The improvisers, p.21
The Star on the Grave, page 21
They hug each other goodbye, and Rachel watches Mizumi walk away until she’s out of view.
~
Back in the hotel room, it occurs to Rachel that the other survivors might like to write letters for her to take to Sugihara. She’ll speak to Joshua Nishri about it. But in the meantime, there is so much to do. Though she has organised the majority of Felka’s belongings, she needs to decide which to keep and which to discard. A task that she should have weeks, not days, to do. But Rachel needs to vacate the hotel room soon, and although there aren’t scores of possessions, and few of them hold any material value, each one is precious to Rachel, now that Felka is gone.
The synagogue auxiliary has offered to store Felka and Rachel’s belongings, a gesture which Rachel realises the pragmatism of and decides to take the offer. All Rachel needs to do is decide what to leave behind.
And so, she begins the task. Felka’s jewellery is first: a small collection that is the most valuable of all Felka’s belongings here, Rachel reflects. But aside from the ring her grandmother gifted her, the pieces mean nothing. What creates emotion and evokes memories of wonderful moments for her? The scarves that Felka wore with such flair. Her beloved red-satin eye mask and matching bathrobe. The reading glasses. The make-up. Her hairbrush, still carrying silky strands of her beautiful, pepper-grey locks. Her embroidered hanky, still streaked with mascara stains from crying.
Rachel weeps as she collects these things that are so truly Felka – her uniform, in a way. She doubts Michael will have any sentimentality about what is thrown away, so besides these things, she holds on to the jewellery, if only because she can’t bring herself to dispose of such expensive pieces, and the painting she bought for Felka.
She checks the wardrobe, just in case, and is glad she did; resting in the back is the bag filled with the pieces of the vase Michael broke. She touches one of the shards. Felka never had the chance to fix it, of course. It sparks a determination in Rachel: she stows it in her luggage, vowing to repair it. She stares at the neatly folded items on the small hotel room shelf in the cupboard and is transported back to Sydney, to Felka’s apartment, one morning a few months back:
‘Careful, the cord!’ Felka shouted, just in time for Rachel to duck under the line stretching from the lounge to the power point beside the toaster in the kitchen. Felka was carefully ironing a pair of silken underwear. She folded and placed it atop a perfectly aligned pile of matching specimens, and set to securing them with a pink satin ribbon.
‘Grandma, is it really necessary to iron underpants?’ Rachel asked. But of course she knew the answer.
‘Necessary? Pupelle, when I’m dead and someone comes looking through my drawers, I will have nothing to hide!’
Rachel gently lifts the pile of undergarments and stands there, not sure where to put them. She returns them to the shelf. Hopefully, the housekeeping staff will know what to do with them.
The last thing she packs is Felka’s letter to Sugihara, set with the utmost care in her handbag.
Later, Joshua Nishri meets her in the cafe nook tucked into the hotel lobby.
He tells her how devastated the survivors are about Felka’s death: ‘Most of them have arranged to stay longer so they can attend the funeral. They asked me to say that if there is anything you need, anything at all, let us know.’
‘I don’t know what I would have done without you all,’ she says. ‘I was thinking, there’s not much I can do for everyone, but if anyone wanted to write to Sugihara, I could take letters with me?’
‘That is a wonderful idea.’ Joshua smiles, clasping her hand. ‘I will let them know. All the arrangements for the funeral have now been made. Your father’s flight has been booked. He will be here tomorrow.’
Rachel is glad that he’s coming; at least he won’t be missing his own mother’s funeral. But she hasn’t thought much about him the past few days. The anger at him concealing Loretta’s existence is dwarfed next to the grief. There is still so much to do. But he hasn’t even called her once, she realises, and the thought hardens her.
‘Joshua,’ she says. ‘You went to Moscow to find Sugihara – you’ve been there. What can you tell me about it?’
Joshua is hesitant. ‘It’s not a nice place, the USSR. I would not want my daughter going there, alone.’
She waves this away. ‘The flight is already booked.’
‘I know. I cannot stop you. But it is not a place for a girl on her own, let alone a foreign girl, a Jewish foreign girl. Are you sure it is not enough to meet Sugihara’s wife with the others instead?’
