Chapter Twenty-Four
The Three Soldiers
Numb with cold, disoriented and frustrated, wearing wet overcoats, the young soldiers stumbled along the narrow, winding path. The late autumn had eventually come to a standstill. Almost every day now, an incessant morning drizzle stretched into night rainfall. There were only the three of them, rambling blindly through the forest: a slender, young woman with dark, gypsy eyes, dressed in a heavy green uniform with a red cross, and two young soldiers with a striking resemblance to each other. Their bristly, untidy beards looked almost unreal on their youthful faces, covered with a thin coat of mud. They herded together, anxious to find some protection against the wind, the rain and the fog. The trees, wounded by the war, had already shed their leaves and stood almost naked on both sides of the path. Their branches, interlaced above, struggled to resist the northern wind that droned and trumpeted through the devastated rural area. These were the typically cold days of late fall.
Only days before, their small battalion had been surrounded and crushed by a large group of German soldiers. Many of their comrades had been killed, but some managed to escape into the nearby woods. Those who escaped struggled to stay close to each other, making slow headway into the depth of the woods. Shortly afterwards, in a murky fog, they had lost the rest of their friends.
At first, there was no trace of a path leading farther into the wooded area. Soon, they noticed some scattered scrubs, forming a pathway that ran between the tall trees, hardly visible in the distant gloom. They waded through mud until the pathway branched off to the main street of an obscure country village, surrounded by forest. The place was pitch dark and quiet. It met them with a grim and despairing silence. The black night turned the streets into ghostly empty corridors. The houses stood lifeless, their shutters closed.
Mark held Rita’s hand in his, trying to give her hope that they would now be able to find a place to rest.
“Don’t cry, Rita, we are now in a safe place. Do you see those small dots of light behind the windows? I see them as the lights of hope. We will find a place to stay, darling,” he whispered into her ear.
Rita didn’t reply. She was fast losing her remaining strength, and her feet would no longer obey her. They were leaden, drowning in the boggy, wet soil. Every step required an incredible effort. Finally, they turned into a side street, moving gingerly and staying close to the houses. They came to a dead end and stopped near a clean, white house with a wicker fence and closed shutters. The house was immersed in the dark night, but some glimmers of light oozed out through small cracks in the shutters. This quiet corner seemed to be only a tiny part of a sleepy, unknown town.
Rita, still holding Mark’s hand, pressed her cheek against his wet overcoat. “I am scared, Mark.”
In the dark, he saw her lustrous eyes struck by fear. “You should not be afraid, Rita. You are such a brave girl. We are going to be fine.”
And then, he turned to Leon. “Look at this house, Leon. Does it remind you of our house?”
He recognized something familiar in this small, neatly painted house with its red brick roof, wisps of gray smoke coming out of the chimney, and snaky ivy twined around the fence. It really did remind them of their own home at the edge of a town, called Nevel. They hesitated, frightened by the muteness of the air, disturbed only by the drops of rain. Not a single shot had been heard in the village, as if the war had rushed past and died away forever.
The front door of the house suddenly opened, and a frightened, stubby old man with a very sinister face, dressed in a dark raincoat, appeared on the doorsteps. A sparse gray beard framed his famished, gaunt face with shrewd, small eyes. Instinctively, they stepped back, startled. The man squinted and scrutinized them incredulously, peering into the dusk of the night. Leon was the first one to take a step forward. At the same time, the old man shone a flashlight on his face.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” His voice sounded aggressive.
“We are lost and need a place to stay. We are worn out. Do you know how far away the Nazis are? Tell us please, friend, what’s going on around here,” Leon said gloomily and came closer to the old man, blinking his eyes from the bright flashlight.
The man’s glance rested on Leon’s face for a moment, carefully examining him before he replied. “They are in a neighboring town and might be here any time. Meanwhile, don’t ask me any questions here—even the night has its eyes and ears. Come in, come in.”
He shifted his gaze to Rita and moved aside, letting them enter the house.
They had barely crossed the threshold when the old man swiftly turned the key in the lock. The unexpected guests hovered dubiously near the door, looking around the room and examining the place. The spacious anteroom was cool and dusky, but the rooms were warm. A tiny furnace radiated enough warmth to heat the whole house. A large rustic, oaken table, covered with a clean, white tablecloth, stood in the middle of the room. A small bed in the corner of the room had a colorful quilt. The oil lamp on the bedsidetable threw a cone of light on two photographs, hanging on the opposite wall. One of them depicted Vladimir Lenin, standing on the battleship Potemkin while the other one was a portrait of Joseph Stalin, leaning against the red flag.
