THE WEEPING WILLOW
Short story
Peter Flor died suddenly on Sunday, on the New Year’s Eve of 1984. A cup of tea remained untouched on the coffee table in his den. A piece of paper fell on the floor near the armchair, where he used to spend his lonely evenings, engulfed in deep meditations about his vexatious and hapless life. At that very moment when he began his journey into the other world, Elvira, his wife, bustled in the kitchen, finishing with verve her last arrangements for the arriving guests. Little did she know that while she was baking his favorite cake, her famous husband died infamously in his den, lolling in his old armchair, writing a letter to the only woman he had ever loved…
In their prosperous and uneventful life, the afternoon tea was somehow a complicated and charming process, especially for his wife, when she could relax and twitter about the latest news in their neighborhood. As for him, he couldn’t wait for the moment when he would be able to escape into his studio, away from her mundane and idle chatter.
Lately, Peter Flor noticed that his strength began to abandon him, and he spent less and less time in his art studio. He used to be a man of inexhaustible energy, exuding a tremendous and unfailing charm, but with time, he lost his interest in life and art, even in spite of the fact that he was regarded as one of the most notable artists in America, and even beyond its borders. The success of his latest exhibition in Moscow exceeded all his expectations. Only recently, he received the accolade of being represented in the Museum of Modern Art, and yet . . .
* * * * *
The events leading to his death began on Sunday afternoon, when following his wife’s order Peter Flor slapped on his Russian fur hat, donned his old jacket, and walked out of the house to make a path in the pile of snow for the arrival of their evening guests. The street lamp smothered by the snow swayed to and fro with the blast, dripping down a chain of whimsical, melting snowflakes, as if it were a snowy rain. The wind still scurried the snow north, throwing the wet, biting snowflakes into his face. He rubbed his hands, and put on his warm, winter gloves.
Peter Flor worked an hour or so outside, shoveling adroitly the drifting snow after the heavy snowfall which ended only after midnight. In spite of his burly, hefty-built figure and large gnarled hands, the task exhausted all his strength and he felt completely worn out. Although the landscape was really pleasing for the eyes, Peter Flor didn’t enjoy its beauty. His mind was preoccupied with the letter he received this very morning, the letter that filled his heart with a sudden joy and a hope along with a painful reminiscence. It took him again back to his youth.
Even when Elvira slapped the letter down on the table in a florid gesture and walked out of his room in a bad temper, waving enticingly her heavy hips, he didn’t stop her, leaving her alone to wallow in her sorrow. However, he winced in pain at the thought of talking to his wife about his past. He closed his eyes which he always did when he felt ill at ease. He knew that it was sacrilege on his part to hide his secrets from her, but it was something very personal, sacred, something he could never reveal to anybody. The fact was that he had married Elvira hastily, out of loneliness, and as hastily grown weary of his marriage. Slowly, he developed a distinctive flair for hiding his real feelings from his wife.
His long forgotten past swam back to him as a huge ocean billow, carrying him away from his present, deeper and deeper into the sea of reminiscence. He didn’t like to rake over old ashes, and didn’t allow himself to go there, to open that forbidden door to his past, but this letter gripped him with a powerful mixture of emotions. He had no strength to shrug off this feeling of helplessness, commotion. Throughout his whole adult life, he stung with deep interminable remorse.
He dangled around the house for some time in a fluffy snow not willing to return and face his wife with all her jealousy, annoying questions and boring chatter.
Where are all those people from his previous life? He couldn’t shake their friendly hands anymore, feel the scent of their bodies, or hear their soft, tender voices. They were all gone, while he was the only one who was still alive and well. But was he well and did he really need to remember all of those events that caused him such a tremendous sense of guilt? Death took all his friends away from him, one by one. Time sundered him from their images, which slowly wilted away back into his past. After all, he had always been an artist and their images in the form of old drawings had been hidden among his papers. But even from the dark corners of his house, they had been watching his every move, judging his actions, his behavior. It was maddening to him, especially at night when they would come to visit him in his dreams, and he could see their faces distinctly, not flat as they were in his drawings. They were so real, especially she, the only woman he had ever loved . . . Never before had he felt such a sense of loss, such tenderness in his heart as it happened this morning after the arrival of her unexpected letter. How on earth could he have known that she was still alive?