‘It’s not the same,’ Rachel says. ‘Please, Joshua. The travel agent had a very outdated map. Is there anything you can tell me?’
Joshua shakes his head. ‘Follow the signs, and keep your head down, that is all I can offer. You will have an official tour guide with you the whole time anyhow. It’s mandatory. But I wish you would at least wait for your father. It is much safer for you to be going with a man.’
Rachel laughs. ‘He can barely make it to his own mother’s funeral. I’m going to go, and I’m going alone – with or without your help. At least give me the name of a good hotel. Please.’
Joshua sighs, and writes down an address. ‘Take taxis where possible. It’s easy to make your way to the Kursky Train Station, but from there, take a taxi straight to this hotel, and your guide will meet you there. If you need me, it may be difficult to call me, but I will do what I can to help.’
‘Thank you, Joshua,’ Rachel says, standing up.
‘Do not stand out,’ he tells her. ‘Do not draw attention to yourself. Do not give anyone a reason to single you out. Do you hear me? There are no simple misunderstandings behind the Iron Curtain. And above all – remember – you are a Jew.’
‘I’m Jewish, yes, I know.’
‘Not Jewish, Rachel,’ Joshua says deliberately. ‘A Jew.’
Joshua says ‘Jew’ in a charged way, the way Thomas said it. She pauses, then nods once more, and only then, Joshua stands up. As she follows him outside, she feels uneasy, but pushes it down.
She can do this for Felka. She must.
Chapter 17
On the morning of the funeral, Rachel is not sure how she should be feeling. What is the correct way to feel? The fact that this day’s cloudy start has given way to clear weather and bright sunlight has tempered the melancholy a little for her. It feels as though Felka has organised fair skies for her own send-off – very, very in character for her.
But still, Rachel finds that preparing to bury the person who was closest to her is far from easy. It was Felka’s presence – so ample, gargantuan – that filled the hole left behind by her mother, after all. It’s a compound pain, this feeling. The pain of losing the person closest to her, yet again.
Rachel cannot get back to sleep. She fusses around the hotel room, packing and repacking. Then she fixes her hair. Sheds a few tears. Reapplies her eye make-up. Tears up again. She changes her dress, a new, chic cut with a mid-thigh hem, worried it’s not respectful enough. Better? No. Now she looks dowdy, which she knows Felka would hate. She changes back again.
She can imagine Felka’s commentary:
All this fuss over me? What are you doing? Are you crazy? Stick me in the ground, and poof! Forget it. Go live! Life’s too short. I’m dancing up here with your grandfather. We’re having a ball! You think we care? Pupelle – you have a wonderful life ahead of you, full of promise and possibilities. Go. Enjoy. I love you, I kiss you, I hug you.
She smiles, despite herself, and then there’s a knock on the door. She peers through the viewer.
It’s her father. Her smile disappears.
Rachel composes herself, takes a deep breath and lets him in. She promised Felka she would try to be more compassionate. To forgive him. And she will. But she’s already steeling herself for the lack of reciprocation that will surely follow.
She eases the door open very slightly, as though she might let him in but keep out his surly demeanour. It doesn’t work. His gloom enters before he does, and envelops her. Michael looks tired. His usually pristine Brylcreemed hair is loose, falling onto his face. His tie is rumpled, his jacket slung over his forearm. He sets his suitcase down and awkwardly moves to embrace her. She hesitates – it’s a gesture born of duty, she’s convinced – but allows it.
‘Rachel,’ Michael says awkwardly. ‘Are you … well?’
‘It’s been difficult,’ she says. She won’t lie to him. ‘But the Sugihara group have been incredible to me.’ She pauses, wanting to bring up Loretta – but now is not the time, she knows. Not if she’s wanting to avoid conflict.
‘I see,’ he says, and they fall silent. Rachel fusses unnecessarily with the hem of her cardigan as he works up to saying something. An apology, she hopes. But she isn’t optimistic.
‘I know you are angry with me,’ he says eventually. ‘With Felka, too. About hiding your heritage.’
