And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,50
warmth are lavished on the small child. Why then does everything come undone?
When does the sweet, rosy-cheeked child turn into a predator?
Like the Stefan.
26 September 1943
What remains of her childhood? I do not know what is stored in the tiny memory sprawled out beside me. Who will help me plant the seeds of innocence within her? The soft blanket with which I cover her, the flame forming a shadow on the wall, the food I bring to her mouth – where does the comfort of fragmented memory begin? Is there any spike left to latch on to, any echo of the little joys in her distant past? Of a father’s embrace? A mother holding out her arms? A cookie with a glass of milk, or a doll, or a birthday cake? Where are the goodnight kiss and the lullaby hidden? I try to retrieve them from my own memory. All I need to do is to tug the thread of a single memory, and others follow. A second one, and a third, and the entire skein of memories unwinds, allowing me to take hold of things without which I would not be what I am. The sordid memories I cast aside, because they too threaten to cross the threshold. Like the Angel Gabriel, I weigh the good fragments against the bad ones and look at the scales to see whether they have been tipped.
If she had the memories of someone else, then...
27 September 1943
I covered her in the clothing of a novice, and pulled the hood over her head. There was no need to instruct her to hide from strangers. Her senses have grown sharp. Her silence is complete. When I hang the cross from her neck, she swings it wildly. It’s if she is trying to remove a noose. It will protect you, I explain, for now.
I ask: what shall I call you? Tell me. I swear I will keep your name to myself.
As soon as I asked her what name her mother had used, she turned her back.
I dropped it.
29 September 1943
Day of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel and Raphael
I almost succeeded in wiping out the memory of myself crying. Even when my grandmother...
I was not there with her when she died.
The little girl doesn’t cry.
Even animals cry.
4 October 1943
Day of St Francis of Assisi
Slowly she feels her way. First, she ventures out of the niche. Then she starts walking gingerly through my quarters. Suddenly I am made to realize how bare the walls are, apart from the crucifix over my bed. A bleak little room. Asceticism can be unsettling. I hurry to remove the icons from the dusty shelves in the sacristy, and scatter them in the corners. A child needs pretty things to look at, I rationalize for my own sake and for the painted saints, the only humans I trust.
From time to time, she steals a glance at the icons, but leans tightly against the wall of her niche, so as to leave it free.
At night I discover that she is riveted by the painting of the nativity in Bethlehem. She traces the ox and the donkey, then carefully places the icon on the wooden floor, and arches her back.
You should have put her in a nunnery. If only I had a womb...
7 October 1943
Day of Our Lady of the Rosary
I gave the little girl the crucifix hanging over my bed. I turned it over, flung it in the air and caught it, but she refuses to play with it. The painting of Mother and Child she relinquished at once. With great effort I managed to push a rosary in-between her fingers. I let roll the words of St Francis for her. Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. Where there is injury – pardon. Where there is doubt – faith. Where there is despair – hope. Where there is darkness – light. And where there is sadness – joy.
I pause. Repeat after me, little girl. If we recite these words again and again, we may come to believe in them. Together, we may struggle to believe, for alone there is no faith.
An echo returns, mocking and garbled. Though her body has started moving again, her mouth is still sealed. When it is time to sleep, she clings to the wall of the niche. As if her very presence, here or anywhere, is in doubt.
15 October 1943
Though she remains silent, she moves about in the church. Even