The White Hotel (28 page)

After lunch they strolled in the grounds. There was now a concrete path down to the tiny cove and beach; but the latter were no different. Only, now, there were many strangers splashing about in the water, instead of the small family party of her childhood. She helped Kolya to undress, and took off her own shoes and stockings (tucking her skirt into her knickers). Even her husband tucked up his trouser legs and paddled. Lisa looked for jelly-fish under the water, but there were none. They lay then, drying their legs in the sunshine: which was warm, but not nearly so hot as she recalled, perhaps because of the lateness of the season.

Nor were the plants, trees and flowers in the ample grounds subtropical, as her memory said they were. She was surprised by that failure. Perhaps her memory had confused their own garden with some of the other places they had visited in their yacht, further to the south. Leaving Victor sun-bathing on the beach, she took the child on a trip of exploration. Change had not touched the dense trees in that remote part of the garden; except that the summer-house, gone to seed even in her time, was now nothing but a maze of bushes and brambles, growing out of stones and rotten wood.

She had the feeling that she was no more than a spectre. Herself was unreal, the little boy was unreal. She was cut off from the past and therefore did not live in the present. But suddenly, as she stood close against a pine tree and breathed in its sharp, bitter scent, a clear space opened to her childhood, as though a wind had sprung up from the sea, clearing a mist. It was not a memory from the past but the past itself, as alive, as real; and she
knew that she and the child of forty years ago were the same person.

That knowledge flooded her with happiness. But immediately came another insight, bringing almost unbearable joy. For as she looked back through the clear space to her childhood, there was no blank wall, only an endless extent, like an avenue, in which she was still herself, Lisa. She was still there, even at the beginning of all things. And when she looked in the opposite direction, towards the unknown future, death, the endless extent beyond death, she was there still. It all came from the scent of a pine tree.

The rest of the day flashed by. She put flowers on her mother’s grave, after her husband had helped her clear away the briers; she visited the crematorium, and found her father’s name in the book of remembrance; she wrote, and posted, cards to Aunt Magda, brother George, a Viennese friend; and her godson (whom she would soon meet); they took Kolya to the playground in the park, and also bought him an expensive toy, for being so patient and good. They caught the night train to Kiev. They looked forward to a quiet dinner after Kolya was asleep (he should have been worn out). But in fact he hardly slept all night, and made sure they stayed awake too. He whined, sulked, was sick, demanded his grandmother, bit Lisa’s finger, disturbed other travellers with his screams. By morning, when they staggered from the train, Victor and Lisa looked so haggard that the friends who met them—influential people who had the use of a car—made ribald comments. Kolya, by this time, was angelic: drowsing in his father’s arms.

Apartment 5
,

118 Kreshchatik
,

Kiev
,

U.S.S.R
.

4 November 1936

Dear Aunt Magda
,

I can’t believe it is almost Christmas already. I hope you enjoy the gifts. Your letter was most welcome, as always. I am sorry you are confined to your bed so much, you were always such an active person. But it was nice of George and Natalie to have your bedroom decorated and to give you a radio set. As you say, you are very fortunate to be in such good hands. Please give them my love. It was good news about George’s promotion, but I am sure no more than he deserved. And please pass on my congratulations also to Toni, on being awarded her doctorate. Dr. Morris! It sounds good. Her parents should be very proud, and I’m sure they are. Good-looking too! She looks marvellous in her gown and hood, and I bet she has lots of admirers. I can’t believe it’s the same little girl who stayed with us in Vienna. I wish I could meet her now. I’m sure she still thinks of me (if she remembers me at all) as a skinny woman who was so depressed she had no time for anyone else. It’s a shame we can’t know each other. And the same goes for Paul too, of course. I’m glad he’s doing well at Business School
.

Our life has been quite hectic these past few weeks. Kolya started school and enjoys it, after a few miserable days. He’s such a little dreamer thought! One day he wandered home in the middle of the morning—he’d thought it was dinner time when it was only the morning break! Walked home through the streets all on his own! He’s growing like a fern, and it’s difficult to keep up with his needs. Clothes of course are expensive, and not always easily obtainable. But we manage all right, we’re really very fortunate. Victor grumbles now and then about feeling old, which is nonsense, I tell him, because he’s healthy, and young at heart. He’s been producing a new opera, about building a dam, it’s not as bad as it sounds. It has some nice tunes. They had a panic about getting the costumes ready in time, so for two weeks I went along and did my bit, sewing and stitching. It was very good fun, working against time, and sharing a laugh with the girls. And I have two very good pupils, who come to the apartment three times a week. So the time just flies
.

Just two weeks before the new opera was due to start, we got news that Victor’s mother had died, and we had to rush off to Tiflis for the funeral. It was of course not unexpected, she had lived to a ripe old age and had been ailing for some time, but it’s a blow whenever it comes, and it’s a good thing he’s been so busy, it’s helped to take his mind off it. Some friends of ours looked after Kolya. We were only gone a few days, but we missed him, and I think he was very glad to see us back
.

