The Mascot (33 page)

“Could your father have survived the war?” I asked my father.

He buried his face in his hands. He was completely bewildered. “But why would my mother tell me my father was dead?”

Alice's attention shifted back to the letter, which she still held in her hand. Her eyes scanned quickly down the two pages.

“Amazing,” she said.

Her eyes shifted from my father to my mother and then to me.

“Who'd have expected Erick to be in Frida's office the same day the letter sat on her desk? You'd have a greater chance of winning the lottery.”

“I think we all need a brandy,” my mother suggested and rushed to put out glasses.

While my mother poured the drinks, Alice put down the letter and slowly rolled herself a cigarette, gazing at the letter.

“Frida has included Erick's number,” she said. “Shall we try to call him?”

“Now?” my father asked.

Alice nodded.

My father appeared thrown by the suggestion.

“Strike while the iron is…what do they say?”

“Hot,” I offered.

Alice smirked at me.

“It's probably too late there,” my father said hopefully.

“Not at all,” Alice said firmly, looking at her watch.

The call did not go smoothly. Alice had to shout down the line in an effort to make herself heard and in less than ten minutes the call had ended.

“There were such crackling noises on the line,” she complained.

“What was Erick like?” my father asked enthusiastically.

“Hard to say,” Alice replied. “He seemed sane. I told him about your resemblance to Solomon and he was baffled. Then it was strange—he had the same idea that we have. What if you are Solomon's son? That you are Ilya Solomonovich, the eldest of the Galperin children, who everyone believed had died. Ilya would have been about five years old at the time of the extermination—the same as you. Solomon had often spoken of Ilya and had laid flowers on the mass grave in memory of the boy, his wife, and other children. He got carried away with the idea and pleaded for you to come to Belarus immediately.

“He said that there are many things that he can do for you, Alex. He can take you to Koidanov and introduce you to people who knew your father and who probably knew you as a little boy. People who know even more than he does about the past.

“After that the line was bad. The last thing I heard him say was, ‘Tell him to come. All will be revealed.'”

We sat in silence, taking in the significance of the letter and now the call. Had we made direct contact with my father's past for the first time?

I glanced furtively at my father. He looked excited but grim. “I'm not convinced I'm a Galperin.”

There was a note of hysteria in his voice as he continued, “I don't know who I am. Will I ever know?”

Then he wavered again. “Imagine if it were true,” he said, looking hopefully at each of us. “I would have a brother. Erick would be my brother.”

We listened as he repeated the word “brother,” relishing it.

Then his caution overcame him again. “No, it can't be,” he said. “Perhaps Panok is my name…”

Finally, Alice spoke. “There's only one thing to do,” she said. “We have to get Alex to Koidanov.”

She turned to look at me. “Any ideas, Mr. Oxford?”

My mother and father both looked at me expectantly.

“Let me think about it…” I faltered, secretly feeling daunted by the task.

“Well, don't take too long,” Alice said with determination. “We need action on this. Now.”

The letter and the phone call seemed to have ignited my father's psyche. No longer confined to his dreams, incidents and impressions from his past now flashed before my father at all hours.

One night in particular, my parents and I were at home watching television, and my father was lying on the floor in front of the fire.

Suddenly he sat upright. His face was almost apoplectic: his eyes bulged wide.

“Alex!” my mother exclaimed. “What's wrong?”

The sound of my mother's voice calmed him. He rose to sit on an armchair, shaking his head to rouse himself.

“I'd been asleep in a bed. Something has woken me. There's another child next to me. He must be my little brother. Then I hear a sound, this time coming from the ceiling.”

My father's eyes were feverish and, again, he spoke in the present tense.

“‘Mama,' I call out, and my mother comes into the room. It's not really a room, it's—how do you say?—it's partitioned off from the next room by a curtain. ‘I can hear something,' I tell her. ‘No,' she whispers, ‘you must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep.' She kisses me. I watch as she leaves the room.

“I hear the sound above me again. Something is moving up there. I can just make out a shadow through a gap in the curtain.”

Involuntarily my father moved his head to one side, as if trying to peer through the gap from a different angle.