“We have to apologize for the late intrusion, but we have a young woman among us who needs some help,” Mark spoke slowly, supporting Rita, who was about to faint.
The old man began bustling around the room fretfully.
“Why in the world are you standing in the door? Don’t tread water. Please come in and sit down, my dear guests. Indeed, all of you should take off your wet overcoats and your dirty boots. And for God sake, leave your dirty duffelbags at the threshold. Hurry up, hurry up. Meanwhile, I’ll boil some water,” he demanded in a peremptory tone.
He put some cups, plates and an old samovar on the table and hobbled out of the room, complaining of the early frost and pain in his hips. His loud voice reached them from the hencoop.
“Damnation, it hurts like hell, again. These damn chick-ens, I have just cleaned the space,” he droned on loudly.
While he was outside, getting fresh eggs from his hen-coop, and smoked fish from his storage bin, they clustered around the heating furnace.
“I don’t like him,” Rita said quietly, holding her hands over the heater. Her deathly pale face was covered with red spots.
“Rita, you are running a temperature.” Mark put his hand on Rita’s forehead.
“I am fine.” She pushed Mark’s hand away. “I said I do not trust this man.”
“Why?” Leon asked, still struggling with his dirty boots.
“He is too nice…perhaps too evasive. What do you think, Mark?”
She turned her attention to Mark, who was mulling pensively over something.
“I don’t know what to say. Maybe we are getting too wary of every person around us. We’ve stopped trusting each other. It’s too late to leave this house now anyway. We need some rest and especially you, Rita. And we have not eaten since yesterday.”
“Trust my intuition.” Rita shook her head emphatically.
They didn’t hear when the old man came back and slithered softly through the door, his old polished boots hardly touching the shiny parquet floor. To their great surprise, he held a basket full of eggs, a bunch of smoked fish and a loaf of bread.
“Faugh, damn! It’s my old age. My feet and my hip hurt,” he cursed, walking into the house.
An uncouth, skinny boy, with beady eyes, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, followed him. A glum smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“My grandson, Nikolai, don’t be afraid of him. He is a bit loutish, but he is very kind. You should move closer to the table. By the way, my name is Peter Ivanovich.”
He busied himself in the kitchen, preparing food for them. Finally, oil sputtered in a pan, and the smell of fried eggs made their stomachs feel queasy.
“Help yourself, dear guests.”
Peter Ivanovich fussed around the table, carefully setting down plates for each of them. Then, their generous host deftly heaped theirs plates with eggs, smoked fish and bread. The young soldiers gulped down the food until there was nothing left, and their eyes were heavy with fatigue. The old man himself joined them at the table, slurping up his food ravenously, with obvious pleasure.
“How did it happen that you lost your comrades?” Peter Ivanovich asked them between mouthfuls of hot food, still watching their every movement.
“We were surrounded by German soldiers, and only a few of us managed miraculously to break through the enemy lines and to escape unscathed. We groped through the woods for three days until we reached your village.”
“What battalion did you belong to?” He scowled as he spoke but tried to hide his mounting discontent.
They exchanged glances at this unexpected, disquieting question.
“We can’t give you that information. In the morning, you should help us find a Russian commander.”
Leon, becoming a bit nervous, gave him a long stare. The old man’s questions were beginning to sound like an interrogation.
“Then, my dear friends, seek counsel in your pillow. We will talk about it in the morning,” he agreed with a hint of dryness, but a barely concealed smile didn’t leave his withered face.
A short time later, he turned his attention to the boy who had retreated into silence during their conversation.
“Go and make beds for our guests and hurry up, it’s getting late.”
The boy obediently got up to prepare a sleeping place on the floor in the next room.
“Sleep well,” the old man said to all of them and glanced, smiling sweetly.
In spite of their fatigue, they couldn’t fall asleep for some time. They left the window flung wide open. The dead of night encroached on the unknown town. A light wind began to blow more strongly. The small house reverberated with the wind. Frightened, they listened to the first peal of thunder, coming from a distance. Under gusts of wind, the casements shook: then thunder rattled the windowpane, until it fell with a joyful jingle to the floor. They could now hear steady patter of rain, drumming louder against the roof. Soon, the rain stopped, and they sank into a leaden and troubled sleep.
Before daybreak, Peter Ivanovich woke them up. “Wake up, wake up,” he shouted, sounding alarmed.
By now, the weather had cleared, and the first pale sun-rays peeped into the room. Mark and Leon left the room first so that Rita could get dressed. They washed their faces with cold water, and slowly, they were revived from their heavy slumber. Soon, Rita emerged from the room in a simple cotton dress. Her sleek raven black hair was pulled back into a bun, in a way that accented the perfection of her fine features. Her eyes shone, but there were still red spots on her face. She was running a temperature, and both Mark and Leon noticed her feverish look. She saw the worried glances on Mark’s face and with a supple movement pulled him aside.
