we tapped on the glass window between the back of the truck and the
Russians
but was there a window?
or was it only a metal wall?
it must have been a window
how else would I remember the Russians
laughing and slapping each other’s shoulders
I was half-asleep when the truck stopped suddenly
ten kilometres from the city
we all froze in panic
maybe it was all an illusion
maybe they were back
maybe some parts of Europe were still under their control
anything sudden did that to us
the mind gets trained in one direction
learns to protect itself
but there was no one there
only a little girl sitting by the side of the road
dressed in strange clothes that didn’t fit her
the Russians had stopped for her
but no one moved
the Russians were waiting for one of us to climb down and get her
but no one had the strength for it
I was afraid the truck would move on
the girl would be left behind
she was half-dead like the rest of us
any minute she’d stop clinging on
and her death would be our fault
worse than our fault
when we weren’t selected
because we didn’t choose
only hoped
some of us hoped
but here we had a choice
it was very hard
I staggered up
undid the half-door at the back
someone helped me with that
I got out of the truck and took the girl’s hand and led her up inside
the girl sat on the floor
she thought she had no choice
she didn’t know the war was over
I said the war is over
she didn’t seem to understand me
it was impossible to tell what language she knew
if any
she had a devious face
like a small demon
she’d lost her mind
she clutched my shirt with her small dirty hand
the shirt the Red Cross gave me
I guessed she was between seven and fourteen
hard to know with everyone shrinking
and looking so old
one British soldier thought I was an old woman
he said to someone bring the old lady over here
the way the girl clutched me was closer to seven
her eyes were closer to fourteen
but even two-year-olds had those sad old eyes
in the ghetto
and fourteen-year-olds clutched
we all lost our ages
the truck reached the city
the Russians offered us cigarettes
Prague was impossible
nothing had changed
nothing had changed
it was all the same
there were broken windows from the riots
heaps of rubble
but apart from that it was the same
we were the nightmare
intruding on the city
the Russians let us off the truck
we dispersed
the girl wouldn’t let go of my shirt
and anyhow there was nowhere for her to go
the Russians were returning to the DP camp
they could take her
I couldn’t leave her with the Russians
I’d have to take the girl with me to Katya’s
everyone stared at us or looked away
afraid
the first few days we’d slept in a field
wrapped in blankets from the Red Cross
a tall man hovered above me
repeating over and over I killed him, I killed him
he dangled the rope he’d used to strangle an officer in front of me
then he moved on to someone else
dangled the rope in front of them
we’d all lost our minds
it was only a matter of degree
I had ways to hold on to sanity
I studied the human mind
sadism
torture
starvation
group behaviour under threat
I pretended to myself that I was doing research
undercover
now I was encountering revenge
the German officer he’d strangled was lying face down in a ditch
no one cared
we were tired
it began to drizzle and we were taken in trucks to a train
British soldiers gave us sardines
sweet lemon juice
the sun shone in through the open doors
I tried to tell the soldiers that if we ate more than one sardine at a time
and more than one tin in a day
we would die
I tried to warn people
but two men and a woman ate too fast and died in great pain
I slept on the train and then I slept five or six days at the American
post
I heard that a Russian truck was leaving for Prague
and I managed to find it
now I had to find Katya’s house
I was lucky
someone took pity on us
and gave us a ride
the girl was still clinging to my shirt
the driver talked about the riots
I wanted a bath
he let us off at Katya’s house
I looked up and saw the red curtains of her apartment
Katya’s apartment
the curtains were a good sign
the driver told us that two thousand people were killed in the uprising
Katya and her parents could have been among them
I wanted a bath
and eggs
and to be rid of the girl
my own baby died on January 14, 1942
he was shot on the way to the ghetto, in my husband’s arms
along with my husband
it was worse for other parents
that realization came to me in the months that followed
the realization that given the choices, it was worse for those whose
children were still alive
I rang the bell
I could hardly stand on my feet
a maid I didn’t know opened the door a crack
she kept the chain on
she called out: refugees
an old man and a girl
old man
I laughed at that
my first laugh in the new world
Katya came to the door
she undid the chain
she said we don’t have much
I’ll see what I can find
I said it’s Vera
I’m not old and not a man
I’m Vera
this is a girl we picked up
Katya let us in
we sat in her living room
the maid prepared tea
Katya said what can I give you
we have four eggs
I made bread this morning
I said I’d like poached eggs on buttered toast
and hot milk with cocoa
the girl should have a soft-boiled egg and as much milk as you can
spare
nothing that’s hard to digest
Katya hurried to the kitchen to tell the maid
I was laughing
Katya was crying
I said let’s have some music
Katya put on the radio and a classical piece came on
Fauré I think
the little girl let go of my shirt
walked to the middle of the room
began dancing ballet
precise ballet movements
she kept it up for half a minute or a minute
then she fell to the floor
and began shrieking
piercing
demonic shrieks
she peed on the carpet
and Katya’s father walked in
alarmed
there was an old man on the sofa
a girl shrieking in a puddle of urine on the floor
when the girl saw the man she stopped shrieking
terrified
ran back to me
clutched my shirt again
Katya said it’s Vera
her father said I know who it is
he sat down next to me and kissed my hands
Jan? he said
I shook my head
Jan and the baby were shot on Jan 14, 1942
just as well I said
considering
considering what was coming
I said I want to go to Canada
can you arrange that?