Instead of going back to the house through the main entrance, Peter Flor walked to the backdoor which led directly into his studio. He stumbled along the corridor, leaving behind him the puddles of dirty snow. The door into his studio had been wide open, as if somebody in a hurry forgot to close it. On the desk, near the window, he found his old drawings scattered all over the place. There was a sketch of Rivka on the top of them, the very last one, made just before their final time together. He had always been wondering how a woman could have such abstruse, divinatory eyes, the eyes of a light brown color with some sunny glitters. They looked straight into his soul without a hint of reproach, the eyes of the woman who loved him so deeply, his only wife…
Peter Flor looked around his studio. It was in total disarray, as if someone was searching for something particular. Only now he remembered – the letter came this morning opened, so he realized that Elvira, driven by her usual tremendous curiosity, had read his letter. She made an unsuccessful attempt to dig into his past, into something so dear, so sacred to him. He shuddered at one thought that Elvira went through his papers. Peter Flor plopped heavily into his easy chair and covered his face with both hands. A sharp chest pain went through his body.
* * * * *
He didn’t say a word to Elvira during their lunch time. She, too, kept unusually quiet, and only clattering of the dishes interfered with the hushed silence.
“Will you have your tea with cake as usual?”
Elvira tried to force him into a conversation, but he didn’t deign an answer. Instead, he got up, and without a word, with a cup of hot tea, withdrew into his den. He stood by the window for a long time, until the blanket of the dark skies fell on earth and shrouded it in the cold winter night. On the window glass, painted with raven black colors, he saw Rivka’s young, wistful face twisted with fear, her arms stretched out to him, as if begging him to save her. He heard her melodic voice, “I promise you that I’ll never, never love anyone else, but you. I’ll never be another man’s wife...”
His mind was hovering on the verge of madness. He touched the glass and her image disappeared into the night. Peter Flor shivered with cold and went back to his desk. He pulled hastily out from the drawer a piece of paper and a pen. Then, he plunged comfortably into his armchair and wrapped his knees in a wool plaid. It was time to reply to her letter, time to unlock his past. But instead of writing, his eyelids became heavy and he slowly steeped in tumultuous slumber. Some old, forgotten visions from his past began to painfully wander down his present…
* * * * *
The growing outside noise woke him up unexpectedly. Peter Frolov stretched his young body, and lazily swept his legs from under the blanket, thrusting them in a slow motion into his old sleepers. His parents were still asleep in the other room. A grey morning just dawned upon a sleeping town. Heavy clouds brooded sullenly above, and the stiff wind began to pick up its speed. He looked at the cuckoo-clock, and at the very same moment, the clock struck five-thirty in the morning. It was time for him to get up anyway. Tonight, he had plans to put a ring on Rivka’s finger and ask her father for his blessing to marry her. He hoped he would get her father’s consent in spite of the fact that she was Jewish and he was a gentile.
Rivka was the most beautiful girl in their town who reciprocated his passionate love with her own fervor. He mulled over their last conversation when they dreamed about building a new cozy dwelling together, and having many children. Rivka also wanted to go to college to become a doctor. He didn’t object; he was so proud of her. The evening was warm, and only some gusts of cold air blew from the dark waters of the river, called Berezina, that girded their town west and south. They dipped their burning faces into the chill of the evening grass as he slowly moved his hand along Rivka’s slender body, her tender skin, and the glossy tendrils of her raven hair. His hand moved slowly but persistently under her dress. She suddenly pulled his hand away.
“No, Peter, no, not now, please.” She turned her wistful and paled face to him, and lowered her bewildering eyes.
He didn’t listen to her entreaty any longer. He reached for her mouth and pressed feverishly his lips to hers.
“Will you marry me, Rivka? Will you?” – He murmured under his breath, not being able to move his hand away from her body.
“You need to talk to my father first, Peter. Without his consent I can’t marry you. You know that. Be nice to my father and try to cajole him into giving his blessing for our marriage. But I promise you that I’ll never, never love anyone else, but you. I’ll never be another man’s wife…”
She didn’t resist anymore the demands of his body, his hands and his lips. That evening Rivka had become his unwed wife.
* * * * *
Peter looked at the calendar. It was June 22, 1941. It was only yesterday that he promised Rivka to talk to her father. The noise outside grew louder and louder, until somebody desperately pounded on the door.
