
I sit on my timber and angle my head towards the sun. My friend, the sun, has once more returned. And then I see them, in the distance. I rub the back of my hands into my eyes. A man with a camera. And other people, including a young woman. She is not much older than me. They are filming. She is fat. They are moving purposefully, like a slow train, towards me. I assume that they will want to know what life was like before the English soldiers arrived. I begin to undress slowly. We were happy. Every day was spring.
I stand by my window. I stare out at the world, then I turn and look around my empty hut. I rehearse in my mind the steps that have led me to this place. My empty hut. Then I disengage my mind from such disquieting thoughts and try to concentrate on the day at hand. But today there is nothing on which to concentrate. The film people are still here. I can see them through the window, wandering about in their sluggish manner. They did not film me. Cowards. I can see three soldiers (two men and a woman) who sit behind a clumsy wooden table. A single line of us queues in front of each of them. They are continuing to process us for D.P. camps. Slowly, they are emptying this camp. Gerry has already gone. I will stay in my hut today. I do not wish to be a part of their world.
I dreamt that nobody believed me. That I was in America and I was telling some people my story, the despondent words falling awkwardly from my mouth. Just my story. (. . dazed children wandering the streets, searching for their parents. .) They looked at me, their faces marked with respect, and they nodded with cultivated fascination. Nobody wished to offend me. And then a man looked at his watch. In America.
I like the way birds fly. At first you see the effort, how they flap their wings frantically as they build up speed and direction. And then they stop and glide confidently. And then comes my favourite part, when they suddenly start to flap their wings again and build up speed. That's what I do these days. I just sit here on my timber and watch the birds beyond the fence. I watch their communal flight. Every day, they beat a thin black ribbon across the sky. There are too many to give them names, or to get to know them personally. I just sit here on my timber and watch them. Every day. My name is Eva Stern. I am twenty-one years old. Just when I think I am going to fall, I flap my wings.
Again I had the same dream. (. . dragging her child behind her like a secret crime. .) This time I knew one of the people looking at me. Gerry. He was in America with all the other faces. This time they were trying hard not to laugh, for they wanted to hear more of my story. (. . the other woman was holding a tiny baby that was wrinkled like a foot. .)
Today, Mama arrived back in the camp. At first I was angry, for I thought the person lying in the cot next to me must have broken in during the night in order to steal something. And this being the case, why lie down next to me? Why not go to one of the other cots? Before I could say anything, the woman turned her face towards me and I saw it was Mama. I wasn't frightened. I was expecting her to return, for I never truly believed that she had gone. And now she is back. I hold her hard and encourage her to tell her story once more. Of how they took her from this hut and left her for dead. Of how she took shelter in another hut, among people who spoke a language that she simply could not understand. But they fed her, and looked after her, and then they forsook her, for they were part of the group that, upon the arrival of the English soldiers, immediately fled. Mama tells me about how she struggled to look after herself on the far side of the camp. She touches my face as though still unable to believe her luck.
'But Mama,' I ask, 'why did you not come and look for me?'
Mama looks sad now.
'They told me that you were dead, and I believed them.'
'Dead?'
'Yes. They told me you were dead.'
I touch my Mama's face, her lips, her eyes, her nose. I stroke her wisps of hair. Mama is back with me. I can now begin to plan a future for both of us.
It is night. Neither Mama nor I have ventured out of this hut today. We are both hungry and thirsty, but we have spent the day together, talking. Mama is sure that Margot is fine and in America. Margot will not have stayed behind. We laugh at the idea of Margot in the movies. Dear Margot in Hollywood. Papa is dead. Mama and I know this. There is little further to say about this. We agree that we need not concern ourselves with how he might fit into our future plans. He simply does not. Outside, I imagine the night air is still heavy with the heat of the day. I tell Mama about my birds. I tell her about where I sit and watch them. I promise her that I will take her there. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. At present, I am concerned only with Mama and her words. She smiles at me and I know she understands.
The woman seems to be losing patience with me. I can tell by the way she looks down at the paper and taps her pencil against the desk. She is quite pretty, with short dark hair and hazel eyes. Even the drab, lifeless colour of her uniform cannot entirely detract from her glamour.
'Are you waiting for anybody from home?'
Stupid woman. Waiting where? Who knows where I am. I am not sure myself. I refuse to speak.
'Do you intend to go home?'
How can she use the word 'home'? It is cruel to do so in such circumstances. I cannot call that place 'home'. 'Home' is a place where one feels a welcome. For a moment, her eyes meet mine, but now she drops them again, and once more she resumes her tapping.
'I'll put you down for a D.P. camp. You can decide later what you want to do or where you want to go.'
She prepares to write, then she pauses. She looks up at me. When her teeth show they glisten beneath a thin coating of saliva.
'I have your home town and your family details. Is there anything else that I should know?'
I shake my head. I will not tell her about Mama. That is my business.
'All right, you may go.'
And now I understand that I am being dismissed and another person is to take my place. Fine. I understand the terms of this game. I am here, then I am gone. I matter only as long as I answer questions. I decide to stand my ground. She glances up at me, but this time with a puzzled look.
'You may leave.'
I will not torment her hazel eyes any further.
It is early evening, but the sun has not yet descended beneath the horizon. I am in another line. I am waiting for a second bowl of soup. I know nobody will question me. They have learnt when to see me, and when not to see me. How to ignore me effectively. I am a strange one. I know this is what they think. She is a strange one. But I cannot stop them thinking whatever it is they need to think The man knows that this is my second bowl of soup, but these soldiers seem to take pleasure in our returning for more. He smiles and drops the spoon deeper into the pot. He makes sure that I get vegetables too. I smile back at him, then scurry off towards the hut with the bowl cupped between my hands. I do not look around to see if anybody is watching. My eyes are fixed firmly upon the ground in front of me. Mama is sitting on the edge of the cot. I hurry across and hand her the soup. She touches her daughter's hand as she takes it from me. Then she begins to drink the warm soup, and I edge back towards the door and lock it shut. Safe. Just mother and daughter. This is how I always want it to be.