‘Yes,’ she says levelly. ‘You hid an entire side of me from myself. A side that I’m really glad to have connected with. Especially before Grandma died.’
She pauses, and adds, ‘It’s a beautiful religion, Dad. I don’t understand how you could have just … left it behind.’
‘I hid our faith to protect you,’ he snaps.
Rachel takes a deep breath. She will not be drawn into his problems. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she says slowly, as gently as she can. ‘None of the survivors I’ve met shied away from Judaism. Fuck Hitler. We won. We are proud to be Jewish. That’s how they feel.’
Michael shifts uncomfortably. ‘Rachel …’
She waits.
‘I know you’re … I’m …’
He trails off.
And then, he shakes his head. ‘You shouldn’t leave the room in such a state. It’s an upmarket establishment. It’s embarrassing.’
There’s hardly any mess; Rachel’s long since bagged the things to be thrown away, packed the rest. The only feasible issues are the unmade beds and the wet towel slung over a chair. But his baseless nit-picking doesn’t strike the usual blow.
‘I’ll tidy it up,’ she shrugs. ‘Don’t worry.’
He’s clearly thrown by her calm response, and he softens. ‘Well … good. I’m glad.’ He clears his throat. ‘My room is just down the hall. I’m going to shower and change before we leave. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes.’
He nods, reaches out, then changes his mind and instead pats her on the shoulder. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.
Rachel sits down on her bed. Why must she be the more mature one? Taking that pause to think before she replied didn’t come naturally, but it certainly avoided the fight they probably would have had otherwise. Maybe, if she leads by example, he will eventually learn to meet her halfway. God, she hopes so. She doesn’t know how much of this she has in her.
But still, she did it. She shifted their dynamic. Just a touch.
~
In a small building off to one side of the graveyard, Rachel stands next to Michael. The rabbi stands before them, running them through the event to come. Preparing them to bury their loved one. When the rabbi directs Rachel and Michael to rip part of their clothes, Michael does it without hesitation, but Rachel is confused.
If the rabbi is confused by her ignorance, he hides it. ‘We are recognising your loss, accepting that your hearts are irreversibly torn,’ he explains. ‘But in Judaism, we understand that the body is only a garment worn by the soul. At the time death is upon us, we strip off one uniform and dress in another. The garment may be torn, but the essence of the person covered by it is intact.’
‘Oh,’ Rachel says inadequately, lost for words. At her mother’s funeral, Rachel had been afraid to cry, in case Michael scolded her. And now, she is not only allowed, but expected, to embrace her pain?
‘The loss of someone we love is always tragic,’ the rabbi says kindly. ‘But I hope that through the pain, you can find an even deeper truth: that the soul never dies.’
Even though Rachel’s eyes are dry, his words shift something in her, ease the pain just a little. They follow him outside, where he begins the service with the graveside prayers in English. Afterwards, Michael begins to recite Kaddish in Hebrew – the memorial prayer for the dead, Judit softly explains to Rachel. ‘It is traditionally recited by the son, by men only,’ Judit murmurs.
Rachel is annoyed by this. That her father is the one to say Kaddish, even though she was far closer to Felka at the end. If the roles were reversed – if Felka were here, and Rachel in the ground – she thinks that Felka would fight to say it for her. So she interrupts her father and asks the rabbi if she can also say the memorial prayer.
The rabbi hesitates. ‘It is not the done thing,’ he says awkwardly. It’s obvious he does not wish to hurt or upset her.
‘My grandmother was no ordinary woman,’ Rachel protests. ‘She would have wanted me to say it with my father.’
The rabbi looks at Michael. Rachel expects him to argue, but he just nods at the rabbi, who relents and offers the phrases for her to repeat after him. Michael joins her, and they speak in unison. As she utters the unfamiliar words, mispronounced in a shaking voice, holding back tears, Michael surprises her when places his hand on her shoulder, steadying her.
