The Mascot (6 page)

“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 first. 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.

W
hen 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.”

“What kind of food did you eat?”

“Plums. Wild plums. Berries. I didn't know which ones were suitable. I ate them to fill the hole in my belly. Once or twice I ate poisonous ones and got so sick I thought I would die. I just lay on the ground, throwing up, and at those moments I couldn't have cared less who or what found me—bears, wolves, monsters. Then I would have to force myself to get up and keep walking.

“Not that the berries or the plums were ever enough. There were days when I couldn't find anything at all to eat, and I would chew on the sleeve of my jumper. That made me feel safe and helped me get off to sleep.

“It was not long before the first snow appeared. From then on I had to be careful about leaving trails of footprints. As the snow became heavier, I left the small paths that I had been following, and I went deeper into the forest where nobody would be able to spot my tracks so easily.

“I had to keep walking to stay as warm as I could, but I soon realized that I was going in circles. I came to the same cottage in a clearing more than once. I would peek at it from behind a tree. But I never approached it.

“Anyway, it turned out to be a good move to go deeper among the trees, because one day I had a great stroke of luck that saved my life.

“I was crawling on all fours through some undergrowth. I put my hand forward and it suddenly touched something: I immediately knew it was human. I jumped backward. I was petrified and panting with fear. I expected that whoever it was would grab me and that would be the end of me.

“I found a stick nearby. I crawled back through the bushes. I could see a man lying there. I wasn't sure if he was dead or alive.

“I reached out and poked him gently with the stick. He didn't move. I jabbed him again, harder this time and on his chest, but he didn't stir at all. That restored my courage. I stood above him. I could see he'd been a soldier. He was still in his uniform. There was a stream of blood coming out of his body. It was brown and congealed on top of the snow.

“I crouched down next to him. His eyes were closed. Then suddenly it crossed my mind that he might be like that lady stuck in the pit. You know, everyone must've thought she was dead, but she was alive.

“I commanded him in a loud voice, ‘Wake up, mister, wake up!' so that I could be sure that he would hear me. When he didn't answer I was a hundred percent certain that he was dead.

“I sat down next to him. Despite the fact he was dead, I started talking to him. I hadn't spoken to anyone for a long time, and, well, he was better than nobody. I wanted to tell him what had happened to me. I told him those words I remembered, the ones that I told you: Koidanov and Panok. Even then they were already fixed in my mind. Perhaps my mother had drummed them into me, told me not to forget them—”

“Why would your mother say that to you?” I cut in. “If she thought that you were going to die, then why would she tell you to remember something?”

My father paused, looking puzzled. “I don't know,” he said and then went quiet as if something were dawning on him for the first time.

“What's wrong?” I probed.

“Well,” my father said, “what if somehow or other, my mother knew that I was going to escape?” He stared at me. “You know,” he continued slowly, “she might've put me up to it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “That's not what you said before.”

“No, that's true,” my father admitted. “I can't remember every detail of that night. But perhaps somehow because she knew what was going to happen the next day, she hoped that one of us—me—might stand some chance of getting away. It would have been impossible for her to escape with the two little ones. Perhaps she did say something to me, like ‘Get away, son' or ‘Go now while you can!'—something like that…”

We sat in silence. Then my father seemed to set aside the thought and, sipping on the dregs of his cold tea, returned to what he had just been describing.

“I started to examine the dead soldier more closely. I noticed his overcoat, and then I thought to myself, ‘Take it! He doesn't need it!' I tugged away at it for ages. His arms were so heavy, but somehow or other I managed to get them out of the sleeves.

“The hardest part was getting the back of the coat from underneath him. He was a big man, and I had to keep pushing at him, trying to get him over onto his side and then to flip him over completely. But I had no luck since I kept falling over in the snow. I hunted around for a bigger stick and soon found one that I used like a lever. I pushed it under the soldier, and with all my might I managed to raise his body onto one side. And when it was raised high enough, I pushed my whole body against the soldier's back. Quick as a flash he'd rolled over facedown, and I'd freed the coat. I was exhausted and sat down, leaning against his side for quite a while.

“Then the real problem began,” he went on. “I had to get the coat on. But it was so enormous that I could hardly lift it off the ground. Somehow I managed to get my arms into the sleeves. Of course, I couldn't see my hands and most of the coat was in the snow rather than on me. It was like a wedding dress where the back of it drags behind. But I didn't care. I eventually tied most of it round me with the belt it had. I was warm for the very first time.

“Then I thought, ‘His boots! Take his boots!' The soldier had tied them up in such knots that my icy fingers couldn't get them undone. But finally I tugged them off and I took his socks, too. It was heaven having them on. They went up beyond my knees. The boots were far too big for me, too, but that didn't matter, either. The shoes I had left home in had almost fallen apart by then. I put my new boots on and wound the laces round and round my skinny ankles. I remember thinking that I looked like a clown with such big feet stretching out in front of me.

