Found and Lost Page 6

  That month passed, then summer passed too. Olav returned to university, while we stayed on. I hired Ian to replace him, then Dominick, then Marcel, then Sigmund, then Borimir, spending the next two years uninterruptedly on the island. I had one cassette tape and it played another anthem of the time, Melanie’s ‘Look What They’ve Done to My Song’. How often did I play it? At least one thousand times:

  Look what have they done to my brain, Ma

  Look what they’ve done to my brain

  Well they picked it like a chicken bone

  And I think I’m half insane, Ma

  Look what they’ve done to my song.

  This song did not go over well with Lily, who took it as a sign of my lack of discernment. Almost from the day of arrival, Elizabeth ‘Lily’ Mack, whose house was situated twenty irregular stone steps below mine on the hill of Kamini Village, took me under her wing. She was a Russian (whose father had Scottish ancestry, hence the ‘Mack’) with the mind of three geniuses rolled into one, was forty-five years old at the time, with two young children in tow. I was mesmerized by her: an entirely original, untameable, hard-drinking spirit, one of the very first foreigners to own a house on the island; she had searched out a sanctuary after the harsh war years. With green eyes, tawny hair, she was rumored to have had several smitten men follow her to the island after the war. The locals called her ‘Angelina’ because of her many acts of kindness and generosity. Her lopsided, white-washed house overlooked the sea, a two-cigarette walk (as we said then) from the port along the coast road. She began by bringing platters of cooked food up to my house; buttered bread with cheese, and sweet tea in the afternoon. It was after the thousandth repetition of Melanie that she admonished me: ‘Never coarsen!’

  Since drink took precedence, I hardly ate, though Lily tried her best to feed me, occasionally chasing me with a forkful of feta cheese or a lamb chop. I never cooked, but between the au pair of the moment and Lily’s offerings, Thor got fed, learned to swim, made friends, was known and protected by the whole island. His pale skin darkened and his fair hair turned platinum. As cautionary examples of alcoholism, Lily introduced me to Jean Rhys, Malcolm Lowry, and Vladimir Mayakovsky. Also, to instill a modicum of the erudition I so glaringly lacked, she would recite poems she knew by heart in their original languages – verses by Louis MacNeice, by Marina Tsvetaeva, by Constantine Cavafy (and these two last in English translation as well, when she took pity on poor monoglot me). She would start on Cavafy’s ‘Candles’ –

  The days of the future stand before us

  Like a line of candles all alight –

  Golden and warm and lively little candles.

  As she recited these lines to me, she would snatch whatever drink I was holding, and continue:

  The days that are past are left behind,

  A mournful row of candles that are out;

  The nearer ones are still smoking,

  Candles cold, and melted, candles bent.

  How quickly the candles multiply that have been put out.

  I prided myself on being a good drinker, with a good tolerance; meaning I could drink almost any quantity without showing it, never staggered or slurred; never told the same story or joke twice in a row; was never nasty. But, as friends began to notice, these attributes of the ‘good drinker’ were winnowing. An alcohol binge could last several days, during which I would experience blackouts, sudden mood swings, accidents, strife. I began to have alcoholic seizures – lockjaw, involuntary tremors, dazed mind from head to toe. One time a seizure felled me, in a pine grove below our hilltop houses, during which Lily (frightened for my life) held onto me until it passed. She hovered until I finally passed out, and remained through the night on the soft pine needles alongside me. When I woke, she dashed away for long enough to cook up fried eggs, tomatoes, bacon, sweet milky coffee, thick slices of fresh bread spread with butter, cheese slices and honey that she brought back to me on a tray. Wanting to please her, and very, very thirsty, I ate and drank as much as I could – then threw the whole lot up. Lily handed me an ecru and black pinstripe silk lattice-edged circular handkerchief, that I used to dry my flooding eyes and my lips still moist with bile.