“Peter, open the door, lazy boy. Will you?” His mother, still in her old cotton night gown, uncombed, appeared in the doorframe of her room, pulling on her robe. “But ask first who is it?”
Peter shook off the sweeping vision of Rivka and reluctantly looked out of the window. Their neighbors hurriedly packed the street. He now rushed to open the door. Their neighbor’s son, Tishka, stood sniveling at the threshold.
He tottered as he spoke, “You, dumb-head, turn on the radio. While you were plunged into your stupid dreams, the German Army invaded Russia. The whole town was early astir, but you.”
Peter made no reply, but simply scowled. He threw an askew look at his mother, and noticed how she heavily and flaccidly leant against the door, and then uttered a strident shriek. The first deafening claps of thunder roared so very close that for a moment Peter thought that it was already a sound of the German airplanes circling around their house. He didn’t see when his father shuffled into the room in his underwear and turned on the loudspeaker:
“At four o’clock this morning, without any warning to the Soviet Union, the German Army crossed the border and advanced into the Russian territory. They bombed our cities from their airplanes.” The familiar loud and anxious voice of Vaycheslav Molotov, the right hand of Joseph Stalin, could be heard outside. They were awed into silence by the voice of a great man when he concluded, “We’ll defend our country! The enemy will be defeated! The victory will be ours!”
Peter heard how his mother wept loudly, producing an odd, guttural sound. And even his father, who used to be so outspoken, so rambunctious, cried silently, covering his senescent, tired face with his large gnarled hands. Never before had he seen his father crying. The horror of these words pierced him with a sharp frosty feeling.
His eyes swept their neighbors who clustered together near their window. The outside crowd trailed into silence. The tragic silence was only interrupted by the voice of their commander, reaching them from the old loudspeaker. Peter opened the window and caught some snatches of their conversation. One of the neighbors, who had just returned from Minsk, the capital of Byelorussia, was telling the rest of the crowd that he heard rumors – the Germans will be not far from Minsk soon and they may be shortly here, in Borisov.
“After all, we are only sixty kilometers away from Minsk,” – he uttered into his beard.
“How soon do you think they might be here?” – The other ebullient, tremulous voice entered their conversation.
“Well, it depends on the speed they will be moving far inland. I would think that in less than in a month they are going to be here.”
“What are we going to do?” – The voice of a young woman continued, but her fine voice quivered, revealing her fear, her anxiety. She held a crying baby in her hands.
“Who knows? Who knows now what to do? It rattles me to realize how close we are to a real catastrophe. I am sure they will raze everything to the ground, not leaving a stone standing. I am afraid that the dire days lie ahead of us!”
The heavy rain began falling slantways from the sky. The strong wind whipped up, carrying away into nothingness their fears along with their courage and their strength.
* * * * *
Peter had not seen Rivka all day long. He was worried about her, about his face to face meeting with her father, but most of all, what was going to happen to all of them. His thoughts rambled in different places. His parents decided to leave their town and move further, far inland, where they had some relatives. Peter helped them packing, tossing about the house, but firmly refused to join his parents in their escape. In the morning, he had a long and painful conversation with his father. Finally, he told him about his plans to marry Rivka that made his father boil with rage.
“Are you out of your mind to marry a Jew? I forbid you even to think about her. She’ll pull you into an abyss along with herself and all other Jews. Don’t you understand yet that it is not the time to get married?” he screamed at the top of his lungs with a face twisted with fury.
But in vain, Peter was inexorable; he didn’t crumple up under the strain. Finally, his father gave up, not because he agreed with Peter’s decision, but because he knew his son’s refractory spirit. He didn’t utter a single word to him all day long.
By late afternoon, the house was crowded with relatives and neighbors. The dining room was humming with voices of their unexpected guests, who came to his father for words of wisdom. His mother put on the table hot boiled potatoes, herring with rings of onions, fresh tomatoes from their garden, and a bottle of Russian vodka to ginger them up. They spoke late into the night, reviling the Germans and their own fate.
