The White Hotel (33 page)

Yet it seemed you did not have to be Jewish to be here; for her mother was on the lists.

On the second evening—she thought it was the second—the young lieutenant came up to her table and asked her, shyly, for a dance. Since there were plenty of musicians among the immigrants, including some members of the Kiev orchestra, they had quickly formed a dance band. There was a happy communal spirit at mealtimes; married couples did not stick selfishly together but made sure the many widows and widowers were brought into the fun. Lisa did not think she could manage to dance, because of her painful hip; but she did not want to offend the shy young officer who had been so kind. They got through the waltz somehow: he with one arm and she, more or less, with one leg! They laughed about it. She went out for a stroll with him in the cool evening. By the oasis, he showed her a beautiful bed of lilies of the valley. He did not mind that she was bleeding.

What was really amazing—what everyone agreed was a miracle—was the “illegal immigrant” who turned up a few weeks after the first train from Kiev. She limped through the vineyard, and the grape-pickers stopped their work and stared at her, amazed. Liuba Shchadenko was in her room that morning, together with her children and mother-in-law; and she heard a scraping noise at the door. She opened it and saw a little black cat at her feet, mewing up at her pathetically. It was their cat Vaska—skeletally thin, and its paws a red pulp; but unmistakably Vaska. And soon it was curled up purring in Nadia’s arms, and lapping milk from a saucer. Somehow, by that amazing instinct cats possess, it had crawled through streets, deserts, and over mountains, to find them again. Soon it had flesh on its bones, was scampering around the camp, and became everyone’s pet and mascot.

The black cat took its proper place in the uproarious celebration of the vine harvest. It was a bountiful crop, and the grapes were tender. For the first time, Lisa tried out her voice: only quietly, and in the chorus of a drinking song. Her voice was husky and unsure of itself, but she was not displeased; and a few people even turned their heads, as if they wondered who was singing the pleasant descant.

Everywhere you went—there was Vaska! It even interrupted the camp film show one evening. Lisa usually went to these shows because, although the films were often uninteresting—badly made documentaries—they helped her with learning the language. On the evening of Vaska’s appearance she and Liuba were watching a documentary about the settlement at Emmaus. They were showing the prison hospital, which claimed a lot of success in curing hardened prisoners. Among the patients seen and interviewed was a man whom Lisa thought she recognized, a pleasant-looking man in glasses. Armed guards flanked him as he was led between
buildings. He was seen playing with children in the recreation hall, and even there the armed guards watched him closely. The commentator spoke his name, Kürten, as though the audience would know it well; and Lisa
did
think she had heard the name, and possibly seen his photograph in the newspapers, but she couldn’t place him. She was on the point of whispering to Liuba, when the screen was suddenly full of Vaska…Vaska in silhouette! The audience woke up, and roared with laughter. Somehow the cat had got into the projection room; and now she was peacefully cleaning her face on the screen! The audience clapped for more—it was much more entertaining than the film!

And one morning there were four black and white kittens, mewling and wet, tugging at Vaska’s tits. Liuba said it was a miracle, as she had had her neutered…. But the kittens were unmistakably real, and of course Vaska became more of a heroine than ever. All the children in the camp lined up to come and fuss over the newest immigrants, and tried to bribe Nadia into letting them have one of them to keep.

But the greatest miracle of all was—as Liuba said, laughing—where was the father?

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice, for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely
.

The quotation came in a letter from a totally unexpected source. She was in the fields when a man came round with mail,
and when she saw the familiar, forgotten handwriting she had to leave the long line of gleaners and rush to the only secret place available to her, the latrines. So many emotions of the dead past swept over her that she really did need to go. During her years in Kiev she had seen Alexei’s name often in newspapers, and seen his picture, standing to attention in rows of uniformed men. Then she had read of his arrest and his sensational confessions. It rejoiced her heart that he had not been shot but allowed to partake in the diaspora.