“What is going to happen to us? I don’t trust Peter Ivanovich. Mark, I just don’t trust him. He seems to me a fake. Please listen to me. We have to leave this house right away. Don’t dally, Mark, please hurry. Trust my intuition,” she desperately pleaded with him again and again, her voice dropping to a secretive whisper. He took her hand in his, not knowing what to say. She freed her hand.
“Whatever happens to us, remember that I’ll love you as long as I live.” She looked at him questioningly. He heard vehemence in her voice.
“We will be always together, Rita. Don’t think about death. The war will end soon. I believe. We will get married and have a son. We will name him Alexander. In Greek it means a ‘defender of men’”
She tried to smile at him, but her lips wouldn’t obey. She felt suddenly faint, and her heart began to palpitate.
“Yes, we will name our son Alexander,” she announced, giving him a fleeting kiss. “Mark, could you please keep my pregnancy a secret? I feel somewhat ashamed. We are not yet married. Please, do not tell Leon. Promise?”
“Sure, I promise, darling. You have nothing to worry about. I know how to keep secrets.”
He touched her belly and smiled.
“I hope it will be a son.”
“I want a daughter, Mark.”
“Well, the next one will be a girl, but you should take care of yourself, darling. I am so worried about you.”
She was no longer listening to him. “We have to go, Mark, they are waiting for us, and I am so hungry.”
Rita untied the ribbon that held her luxuriant hair and let it swoop freely down.
“You will look beautiful in a white wedding dress,” he said dreamily, adoring her beauty and caressingly her hair with his hand.
When they came into the kitchen, breakfast was already waiting for them. A hot samovar puffed in the middle of the table. Somewhere, they heard gunshots and the frightening cries of birds.
“Look,” Leon turned to Rita, “we have just talked it over, and we think that you should stay here for a while. You need time to recover while we will conduct some reconnaissance to try to find out how far away the Nazis are.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rita feverishly objected because deep down she trembled for their lives.
“God forbid that anything should happen. You’d better stay with us, young girl. Let them do their work. You should help me around the house,” the old man put in emphatically, “We need a woman around here. I’ll give you new clothes, nobody will suspect anything.”
He took her overcoat and her boots.
“Forget about your fancy-schmancy outfit. I’ll burn it. You look much better in this flowery dress that belonged to my daughter.”
“By the way, do you have any documents?” he suddenly inquired and looked questioningly at Mark and Leon.
This question threw them into confusion. “No, we have none. We buried them in the woods.”
“Very well, we will try to figure out how to provide you with new fake documents by the time you return.” He stared at both of them intently.
Leon brooded over the situation for some time and then asked the old man if he had a map.
“No, I don’t have a map, but I’ll show you the way out of the village. You should really hurry up. I’ll send my grandson to accompany you half the way. As I told you before, the Nazis can’t be far from here. If they find you in the house, they won’t spare our lives. I suspect that you twins are Jews. Are you not?” He glared at Mark and Leon, carefully examining their faces. The old man seemed to be very upset.
“Does it make any difference?” Leon was astonished by this question.
“Yes, it does. Don’t try to evade my question. If they find out that you stayed in my house, they’ll kill my grandson and me. And I mean not just the Nazis… but members of the guerrilla squad.” The tone of his voice was unexpectedly harsh.
He interrupted his sentence and cocked his ear to hear what might be going on outside. Then, Peter Ivanovich brought a piece of paper and a pencil to draw a small map. He pulled his chair up next to Leon. Leon peered over his shoulder, watching how the old man drew his simple map.
“The wooded area starts right behind the street. In order to avoid danger, try to get deeper into the woods and move in the direction of the sunrise. Soon, you’ll notice an old windmill. It’s about here,” he said, pointing to the map. “The man, who lives there, would be able to help you. He’ll show you the best way to evade the Nazis and how to find our soldiers. Go now, I hope to see you again....Don’t worry about the girl. I won’t hurt her. I promise you, you can trust me. I am an old lonely man, and the girl can give me a hand and help out about the place,” he said, grinning and showing his broken yellow teeth.
Mark rose decisively from his chair and walked towards Rita.
“Don’t cry, Rita. I’ll see you in an hour or so. You should stay here. It is safer in your condition,” he said with gritty determination.
He tried to dispel her apprehensions, all the while struggling to hide his feelings and to appear strong. Yet his eyes betrayed his emotion when he tenderly embraced Rita.
