Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

We race through the countryside, turning heads as we do so. Myself and a dozen others, most of whom choose to ignore me, having no doubt been informed that I prefer my own peculiar company. I wish now that I had not sat at the back of the truck, for the fumes rise and curl their poisonous way into the vehicle at precisely the point where I am sitting. It is particularly difficult whenever we idle at a junction, or when we slow down to pass through a narrow lane. All around I can see the evidence of war. The lanes are littered with long lines of defeated soldiers and discarded vehicles. However, set against this there are strange visions of normal life. Schoolchildren. Pet dogs. Newspapers.

After many hours we eventually slow down, then cross a wooden bridge over a river, and now we are entering the outskirts of a city. Silence. And again, another of these strange visions. I see a woman pushing a pram in which I can see a baby. We all stare. The child has healthy red cheeks. My fellow evacuees cling to their suitcases and stare. The woman to my right offers me an English cigarette, which I take. She lights it. I am not sure how to smoke, but it cannot be too difficult. But now I feel it affecting me. My head feels light. An eerie feeling of indifference. I want to smile. I smile at her, my way of thanking her. There are other strange sights. In front of us, a military vehicle. Not English. Perhaps American. A khaki-curtained vehicle, so we cannot see inside. Now my head begins to spin. Up above, the poor clouds huddle together. And then they begin to weep. Light rain. We have reached our destination.

I sit on the edge of a bed. On the bed are clean white sheets. But the most disturbing sight of all is a pillow. I had forgotten that such items existed. The other women from my camp are in this makeshift dormitory with me, and they, too, sit on their beds. They talk excitedly to each other, and one of them jumps up and runs to a door. Another runs to a window and peers out. Then they sit back down again. They are making nervous plans. For Palestine. They speak with a sudden and miraculous energy, and I listen to them in silent fascination. Apparently, we have wandered long enough. We have worked and struggled too long on the lands of other peoples. The journey that we are making across the bones of Europe is a story that will be told in future years by many prophets. After hundreds of years of trying to be with others, of trying to be others, we are now pouring in the direction of home. I am not included in their plans, for they know not to waste their time. Neither Margot nor Mama are in Palestine. There is no need for me to go to Palestine. But, like them, I have feelings. I understand the passion that they must feel. I, too, have survived the storm. I, too, will soon be issued with identity papers. I, too, have dreamt of Palestine. And once we are together again, if either Mama or Margot wishes to go to Palestine, then to Palestine we shall go. And perhaps I will see these women again in the promised land.

I swing my legs up and on to the bed, and I stare through the window. It is evening now, and the light is fading. We have come to the right D.P. camp. We are on the outskirts of the right city. And tomorrow I will meet Mama in the square. But there is no reason for me to flaunt my good fortune. It is bad manners to do so. I try to let the other women know that I, too, like them, am happy. I do not want to dampen the atmosphere. I try to smile at them, but they consider me unreliable. I understand this. I am not angry. I listen to their planning, to their excitement, and I wish that I, too, had somebody with whom to share my joy. But all of us, in our own way, will now survive.

And now, at the end of the day, I have to admit that, again, there will be no Mama. For almost one week I have sat on this bench from sunrise to sunset. And then I walk back to the displaced-persons camp and take my meal with the rest of them. Men, women and children. I have my routine. I sit in the market square and I stare at the poster across the way. A splendid, colourful poster with a bright sun, a marine sky and bronzed shores. Come to Greece! I want to go on a voyage. What a temptation. What luxury. People pass by and glance at me. Their lives are also miserable. Their eyes are filled with despair, their faces are glum, their heads are bowed to the ground. Their hearts are icy. I look at them and I whisper to myself. You deserve this unhappiness. You deserve it. In this city, people played in the park in the summer. In this city, people skated on the river in winter. At the end of the day, as the sun begins to set, I rise to my feet. It is a mile or so back to the camp. It will not take long. And when I return, there will be food.

It is simply another day. Why sit here any longer? There is no Mama. There never was a Mama, neither in this camp nor in the last. There is a place that I must find. A place to which Margot now belongs. A place to which I might travel. I am lucky. (Am I?) I am sorry, but I do not recognize this world any more. Why sit here any longer among these people who hurry across this market square, dragging their miserable lives behind them? They cannot know what I know. They can never know what I know. Full of their stupid importance. No, I will not waste my time enlightening them. No. Mama is gone from me and I am alone. For more than one week now, I have been afraid to face this. I have not wanted to see this. But now I see it, as clearly as I see my Greece at the corner of the square. These stupid, distressed people walking by me. Their bearing respectable but defeated, my imagination ruined. I have no Mama. And so back for more food. I must leave this bench before sunset and go back to the camp. I remain constantly haunted by food. Even though there is plenty to eat, I always carry a piece of bread hidden about me. I am ashamed.

I have spent a whole month avoiding impertinent questions. I eat with them, what more do they want from me? I am frightened to fall asleep at night in case I talk and reveal something about myself. Both day and night, I stare at the other women. Clearly I have unnerved them. But I am trying to be good. And whenever the women begin to sing in Yiddish, 'Pioneers prepare themselves for Palestine', I too join in, my voice weak, often mouthing the words, but I try. I still try. And then I received the letter from Gerry. And then I talked. I am going to be married. That was my announcement. In England. The camp authorities agreed to arrange my journey, but only after I showed them the letter. I told the women in my dormitory: He wants me to come to England and marry him, and so I will go. They were puzzled, but the camp authorities understood. We will give you money and arrange your passage. You're very lucky. Congratulations. My life here is dead. I lie down at night without a life. I rise up in the morning without a life. Mama, why did we not all hide together? Mama, why did Papa not turn around and look at me as he wheeled to the right?

Tomorrow, I leave for England and Gerry. I am to pass this final night in a new dormitory. With one other woman. This woman talks to me. She tells me that she went back and found nobody. That her family furniture had been burnt as firewood by the townspeople. That her family house was derelict. She tells me that she found a photograph in a frame. The glass was broken and the picture torn, but this is all she has left. (I stayed one night and then ran for my life.) She smiles at me. She says that she has heard. That they have given me some money and a ticket. She tells me that she simply wished to live long enough to witness the end of the war and then one hour more. But now she is happy. There is a new life. (A new life for all of us, if we trust in God and believe again. This is what she says.) She has a present for me. She slips it into my hand and then leaves the room. I know what I have to do. I wait for a few moments and then move across to the mirror. A stranger's face, with large puffy eyes. I do not want this anguished expression. How can this stranger be me? I look like them, ugly and ravaged. I begin to laugh at this mask. I smear the lipstick around my mouth. A jagged slash, red like blood. Tomorrow, they will release me into an empty world with only Gerry for company. Gerry has never seen my true face. Oh Gerry, my heart is broken. Perhaps you can mend it a little, but it will never again be complete. Do you understand this? How can she give me this useless lipstick? How can she give me such a present? I am not like them. I am not.