He wrote that he had been imprisoned for a short while at Emmaus, and was now a changed man. Now he was at a settlement in the mountains of Bether. Conditions were tough, but they were working to create a better life. When he had seen Lisa’s name on the lists, he had known at once that he still loved her, and he wished her to come and share his life with him.

Liuba, because she did not want her friend to go, pressed upon her the advantages of going to Alexei. He had not, of course, mentioned marriage, but the laws of the new land discouraged formal ties.

But Lisa wrote back that it was too late. She still loved him, too. But if she went to live with him they would always be haunted by the figure of a child. They both had too much on their consciences.

One day she was thrilled to hear Vera Berenstein’s silver voice over the wireless. Unusually for Vera, she was singing a religious song, a setting of the Twenty-third Psalm. Her voice seemed more lovely than ever. Then, thanks to her friendship with Richard Lyons, Lisa was able to hear the silvery voice over a crackly telephone. Vera confirmed that her husband was not over here—just yet. She was excited, full of questions about her son. Lisa was,
in fact, preparing him to meet his real mother: mentioning her name often, as if casually; reminiscing about her.

This was hard for her; much harder than the gentle work she had started to do in the fields. She shed tears privately over it. It was hard because she felt she was Kolya’s mother, and
he
felt she was his mother; and yet she had to prepare the way for him to return to the woman who had given him birth. It would be much less hard to let Victor go, if and when he arrived. She was inwardly glad he was not yet here; and felt remorseful about it. Much though she loved him, her soul did not see him as her true and eternal husband. As if in penance for her guilt, she tried to help people as much as possible.

She tried to help the old man she believed to be Freud. Richard let her browse through the records of people who had moved on to settlements. The problem was that she could not remember the married name of Freud’s daughter. But when she found the name Sophie Halberstadt, with a small son called Heinz, she thought these must be the right persons, and she wrote a brief letter to Frau Halberstadt. As though in reward for her good deed, she stumbled on the record card of her old friend in Petersburg, Ludmila Kedrova. And when she returned to her room, by one of those strange coincidences she found a letter waiting for her on her bed. It was from Ludmila, saying she had read Lisa’s name on the lists, and was overjoyed that she was safe. She, Ludmila, was not well enough yet to travel far, but hoped to see her soon. They were treating her breast with radium; which was painful and made her sick. This was strange, because Lisa thought she remembered that her breast had been removed, in an effort to save her life. She worried about this, hoping it didn’t mean that her other breast was infected.

On a roasting, windless day, Richard Lyons drove her in an army jeep further down the lake shore. Her mother wanted to meet her somewhere where it was quiet. He stopped the jeep under the shade of some fig trees, and told her to walk over the dune. On the crest of the dune she looked towards the lake, with the hills of Judaea beyond, and saw a woman standing. The woman’s face was turned away, as if engrossed by the cloud of red dust over her shoulder on the horizon. Not even the hem of her dress was stirring. When she turned her face towards Lisa, Lisa saw that all the left side consisted of dead skin.

They walked along the shore together. They did not know what to say. Finally Lisa broke the silence by saying that she was sorry about the burns on her face.

“Yes, but I deserve it; and wonderful healing goes on over here.” Her daughter recognized that voice from half a century ago, and her breast churned.

The woman looked intently into Lisa’s face and began to recognize features of her child. Noticing the cross, she said, “It’s mine, isn’t it? I’m glad you’ve kept it.”

Still there was embarrassment and shyness between them.

Lisa, to break the painful silence, asked her what conditions were like in her settlement, which was the one at Cana.

Her mother gave a sad smile. “Well, it’s not the lowest circle, by any means.”

Lisa smiled too, politely, but was puzzled; she remembered her mother’s irritating habit of never answering questions directly.

“Your aunt is coming over,” said her mother.

“Oh! When?”

“Soon.”

A raven flew across the water, a morsel of bread in its mouth.

“Yury too, quite soon.” Her mother’s wistful, beautiful hazel
eyes glanced sideways at Lisa. “You should get to know your brother. Of course I’m sure he was jealous when you came along. You’re very different; he takes after his father, that’s plain.”

