Thirty Days Page 8

  The punchline is that, in the rabbinic legend, the reason God summoned his favourite student from earth was to answer a trivial question of the law. Even though God had written the legal rules on tablets of stone, he needed a partner to spar with, just like I did.

  What was the name of the island where you broke your leg?

  Do you remember the name of the city in Morocco where I got food poisoning?

  Who was that famous actor we sat next to at dinner in Positano?

  I reached into my pocket and touched the tape-recorder. But I swear, I never once turned it on.

  On one of her ‘good’ days between chemotherapy treatments, I offered to take Kerryn for a drive with the roof open on my Mini convertible—my post-midlife crisis, as Kerryn called the car. She wore a light scarf tied under her chin to stop her wig from flying off. She looked like Greta Garbo in a 1920s movie.

  ‘So, which way do I turn?’ I was embarrassed to ask.

  ‘You tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. Near the beach.’ It felt so long ago, when we’d sat in the car and kissed for the first time.

  ‘How can you forget?’

  ‘Because all these years I’ve relied on you to remember everything. That’s why I need you to show me.’

  ‘Why is it important? In the past thirty years, you haven’t once wanted to know.’

  ‘I don’t know why. It’s part of our history.’ I did my best to redeem myself by flipping my words. ‘Actually, it’s not about history. It’s about now. I have a surprise.’

  My words convinced her: ‘Turn left at Luna Park,’ she said, pointing at the clown face on the intersection of Acland Street and the Esplanade.

  ‘I could have sworn it was towards Port Melbourne.’

  ‘No. Towards Brighton.’

  I knew she must be right. Her memory was infallible.

  ‘Isn’t this near where you used to live?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. But we moved out before you came on the scene.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘You know everything there is to know.’

  ‘The other day Ralph told me something I’ve never heard.’

  Ralph is the husband of Kerryn’s sister, Ann. They were married while Kerryn and her brothers, Bradley and Glenn, still lived with their parents.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ Kerryn asked.

  ‘He said he has a vivid memory of you standing at the top of the staircase, screaming.’

  ‘Screaming? I don’t remember that.’

  I kept my eyes on the road, waiting for Kerryn’s directions.

  ‘You know, you’ve never shown me where you lived as a child,’ I said.

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘Of course I asked. But you never wanted to show me.’

  ‘It’s dark now. There’s nothing to see.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s at least drive past while we’re in the area.’

  Kerryn didn’t say anything for a while. I kept driving.

  ‘Get into the left lane,’ she said suddenly. ‘And turn onto Nepean Highway.’

  She navigated me down another street, marked No Through Road. I read the street sign out loud. ‘Milliara Grove.’

  ‘I’m telling you there’s nothing to see.’

  ‘I’d really like you to show me which house it is.’

  ‘Number two,’ she said. ‘The brick one on the corner.’

  As we drifted along the street, I thought of that time twenty years ago when I went back to Poland to find my parents’ childhood homes. My father had lived in the market square of a village that was turned into a ghetto before the Jews were deported to Treblinka. And my mother’s shtetl was cleansed of its entire Jewish population.

  This was nothing more than a nondescript street in a middle-class suburb of Melbourne, but I could sense that we were driving into an area invested with some grim events in Kerryn’s childhood—the source of that scream.

  I parked the car in front of number two.

  It took a few seconds for Kerryn to orient herself.

  ‘It’s been rendered white,’ she said. ‘No wonder I couldn’t recognise it.’

  It was a well-preserved Art Deco house, two storeys, with round windows and balconies on every level. ‘It’s so grand,’ she said. ‘I thought it would look smaller now that I’m an adult.’

  She turned away from the house to stare at the grass across the road.

  ‘We spent a lot of time there as kids,’ she said. ‘I remember the swing.’

  I followed her out of the car. She was walking faster than she had for weeks, as though her past was a gust of wind pushing her along.

  ‘It’s not the same playground.’ She touched the chain of a swing. ‘Bradley used to push me on a swing like this one. I remember that feeling of flying into the sky.’

  She looked up at the vault above, the moon hidden behind a thin wisp of cloud. When she looked down, I noticed she had tears in her eyes.

  She strolled back towards the house. ‘You can’t see from here, but there was a swimming pool on the top terrace. Everything was upside down. The swimming pool used to leak through the roof, so we never filled it.’

  She pointed at a side window. ‘That was my room. I remember the wallpaper. It had purple and white checks. I used to stare at it for hours until my eyes got blurry.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘We lived here for most of our childhood. At least until…’ She paused, took a breath. ‘I had a music box in my room. It was on a wooden dresser. I used to open the lid and a miniature ballerina would dance to a tune. I can’t remember the tune but there was a mirror and I would look into it and imagine my future.’

  ‘What did you imagine?’

  ‘I don’t know. Normal stuff. I put on Mum’s lipstick and pretended I was a princess. Mum was so beautiful in those days. And I’m sure I imagined myself as a bride.’

  ‘Did you dream about me?’

  ‘Of course, Marky. You’re my bashert. My crazy husband.’

