The Dogs and the Wolves Page 3

  When talking about Lilla, her mother always said, with a sarcastic little snigger: ‘My daughter could never fool me. A robber never gets robbed.’ This local saying meant that no one could be cleverer than someone who had spent his whole life playing the worst tricks on others to benefit himself. And Aunt Raissa certainly seemed to know what she was talking about . . . Yet she never noticed Lilla’s flushed cheeks, the rings under her eyes, her dishevelled hair when she came home. In summer, the young people would meet at one of the four public gardens: Nicolas Square, the Botanical Gardens, the Tsar’s Garden and Merchant’s Place. On hazy Sundays, they would walk arm in arm around the band stand, the girls in straw hats, the tops of their dresses stretched taut over their blossoming breasts, their skirts billowing around their hips, and the boys in light shirts, their belts with the Imperial Eagle around their waists and their caps tipped backwards, looking as if they could conquer the world. They exchanged longing glances and love letters. The brass instruments of the military band resounded through the pink evening. Supervisors from their schools wandered about, spying on the courting couples; the rules were strict. But there were ways around them: they met far away from the gates, at nightfall. They strolled slowly down empty streets where the only person in sight was the man ringing his bell to sell ice cream. Ada’s cousin gave her a little cup of chocolate ice cream and she ran on ahead of the couple, watching out for any suspicious figures in the houses, whistling if she saw a passer-by, while the ice cream slowly melted in the warm evening air.

  One spring day, Lilla and her admirer had gone for a walk in the Botanical Gardens, Ada following behind. It was a rather isolated, overgrown spot. Some sleepy animals lived in iron cages: an eagle from the Caucasus crawling with vermin, some wolves, a bear panting with thirst. One of the cages was empty; its previous inhabitants, some foxes, had dug a hole in the ground and escaped a few years before, or so the story went. All that remained were the iron bars, a large, rusty lock, and a sign swaying in the wind that read: ‘Foxes’. But Ada always hoped that one of the young cubs might have come back home. She pressed her face against the bars and called out, ‘Come on, let’s see you, I won’t tell anyone you’re here.’ But in vain. Finally, disappointed, she would walk away, throwing a crust of bread to the eagle and the wolves. Ill and indifferent, the animals never stirred. She glanced furtively over at Lilla, seated next to that day’s lucky boy, a nice fifteen-year-old secondary school student. Lilla had forgotten her. Ada was bored; the mosquitoes were eating up her bare arms. She walked slowly along the paths, then hopped until she got to two blocks of stone that the locals called ‘didko’ and ‘babko’, the grandfather and the grandmother; their worn-out features vaguely resembled human faces. Ada had been told they were pagan idols from the past: the god of storms and his wife, the queen of fertility. At their feet, it was still possible to see the plinth where sacrifices were made, and a drain carved into the stone where the victims’ blood would run. But to Ada, they were familiar friends – they really were a grandmother and grandfather dozing outside their house, warmed by the sun. She had built a little hut of dead leaves and branches behind them, no higher than a molehill, and she imagined it was their house, that they’d come outside to rest in the sunshine and that they would go back inside when it got dark. She made a crown of yellow daisies and placed it on the head of the savage idol; the daisies had dark centres and a bitter smell. Then she climbed up on to the shoulders of the old god of storms and stroked him, as if he were a dog, but she soon got bored.

  She went and tugged on Lilla’s skirt. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go for a walk.’

  Lilla sighed. She was too gentle and soft to oppose Ada for long. She wished she could bribe her with sweets or those red balloons called ‘mother-in-laws’ tongues’ which made a shrill noise when you let the air out. But Ada wasn’t to be bought off with promises, and neither Lilla nor her boyfriend had any money left.

  They left their mossy, leafy hiding place in the Botanical Gardens and headed up towards the top of the hill.