Leon took the map out of the man’s hands. “We’ll go now.”
“Wait just a minute,” Peter Ivanovich said as he peered out the window.
Not seeing anything suspicious, he shuffled outside. From the steps of his house he could see the street all the way down to the end. Under the morning sun, it looked as if it were painted with pale watercolors. He stood there for some time, listening to the morning sounds and carefully inspecting the empty street. A strong autumn fragrance passed through the open door into the house.
“I think that you can go now,” he muttered, taking a deep breath, “and, please, be careful. However, discretion is the better part of valor. God bless you all.”
He was holding the door wide open, signaling to them that it was now safe to leave the house.
“Please, take good care of Rita,” Mark urged and looked beseechingly at Peter Ivanovich, Never before in his short life had he known such a moment of somber presentiment and grief.
The man blessed them and crossed himself three times. His eyes became moist as he resumed confidently, “You have nothing to worry about, young man. It's time to hoist sail. Godspeed.”
At the doorway, Mark made a quick move and looked back at Rita one more time. He lingered and waited for a second, as if he wanted to tell her something very important, but she understood him without words. Her pallid face and her eyes full of fear made him suddenly aware of the danger. His heart sank at the idea he might never see her again. She wanted to follow him, but understanding she would only be a burden, remained motionless. How could he know that soon after his disappearance Rita, fearing for her life and not trusting the old man anymore, had to leave the house in search of a safer place to stay?
Leon stood aside, stealthily watching Rita. His sorrowful heart yearned for her love. Caught up in the sadness of parting with Mark, she had forgotten about Leon who had never had a chance to reveal to Rita his deep feelings for her. Finally, they thanked the old man for his hospitality and stepped outside, cautiously closing the door behind them, the door that was about to separate them forever from the woman they both so deeply loved.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Captivity
Through the naked trees the autumn sun looked pallid and cold. The languid, autumn sunlight didn’t spill any warmth over the earth. The cold sun came to a standstill, as if waiting for something to happen. The shriveled leaves rustled under their feet. The tall trees, like devoted soldiers, bent their heads, watching their every step. As they moved stealthily between the mute trees, the unusual quietude of the early morning scared them.
Nikolai accompanied Mark and Leon all the way to the windmill without a word. They walked out of the woods and forged ahead through a small shrubby thicket. And it was only at the end of their journey that Nikolai whined a few words to them, wishing them luck before he ducked haltingly back into the woods. They lay doggo, lurking behind a clump of bushes, hiding in the dark shade of the tufted branches. Meanwhile, they carefully inspected this unfamiliar place. The morning dew crawled under their clothes and friendly licked their faces. They were waiting for something, delaying their next move.
In truth, they were too worn out after so many months of pitched battles, so much uncertainty. Their young hearts were already full of sorrow and grief—they had seen so much: death, murder, destruction. They couldn’t accept the savagery of war and the unspeakable horror of death. During this short time of war, their lives had turned out to be so different from their dreams—instead of love, they found hate; instead of boyhood and adventures, they saw a real war. They learned how to hate and how to kill. What fate awaited them? Was it a road to nothingness, to nowhere?
Mark noticed a small motionless sparrow on the ground near his foot, snuggled down under a pile of leaves, and picked him up. The dead bird was covered with dirty fluff. A sudden pity for this tiny defenseless creature pierced his heart. He squeezed Leon’s hand and showed him the dead bird. It looked as if it had been attacked by a vicious dog. Leon covered the sparrow with leaves, and they dug a small hole to bury it. Only then, in the lee of bushes, they began their stealthy advance, trying to keep their eyes on the windmill, when suddenly they heard a strange sound, as if the wind were bending the tops of the trees. They pricked up their ears, but it was too late. Then…something dreadful and unexpected happened.
The morning suddenly came to life: the trees were shaking, a dog was barking, then—gunshots and more gunshots. The hysterical scream of a German officer made them jump.
“Hands up! Hands up!”
They stood for a second with their hands raised in defeat, trying to figure out what to do next, and how many officers were hiding behind the bushes. However, at that very moment, they felt something horrific, shaggy and strong pounce on them and knock them down on the ground. They didn’t have a chance to push the animals back. As they fell down, they realized that these were malicious hunting dogs that the Germans trained to guard prisoners. The dogs lay on them, pressing their bodies to the ground, breathing heavily into their faces, biting and barking loudly. They latched onto their bodies while two SS officers, like gravediggers, watched the whole scene with cold, glassy eyes. In a couple of minutes, they were outdone by their enemies.