can you get me a visa?
I want to study there
even if I have to start over
I want to start over anyhow
the eggs were ready
the girl clutched my shirt in one hand and held her spoon with the other
we tried various languages
with the help of dictionaries
I was back in a world that had dictionaries
damask
paintings on the wall of children on a sled
finally we had some luck with Italian
the girl understood Italian
I asked for a bath
Katya said the water was only tepid but she’d add hot water from the
kettle
I undressed
the girl didn’t let go of my shirt
she sat on the floor holding the shirt
I got into the water and lay down
the water turned dark brown
we changed the water four times
Katya vomited
she was too thin to be pregnant
it was seeing me naked that made her vomit
the girl refused to be bathed
Katya wiped her with wet towels
Katya was afraid of her
but to me she was ordinary
her demonic shriek in the living room had been ordinary
it was this life that was out of the ordinary
Katya gave me her bed
the girl slept with me
we slept for days on end
slept and ate
our cells regenerating
with remarkable speed
the human body was remarkable
the human mind was even more remarkable
how had I not gone mad?
how?
I didn’t know
even my memory had survived intact
another mystery
Katya asked a friend who spoke Italian to come visit
he tried to find out more about the girl
where she came from
she didn’t know
Katya’s father managed to get me a visa
he pulled the usual strings
he wrote to McGill University
they were willing to take me
I’d have to start over
my period returned
my tissues repaired themselves
my hair began growing back
the maid took a liking to the girl
went out walking with her
the girl had a wild look in her eyes still
but she was well-behaved
she was learning Czech
if you studied the mind several lifetimes you still would not understand
more than a fraction
there was endless oddity about us
at night I returned to another world
nightmares you’d call them
Gerald
but they were memories
replaying themselves in my mind
during the day I could control my thoughts
I controlled them
but at night
at night they returned
but if you hold me tonight
maybe I’ll sleep better
with you I feel safe
is that what you mean when you say you love me
I feel safe with you
Gerald
for me that’s enough
for me that’s enough
do you understand?
can you understand?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
David Davidar, my publisher, inspired me with his humanity, spirit of generosity, and unwavering integrity. David will never know how much I owe him for his faith in my work; creativity cannot thrive without the sustenance of such faith.
It was a joy to work with my editor, Nicole Winstanley. Nicole’s unfailing good humour, patience, energy, and insightful comments were a gift. The entire Penguin team has been incomparable. A special thanks to copy editor Heather Sangster for astute and thorough scavenging.
Joan Deitch, who lives in London, is a brilliant, devoted editor as well as fab friend and confidante, sweet and funny and unstinting with her time and expertise. Her encouragement was invaluable; she held my hand through all the panicky middle-of-the-night worries and entertained me with her lovely letters.
Penn Kemp came up with many imaginative, sensitive, and poetic suggestions. I am very grateful to Derek Fairbridge for his careful reading and numerous helpful comments. I am obliged to John Detre for making time to answer questions about the 1960s and for generous professional assistance. It was, as usual, fun plying Ken Sparling with musical questions; apart from providing scintillating answers, Ken always had a wise and intriguing word for me.
I was deeply moved by the heartfelt responses to the manuscript of Tom Deitch, Cesar Garza, and Ruz Gulko.