  The houses were so beautiful! Ada had never been there before. She went up to each of the high, closed gates and looked at the large gardens planted with lime trees. Every now and again, a horse and carriage passed by. Everything here radiated wealth and calm. In front of one of the gilded gates, Ada saw a carriage stop. A young boy the same age as Ben came out of the house, accompanied by a woman. Ada had never before seen anyone dressed like that. All the boys she knew wore school uniforms, or shabby clothes if they lived in the Jewish quarter. This boy wore a suit of light beige silk and a large fine linen collar, but his resemblance to Ben was so striking: he had the same black curls, fine nose, long, delicate neck – too long: it tilted forward and made him look like a curious bird – and the same wide eyes, simultaneously bright and misty, like a light burning in oil . . . She grabbed Lilla’s hand and, at a loss for words, nodded towards the boy. The carriage pulled away.

  ‘They’re the Sinners,’ said Lilla’s friend. Then he looked at her and said, ‘They have the same last name as you, don’t they? Are you related?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ murmured Lilla, blushing at the thought of the difference between this house and hers in the lower town.

  ‘They’re rich Jews,’ the boy said, sounding both respectful and mocking, a strange and subtle mixture of emotions that even Ada, small as she was, could identify. ‘The kid’s name is Harry.’

  He put his arm around Lilla’s waist.

  ‘Cover your eyes and count to a hundred,’ he ordered Ada.

  Ada obeyed. Lilla and the boy kissed for a long time. Ada watched them through her fingers. Then she got bored; she climbed on to a stone and looked through the gate at the spacious, aristocratic house with its columns and shady lime trees.

  Until this moment she’d been happy simply to take in what was going on around her with the natural curiosity of an intelligent child. Looking at the outside world had never brought her any particular pleasure. Now, however, she suddenly felt it. Sweet and deep, it pierced her like an arrow. For the first time, she truly saw the lovely colour of the sky, lilac and pistachio green, like sorbet; a yellowish moon, pale and round, without a halo, hovered there in the daylight. And on the horizon she could see soft, fluffy little clouds rushing by; they looked as if the moon was breathing them in, absorbing them. Ada had never seen anything quite as beautiful as that sky. Ada had never seen anything quite as beautiful as the Sinners’ house. Evening was falling. She looked up at the windows where the lights were being lit, and tried to guess which one was Harry’s room. She decided it was the one on the right that shone as brightly as a star. She pressed her cheek against the iron bars of the gate.

  ‘Harry . . . Harry . . . Harry . . .’ she whispered.

  She felt the same exquisite yet somewhat painful pleasure she’d felt when she looked at the beautiful house and the sky. She spoke this strange, mysterious name, with its unique and noble sound, as if it were a kiss.

  5

  Nastasia washed the windows once a year, just before Passover. The rest of the time, they remained grubby, soiled by the rain on the outside and by children’s breath and dirty hands on the inside. Even on the most beautiful days, the rooms were half in darkness. Ada, however, never noticed this until the year she and Ben were ill at the same time and had to stay in bed for nearly a month in Ada’s room.

  It was an attic room with a yellow-painted floor and wallpaper decorated with Chinese figures. During their fever, Ada and Ben passed the hours by quietly counting to themselves the number of people they could see from their bed. The Chinamen wore large straw hats and had bare legs; leaning on their canes, they watched coy Chinese women with parasols. Some of the parasols were red and some blue, but because of a nearby drainpipe, dark stains of damp had blurred the colours, merging them into a shade of purple that faded from plum to the colour of amaranth. Just above each bed, the children’s frustrated little fingers had torn away the paper and
they’d used crayons to draw faces and animals on the bare plaster. In a corner of the room, a spider’s web hung from the ceiling and, before the Passover spring clean, it swayed in the draft that endlessly wafted in from the kitchen. The door at the back of the flat was always left open so that Nastasia’s lovers could come up whenever they wanted.

  Whenever Ada and Ben were ill, Aunt Raissa would heat a little pork fat mixed with turpentine over the flame of a candle and, with her thin, dry hands, rub it over the children’s backs and chests. Then she would make them drink gallons of boiling hot tea, and when the symptoms seemed really serious, she would place a hot compress to their necks and make them swallow a spoonful of castor oil. To ease the terrible taste of the medicine, Lilla secretly brought them little buns filled with hard-boiled egg which she bought in town, along with sticky sweets that had spent over a week in the pockets of her admirers. And so Ben and Ada usually welcomed illness. But this time it was really lasting too long. Their fever, sluggishness, sore throats and painful ears seemed interminable. After all, they couldn’t sleep all the time, nor cut out endless puppets from bits of paper: it was too boring. Finally, towards the end of the third week, Ben had a brilliant idea, which transformed their gloomy days.