  ‘Crazy about you.’

  She looked at me, and raised her eyebrows as though she didn’t believe it, then turned her gaze away.

  ‘And I have this vivid memory of our housekeeper brushing my hair. Brushing and brushing for hours. I was blonde as a child.’

  She tugged at her wig and smiled through her tears.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know what happened. The princess didn’t live happily ever after.’

  ‘Tell me the whole story?’

  ‘That’s where my hell began. You know the rest.’

  ‘Bits and pieces.’

  ‘Mark’—she always called me Mark when she was angry—‘we’ve been married forever. What more can I tell you?’

  I didn’t tell her that forever extends into the future. Instead, I answered: ‘But you never spoke about it.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything. You just have a memory like a sieve. Or you weren’t listening.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘I want to hear it again.’

  ‘Why? Are you actually planning to write about me? Are you recording me on your phone like you taped your parents’ stories?’

  ‘No. That’s not it.’ How could I lie to her?

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just want to hear it from you. Everything. From beginning to end.’

  ‘I told you the beginning. Once upon a time was a princess. And she lived…’

  As Kerryn stared into the window of her bedroom, I couldn’t fathom her thoughts.

  ‘No. She didn’t live. That’s how it ends.’

  She turned and rushed off to the car, leaving me alone with the mystery of her childhood home.

  I opened the door of the driver’s seat, but Kerryn was sitting behind the steering wheel. She had closed the roof of the car.

  ‘Are you sure you’re strong enough to drive?’

  ‘I seem to be the only one who knows the directions.’

  There was
nothing unusual about that. Kerryn often drove rather than me. She knew how to cross lanes faster than I did, could wind her way through shortcuts, and had an eagle eye for parking spots in crowded streets. When I drove her to Cabrini for treatments, she outdid any GPS system. I obediently followed her instructions until I internalised the route myself.

  I got into the passenger seat. She turned on the engine and drove slowly back towards Beach Road.

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ she said. ‘At first they were like in that photo we have. Movie stars.’

  On the Japanese chest in our kitchen is a framed picture of her parents. Her father, Paul, looks like Humphrey Bogart: curly black hair, brown eyes, a tall, slim build, and a big smile—genes that would be replicated in his youngest son. Sally has a narrow waist, enhanced by a glamorous white dress with thin straps, which highlights her dark hair and glowing face, framed by drop pearl earrings.

  ‘They seemed in love,’ I said.

  ‘Who’s not on their wedding day? But it wasn’t Dad’s first marriage.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘You’ve never told me that.’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Mark, I’m sure I’ve told you. He was married before, to a woman in Sydney—I don’t even know her name—and they had twin babies.’

  ‘So that explains all the twins in our family.’

  ‘Well, these ones died at birth. And I guess they couldn’t get over the sadness. Who knows why they divorced?’

  ‘I’m stunned,’ I said.

  ‘Well, there’s fodder for your story about me.’

  ‘Who says I’m going to write about you?’

  ‘I’m your best subject since your mother. Everyone loves a story about death.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m asking. I just want to know everything.’

  ‘Say the words. Before I die.’

  ‘No, that’s not why.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘You’re a part of me. And, yes, I want the children to know your story.’

  ‘Just don’t turn me into some kind of fictional hero. There’s nothing interesting about me. Everyone dies in the end.’

  ‘Not at fifty-five.’

  ‘At least I’ll be spared old age.’ She stuck out her tongue and smacked her lips just like my grandfather used to do in his late eighties.

  ‘So, when did your dad move to Melbourne?’

  ‘After the divorce. Then he married Mum—I think it was in 1955—and he went to work in the family business. That was his big mistake. In the end they sidelined him. Turned him into a shmatte like the rags they sold.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘And then he had an affair.’

  ‘An affair? I can’t believe you never told me.’

  ‘And so it was Mum’s turn to feel like a used shmatte.’

  ‘Did he have the affair because of how her family treated him?’

  ‘It’s not like he ever told me, Marky. I don’t know why a man has an affair. Do you?’

  ‘I hope that’s not an accusation.’

  ‘Of course not. But through my work I’ve seen so many men have affairs. There’s never one reason.’

  ‘I bet it’s more often the men.’

  ‘Not always. But usually.’

  ‘What about your dad’s sister?’

  ‘I said usually.’

  That was one story I knew all too well. Paul’s sister Mary had been married to a famous divorce lawyer in Sydney. She ran off with one of Australia’s wealthiest business moguls, Sir Warwick Fairfax.

  ‘Maybe it’s a family thing,’ I said, smiling. ‘A brother and sister both having affairs.’

  ‘That’s what Mum used to say to Dad. It’s in your genes.’

  ‘Do you know who he had the affair with?’

  ‘His best friend’s wife.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not nice.’

  ‘And it’s nice with a stranger? But it must have made things worse. He used to go to Sydney to meet her. Sometimes he’d tell Mum that he was going to visit his parents’ grave.’

  ‘That’s the worst alibi I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Mum knew something wasn’t right. There was one moment when Dad went off to the airport to meet his mistress. I thought he was going to leave us. And Mum—it sounds like something out of Casablanca—got into her car, raced to the airport and confronted him.’

