The Knife Sharpener's Bell (15 page)

Ben and I are at the kitchen table, doing our homework, trying not to hear. Our parents are in the bedroom.

“What are you saying?” I can see my mother through the doorway, the tension in her, can read how taut her mouth must be as she speaks each word.

“I've decided, Anya. I know it'll be hard for you, but we have to leave Odessa.” All I can see of Poppa is his back. He's at the bureau, sorting through the family's papers: our passports, residency permits. I can make out the glossy leather.

“Have you gone crazy?” My mother's voice is sharp, frightened. “We have good jobs here. My whole family is here.” She doesn't say that in the five years we've been here she has quarrelled with every member of the Odessa family except for Manya and Lev.

“Lev has things almost set up already to take the family to Moscow. All of us. And Pavel's working on it from his
end in Moscow. We'll all leave together. And I've spoken with Reva. She and Basya are talking about moving east.”

“Lev is going to Moscow too?” She sits on the bed; her face changes. Is it possible that she can be persuaded?

“Absolutely. There's no question about it.”

“And Manya?”

“Manya agrees it's best.”

“Manya and Lev . . .”

“And, Anya, listen. I was thinking about Winnipeg – ” Poppa's so eager that he doesn't notice my mother's features changing again, going hard. If only I could tell him to stop, to go back, not to say Winnipeg, but he's not looking at me and it's already too late. “I was thinking – and this is only if we really feel that it's the right thing to do – there may be a way that we can go back, just for the duration . . . Maybe soon I'll be able to reach Joseph somehow, find out what he thinks.”

“Back? Back where?”

“Winnipeg.” Poppa looks up, but it's too late.

My mother's head is up, her jaw set. “I'm not leaving Odessa. No one is leaving.”

Poppa settles the papers into the drawer, sits down on the bed. “Anya. Anya, listen, please.” He's sitting straight, tall, even though he's not tall. “We won't talk about Winnipeg.” His voice is calm. “Let's just talk about Moscow. We can't pick and choose now, not now. Try to listen. Me, I don't want to go back to Canada. Believe me, what I wanted was to come here. Just as much as you, maybe even more. But this war, Hitler – for him already Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, France, they aren't enough. Hitler . . .”

“
My
country is not at war with Hitler. You're not making sense, Avram.”

If only he hadn't said
Joseph
, hadn't said
Winnipeg
. . .

“Look around you.” Her voice is grim with certainty, smug. “Are people running away like rabbits? No. Only my sisters would run! What are people thinking about? They're thinking about what they'll be doing for their summer holidays, about the beaches. Right this moment the workers are out planting the flower beds.
Planting flowers.
There is no war in my city. I don't want to hear any more about your bad dreams!”

“Anya, you have to listen to me. We're just kilometres from the Romanian border. Lev says plans are being made right now to evacuate the factories east. People have already left. Lots of Jewish families have left already. Odessa is not safe. If we go to Moscow – they'll never take Moscow. This peace . . . Lev and I, even Manya, we don't think it can last.”

“So! You know better than Joseph Stalin what's best for
my
country?”

“Anya. I'm afraid for you, for the children. We'll just go for a little while, till things calm down. Pavel knows what's what. He's already finding work for us. Pavel and Raisa are good people. They'll help.”

“
A little while
,” my mother says. “When I left Odessa the first time I told myself I was going just for
a little while
. And look how long it took me to come home. Don't you ask me to leave again. Go. If you're afraid to stay in your own home, go. But you go without me. And without the children. Annette, Ben: they're staying with me.”

