The Mascot (5 page)

“My identity paper,” he said, looking up briefly.

“What do you want them for at this hour?” I asked.

He shrugged and unfolded the yellowing paper. “Uldis Kurzemnieks,” he read.

“Don't forget—Alex Kurzem,” I added.

He gave a bitter laugh. “I've got more names than most people, but I don't know my real name.”

I nodded my head grimly. I decided to grasp the opportunity. “But you know who you were at least—a little pigherd boy,” I said, suspecting since his outburst in London that this was not likely the case.

My father shook his head. “Not at all, son,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Tell me, Dad,” I prodded gently.

“I wouldn't know where to begin,” he said.

“Start anywhere,” I almost pleaded. “I promised you in London that I would help you find out the significance of those words. But I need more to go on.”

He looked up from the identity paper he still held in his hand. His face suddenly looked drawn. “But they are only pieces…” he said.

“Don't worry, Dad,” I urged him.

“It was terrible.” My father paused reflectively and then began in earnest. “It started during the night. We were in the kitchen. I was playing on the floor with my little brother. I can see my mother now. She was sitting quietly in the candlelight, watching us with a worried, shell-shocked look on her face. She was nursing my baby sister. Suddenly the door flew open and two soldiers stormed in, shouting crazily. They had truncheons. They began smashing up the place. My mother didn't make a sound, but my brother screamed. She must have been quick-witted because somehow she scooped us all up in her arms and dashed to a stool and sat down. She pushed my brother under her skirt and then I saw her thrust the baby under there as well. She tried to cover me with what was left of her skirt but there wasn't much space. Then things went quiet. They must have stopped smashing up the place. From where I was I heard the soldiers' footsteps coming closer and felt my mother freeze. I heard this thudding sound and every time I heard it, I felt my mother's body shake. They must have been hitting her over and over with their truncheons. She took all the blows. I just gripped the two little ones tightly, praying that they wouldn't make a sound.

“I must have blocked the rest out because the next thing I remember it was quiet again. Not a single sound. The soldiers had gone.

“At first I was too scared to come out. I just waited there, holding my brother and sister and gripping my mother's leg. Then I heard my mother whimpering softly.

“Slowly I put my head out from underneath her skirt. I put my head in her lap and gripped her tightly around her waist. I felt something strange on my forehead. It was wet. It ran down my cheek and trickled onto my lips. It was warm but I had no idea what it was.

“Then my mother moved. She got up from the stool, and I saw that her face was covered in blood. Then I understood what the sweet taste in my mouth had been. My mother's blood. I had tasted my mother's blood. But she seemed oblivious to her injury. The little ones were now screaming in fear and panic, and she took them both in her arms and tried to calm them. She began to sing to them.

“Suddenly I heard screams coming from our neighbors' homes and I ran to the door to see what was going on. But my mother called to me to stop and close the door. I tried to, but the door had been half torn from its hinges by the soldiers. I remember that rain was pouring in through the doorway and the wind was bitter.”

I was struggling to grasp what my father was describing, but I didn't dare interrupt him.

“Later that night I was sitting in the kitchen alone. I remember looking at my feet swinging backward and forward. My mother was in the next room—just a small space divided off by a curtain—still singing to my little brother and baby sister. Try as she might, she couldn't calm them after what had happened; they hadn't eaten all day and were hungry. I remember that empty feeling, too, like rats gnawing at your insides.”

“When did this happen to you?” I asked.

“I'm not sure,” my father replied. “I guess I was about five, possibly going on six.”

“What year did this happen, then?”

My father shook his head.

“Do you remember what time of the year?”

“Autumn? Perhaps it was early autumn. I have this vivid memory of leaves all over the ground.

“Finally,” my father continued, “my brother and sister must have gone to sleep. I must have dozed off as well, right where I was, in the kitchen chair. When I opened my eyes, my mother was sitting opposite me in the dark. She was very quiet. I could only see her silhouette, but I felt her looking at me. She beckoned me over gently. She pulled me onto her lap, hugging me. She stroked my hair, over and over. I remember the rhythm of it, her fingers moving gently. Then she said, ‘We are all going to die tomorrow.'”

My father fell silent. A moment or two later, he raised his eyes toward me, looking mystified.

“You know,” he said slowly, “my mother called me by my name, she must have done so, but, for the life of me, I can't remember it. I can hear her voice speaking to me but I just can't hear my name.”

“Do you remember any names at all? What about your family name?” I asked.

My father shook his head despondently.

“Your brother or sister, what about them?”

“No names. Nothing at all.”

“How old were they?”

“They were younger than me. My little brother was just beginning to walk—he would toddle about. My sister was still a baby in my mother's arms.” My father paused and a slight smile crossed his lips at the memory.

“My mother told me that I was the head of the house because my father had gone…”

“Where was your father?”

“He was dead.”

“How did he die?”

“I don't know. My mother told me one day that he was dead. That's all I remember. I just have this vague impression of him not being there.”

“When was this?”

“I'm not sure.”

I was now growing slightly impatient with my father's inability to recollect all the details. He, too, seemed frustrated by the gaps in his memory.

“Let's go on,” I suggested and then reminded him, “you were in the kitchen with your mother…”

My father began to speak slowly and meticulously. “My mother said to me that we would all die tomorrow.”

“How did she know?” I asked, unnerved by the harshness of my tone.

“I have no idea. I only remember what she said to me. But I don't see why it's important how my mother knew.”

