The Nature of Blood

Again, I hear the knocking on the door, but I remain where I am. I will not open the door. For two days and two nights, I have lain on this cot without venturing outside. Mama is worried that they will think something is wrong if they do not see me, but I do not want to leave her. I cannot afford to lose Mama again. Despite her pleadings, I have stayed with her for two days and two nights. The knocking begins again, and this time swells into a pounding. The man's voice is ordering me to open up. He assures me that he means no harm. Mama looks at me. The expression on her face is clearly designed to urge me to do as the man wishes. So I walk to the door and open it. Before me stand two men in uniform: an older man who is clearly responsible for the knocking, and a younger man who stands nervously behind him. It is the older man who speaks.

'Nobody means to intrude on your privacy, but we're worried. I'm a doctor.'

I stare back at him, urging him to continue.

'You have to understand that you must mix with people. You cannot allow yourself to just fade away. You've been through a lot.'

I hold the door so that it is impossible for him to see inside the hut. I do not want him to see Mama.

'I am fine.'

I say this quickly, for I now want him to leave.

'Are you ready to go to the D.P. camp? We need to evacuate this place. The air's not good, and it'll be better for you there.'

'I'm ready to leave. Not today. But I will leave.'

This seems to satisfy him. A smile creeps across his face. While I have the upper hand, I speak again.

'I will come and meet people.'

'Good. There are those of us who wish to help you.'

I nod curtly, then close the door against this doctor and his silent friend. I turn to look at Mama, who lies fearfully on her cot. She cannot continue to live like this.

I wait a few minutes before venturing out to get Mama another bowl of soup. Now I am back, but Mama will still not talk to me. I ask, 'Is it Margot?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, what is it?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, are you not well?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, have I done something to offend or upset you?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, is it Papa?' She turns to me and puts down her bowl of soup. It is Papa.

'Last night, Eva. I had a dream in which Papa told me that we were on our own now. Just you and me, my child.'

'And Margot?'

Mama begins to shake her head and sob.

'Just you and me.'

I hug Mama, but I am not sure if she is aware of me.

Neither Mama nor I have slept. We have stayed awake all night planning. And now, as the sun pours through the window, I watch as an exhausted Mama collapses into sleep. Tonight, she will leave. For the big city by the river. We will meet in the market square in two days' time. There is bound to be a market square. On this, we both agree. Mama will go first and hitch a ride with a military vehicle. English, American, it does not matter. I will follow. If we travel together, we will only attract attention. And then we will go on together to America. Despite Mama's dream, we both know that Margot is alive and living in America. (Dear Margot in Hollywood.) And it is to Margot and America that we will flee.

We see the young soldier by the gate. We crouch behind the small wall and wait until he turns and marches off to resume his patrolling of the perimeter. There are a few stars in the sky, but the night is uncommonly dark. Perfect for Mama to leave. The soldier passes from view, and Mama and I begin to half-walk, half-dash towards the gate. I ask myself, why this furtive-ness if we are free? About one hundred yards down the road, Mama and I stop under an oak tree. This is as far as I will come, and Mama knows and understands this. I take her hand and squeeze. She looks beautiful under the night sky. Mama even manages a smile. I hand the small bundle to her, with its piece of bread and other meagre provisions. And then we embrace.

'Two days,' I say. 'I will see you in two days.'

I watch as Mama begins her adventure. And when I can no longer see her, I turn. I begin to wander back in the direction of the camp. But the young soldier has followed us. He steps from the gloom and presents himself. He says nothing, and simply looks at me. Then he takes a step forward and touches my left breast. He cups it, as though feeling its weight. And then he applies pressure. I hope that Mama does not find a reason to turn back and find me in this predicament.

I sit on my timber. Gerry stands over me. He looks older, as though he has passed through some terrible crisis. He tells me that there was another place to 'liberate'. He says the word slowly, carefully weighing it in his mouth as though distrustful of it. Whatever they have done or seen at this other place, it has marked them all. They seem somehow shabbier. But then it occurs to me that perhaps these are exactly the same men, but now seen through the lens of my own improved condition. Gerry tells me that I was the first person he came to look for. He was worried that I might have left. I think to myself, why should he worry? I tell him that I am going to find my sister, although I still don't know where she is. I tell him nothing about Mama. Gerry seems hurt that I am suggesting a course of action which excludes him.

'But I can help you find your sister. I'll be going back to England in the next few days, and I told you I can contact all the groups. People know about things like that over there. It's chaos here.'

I look at him. He's not a bad man.

'Thank you, Gerry.'

He seems relieved. But he does not move. He continues to stand over me.

It is evening. I am supposed to be packing a suitcase for a journey in the morning. But this is not my suitcase. To whom does this suitcase belong? It does not matter, for I have nothing to put in the suitcase. I will be holding my few possessions, much like Mama. A suitcase suggests a life. It seems appropriate that I should emerge into the world clutching a bundle. I kick the suitcase. I am not bitter. I just do not want to pretend. Not now. Not ever. Mama will be expecting me in the big city by the river. In the market square. But she will have to see me without a suitcase.

Gerry stands at the door to the hut. Behind him I can see people climbing aboard trucks. Engines are roaring and orders are being shouted. It seems that today is the day they have chosen finally to clear the whole camp. This morning marks the beginning of the end.

'I've brought you some food for the journey.'

Gerry hands me a paper bag which I take. I do not open it. I want to indicate to Gerry that I trust him.

'Thank you.'

'I have the address of your D.P. And here, this is for you.'

He holds out a piece of paper that is folded over twice, as though containing a secret.

'My address in London,' he says. He appears to be beaming with pride. 'You must write to me if you need anything. Otherwise I'll write to you.'

He pauses and looks around himself.

'You should come to London. I think you'd like it.'

I smile, and wonder just what it is that Gerry imagines makes this London so special.

'Here, take it.'

He thrusts the piece of paper towards me.

'Thank you, Gerry.'

'Don't thank me,' he says. 'Not till you've made use of it.'

It is almost evening. I am sitting on my timber. My birds still dare not cross the fence. And then I sense the presence of Gerry. I do not need to look up to know that it is Gerry.

'What happened?'

I do not turn to face him. I feel content. The sun has shed her final shell of heat for the day.