  ‘And he listened to her?’

  ‘She was a battleaxe, so he listened. But maybe that was a mistake. If they had ended it there, we might have been spared the years of suffering that followed.’

  She turned into a carpark on the beach.

  ‘At first I used to listen to the music box. But that wasn’t loud enough to drown out their fights. So I suppose what Ralph says is true. I used to stand at the top of the staircase and just scream. I think I threw the music box away because it was so useless and reminded me of terrible things.’

  She stopped the car and we stared at the sea.

  ‘Do you still feel like you want to scream?’ I said.

  ‘Not for thirty years,’ she said. Then she took a deep breath and let out a long, anguished scream.

  And then I joined her. We screamed so hard that tears ran down our faces.

  ‘So, it was here,’ I said, when our lungs were exhausted. ‘I remember it now.’

  ‘No, you don’t. The beach looks the same everywhere.’

  ‘I remember that wave,’ I said, pointing at a ripple of water illuminated by the headlights of our car.

  ‘What else do you remember?’ she said, grinning at my lunacy.

  ‘We used to go to Topolino’s for pizza late at night.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘We listened to music on a cassette tape. I even remember the songs.’

  ‘Go on. Sing them to me.’

  I flicked a switch and a CD started playing. I had prepared it as a surprise to prove I remembered the things that mattered. Through the speakers came the voice of Steven Bishop singing ‘Careless’.

  I leaned over and undid our seat belts.

  ‘I don’t know how we managed in a small car,’ I said.

  I reached out and kissed her on the lips. It was a familiar taste, now the taste of something lost.

  ‘What happened to us, Marky?’

  ‘We grew old.’

  ‘We’re not old.’

  ‘You used to be in the driver’s seat,’ she said, her lips grazing mine.

  ‘Wasn’t it horizontal on the back seat?’

  ‘We’re definitely too old for that.’

  ‘Never.’

  She groaned. I took it as a sign of rejection, but it wasn’t that.

  ‘My stomach hurts,’ she said. ‘I need to get home quickly. I’m sorry.’

  We swapped seats and I drove as fast as I could to the sound of Steven Bishop singing ‘Never Letting Go’.

  7

  THE BLACK BOX

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  More than thirty years ago, that was my question to Kerryn when I met her at a school reunion in Israel. She had been permitted by her mother to attend a two-month summer program that we full-gap yearlings considered inferior. During the year, someone had told me Kerryn was going through a tough time, that her mother was sick.

  To my surprise, she cut me off and walked away.

  It wasn’t until later that I learned why she found that question so difficult.

  Kerryn’s family secrets were shrouded in a silence similar to that of my own upbringing. Back in the late-1970s, I read a book by Helen Epstein called Children of the Holocaust. It acknowledged for the first time that children of survivors shared a common experience—a black box of secrets we kept locked away inside us. We knew there was an undisclosed mystery at home, but no one spoke about it openly, so we found other ways to deal with the silence.

  Kerryn carried a different kind of anguish, a black box of secrets that she only opened in the last ten months o
f her life.

  I wasn’t the only one who found her secretive. After she died, some of her friends told me that she was often impenetrable. I initially interpreted this silence as mysterious, even erotic. When I look at Kerryn’s grave, I still feel the mystery of all I didn’t know about her.

  I know she would hate the clothes she was buried in: shrouds sewn according to rules of ritual, white suggesting a purity she would have scoffed at in her self-deprecating manner.

  Once I participated in the cleansing ritual of a dead man. I helped the funeral director scrub the naked body with sudsy water. We muttered prayers after cleaning each limb. The body was bound in straps and lifted by hooks from the drenched bed.

  Abracadabra.

  A machine plunged the corpse into a bath.

  We shouted the words:

  Tahor. Tahor. Tahor.

  He is pure. He is pure. He is pure.

  Three times the machine raised the body and dunked it, as though we were making a final attempt to bring a golem back to life.

  And three times we chanted our chorus, before dressing the body in white shrouds.

  The only time Kerryn had attended a ritual bath was on our wedding eve, when she immersed herself naked in a pool of water.

  That purification ceremony was for her groom in waiting.

  But in death the erasure of any spiritual blemishes was for the sake of eternal rest.

  The rabbis put it like this: ‘We come from a drop of putrid water and we are all headed for a place of maggots and worms.’ But now that Kerryn has lived both ends of that journey, there is only one question left, the one the rabbis pose as a declaration: ‘Know before whom you will have to give an account and reckoning on that day.’

  That day. But before whom? God? Yourself? Your family? Your friends?

  Sartre would say that only at the end of your life can you measure its value. We are what we have been. But I have always been drawn to the Hasidic story in which that notion is inverted. Kerryn also knew the story and used to make fun of the main character’s name, Rav Zusia, pronounced Zoosha. He was on his deathbed, sobbing so loudly the entire village could hear him. His devotees came one by one to bid him farewell, all of them wanting to understand the source of his sorrow.