John Berger - Once in Europa

I was able to get home on that Friday night. Mother was still not talking to me. Emile grinned as he always grinned, and after the soup conspiratorially offered me one of his cigarettes. I was still smoking it when Régis came in. It was several weeks since I’d seen Régis. He was furious. It’s got to stop, Odile, do you hear me? He was shouting very loud. It can’t go on, do you hear me? You’ve got to put an end to it, do you hear me? If Father was alive, he’d have stopped you long ago, and you would have obeyed him, do you hear me? Father wouldn’t have shouted like you do, I said, and he wouldn’t have thought like you and Mother do. Don’t be stupid, Sister. Jesus, don’t be stupid! Father knew I’d be married by the age of seventeen. There was a silence. Emile was cleaning his nails with a pocketknife. Do you realise that your dolt from Sweden is married? It’s a lie, you’ve made it up! What do you expect, Odile, he’s nearly thirty. You don’t know anything about him! We’ve often worked on the same shift, we call him the Snow Shovel, he’s crap. Why do you say he’s married? Listen, Sister, to what I have to say, married or unmarried, if you persist in going out with that shit we plan to give him a lesson. Back to your field, Swede. He’s Russian! All the better, back behind his Iron Curtain!

Was he a married man? The priest later asked me when I confessed, and I had to confess further that I didn’t know, and that I’d never asked him. I went to meet him by the footbridge the day after the evening of Régis’s threats. I told him nothing because as soon as Stepan was there, palpable, before my eyes, I realised that, should it come to a fight, Régis didn’t stand a chance.

We crossed the river, left the Barracks behind us, and climbed to the forest. There we walked along its edge until the factory and the house were out of sight. By the old chapel with its broken windows and the wall behind its altar pocked with bullet marks, we turned in and crossed the forest to come out on the path that leads to Le Mont. There we owned a small barn for storing hay. Now it is in ruins. I’d been there as a child with my father in the days when he brought down hay on a sledge. In my pocket I had the key.

I’d never before seen a man naked like Stepan. I’d seen my father and my brothers at the sink washing all over, I’d seen everything, but I’d never seen a man naked like that. The sight of him brought back to me the night I’d first met him in the Ram’s Run, for I was filled with the same kind of pity — was it a pity for both of us? — and this pity was mixed with fear. Yet it wasn’t with fear that my heart was pounding. My heart was pounding with excitement at the news it received: its life would never be the same again, the body it pumped for would never be the same again.

Father was an expert grafter of fruit trees. He scarcely ever failed. Onto our wild apple trees he grafted pippins and russets, onto the wild pears, dolbos and williams. He knew at exactly which moment to graft, where to cut, how to bandage. It was as if the sap were in his thumbs. He’s grafting me! I said to myself with my arms round Stepan’s body. Along the new branches fruit will come like we’ve never known, neither he nor me. It wasn’t easy for Stepan. I wasn’t easy to break through. For a moment he was discouraged. I could feel it. Everything about men is so obvious that even I, at seventeen, could understand. And I shared his impatience, that’s what I shared with him. So I helped him, like I used to help Father when he was grafting. I’d hold the shoot at the angle needed — whilst Father bound with the cord.

The sunlight streamed through the knotholes of the wall planks and the hay smelt like burnt milk and I felt that everything good that could ever happen was being grafted into me. And next week, we were eating the fruit, weren’t we? If only you could have taken more! He gave us very little, dear God. Yet perhaps not. Sometimes when I tell myself the story of the two bears I say: perhaps the one thing he doesn’t understand is time! How long did we lie behind the grey wood with the sunbeams? You never seemed so small as then, Stepanuschka. I was going to be your wife and the mother of your children, and the ocean which I’ll never see of your ferry boat. The days were nearly at their longest. When we left, it was dark and there was a moon, we could see the path. On the way down I undid your belt. What I saw, dear God, is where? Where?

They started to build. I don’t know with what words Stepan persuaded or inspired them. They started to build a room. Each shed of the Barracks was designated with a letter. I think that when they were first built the letters of the sheds went regularly from A to H. Then some man lodging there had an idea to make a joke which consisted of changing the letters. From the time I could first read as a child the eight sheds were marked IN EUROPA. I could see where the original letters had been painted over. As for the joke, the man who thought it funny had long since left and nobody now could ask him to explain. The letters remained as he had painted them. The N of the IN was written the wrong way round, . The Company scarcely ever intruded into the Barracks area. There was only one law in the factory that counted: that the ten furnaces be tapped the required number of times every twenty-four hours, and that the castings conform to standard when chemically analysed.

Stepan lived in shed A, which was the last one, on the edge of the factory grounds. Beyond was a plantation of pine trees. The men in shed A were building a room for Stepan. It took them a week of their free time. A partition of planks, a hole in the roof for a chimney and a new door. This room was to be separate from the rest of the dormitory, it was to be private. Stepan was making a bed, a large bed with a headboard made of oak and a carved rose at each corner. It was the first bed he’d made and it took much more time than the room. You want us to be married? he asked me. I would like to be your wife. I will marry you, he said, it’s a promise.

Shed A is still there, the furthest from the bridge. People said he took advantage of me. They knew nothing, those people. They didn’t see him carving the roses. If he didn’t marry me immediately it was because he couldn’t — perhaps because his papers weren’t in order. Because he was already married, people said. Perhaps, long before, he did have another wife in another country, in another century. All I know is that he didn’t deceive me.

One day you and I, when our grandchildren are off our hands, one day, he said, you and I will go and visit the Ukraine.

From the window of the little makeshift room at the end of shed A, I watched the swallows flying between the Barracks and the lines of spruce. It was ridiculous now for a woman living my life to still be at school, and so I left without taking any exams. As I walked away from the school for the last time through the tall wrought-iron gates, made for horsemen carrying flags, I felt Father very close. It was as if he came with me to ask for a job at the Components Factory, it was as if because of his presence they gave me a job straightaway.

My first was pressing holes in a tiny plate to fit in the back of radios. One thousand seven hundred plates a day. I wasn’t badly paid and the place had the advantage of being on the riverbank. When I was ahead of my quota I could go out, smoke a cigarette, and watch the river — we were seven in the factory, seven with the boss and his son. Listening to the water, I decided how I was going to show Stepan where he could catch trout without being interfered with.

The only bad thing was the oil, it splattered my hands and wrists, I couldn’t wear gloves for they slowed me down too much, and my skin was allergic to the oil. Little spots came up which itched. Stepan said that if the spots didn’t go away within a week, by July 17th — I remember the date of each day of that month of summer skies, endless days, swallows, and the unimaginable — he would categorically forbid me to work there!