“Legs!” he exclaimed. “Somebody's legs…a man's. They're coming out of the ceiling. They're wearing trousers and boots. I recognize them—they are my father's boots. Why are they hanging from the ceiling?

“I can hear something else now—the whispers of men's voices and my mother's, but I can't see from where I am. I get up and tiptoe to the curtain. My mother's there. And a man with a beard. And my father. I am confused. I haven't seen my father for ages. My mother has told me that he is dead. But he's not. He's not! He is here in front of me. Or is he a ghost? Am I dreaming? I am frightened and return to my bed. I feel safer there.

“Now I hear the sound of footsteps coming toward me. I open my eyes. Even in the darkness I know that it's my father. He's hovering above me, but he's not a ghost.

“He strokes my hair.

“‘Papa?' I cannot resist saying his name.

“He doesn't answer me.

“He touches my cheek.

“He kisses my forehead.

“‘Good-bye,' he whispers.

“My father is turning away from me. I watch him leave the room. What is happening? I get up and cross the room to the curtain. I peep through the gap. I cannot see clearly, so I rub my eyes.

“The man with a beard is still here. I know him, but I can't remember who he is.”

“My mother is now at the door. She is waving good-bye to somebody!

“Wait! It's Father and the man with the beard. Where are they going in the middle of the night?

“My mother is closing the door.

“‘Mama?' I call out from where I am standing, partly hidden by the curtain. She turns.

“‘Papa, I saw Papa.'

“‘Papa is not here.'

“She takes me back to my bed. She hugs me.”

My mother and I sat in stunned silence while my father, exhausted, stared blankly into space, seemingly trapped between the past and the present.

My mother, ever practical, rose silently and went into the kitchen. After several moments she returned with a mug of tea for my father. My father gulped at it greedily, as if it were a magic potion that would deliver him with speed and finality to the present.

“I've got to get to Koidanov,” my father said.

“As soon as possible,” added my mother.

T
wo weeks after the letter arrived, I found myself waiting with my parents at Melbourne airport for my flight to Oxford to be called.

The plan was for me to organize the journey to Belarus and Latvia, as well, which my father was keen to visit. He had not seen Riga since he'd fled with the Dzenis family in late 1944. My parents would join me in Oxford and then we would make the journey together.

It was torturous to sit opposite them in the airport coffee shop, laughing and joking in spite of the difficulty I had leaving them. I worried that it was the worst possible moment for me to abandon them—for that is how it felt to me—to the ravages of my father's memories.

Nearly thirty hours later, I turned the key in the door to my digs in Oxford. Exhausted, I dumped my bags in the hall, poured myself a glass of water, and sprawled out on the sofa. It was then that I noticed the message light flashing on the answering machine. I had been gone for nearly three months.

I reached across and pushed the button. The machine replayed a dozen or so messages—from friends, the bank, the dentist reminding me of an appointment I'd forgotten in my rushed departure for Australia—nothing of any importance until I came to the final one.

It was my father's voice.

“Mark?” he said. “You're not back yet? Call me when you get in.”

My heart skipped a beat. I looked at my watch. It was now 10:00 p.m. in Melbourne. My parents would still be awake. I sighed, picked up the phone, and dialed their number.

My mother answered. I could tell instantly that something was up. Her voice lacked its usual melodic tone. “You got home all right, luv?” she asked.

“No worries, Mum,” I replied, then added slightly impatiently, “Dad's called already. Can I speak to him?”

“He's sleeping,” she said.

“Okay, I won't disturb him,” I said.

“He was so shaken that I had to give him a sedative.”

“What's happened?” I said, panicking.

“I shouldn't have said anything. He's fine. You're not to worry yourself. Call him tomorrow, luv.”

But I did worry. All afternoon, as I dozed and slowly unpacked, I counted the minutes until it was morning in Melbourne, and I could call my father again. I pictured my mother alone in the house with my sleeping father. There was nobody there to support her. It would not be the last time that I would have a sudden, almost inexpressible realization of how hard all this was for her, and how frequently friends and family would overlook the burden that had been placed on her—the man she had been married to for over forty years was in one sense now a stranger to her.