During their heated discussion, Peter managed to slip away from the house. He couldn’t stop thinking about Rivka, yearning for her quiet, melodic voice, her soft lips and tender hands. He felt the ring in his pocket and the presentiment of seeing her soon, overwhelmed him with emotions. By the time Peter reached Rivka’s house, the night had already grown pitch dark and thrown its dark lacey veil over the town. Rivka’s younger brother, Moisha, opened the door and immediately pressed his finger to his mouth making a signal to Peter that something was very wrong. And indeed, Rivka’s tearful face appeared in front of him suddenly. She nodded, pointing outside, and showing him to follow her. She moved swiftly in the dusk, away from the house full of people, full of anxiety and uncertainty for their future. She, finally, stopped and sank on the grass under the weeping willow, inviting Peter to sit next to her. She didn’t cry any longer, but her face had a grave expression and a fixed frightened stare.
“Look, Peter, the Nazis could be in our town any moment. It’s dangerous for all of us to remain here, but my father refuses to evacuate and so do I. I told him about us and his firm reply was that he’ll never in his lifetime allow me to marry a gentile. It’s up to you now, Peter. What do you think we shall do?”
She looked at him again and there were so much sorrow in her eyes. The moonlight gushed down some glimmer on their faces and the light, reflecting in her eyes, changed its color from light brown into deep green. “Almost like the color of summer grass,” Peter thought. He stared at her, plunged into deep meditations.
After some minutes of silence, he finally announced, “So, we’ll take matters into our own hands. We are going to get married tomorrow anyway, without our parents’ blessings. We’ll keep it as a secret for now, but after the war, when the Germans will be defeated, we’ll tell them. Then, they’ll have to accept our marriage.”
She raised her eyebrows with a dubious expression and didn’t reply. He smiled ruefully at her, watching how the silver moonlight rippled through the surface of the somnolent river. He pulled her closely, searching for her lips, and the weeping willow bent over, as if sheltering them both from the impending disaster.
They returned to their homes when the night wore on and the moon drooped beyond the horizon, as if a sudden impetuous wind pushed the moon into a deep abyss.
The next day, Peter and Rivka had been secretly married in the neighboring town.
* * * * *
On July 2nd 1941, the German Army began its incursion into Borisov. Like wild beasts, they had been brutally destroying everything on their way. From now on, by a special order, all the Jews were required to wear a yellow star. Since that order became active, Peter and Rivka could hardly see each other. Peter planned to join the Red army as soon as possible. He already had his call-up paper, but a sudden German occupation and all the panic that seized the town ruined his plans. He began looking for the ways of joining the local guerrillas. Rivka and her family spent most of their time at home, lonely, hopeless and frustrated, fearing for their lives.
Soon, the whole town was astir with news – the Nazis built six death camps. At the end of the summer of 1941, the first Jewish Ghetto had been created on the outskirts of Borisov. It occupied several blocks. The Slavic population was ordered to vacate their houses and move into the houses of Jews, who were doomed to die. The Ghetto was enclosed with barbed wire, and the only gate was guarded by local residents and police who supported the Nazis. The iniquitous murders took place immediately with the outburst of the utmost savagery. During this time, Peter heard rumors that those Russians who tried to save their Jewish spouses ended up brutally murdered. He couldn’t sleep at night imagining in his mind many different possibilities how to save Rivka, but none of his ideas seemed to be real. He was still searching for a way to save Rivka from the Gestapo’s omnipresent eyes when he learned about the murders.
The same evening, cautiously hiding behind the houses, Peter went to the river to meet Rivka at their secret place under the weeping willow, but she was not there. With some foreboding feeling, Peter hurried to Rivka’s house. What he saw there that evening stayed with him for the rest of his life. A small green truck with a swastika was parked next to Rivka’s house, while the two German officers were dragging Rivka’s youngest brothers and sister out of the house. The children fiercely struggled to grab hold of their parents. They screamed and tried to resist the Nazis. Rivka walked in silence behind her parents. Her face was deathly pale, and her long heavy hair was cut short. A small crowd of their Russian neighbors watched the horrific scene in silence. They knew where the Nazis were taking their Jewish neighbors – to one of the death camps, or to the Jewish Ghetto on the outskirt of Borisov. Peter moved closely to see what was going on. At that very moment, he saw Rivka’s face. It had no tears, no fear, just total confusion and disbelief.
She noticed him, too. “Peter, Peter . . . ,” she almost whispered, hardly moving her lips and fixing her eyes on his. In their depth, he saw a flash of hope, but there was also fear, the fear not only for her life, but for his, as well.