Lisa took her mother’s hand. Their hands were fumbling and awkward. “Your father’s here, did you know that?” her mother asked. “He’s in isolation.”

“He always was!” said Lisa; and the quip made them both chuckle, and broke the ice finally.

Lisa said: “Are you in touch with him?”

“Oh yes.”

“Will you give him my love?”

“Yes, of course. Oh, and his folk—and mine—send their love, and they’re very anxious to meet you.”

The young woman nodded, pleased. They had fallen into step, walking quietly over the sand. Lisa opened her mouth to ask a question; but thought better of it. It was much too early. Besides, it was really just curiosity; it wasn’t important to know. The only important, terrible thing had been the
death
, and now she knew that didn’t apply, for her mother had not died, she had emigrated.

But as if by intuition her mother sighed, and said, “I expect you know what happened?”

“I know the bare facts. Not the circumstances. But you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s really not that important. I’d have been just as shocked if you’d been attending a conference of nuns.”

Her mother laughed. “That wouldn’t have been likely! No, I don’t mind talking about it. Your uncle’s a nice man. He didn’t have an easy time with Magda. He was healthy and normal, but her desires ran in an entirely different direction. She could do very little for him. She’s not to be blamed for that; she didn’t find out until it was too late. We were both terribly innocent
when we got married. And young. As ignorant as may flies. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Lisa. “Yes, it’s beginning to make sense.”

“She knew what was happening between us—at least in the beginning—and I had the feeling she was even quite relieved.” She looked anxiously at her daughter.

“So in
fact,”
said Lisa, as the mistiness began to clear, “when all three of you…she really wanted—?” She looked at her mother, blushed, and looked away again.

“Yes, probably. It was her suggestion. Franz and I found it very embarrassing. But later on she wanted
all
of it to stop—I suppose because she was lonely and jealous—so your uncle and I had to meet in secret. That was the unforgivable sin.”

“Did Father know?”

“He knew, but it was never mentioned. We hadn’t been sleeping together since—practically since Yury was born. Well, that’s not quite true—of course! Once in a blue moon. He was very busy. He had his work, his espionage, his mistress. He didn’t care what I did, so long as appearances were kept up.”

The sun was at its fiercest, and Lisa started to feel unwell. It was a draining experience, hearing her mother’s confession. She asked if they might sit down; there was a rock which provided a little shade. They sat, resting their backs against the burning rock. Her mother asked anxiously if she felt all right, and Lisa said she just felt a bit faint, because of walking in the hot sun. Her mother asked her if she would like a drink, and when Lisa said yes she unbuttoned her dress and put her arm round her daughter to draw her to her breast. The first refreshing drops cooled Lisa’s blood and her head stopped spinning. She took her lips away, and rested her hand reverently on her mother’s ample white breast, tipped with the orange nipple. “I remember it!” she
said with a smile. Her mother returned her smile, saying, “Drink as much as you like. I’ve always been blessed with plenty of milk.”

“But how—?” said Lisa; and her mother said, with a sigh, “There are so many orphans being sent over. There are never enough wet-nurses. It’s a way of making myself useful.”

Lisa sucked contentedly, first at one nipple and then the other. Her hand, embracing her mother inside her dress, felt the stiff bones, and she smiled to herself to think that her mother still wore the old-fashioned corselet. When she had finished drinking and her mother had fastened her dress, she undid her blouse and let her mother suck. She felt very happy with the lips sucking her nipple, and remarked, stroking her mother’s still thick, blond hair, that she envied her the experience of suckling babies. Fastening her blouse, blushing at her mother’s question, she explained that she had milk because of the young English lieutenant. She said how much she liked him, and he seemed to need feeding and comforting, he brought out her maternal feelings.

Feeling fresh and strong again, they stood up and resumed their walk along the lake shore. Marya Konopnicka said, “I felt I was being kind to your uncle, in much the same way. Without, I thought, hurting anyone unduly. Consoling him. Of course we partly deceive ourselves.”