At eight in the morning, Melbourne time, I called again. The phone had barely rung before my father picked it up. He sounded groggy. He coughed and then began.

“Somebody called,” he said. “We'd barely come in the front door after seeing you off when the phone rang.

“I picked it up and at the same time—I don't know why, my intuition, perhaps—I switched on the speakerphone so that your mother could listen in.

“It was a man's voice. I didn't know who he was, but I did recognize the accent—it was Latvian.

“‘You were the little boy who was helped by the Latvian soldiers, weren't you?' he asked, without introducing himself.

“‘Yes. So the story goes. Who's speaking, please?'

“There was silence at the other end of the line. Then he spoke again.

“‘You can call me Daugavas.'

“‘How do you know about me?'

“‘Many Latvians know about you.' He laughed wryly. ‘Recently it's all we talk about. You and Konrad Kalejs. Some say you are destroying the good reputation of our community.'

“‘For telling the truth about what happened to me?'

“‘I don't wish to argue with you. Before I go any further with this I need your word—this conversation will be confidential.'

“‘I cannot give guarantees. I will try, that's all. What does this concern?'

“Suddenly the man seemed nervous and hesitant. I thought he would hang up. I waited patiently, put no pressure on him. My strategy worked. He began to speak of his own volition.

“‘Recently I was back in Riga. One night at dinner I began to tell people about a man living in Melbourne—you, and your association with Latvia.

“‘They were kind to you, weren't they?' he asked. ‘The ones who looked after you.'

“I was embarrassed. ‘I guess so,' I replied. ‘I have always said that.'

“‘When I finished your story,' he said, ‘one woman there told me that she'd seen a photo of a young boy soldier standing among Latvian and German soldiers. The photo was in the house of her husband's grandmother in Munich. This woman is the widow of a high-ranking German soldier during the war. Once, when he came back from active duty, he brought this photo. He told her, “This boy, he's a good luck charm!” '

“‘It could be me,' I said to the caller. ‘So many people wanted to take my photo. Can I see the photograph?' I asked. ‘When can I meet you?'

“With that, his mood changed. I sensed his reluctance. I shouldn't have pushed him.

“‘I must go,' he said, and abruptly hung up.

“My mind was restless all night. I had to find this man.

“The first thing yesterday morning, the telephone rang again. I recognized his voice immediately.

“‘Mr. Daugavas,' I said. I decided to confront him on the spot. I knew that he must've been torn about letting me see the photograph, otherwise why would he have called back. I adopted a reasonable tone. ‘Please don't hang up, sir,' I said. ‘I understand your predicament and I think you understand mine. I want to see the photo. I have a right to see it.'

“Then there was a long silence at the other end of the line. At first I thought he'd hung up again, but then I heard him sigh heavily.

“‘Look. Can't you understand? This is difficult for me. I want to help you, but I don't want to be involved in any trouble.'

“‘Why? It's only a photo.'

“‘It's a shocking photograph.'

“‘I don't understand.'

“‘The image is a violent one of you laden with weapons. If people see it, they'll start asking questions. Who are these men with this little boy? What are they doing? What are they thinking? Why is this child in their midst? Are they members of an extermination troop? Now do you see?'

“‘This can be just between us.'

“The man seemed to be thinking. Then he spoke. ‘I can't take the risk. I'm sorry.'

“‘Please, sir, hear me out,' I pleaded. ‘It's my past, that photo. Please. I have few photos, so few things from anyone who cared for me at that time. And the soldiers, they did care for me so well, you know, they loved me like their own. They always protected me. Fed me first. Gave me water. We cared for each other. You know what I would do for them? In the summer, on patrol, I would pick strawberries for them. From among the bodies of dead soldiers rotting in the fields. And such delicious strawberries. So big. I always came back with handfuls and I passed them out. One for each soldier. That was one of my jobs. You see, I was one of them. I cared for them, so why would I betray them? I would be betraying myself if I did.' I went on like this—I can't remember every word exactly—trying to convince him.

“‘Let me think about this. I promise I will call you back.'

“‘When?'

“‘Today. Before three. You have my word.'

“He did keep his word. He called back after lunch. He agreed to my request, but only on one condition. I could see the photograph but I couldn't keep it.