  They had begun by playing the game of ‘islands’, dividing imaginary lands between them, as all children do; but that wasn’t enough. Later on, they couldn’t remember which of them had been the first to invent what they called ‘the game’, the one that replaced all others. This is how it went: under the supervision of Ada and Ben, all children had to meet one morning and leave in search of a foreign land (one they would of course find), and there they would live entirely alone, without a single adult ever being allowed in. They would have their own laws, their own army, their own government. The masons’ children would build the cities; the painters’ children would certainly know how to decorate the walls. The place had to be inaccessible, protected by high rocks, even though no one would ever dream of coming to look for them; the grown-ups would be only too happy, or so they thought, to be rid of all the children! Well, didn’t they hear their parents moaning endlessly? Everything was so expensive! Clothing, food, education . . . And when they were older, they had to provide dowries for the girls, help the boys set up in business. There was so much to worry about . . . Surely they would be delighted to know they were alive and well, far away.

  Eyes closed, her cheeks flushed with fever, Ada imagined them leaving. It was daybreak. Or, even better, pitch dark, in the middle of the night, while everyone was asleep. From every house, the children emerged, barefoot so as not to make any noise, and each carrying a lantern (that was the most important thing), hidden under their coats to dim the light. They gathered together somewhere beyond the village, and set off. They walked more quickly than their old, heavy parents, of course. Even if they wanted to catch up to them, it would be impossible. Ada could picture every one of them: children from her neighbourhood, from the town, from all over Russia, slender, supple shadows, huddled together, bedding down in a dark forest or beside the riverbanks. They would walk for a long time, for weeks, months if necessary, before finally arriving in the land that awaited them, wherever that might be, but she felt as if she could see it. There were wild animals so they could enjoy hunting, and enemies for when they played at war, and dry earth so they could have the satisfaction of working and building something.

  ‘What should we call it, Ben?’

  But they could never agree on a name.

  ‘What if they send the police to find us?’

  ‘Why should they? Do you think anyone would miss us?’

  ‘Well, you remember when that little Rose, the tailor’s daughter, died last year, how her mother cried . . .’

  ‘But she was dead, you silly; we’ll be very much alive, we will!’

  ‘But what if they get angry because we ran off without their permission and send the police to bring us back?’

  Ben’s eyes sparkled. ‘The Emperor’s children will be with us. The police will surely obey them!’

  ‘You think that the Emperor’s children will come with us?’

  ‘Of course. They’re children just like us. Don’t you think they’d like to be free, to build houses, and buy and sell things in shops?’

  Day after day, the game became more embellished with details and new adventures. The children would have uniforms, medals, books they’d written, streets, laws.

  ‘But who would be in charge?’

  They glanced furtively at each other: the little boy lying on his back, his sheet and the grey woollen shawl he used as a blanket pulled up to his chin; the little girl sitting up against her pillow, leaning on one elbow. All she could see of Ben was the tip of his quivering nose, long and thin, half hidden by his dark curls. Impatiently, she tugged on her brown fringe; her lips were dry from the fever, her cheeks scarlet. She wore a short day dress and one of Lilla’s old cardigans. The sleeves were too long and you could see her bare, thin arms twitching. She didn’t own any night-dresses; it seemed perfectly natural to spend money on clothing people would see, but not on things they wouldn’t. She gestured quickly, decisively.

  ‘Neither of us would be in charge, because we could only ever be equals. If we were in charge, we’d have two governments and we’d be at war.’

  ‘Well, why couldn’t we both be in charge?’ asked Ben. ‘You could command the girls and me the boys.’

  ‘But we’d have to have one supreme leader to decide who was the winner, you fool!’

  ‘Once we’d well and truly beaten you, we wouldn’t need anyone to decide who the winner was!’