  Part III

  – Hungry Birds –

  DEAR ALISON,

  – Thank you for your friendly birthday blessings, but I don’t wish to know my oldness – it’s not beautiful, as surely you understand – I know nobody can change this – Tom and I are good, a little tired, and the world does not enjoy us – And we do not enjoy our lumbago and sciatica – Nor the annoying bit of cancer that’s been hiding inside my womb – Please. Not to worry though.

  If you’re surprised that I’ve begun using dashes after all these years – I realize I’m sick to death of a lifetime of fiddling with commas and full stops – maybe I’m finally loosening up – or – maybe I’m in a hurry – Shall I end this sentence with an ellipsis or an exclamation mark, perhaps inverted to indicate unreality or even sarcasm? Or just end by saying I/we love you.

  Catch kisses,

  Denny

  Glimpsed Natalie Wood from the window of the #20 bus. She was locked out of her shiny black MG in front of the Post Office on 8th Avenue

  DEAR LILY,

  Cannot listen to music. I try to, but quickly turn it off. Why, since it might help? I await your advice.

  Your daughter once described to me a visit she made to London during which she walked to the Heath where, behind the trees, she saw you standing with a knowing smile on your face. She explained how she believed you’d foreseen that moment long before, when she was a child and she and her brother had run further and further away from you in ever-widening, wayward circles. I hope I’ve not misinterpreted her – what she described struck a chord.

  Did you, Lily, prepare your children for your passing?

  My father spoke of his death several times, saying he’d only asked God for one thing in his entire life, which he did not get, a quick death; and that – with certainty – he would die before my mother, which he did get. Yet he has left us unprepared. In no way was I braced for his passing, or yours, or Dorothy’s.

  Not that it fills the gap, but I’ve been having an impractical love affair with a Dutch woman named Tinneka, who lives on five hectares of vineyard in a south-eastern corner of France near the Pyrenees/ Perpignan. Tinneka was born during the war on the North Sea, had scoliosis from birth, a deformed bone in the back, perhaps from wartime malnutrition, giving one shoulder a humped appearance. Her parents split up when she was a teenager. Later in life, her father and step-mother lived in Switzerland, until they committed doctor-assisted suicide together a few years ago, with Tinneka in attendance. Tinneka was ‘married’ twice, once to a Dutch woman, once to an Italian woman, lived in Wales for many years with the Italian one, restoring an old stone house; then they went to France until said Italian woman got involved with the wife of the village doctor, about one year before we met. We were introduced by acquaintances who knew how much I like the Dutch. We’re not terribly compatible except sensually, on walks, and when I work with her in her vineyard.

  She has simian thumbs and overly large toes and drinks a bottle or two of red wine daily. I don’t really mind except for the sour odor of wine that hovers. Most likely we’ll only see each other every two months or so, but that’s enough for now. I’m too depleted to give more to anyone. It’s fine for her too since, as she explained, both her relationships were symbiotic. Now, aged sixty-five, she’s finally content to be alone, something she’s never been before as she was always breathing someone else’s oxygen. She likes this new solitude, with an occasional nibble of me in between. I haven’t forgotten your comment on my wanderings into same-sex trysts, it still makes me laugh: ‘Lesbians? If our grandmothers were lesbians, we wouldn’t be here …’

  A miracle: After five years without food or drink passing her lips, my mother has begun to eat again. We can hardly believe it. When asked if the doctor knows, she does not reply. Another miracl
e: my mother is undergoing a personality alteration. A sweet, appreciative, non-narcissistic, pleasant woman is emerging. When had the know-it-all, critical, emotionally detached matriarch stopped smiling? I know it was many years ago. It’s suddenly no effort whatever to visit her. Perhaps this is the person she once was, that was lost when she and my father merged into their long, intense marriage with too many children and too little money – their own symbiosis?

  Alison

  ALISON:

  A publisher is interested in publishing a signed leather-bound edition of Anne Frank Remembered. Each author would need to sign the sheets 950 times.