“Amazingly, he agreed to meet me that night, as if we were secret agents or something.

“I was flabbergasted. Why let me see it, but not have it? I decided to agree and argue my case when I came face-to-face with him.

“He suggested we meet outside Luna Park, a local amusement park. He knew that it would be closed on an evening midweek and that the area around it would be deserted.

“I went there at the appointed time, and, just as I suspected, there wasn't a soul around. It was a humid summer's night but with rain pouring down so heavily I could barely see. I had to keep the wipers on.

“I saw a car pull slowly into the curb. Its headlights blinded me for a moment. Then I saw a tall man get out and head toward the entrance. You remember it, don't you? The giant open mouth illuminated with enormous white teeth.

“I waited to make sure it was him. In my rearview mirror I watched the man pace up and down. Then I got out and went over. I'd never met him before. He didn't say a word to me. He simply removed an envelope from inside his coat and pulled out a photo. Immediately I reached for it, but he stepped back and shook his head.

“‘But I can't let you have it,' he said.

“He held the photo aloft for me to see it. There was enough light from the entrance for me to tell instantly that it was me. I wanted to examine it more closely, but the man kept a firm grip on it. He wouldn't let me touch it at all.

“I don't know—something came over me—I felt the photo belonged to me. It was of me—and this stranger had decided I shouldn't have it.

“I snatched the photo from him. He was shocked; it seemed he never expected that kind of reaction. I was too fast for him. I made for the car as quickly as possible, got in, and locked the door.

“He appeared at the window, breathless with anger. He stood by my car for a while, trying to bargain with me, but I refused point-blank to hand the photo over. Eventually he gave up.

“I watched the taillights of his car disappear into the distance and then headed off in the opposite direction.

“Mum was waiting up for me.

“I got out the photo to show her. It's terrible.”

My father described the image to me as best he could.

I could barely believe what I heard and raged inwardly at these men—at those who posed for the photograph and the man who took it.

“Do you recognize any of the men?”

“The man standing beside me with his arm around me. His name, if I remember correctly, was Aizum. Captain Aizum.”

I grabbed a pen and made a note of the name.

“Anybody else? Sergeant Kulis?”

“No.”

“Lobe?”

“No…but that doesn't mean they weren't around. Who knows?”

My father paused.

“You know, I think that this is one of the photos taken on that day I saw the synagogue burned.”

“Is there anything visible in the background?” I asked, hoping that there would be something that could identify where it was taken.

“Nothing,” my father replied. “Only the side of a train carriage. It's a terrible photo, but I suppose it's better than nothing. A remnant from my past.” He laughed bitterly.

For a moment a terrible chill passed through me. But I didn't dare ask my father any more. I would see the photograph in good time.

“One thing is certain, Dad,” I said. “You've got to be careful who you show this photo to.”

He nodded. “There'd be some who'd use it against me,” he said soberly, “no matter what the truth behind the image.”

In the weeks following my return to Oxford I set about organizing my parents' journey. I had no idea how long it would take to put everything in order. It was winter now and the weather would be inhospitable for travel. I hoped to be in Belarus and Latvia by April or May, when better weather had arrived.

It was during this period that I arranged to catch up with my acquaintance Elli; I'd kept in touch with her while I was in Australia. I suggested the coffee shop in Blackwell's.

I arrived before her and found a small table by the window overlooking Broad Street.

Suddenly a shadow crossed my table. I looked up to find Elli.

“Dearie,” she said. “It's good to see you back.” She touched my arm warmly. “I've been worried about you. All the pressure you're under.”

“A relief to be in a quieter place for a while,” I mumbled. Then I smiled.

“How are your parents these days?”

“They're surviving.”

“That sounds grim.”

I nodded, playing with my coffee cup.

“If there is anything I can do…”

“There is…” I decided to tell her about the photograph.

Elli, as usual, proved to be a good listener. When I had finished, she was quiet for several moments. “You don't have a copy of it?” she asked.

“No. My parents will be here in the spring, though. If my father agrees, I'll show it to you.”

“Your father should guard it closely. If anybody got their hands on it…” She didn't finish her thought.