It is a shame you have not been well enough to take that trip to visit with Hannah, nor she with you, but nice of her to telephone you on your birthday
. (
I’m glad our gift arrived in time
.)
The telephone is a wonderful thing. I keep meaning to write to her, if only to tell her how much I appreciate her superb teaching, now that I have pupils of my own! Give her my very best wishes, when you write
.

Yes, it would be lovely if we could take tea together. You are always in my thoughts. I hope the gold treatment has a good effect. It is a blessing that your eyes are clearer. I hope you like the handkerchiefs I embroidered—a little bit of the Ukraine. Now it has begun to snow—the first of the winter—and I must put on my coat and hat to go out and fetch Kolya from school. Our love, and the season’s greetings, to you all
.

Affectionately
,

Lisa, Victor and Kolya

5

The
Sleeping
Carriage

H
e awoke, for about the tenth time that night, and groaned to himself when he realized it still wasn’t dawn. He listened to the sounds of rustling in the wall. He would never hear those sounds again. His mouth was dry with excitement; he wanted to command the sun to rise, so they could start out on their journey. The first time he had “moved house,” it had only been a matter of crossing the city; and a miserable change it was too. This place was a dump. But today they would be crossing borders, deserts, mountain ranges—and it would go on and on. Tomorrow night he would be sleeping in a train! He couldn’t wait for it to start. Surely it must be nearly morning and he would hear his mother stirring soon?

They would play cards on the train, Pavel and he. Yet it was a pity the others weren’t coming because you could have a more exciting game with four. Pavel was all right, but not much fun on
his own. He would miss the rest of the gang. There were several things he would miss: the scavenging around, seeing what you could pick up without getting caught; and not having to go to school. Yes, that would be awful, having to go to school again, though it would please his mother. Not that she didn’t keep him busy enough as it was; but after a couple of hours she got tired, fortunately, and let him go out of doors. Would he miss this room? Yes, a little, because although it was a dump it was home. But there’d be plenty of things to make him forget it very quickly.

He would miss Shura, though. Shura was really his best friend. Though he wondered if Shura perhaps liked Pavel better. He would not admit it but he was a little jealous. His mother said that probably the other children would be allowed to follow on, later. He would miss visiting Shura’s home, because there was always some food there. He liked Shura’s mother; she was young and lively. He wished his own mother wasn’t so old. It was embarrassing to have an old woman for a mother. She also had that very bad cough, which went on and on, and he hoped she wouldn’t die. He heard her coughing now, on the other side of the curtain. Good, that might mean it was nearly time to get up.

The strange thing about sleeping was that you had no idea what time it was. You could sometimes get an idea from looking at the window, but with the curtain drawn across his bed he couldn’t see the window. It was pitch-dark. He had the horrifying thought that it might be only about midnight! Surely it couldn’t be! It felt late in the night, somehow; and he knew they were going to get up very early, before dawn.

He turned over in bed, and tried to make the time pass by imagining the place where he was going. The only help to his imagination was the Bible stories his mother told him sometimes; but they weren’t much help. They were also boring. It was better
to fix his thoughts on the journey. He liked trains. The first time he’d travelled on one he’d been sick, his mother said, and a great nuisance—that was when he was only a baby. He didn’t remember it. The longest journey he’d taken was all the way to Leningrad. That was when he had slept in a room of what used to be a real palace. He had been only five or six, but he remembered quite a lot of that holiday. There was an old man and a younger man; and when he looked over the window sill he was surprised to see water. He remembered also being on a ship once, but it was very vague. Yet memories were strange, because he actually thought he remembered his first birthday party. He recalled being held in his granny’s arms to blow out the candle on the cake. Yet that was much earlier than when his mother and father had taken him on the ship. Perhaps he only imagined he remembered his first birthday because there was a photograph of it in the album. His grandmother was holding him up to blow out the candle, and his father was there too, smiling.

He imagined the sound of the train wheels taking them to Leningrad and back, and mixed it up with the rustling of the cockroaches in the wall. It made a strange tune. He liked listening to different sounds; and especially at night trying to hear sounds in the silence, or remembering sounds. He had been nearly last in his class in music at school, and he’d told his parents he hated music; which had disappointed them. And it was true, in a way; the kind of music he was made to learn. All those boring notes. But (and this was a big secret) he was going to be a composer when he grew up. That would be a shock to his mother. If she lived till then. He stirred uneasily.

His father was old too; but nothing mattered as long as he came back. He recalled his last sight of his father—when he was still half asleep, being kissed and hugged by him and told he must
be a good boy and take care of his mother. That was the worst memory of his life, just as the holiday in Leningrad was the best. Not just that night, but the weeks after, when the other children bullied him and called him names, saying his father was a traitor. That was even before some of
their
fathers had been put in prison; afterwards, it was even worse. He’d got beaten up. That was when they’d had to move. But he was sure his father was no traitor. His mother was sure too. He couldn’t understand why his father should have been put in prison for having travelled abroad, years and years ago, or for putting on an opera about a cruel Tsar. Surely the prison, wherever it was, would be overrun soon; and when his father came back he would come looking for them—and they wouldn’t be here! Suddenly it didn’t seem a good idea to be going away. He had a picture of his father knocking on the door, and then turning away with a sad face.