June 22, 1941. Ben and I are arguing. Poppa's birthday is coming up, and Ben hasn't saved his share for the gift. He's smiling that smile he puts on whenever he knows he's in the
wrong. As we turn the corner onto Deribasovskaya Street we're so busy being angry with each other that at first our words override the loudspeaker. A crowd has gathered on the sidewalk, everyone looking up to the loudspeaker, as though the words, with their weight, were forming themselves to be seen as well as heard. Every one of them listening, silent in the warm June day, listening with all of the body. I find a place in the tightly packed crowd, rest a hand on Ben's shoulder to steady myself. At first the Russian words won't form themselves into meaningful phrases. I look down at the shoulders in front of me. A brown sweater, on this warm day. It's an older woman wearing a babushka, white polka dots on navy blue cotton, small ones. In the bright sunlight, the dots dance. The woman's straw basket holds a bunch of onions, of carrots, their green tops still fresh. She must have picked her carrots carefully, bargained for every kopeck. I look up at the loudspeaker's open mouth, narrow throat. The broadcaster's words coalesce into meaning: Hitler's army has invaded the Soviet portion of Poland. Our peace is over.

Such a perfect day. The windows are open, a warm breeze blowing over the kitchen table, sun like a cloth over its surface. Poppa and Ben and I are at the table, listening to the radio. Poppa fiddles with the dial till the station comes in clearer, though it still crackles with some sort of interference. My mother is moving back and forth at the sink, noisily washing up, making a show of not listening.

The peace-loving peoples of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics did not want to be drawn into capitalist conflicts. It was for this reason that the non-aggression pact was signed by our great nation and the German government
.
For more than two years, our nation enjoyed peace and prosperity, an interval in which our citizenry became stronger and more resolute, and in which our armed forces gathered strength and preparedness. In the face of this treacherous military aggression by Germany, the people have no choice. The German army has already dared to set foot on Soviet soil. They boast that they are unstoppable. The Germans will quickly find that Hitler's troops are no match for the unequalled courage of the Red Army soldiers. We are destined to win.

Somebody else's war has become ours.

This sunlight.

“Maybe they are unstoppable.”

My mother turns around. “What did you say?”

I didn't even know I'd spoken aloud. “Nothing. Nothing, Momma.”

My mother turns back to her dishes.

“Well.” Ben gets up. He's so tall. “We won't be sitting around like this much longer.” He turns a dial; it's louder. The words crackle into the room – static.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my fingers moving along the edge of the wooden tabletop. I scratch at a crumb that's stuck.

“The caretaker says,” Ben is watching my fingers, “that all civilian radios are going to have to be handed in to the local police. We're going to have to trade in Old Faithful here, our first contribution to the war effort.”

I think about what else we'll have to contribute, how tall Ben has gotten, how he's filled out like a man. He
is
a man: the shoulders, arms, the moustache he's affecting. When I teased him that he was trying to look like Comrade Stalin, he just shrugged, snorted.

I look from Ben to the radio, Soviet-made, a present from Lev when we arrived, one of the many presents he “arranged” for us. Sort of a squared off beehive, about the size of a breadbox. There's a circle of bronze-coloured mesh for a speaker, an ivory dial for volume, one for tuning.

The old radio in Winnipeg was massive, its rounded mahogany back taller than I was. I'd be listening on the davenport, my legs tucked under me, my fingers going round and round the mouth of the wooden griffin head carved onto the arm as if they were weaving a charm, round and round the tame mouth of the beast.
Something bad.

We gave it to Joseph when we left. Is he listening to it now?

I want to be home.

Poppa carefully stubs out his cigar, leaves the half-smoked length in the black glass ashtray.

He goes to the bedroom, opens the wardrobe, pulls down the suitcases.

“What are you doing?” My mother's in the doorway.

He walks over to the bureau, empties the drawers into a suitcase. “Lev has arranged everything. We can leave for Moscow as early as tomorrow; he'll meet us at the station. He's found train tickets, everything. We've got to pack. We'll stay with Pavel and Raisa in Moscow till we get housing straightened out. I've already written them. As soon as we get there I'll write Joseph.”

“Joseph?” I've said his name before I can stop myself.

“We'll be able to write,” Ben says. “Mail will get through now we're allies.”

We're allies. We were enemies, and now we're allies.

My mother shifts in the doorway. “I told you before and I'm telling you now. I'm not leaving my city.” Her face is in profile, the jaw working as if each word exhausts her.

Poppa's walking to the bureau. His hands are on the handle of the top drawer. They start to tremble.