  What do you think? Would Miep be able and willing to sign her name 950 times?

  Bob

  DEAR SIMON,

  Sorry to have been off the radar since my long letter. Your words of condolence were appreciated. I am shocked by the handsomeness of my father’s face in the photo atop the bookcase.

  And there was me pleased that my mother was back on solids! She aspirated Black Forest gateau: an ambulance was called. Feared a reprise of Death by Garlic. She ended up in intensive care for two weeks with pneumonia, also C. diff infection of the colon, kidney this and kidney that. Again: touch and go. Nonetheless, she made it, and we brought her home. Her cardiologist read her the riot act about sneaking food or drink.

  Since this crisis, and although she has stabilized somewhat (while my sisters and I are more and more depleted), her sour, cold personality has reasserted itself. Your exhausted friend is shutting the blinds and getting under the covers. Hope this reaches you in Toronto.

  Mother Twitchett

  In the park below, Spinoza shares food with his mongrel

  DEAR MOTHER TWITCHETT,

  I’m no longer based in Toronto but in the wilds beyond Yellowknife where your letter was forwarded, the Northwest Territories, land of diamond mines, the aurora borealis, only 500 km from the Arctic Circle. Here are places where I will not see another human being for an entire month. Forgive the silence, but since finishing the translation of the talented (wordy) Austrian writer, I’ve been out of work. Not to worry, time does not weigh heavily on me and there’s little need for money up here. A possible new project for you, FYI, a disc belonging to Armed Forces Radio was discovered in the National Archives, part of which, I believe, will be of great interest to you. It contains an episode of a broadcast of Piano Playhouse, a weekly show on ABC Radio co-anchored by two pianists – Cy Walter and Stan Freeman. (The disc was unearthed by Mark Walter, the son of Cy Walter.) The show had aired on April 15, 1945. I listened to the recording. After two pieces of piano music were played, beautifully I might add, and ‘Ava Maria’ was sung because it was a few days after the death of President Roosevelt, the broadcaster announced that it was ‘1:15 Eastern War Time’, and then that war correspondent George Hicks, who had just entered a newly liberated V Bomb factory in a still undefeated Germany, began to speak with a Bogart-like voice (gripping my attention like a woodworking vise and bringing your work abruptly into my mind), describing that war first-hand – the one now fading into the mists of the past.

  First, Hicks describes exploring a newly discovered underground factory where 25-foot rockets and buzz bombs are being made; then, in a nearby camp, he encounters (mostly Polish, Russian, and Hungarian) slave laborers whom he calls ‘Zebras’. Will send you the complete text of this material soon. When I listened to the CD, I remembered the August weekend you spent with soldiers wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Another FYI I heard of: found in a Warsaw attic original food coupons for sugar, death certificates, a map from 1943. Also a coupon for 0.28 kilograms of butter, written in the name of Dr. Joseph Mengele. Interested?

  On another note, while I soak myself in great beauty, I wish you good travels and a satisfying visit with Miep, who just might live forever.

  Simon

  DEAR BOB,

  I will ask and let you know. Miep will be glad to learn that you are still at Simon & Schuster, since almost no one we deal with anymore was in on the beginnings of our book.

  Alison

  DEAR ONE,

  The Tramontane is still blowing and people here are very worried about possible fires. On the Spanish side of the Pyrénées are six big fires, going since yesterday. This morning I had my hair cut in Perpignan and I am 60% grey, or ‘white’ as they say here. No mirrors please. Why Verona? About fifty years ago (isn’t that awful) I saw the Aida there – very impressive and very hard on the bum. Why a cruise down the Yangtze or a week in Montreal? You keep forgetting that, except to see you in New York, I’m not a good traveller because of the problems with my accursed upper back. We can discuss it all when you’re here. A la semaine prochaine. I love to feel that you reach my softer me which has been hidden for such a long, long time.