Yes, Peter did hear her silent supplication, and yet, by some eerie forces remained impervious to them, as if he was deaf or blind. His father’s words were ringing in his head: “Don’t you understand yet that they are destined to die, all of them?” He shriveled, as if he wanted to fall through the ground, disappear from the surface of the earth, but he stood by idly, motionlessly, until the crowd hustled him away.
A young Nazi in a new green uniform, with cold glassy eyes and a ghoulish face, noticing the exchange of glances between Rivka and Peter, struck Rivka with a stick with all his might. She fell down to her knees, while he continued striking her harder and harder, until she was covered with blood. She didn’t cry, didn’t ask for help. Her used-to-be friends and neighbors fearfully watched her being pushed into the ugly green truck. And how could they help her now? They all feared for their own lives.
Peter stood silently in this small crowd, still not being able to move, as if his feet were frozen to the ground. He was scared stiff as he watched how the truck pulled away. He heard children screaming, and Rivka’s parents lamenting, and still he couldn’t move, seized by a horrific fear of death. And then, as if being awakened from some bad dream, he began running after the truck, thinking that he could still save Rivka, but all that has left of the green truck with swastika was the heavy whirlpool of dust, and the curtain of the black night that sundered him from Rivka. The vision of the moving truck slowly disappeared from his view, and he fell on the ground crying and begging God to forgive him.
“Coward, coward, coward . . . ,” – the wind contemptuously whispered into his ear, “You could have saved her. Why didn’t you do it? Why? You were scared, afraid of your own life, but what about Rivka? Do you really love her?”
“I do love her… ”, -- he struggled to reply, but the wind had already gone, leaving him alone with his sorrow.
Since that day, Peter Frolov didn’t live, but languished through life aimlessly. The same evening, under the veil of darkness, Peter took his small rucksack with some food, a warm sweater and began his perilous journey in search of the partisan’s squadron. He had never heard of Rivka again. All he could find out was that on October 20th 1941, the whole Ghetto had been totally annihilated. 33,000 Jewish people had been killed and buried in the massive grave on the outskirt of Borisov. After the war, he didn’t return to Borisov, but managed to escape to Poland, and then to America.
* * * * *
Peter Flor opened the letter that his wife just recently threw on his desk. He took it out of the envelope in disbelief, and hot tears slowly welled into his eyes as he kept this small piece of paper in his hands, reading slowly a message from his past.
“Oh, Peter, darling, beloved Peter… You are alive and well… For so many years, I have prayed for the repose of your soul. I had been trying to find you, but all in vain…until yesterday, when I went to see the exhibition of the American artist, Peter Flor. Something clicked inside me when I saw your name, but the real shock came afterwards when I saw your paintings. Every one of them was a cry from your past. I recognized immediately the familiar landscapes: the river lapped in woods and flowing into nowhere, the broken branches of trees, burned by the war houses, the meadows spangled with wild flowers and the weeping willow bending over the river, the one where you kissed me for the last time. I walked through the exhibit halls, as if in a dream. My thoughts rambled to those distant and dear to my heart places. All the events from my remote past flooded me with emotions. And the only thing that pulsated in my temples was, “You are alive, you are alive…”. I spent some time near my portrait that you probably copied from the last drawing that you made of me, our last time together. Do you remember all of these, Peter? Do you? I saw the portrait of your wife – she is a beautiful woman. You are probably a happy man now. I have never married or loved another man, Peter. My whole life I was searching for you. How could I know that you live in America, that you are a happily married man? Have you ever tried to find me? I can imagine how deeply surprised you are by my letter. You probably thought that I died with other Jewish prisoners in one massive grave. Yes, I did die, my soul died that day, but my wounded body managed to stay alive. I had been thrown on the top of the other bodies and badly wounded, but I was alive. I managed to climb out of the ditch, and slowly crawling under the cover of the night, I reached the road. There, a local man found me and hid me in his basement until I could walk again and join the guerrillas. For all these years, I thought about you, Peter. I dreamt every night of seeing you again. Our love gave me strength to stay alive. I don’t blame you, Peter, for what had happened to me. It’s not your fault. You had a choice whether to die with me or to save your own life. You had chosen the last. I understand.
My whole family had been murdered, including all my brothers and little sister. Nobody could save us, nobody, but fate.
I am sorry to put you off with such a scrubby letter, but please answer me, Peter. I want to know everything about you. Please, write to me.
Still loving you,
Rivka”