My father seemed to retreat into his shell. Then, after some moments, he went on. “She said that I mustn't be afraid.”

“But you must have been.”

“I don't know how I felt. I suppose I didn't want to die. Of course, I didn't really know what death was. But I knew it was something bad. I'd seen my father kill chickens and things like that.

“My mother said that I must stay with her. She said I should help her with my little brother. She said that the soldiers would take us down the hill and not to be afraid. ‘I will have the baby with me,' she said, ‘so I want you to take your brother's hand and not let go. No matter what happens, stay beside me with your brother so he isn't frightened. Then when I tell you, just close your eyes and hold on to me. Don't be afraid.'

“My mother helped me into bed then. My brother was already asleep in the same bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and put a blanket over me. She bent down, kissed me on the cheek, and then, whispering gently, urged me to go to sleep. I watched her climb into her own bed with my baby sister. I think it must have been the moonlight coming through the window because I could see her silhouette cuddling the baby. I can see it now.

“I must have dropped off to sleep after that, because the next thing I remember was waking up. I opened my eyes. It was still dark outside. I could hear my mother's breathing across the room. I lay there and suddenly this thought came into my head—‘I don't want to die'—as if someone were whispering it into my ear. I just didn't want to die like the chickens in the back garden. I didn't want anyone to wring my neck. And then I couldn't get rid of that thought until I did something about it.”

My father's voice dropped to a whisper. “I got up as quietly as I could and got dressed. I walked across to my mother's bed. I looked down at her face. She was asleep. I didn't want to wake her. But I bent down and kissed her good-bye.”

My father could now barely get the words out.

“I kissed my mother good-bye,” my father said again, falling completely silent. After a moment he continued, “I went through the dark house and out of the door. I stood on the doorstep. I remember rain falling on top of me. There were big drops coming off the edge of the roof. It was dark…”

“You said just now that the moon was shining.”

He looked at me as if my comment were absurd.

“Well, perhaps it had gone behind the clouds or something. But there was no light at all,” he replied, and then continued unperturbed. “Nothing was moving. It was so quiet. I went down the back garden, past the apple tree that I always played in with my friend—”

“Do you remember his name?” I interrupted.

My father shook his head.

“I came to a fence at the back of the garden. I knew a way out. There was a loose plank that I would sneak through when no one was looking—coming and going from our house secretly. I began to climb through but suddenly I was trapped. Something was holding me back. I panicked. I thought that one of the soldiers had sneaked up behind me and grabbed me by the pants. I struggled alone, lashing out in the dark, and somehow I got myself free. When I was through onto the path on the other side I could tell that there had been no soldier there, only my fear. My pants had been caught in the fence.

“I was frightened. But then suddenly something came into my mind—a safe place at the edge of the village, a field where I used to play with my friend. If I could get there first of all, then from there I could go on farther to the hill behind it where there were lots of trees. It must have been in my mind that I could hide there. I must have had my wits about me. And at that age! Hardly born!”

My father shook his head in a mixture of pride and disbelief.

“By day I knew all the pathways. But now I was like a blind man. I couldn't see anything. But somehow or other I got to the village hall. I remember seeing a movie there, a silent one. It might've been Charlie Chaplin, or the other person—Buster Keaton.” He smiled nostalgically. “I remember being there with my friend, having an ice cream. My father must have given us some coins. They used to have dances there, too. All us kids would be there laughing at our parents' dancing!”

I was torn. This was likely the first time my father had ever shared these memories with anyone, and I wanted to hear more. But first I wanted to know what had happened that night.

My father seemed to have read my mind.

“After that I kept walking. It was only a couple of minutes from the village hall to the edge of the field. I knew I had to cross it to get to the hill and the trees. I was frightened then. It was the noise this time, not just the dark. I could hear someone crying. It was a woman. But I couldn't see where she was. I waited until she quieted. Then when I thought it was safe to do so, I started to walk across the field. It was tough because the rain was almost torrential. A couple of times I got stuck. I couldn't lift my feet and kept falling over in the mud. Then the rain stopped. I wasn't sure how far I'd got, but I mustn't have been as quiet as I thought I'd been, because suddenly I heard a groan as if I'd woken someone up. I froze to the spot. After some time—I am not sure how long I stood there—the groaning stopped. Slowly I took a step; there was no sound, so I began to take another one when all of a sudden a voice called out to me. ‘You!' It was a woman's voice. I just stood there unable to move, like a statue.

“I was petrified. Then the woman spoke again. This time her voice was softer. ‘Help me! I am over here!' I don't know why but I trusted the voice. I took a step to where it was coming from. And then I saw it. I could just make it out. An arm. Coming out of the ground. It was waving to me. I couldn't understand. How could an arm rise up out of the earth?

“‘Can you see my hand, boy? I can see you! Don't be frightened,' she said to me gently, just like my mother would. ‘Come here!'

“I took another step toward the arm. And then another. I could hear her breathing heavily now. In and out. I kept my eyes on the arm. I put one foot in front of another when suddenly the arm disappeared as if it had been sucked back into the earth. I went closer to where I thought it had gone. Then you know what happened? It shot out of nowhere. It grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me forward. I was tumbling over, dragged down, sucked into the earth.”

My father began to breathe heavily, slightly out of control, as if his memory had taken over and was forcing the words out of him. I made a move to help him, but he waved his hand to stop me.