At the end of it, the rabbi hands a shovel to Michael, who drops the first load of dirt onto the open grave. He passes it to Rachel. She steps to the mound, takes a shovel-load of dirt and drops it in. The noise of the soil hitting the wooden lid is dull, mournful, heavy. She passes the shovel on to Judit, stepping back, watching as the others step forward, one by one, passing the shovel between them as they do the same. Some opt to drop in the dirt with their hands. Once everyone is done, Rachel takes the shovel back, continuing the work herself. The labour feels good in a way she can’t explain. The blisters forming on her hands, the burn in her arms. Some of the men try to help but she shrugs them off. Tears run down her cheeks. She hardly notices them.
Michael watches her – she can see him from the corner of her eye – until the grave is two-thirds full. He holds out his hand for the shovel. She shakes her head, continues by herself. Her hair sticks to her cheeks, hampering her vision. The other mourners look on, wearing expressions of sympathy and pity. She notices none of it until, finally, Felka’s grave is full. The earth covers her, embraces her; she lies next to baby Rachel at last.
The attendees file past them, one by one, offering their respects. ‘I wish you long life,’ several say. Many embrace Rachel warmly, despite her sweat-damp, dirt-streaked clothes. At the end, there is only the rabbi, Michael and Rachel left.
In another world, Michael would put his arms around Rachel and pull her close to him. But Rachel knows she must continue to build the bridge, brick by brick. Slowly, as they gaze at Felka’s grave, she places an arm around Michael’s waist. She feels his body turn rigid, but she doesn’t flinch away. Just waits. After a moment, he puts a tense arm around her shoulder.
‘I’m going to stay here a little while,’ Rachel says.
‘I’ll see you back at the hotel,’ he says, and then offers her a small smile before he goes. It’s barely a twist at the corner of his lips, but she can’t remember the last time he smiled at her. Rachel doesn’t turn to watch him go, still staring at the grave. The rabbi bids her farewell, and then she is alone.
Rachel sits on the grass next to the fresh dirt, picks up a handful and lets it fall from her hand back onto the pile. She repeats the action mindlessly, trying to cause the dirt to fall as slowly as possible in a gentle, steady stream, guiding it to create a pattern with it as it lands. She thinks of mandalas, the art of forming patterns from coloured powder. How intricate they are, how delicate. The incredible effort involved for something so transient, designed to be swept away as soon as it is completed. She read once that mandalas are a symbol of the universe in its ideal form, transformed from a universe of suffering into one of joy.
She can’t imagine such a universe without Felka, but she thinks it could exist, one day. Maybe. It’s hard to imagine ever truly being happy again. Who will be her compass now? Michael has so far to go, and Yanni is an uncertainty …
She wipes her hand over the pattern she has created, destroying it, blending it back into the mound from whence it came. As she gets to her feet, dusting off her hands, she looks around. Though time has stood still for her, the rest of the world continues on. How dare the bees buzz happily as they collect nectar? How dare the flowers bloom so beautifully? How dare the people walk by, smiling and laughing, without any regard for the fact that the most important person in her life is now lying six feet under the ground?
The necklace Michael gave her still hangs around her neck. She grasps it, a small comfort.
‘Rachel?’
Startled, she looks up. Loretta is standing just a few metres away. She must have waited until the funeral-goers left.
‘Loretta,’ Rachel says neutrally, as the other woman approaches. In the daylight, the similarity to Shirley is muted, less obvious. A different person entirely.
‘I wish you long life,’ Loretta says.
‘A few of the others said that to me. What does it mean?’
‘Jewish people say it as a way of comforting the mourners,’ Loretta smiles. ‘That they should live long enough to be able to remember their loved one for as long as possible.’
‘Huh.’ Rachel likes that. The idea of love after death being an ongoing ritual of sorts.
‘I came by to offer my condolences,’ Loretta says.
‘I would have thought you’d be angry with Felka,’ Rachel says, surprised.
‘Felka did what she thought was best for her family,’ Loretta replies. ‘Michael, too. I just wish it had turned out differently.’
‘Me too.’
‘I was hoping we could spend some time together while you’re here,’ Loretta says. ‘If you’re interested, I mean. I have at least several birthdays to make up to you.’
Her light tone brings a smile to Rachel’s face, and her words make Rachel’s chest swell. But she grimaces. ‘I’m going to Moscow tomorrow.’