“We're not going anywhere,” she says. She's very straight in the doorway. No arguing.

In one motion Poppa pulls the drawer from the bureau, flings it across the room, into the corner opposite to where my mother is standing. It breaks; the fine dovetail edges split open. My mother's faded cotton nightdresses spill onto the floor.

His whole body is shaking.

“Tomorrow. I'm taking Ben and I'm taking Annette tomorrow on the train to Moscow. Come or don't come.”

My mother has taken a step back. She takes another. “You're like an animal.” She spits on the floor, takes her handbag, walks out the door.

Ben gets up from the table. “Annette? We have to help Poppa pack.” He takes my hand. I'm trembling too.

Ben puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, Monkey. We've got to help Poppa with the suitcases.”

The train hisses and snorts at the platform. I tip my head back, and my mouth holds itself open. The vault of ceiling is high, arched above my head. Poppa's face is suddenly in front of me. I snap back into myself. Poppa's here. It's all right. The station is chaos, the platform seething with people – baggage being navigated on the men's shoulders, women clasping babies against their light summer dresses, gripping the hands of their older children, holding on. But it's all right – Poppa's here. He's kneeling beside me, tugging at the knots of the ropes our bulging suitcases are tied with. He's here.

Where's Ben? Just behind us, his arms filled with bottled water, packages.

“Annette,” Poppa says, “I've found our seats. Help me with the suitcases.”

We didn't say goodbye to Momma.”

Poppa straightens, takes me in his arms. I nuzzle my face into the smoothness of his white cotton shirt. Poppa.

“I have to get you and Ben to Moscow.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Raisa and Pavel will be at the station in Moscow. They know we're coming.”

He pats me on the arm. “Look, there's your uncle.” Lev is plunging, pushing through the frantic crowd. Lev the conjurer, a big basket of sandwiches, fresh fruit, biscuits in his hands. In seconds he's beside us.

“It's good you're leaving today,” he says. “Manya and I will be joining you very soon.” Lev is smiling, but he has to swallow before he speaks. “I need a couple more weeks – just a few things to finish up – and then we'll all be in Moscow together. Manya's fine; don't worry.” His powerful arms swallow Poppa up in a bear hug. He whispers something into Poppa's ear. They mustn't have found her, mustn't have heard anything.

Lev turns to me. “You'd better hurry.” Closes me in his arms, kisses the top of my head. He waves once more and then he's gone.

The black body of the train shifts beside me.

I concentrate. Somewhere. My mother is somewhere.
Momma.
Ben and Poppa are in our compartment, arranging the bags. I step up onto the train, step over the gap between the platform and the restless metal body of the train. And here's Poppa, and Ben, who's already rummaging through the basket Lev has left. I look out the window. Momma. That woman walking quickly, stiffly – no, it's not her. My mother isn't here; she's nowhere.

“Annette,” Poppa says, “I have her ticket. I'll just take one more look . . .” I nod. Ben looks up, continues sorting
out our baggage, fitting and refitting the boxes, suitcases around us. I look out the window.

Poppa.

He's so still on the platform. Everything else is moving, as the bags, baskets, packages are heaved through the train windows, as people shove their way onto the train, babies wailing, women shouting through the crowd, the train clearing its throat, anxious, ready. In all the noise, the smell of this hot, frantic day, Poppa is still, in his white shirt, his arms by his sides. The train shifts.

“Poppa?”

He turns around to face me, comes to the open window, moving towards me. “I'll find her, Annette, Ben.”

“Poppa

–” “You two go ahead on this train. I'll find her and then we'll both come to Moscow on another train.” He steps closer to the window, hands our tickets to Ben. “Ben, that green suitcase, hand it to me.” Then he hands Ben a small packet in a brown paper wrapper. “Be careful with this.” He lowers his voice. “Lev gave us some extra cash. Give it to Pavel and Raisa as soon as you get there. Everything will be fine. I'll see you in Moscow soon, soon . . .”

Poppa. I open my mouth, but not a sound comes out.