  Je t’embrasse fort,

  Tinneka

  The vivid yellow, red, and orange fallen leaves from the trees now raked into piles, wet and brown, up and down the street

  ALISON,

  Miep has fallen in her apartment. She has broken her neck, has been taken to hospital, and has already been operated. Her head has been fixed in a position in which she cannot move it. She can never again live in her apartment. You and me can heal in three to five months but for my mother the future very uncertain. She does not realize it all.

  I shall keep you posted.

  Paul

  Shapes rocking clown-like on my ceiling

  GEACHTE MEVROUW ALISON,

  I received a telephone call from Paul yesterday evening late.

  They all seem to be in a rush, and it was a shock for me too. Paul has been my best friend since childhood and his mother was a friend of my mother until her death.

  I think there is a very serious situation now.

  Paul told me this:

  Miep has broken … I do not know the English words for … these dishes of the spine located in the neck. Nackenwirbel in German. Nekwervels in Dutch. Her neck is swollen.

  She is in hospital now where her head is fixated in an outside steel harness on the skull and shoulders, in order to keep her head stable and to heal the dishes.

  Miep herself is strong for her age, there are no underlying diseases. Her health and mental health were recently tested.

  Problem when lying flat in a bed for a longer time with elderly people is complications with the lungs, there is a risk of embolia and/or liquid around the lungs.

  The prediction for the moment is it will take a longer time, Paul said. He announced Miep will not return in her home anymore. I have no address of the hospital yet. I will try to have a better look on her situation in the next days. I will keep you informed. I think it has no direct use for you to come over, maybe better wait till the situation is more stable.

  Beste,

  Gerlof

  First powdery, then wet snow falling

  HI ALISON,

  At this moment she is a bit feeble of course and the outcome is simply unknown. She talks, eats and drinks and still shows her willpower.

  Paul

  DEAR MOTHER TWITCHETT

  Here is an extract from the Armed Forces Radio broadcast made in April of 1945 that I wanted to bring to your attention.

  [They were] wearing perpendicular blue stripes that look like pajamas nicknamed ‘Zebras’. There was a terrible pungent smell about the place from the corpses that had starved. Lying among them were the living. When they saw we were friendly, they began to weep.

  Outside, a ‘Zebra’ was sitting on a rock. He looked thin and pink and a smear of water lay between his feet. He was weeping. They showed us where they had hanged prisoners – a crop of beech trees. It was the kind of place you’d go squirrel hunting in the fall back in the United States. The ‘Zebras’ were in a daze and kept wandering around us. One tall lad was weeping as he stood by the jeep. I gave him a cigarette. He took it and stood there with tears sliding off his cheeks. I asked who he was and he whispered, ‘Tolsky’. I suppose he was weeping for relief
now that his imprisonment was ended.

  Through some of the German towns, the German children wave at us. In some the people glower. These are mostly towns that have never been hit or damaged. I see many men wearing Hitler-style mustaches. I see many brutes, both male and female, faces over the fences of the villages. I see many fat shrewd ones in town. I see many young Germans on two canes who have lost legs or feet. This is George Hicks of Blue Network returning you to New York.

  Till next time,

  Simple Simon

  Have begun on glass-topped table the 500-piece jigsaw puzzle titled ‘Voyage en Train’

  HI ALISON,

  My mother is strong and holding out. Coming Monday she will be transported to a nursing home some 10 km from Hoorn where she will be looked after for the coming months. What will happen after that remains to be seen. We do have a lot of snow.

  Regards,

  Paul

  GEACHTE MEVROUW ALISON,

  A neighbour reacted on Miep’s website – a neighbour from before the war, when Miep and Jan lived on the Hunzestraat. He is wishing her the best. How does he know? It is Albert Hogenboom from Albuquerque.

  Interesting, isn’t it? I never heard of him. I wonder who he is and which house he lived in. And if he knows something about Leon Prinz.