“There was one last thing: the soldier's cap to keep my ears warm. Lifting it off was the worst thing of all: I had to touch his face.

“When I put the cap on it sank down over my eyes so that everything went black for a moment. I pushed it back off my face and for the first time my head wasn't freezing cold.”

My father gave a slight chuckle. “God knows what I looked like, paddling through the snow, half-buried in all that stuff. But only one thing I am certain of: that dead soldier saved my life.”

“How could anyone survive this?” I wondered aloud, aghast at the picture my father was painting. He leaned forward.

“I can tell you about that,” he said. “Don't think about survival, just survive. That's the answer. Once you start thinking, that's when the trouble starts.”

“You were a very resourceful boy,” I said.

My father nodded, grateful for my admiration.

“I was always alert to a noise, even the slightest one—the break of a twig, the rustle of some leaves. Anything could indicate danger. I had to be on guard every moment. It was when the sun started to go down that I would become most frightened. All sorts of sounds would start up in the forest. Things rustling in the undergrowth nearby. Wolves in the distance. A sound that still gives me goose bumps.

“I had to be quick-thinking. You know how I'd escape from them?” he asked me. Without waiting for a response he said, “I would climb as high up as I could in a tree and wedge myself into the fork of one of the branches. I had learned to climb our apple tree when I was little. Now I could climb any tree I wanted and the wolves were never able get me, even if I fell asleep!

“Again, I owed it all to that dead soldier. I'd use the belt from his overcoat—I'd wind it around my waist and then round and round the branch—so that I didn't fall down. I'd wake with a start if I slumped forward too far or when the flaps of the coat had fallen open and I was too cold. Then I'd pull the coat around me and tighten the belt again to make sure that I didn't lose my balance.

“Sometimes I couldn't sleep at all. I could hear noises below me in the darkness. I'd wait patiently until the sun came up. It seemed as if daylight would never come.”

As he spoke of being frightened, I formed a different picture of my father. This version had none of the bravado of his fireside tales.

“Those long nights would eventually turn into day when I could walk and scavenge, walk and scavenge, but then the dark would come back again. So that was my life and I owed it to that soldier”—he hesitated a moment and added—“and the other dead people I came across.”

“There were others?” I cut in.

My father nodded.

“How many?”

My father shrugged. “Quite a few. Whenever I came across one—they were mostly men—there was always something good growing around them. Much later, when I was with the soldiers and the weather was warmer, I'd often find wild strawberries growing around or underneath the bodies. And they were the biggest, juiciest strawberries you would ever see! I guess the bodies fertilized the soil as they decomposed.”

“Did you come across any living people?” I asked.

“Sometimes I did,” my father replied. “There were occasions when I heard voices in the distance or the sound of footsteps on one of the paths nearby, but I'd move away as quickly and quietly as possible and hide in the undergrowth. They must've been peasants or woodsmen, I guess.

“But I did meet someone once. Properly. And that day my life was to change forever. I told you before that I was wandering in circles and that I kept coming across the same isolated cottage that I would watch from the safety of the trees. Well, one time I saw this old woman come out. She was a babushka all rigged out with her colored head scarf. I watched her as she gathered up some logs from a woodpile. Then she went back inside with them. I crept over to the window of her cottage. I was just tall enough to peep in. I could see that she was alone, cooking something in a big pot on the fire.

“I moved across to the door and I knocked. I was nearly mad from cold and hunger. Her face appeared at the window and she rushed to open the door immediately. I remember her words exactly.

“‘What in God's name?' she said. I stood there, shivering. But then she bent down and took my face in her hands. I hadn't felt anything like the touch of another human being in a long time. Certainly not one who was alive. Her hands were covered with hard calluses, but they were so warm.

‘You're freezing!' she exclaimed. ‘Come.' I allowed her to usher me in. She sat me down by the fire and began to rub me up and down vigorously.

“‘Whatever were you doing out there?' she asked. ‘You must be starving,' she added. She prepared me some soup from the pot. I don't know how many bowls I ate. I just ate and ate. At one point she took the bowl away from me. ‘That's enough,' she said. ‘You'll be sick.'

“My reaction was terrible. I was like a wild animal. I growled at her and made a dive for the bowl, trying to snatch it back. I must have frightened her, because she took a few steps back. ‘Have it your own way,' she said. Then she went to the other side of the room and sat down there, watching me. I calmed down eventually, and she slowly edged the stool closer to me until finally she was next to me again. I must have looked and smelled disgusting because I saw her flinch. She reached out her hand and touched my hair. She said that she would give me a wash. She took off my clothes and gave me a thorough wash down. I didn't mind. I can't tell you how happy I was at that moment.

“She put some old clothing on me and threw my rags into the fire. She made such a face as they burned. We had a struggle, though, about the overcoat and boots. She wanted to toss them into the flames. She didn't understand what they meant to me—they were my survival.