And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,51

the fringes of her garment flutter voicelessly. She has blended in, as if she has been here forever. Even when I am performing my duties in the front part of the church, I can feel her presence in the back. This morning she polished the wooden floor, and put fresh water in the flower vases. Then she dusted the large crucifix in front of the altar. She could not reach as high as His nailed hands. Maybe she was avoiding them.

When a member of the congregation is about to enter, she can tell in time, and vanishes as if the earth has swallowed her. The region is infested with informers, and I know that my habit will not guarantee my immunity. If the child is found out, I will pay with my life. And what would become of her then?

And yet, I am more afraid of life than of death.

The world around us is asleep. Not a cock crows, not a dog barks, and even the night predators have stopped preying. I place her on my mattress, but she slips back into the niche. Her eyes are burning. What does she see in the dark? If only I knew how to excise the malignant memory from within her.

Memory. The most painful member of the body. Almost as painful as the event that caused it.

How can I know the feelings of a person whose memories have been wrenched away? My mother jabbed a pin in her body. She swallowed a concoction of gunpowder, vodka and ashes, to rid her body of me. And who was my father?

I jump off my mattress and rush outside to vomit.

1 November 1943

All Saints’ Day

I toss and turn. Every part of my body is aching for sleep, but as soon as I dare shut my eyes, I am overcome by memories of the future, of events that are liable to happen any moment. The murderers will break into the church. They will kick in the door, shatter the holy vessels and drown her in the baptismal font. “Now instead, you ought to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.” I leap up, thrust my kneecaps onto the wooden floor, and frantically repeat the words of St Paul in his epistle to the Corinthians. What else do I have but the prayers I have recited my whole life? For lack of anything better, I latch onto them, trying to persuade myself that they were written by humans like myself – pathetic creatures surrendering their spirit and their body to despair.

2 November 1943

All Souls’ Day

When will she speak? I am afraid she will never make a sound. That is why I cannot give up, but the healing memories do not come easily, and I am forced to pursue them in every recess of myself. My grandmother did not buy me toys. She could not afford them. To console me she would say: Whoever laughs too much will cry later on. I would pull the cushion over my head to dispel the vague suspicion I could not help feeling. There will be nobody there with me in moments of anguish. At the time, I was not able to give it a name. Even at the seminary, I would secretly hold on to the blanket, pretending to be clinging to the chair of the Holy Mother. I buried my face in the wall, so they would not hear me weeping. I would do anything for you, Mother, if only you would allow me to be close to you. I am so frightened, but not allowed to admit it. I want to go home.

Now all the memories come back to haunt me. Tonight is the night when the dead return to earth, and visit their former homes. As for me, if I were to return to my childhood village, perhaps my grandmother would appear again.

The ghost of my mother too.

The beggars have gathered in two rows in front of the church, and all of the villagers have given alms. The women feed them small loaves of bread.

At midnight a great light will shine in the church. And I am waiting for the dead souls to kneel in prayer before the altar. I wait in vain. This church they will not visit. Every door and window in the village has been opened to receive them. From every direction there are cries of “Holy sainted ancestors, we beg you to fly to us and eat and