  ‘But while the war was going on,’ cried Ada, totally overexcited, ‘while we were fighting, who would be in charge? To look after . . .’ She made a vague gesture. ‘The others . . . the ones who didn’t want to fight . . .’

  ‘Well, who do you suggest?’ said Ben, defiantly.

  Ada lowered her eyes and said softly: ‘Harry Sinner.’

  Just speaking his name made her heart ache. She’d kept her secret for a long time: six months had passed since the moment she had first laid eyes on him, and she hadn’t seen him again. But she had never forgotten him, and to say his name out loud made him suddenly appear, between Ben and her, in their shabby room.

  Ben sniggered: ‘Why him?’

  ‘Why? He’s bigger than you,’ she shouted, her voice quivering indignantly. With that knowing feminine instinct that can aim straight at the vulnerable place in a man’s heart, she had sought, and found, the worst insult. (Ben was small for an eight-year-old boy.)

  ‘He’s at least that much taller than you,’ she said, lifting her hand up to Harry’s height, ‘and he’s stronger too! He knows things you don’t. He knows how to ride.’

  ‘Have you seen him riding?’

  She didn’t want to say anything untrue, so she just nodded.

  ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘No I’m not!’

  For a few seconds they shouted ‘are too’ and ‘am not’ at each other, their faces contorted in anger. They screamed at the top of their voices. When they stopped, hoarse and exhausted by the violence of their shouting, they could hear Nastasia singing wistfully in the kitchen. Aunt Raissa had gone to buy a few things from Alchwang, the tailor who dressed the city’s middle classes; the men were out at work and Lilla was at school.

  ‘Swear then!’ Ben said finally.

  Ada swore like Nastasia did: she quickly crossed herself.

  ‘I swear on the Holy Cross!’

  ‘It’s not hard to ride a horse,’ said Ben after a moment’s silence. ‘What’s hard is to buy a horse. But he wouldn’t know how to climb up the back of a tram, hang on and get around town like that, without being seen by the police, or how to lead a gang of kids from the Jewish quarter against a gang from the marketplace, or how to fight one against ten . . .’

  ‘And you fought one against ten? When?’

  ‘More times than you’ve had hot dinners,’ Ben r
eplied, deeply resentful, imitating the biting reply Nastasia had made to her rival, the woman who sold herrings, who’d accused her of never having had a marriage proposal from any of her lovers.

  But they were tired of shouting and getting upset, so Ada and Ben fell silent. Night was already falling: it was the early dusk of winter. A cockroach slowly crossed the room, twitching its feelers; others climbed up the wall, attracted by the warmth from the wood-burning stove. They were never chased away: they were a sign of wealth in a house. Through the frozen windowpane, they could just make out the shoemaker’s sign next door: a boot made of golden metal, decorated with spurs, all covered in snow and lit up by the low flame of a gaslight in the street. Everything was still, but it was an empty, joyless stillness. Ada buried her cheeks and forehead in the pillow and closed her eyes. Beneath her lowered eyelids, she pictured a long road in the dead of night, but it was a summer’s night, warm and dark. She was walking with Harry. Harry was tired and he was leaning against her; Harry was hungry and she gave him food. Then she was the one who was afraid, who was cold, who was in pain, and Harry consoled her, reassured her, took care of her. The game transformed into a dream: the images were detailed, but bathed in a peculiar light, pale and grey, like the first breaking of dawn, and the sounds (the voices of the children who were running away with them, Harry’s laughter, their footsteps along the road), all the sounds were clear, yet somehow muffled, distant. Harry! What a wonderful name . . . The name of a true prince . . . That name alone would have been enough to make her fall in love, even if she had never seen his face or his house . . . To be allowed inside, even just to cross the threshold, to see Harry’s room, his toys . . . He might let her touch them. He might even take books, coloured crayons, balls and pile them into Ada’s arms, saying, ‘Here. We can share.’

  She thought she could almost hear him whispering in her ear. She sank deeper into a feverish sleep. She could feel her imaginary friend’s cheek next to hers, a cheek as cool and soft as a piece of fruit. She took his hand and fell asleep.