Marsha Ablowitz, who was so kind to me when I was five years old, reappeared in my life and was as kind as ever. Her contribution is deeply appreciated.
For unending support and quota-free listening as I made my way through all the stages of producing this book, and for enthusiasm about my writing these past forty years, I thank, inadequately, Shirley Rand Simha.
For expert help with many hurdles, I am grateful to Chris Heap.
Joan Barfoot understands everything. I can’t thank her enough for her thoughtfulness and magnificent books.
Many thanks to Mindy Abramowitz for the open line.
I am fortunate to have fellow-artists Richard Cooper and Margaret Wolfson on my side. I am most grateful to Andrea Levy for providing a loving second home for Larissa, and much else.
For technical help my thanks to Lisa diLanzo Brombal, Ze’ev Gedalof, Hélène Hampartzoumian, Howard Johnson, Peter F. McNally, Charles Stevens of Cottage Blooms, West Falls, and the staff at the wonderful Guelph Library, whom I kept busy and who were so very accommodating. I was extremely lucky to find the superb Tel Aviv photographer Shlomi Bernthal and gifted Israeli actor Shir Shomron for the cover photo, which was beautifully adapted by the inspired Penguin design team.
I would not have survived the demands of a sixty-hour workweek without the unrivalled sports therapist Johanna Thackwray.
I am humbled by the many heroic death-camp survivors in my life and family. In the end, there are no words with which to tell their story and no way to understand what they experienced. This silence hovers at the edges of the novel and of all our lives. We give it meaning by living with love and striving for justice.
This book is dedicated to my daughter Larissa, whose radiance transforms my life every minute of every day.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth is the story of Maya Levitsky, a wise, witty, and unconventional art history teacher and daughter of a Holocaust survivor. When a brush with the past brings her to reflect on the singular events that have shaped her life, Maya begins, thr
ough the lens of her Jewish background, her sexuality, and her beloved art, to unravel the strands in her personal history that have both bound and anchored her. She asks questions that we have all struggled with at some point: How much do the living owe the dead, and how useful is it to look back? Where does the line between oneself and one’s family begin and end? Does evasion save or defeat us? How do we manage the shackles of guilt?
Set in Montreal, the book brings to life many familiar facets of the immigrant experience of the 1960s: the dry cleaners where Maya’s mother, lost inside a tangle of love and trauma, works to support her daughter; the hippie summer camp that lures Maya away from her mother; the Hebrew school that offers refuge from the perceived dangers of the outside world. Through her attachment to Rosie, Maya finds that, much as she wants to proceed on her own terms, she cannot escape the ghostly presence of the Holocaust and its incomprehensible horrors. When disaster makes its way into the lives of this second generation, Maya and her closest friends find themselves unable to rescue an innocence they never really possessed.
In this touching, searching, and unusually revealing story, Canadian novelist Edeet Ravel continues a project begun with her acclaimed Tel Aviv trilogy about the effects of war and trauma on ordinary people. Looking back from the vantage point of the present, Ravel’s wry but sympathetic narrator sheds light on the way that events—past and present, tragic and comic, casual and intimate—shape our lives and make us who we are. And while the book encompasses many issues and themes, from cultural transformations to the weight of both personal and common history, it is more than anything a tribute to the triumph of friendship and love in the face of tragedy. ■
AN INTERVIEW WITH EDEET RAVEL
Q: You’ve chosen to take on one of the biggest crises in history, but there is evidence in the book to suggest that all people’s lives are extraordinary, whether touched by tragedy or not. At one point Maya says, “What I assumed other people had—a simple life—no one has.” How much is that your own philosophy?
I agree with Maya that no one has a simple or “ordinary” life—there is no such thing. When I give talks, someone in the audience inevitably asks, Why do you writers always write about such strange people? Actually, the strangeness of that question intrigues me, and I’d like to write about a character who asks it…. The answer is that it’s only a matter of how deeply and closely you want to look. It takes courage, or maybe foolhardiness, to examine the half-hidden peculiarities and uncertainties of life. I don’t think we understand anything in an absolute or final way, but when it comes to the Holocaust, we are really in the dark. Survivors can’t communicate their experience and we can’t imagine it. The idea of a non-survivor trying to describe that experience in a work of fiction dismays me, with the exception of books for children or second-generation memoirs like Maus, which is brilliant. ■