Mark looked up and saw the liquid sun, hiding behind a black cloud. The cloud darted away and the molten sun tipped over him and fell on his chest. It pressed on him heavily, making it impossible to breathe. Blood welled up and streamed out of his wounds. He grasped for air, but the blazing sun came back, and he felt as if his whole body were on fire.
Leon didn’t make a single sound. Although he didn’t feel any pain, he knew that it was the end. And yet, he desperately, passionately wanted to live. They had just set out on life’s road. They had not yet had a chance to experience real life when fate threw them into the fire of war. Leon groaned heavily, making an attempt to get up, but a strong kick to his chest made him fall back. Another blow to his face made him groan with pain again. His strength began to wilt away, and he suddenly felt in his mouth the salty taste of blood. In the darkness, Mark fumbled for Leon’s hand and gently squeezed it, letting him know that he had to be brave and not to let the Nazis see his weakness or fear, or agony.
Minutes later, pushed by Germans soldiers, beaten severely, they toiled along the same road that led them to the village. Their muddy boots clattered upon the dirty pebbles. The sounds of barking dogs and of crowing roosters wafted to their ears. Somewhere far off, they heard the quiet whisper of nature, waking up to a new day. And they both thought about Rita. Deep in their hearts, they prayed to God to keep her alive and safe.
Suddenly, the morning sun had stopped sending its rays down to earth. It had disappeared in the sky behind the clouds and no longer lit up the road. The cold wind blew from the north, driving the dense stratum of clouds into darkness. A heavy rain fell upon the earth, washing away their foot-steps, as if they had never walked on this earth and had never existed in this world. They had become small particles of the vast universe and invisible slaves of the German nation.
The railroad platform, where the Russian prisoners were brought, was swallowed up in the impending darkness. Twilight, like an ugly beast, had already invaded the village, spreading its black wings over the sky. The local train station, poorly lit, was scarcely visible....The air was full of sounds—the loud shrieks of the German soldiers, sudden gunshots, the barking of dogs, and the noise of the approaching freight train. This train was about to dispatch them to an unknown place for further torture as prisoners of war.
They both noticed that the first car of the train had a sign in German ‘Nur f;r Deutsche.’ (Germans only). The last car stopped right across from Mark and Leon and opened its door into pitch darkness. Mark tried to support Leon who could hardly stand on his own after being mercilessly mauled by the vicious dogs. Blood was streaming from his wounds, and his face was covered with blood, but he managed to smile.
“Be brave, Mark, you have to stay alive for Rita, she’ll be waiting for you. Your life is now more important than mine,” he uttered losing his strength.
Suddenly, they heard scattered raucous shouts as German soldiers in their green uniforms marched towards them and then abruptly stopped. One of the soldiers, with a particularly sinister face, holding a gun in his hand, separated from the other soldiers and took a step forward, closer to Leon, his eyes roving over him. The other soldiers turned around and paraded farther on, to the next line of prisoners.
“Keep quiet,” the soldier murmured to Leon in German. He directed a harsh light on Leon’s face, examining him as though under a microscope, but then he switched it at Mark, and a look of unexpected pity crossed his worn face. He was thinking at that moment about his own twin brother who had disappeared without a trace somewhere in wintry Russia. He stood for a minute, staring at them, and then, looking cautiously around, stretched out his hand and slipped a piece of bread into Leon’s hand. Perhaps, this tiny shred of kindness gave them the courage to survive the hardship of their endless journey into the unknown.
Both brothers were pressed together and squashed between the other prisoners as they were forced into darkness of the fright car. Leon was shivering convulsively, and Mark struggled to hold his body still. Under a dim and almost ominous light from an overhead bulb they silently prayed. They repeated their prayers with other prisoners, hoping that it would help them to forget their pain. They could only guess what lay ahead, and they had no choice but to accept what-ever was awaiting them in an unknown land. The railroad platform, the last vision of their motherland, swam back into the night and slowly disappeared from view, turning into a small black speck on the map of their past.
* * * * *
“It is such a sad story. Do you know what happened to them?” Eduardo leaned back and stared pensively at Alex.
“Yes, I heard the whole story from my father. They were both shipped to Dachau, where countless prisoners died, and hundreds were forced to participate in cruel medical experiments. Somehow, Leon managed to stay with his brother, but at the beginning of the winter of 1942, they were separated. Mark was moved along with other prisoners, more than a thousand Russians, to a camp, somewhere in Austria. Unfortunately, Leon found out all of this much later when he was searching for his brother’s whereabouts.
“You said ‘Austria”? How strange it is.” Eduardo face paled. “Do you know when Dachau was liberated? Did Leon find what happened to Mark?”
“Yes, Eduardo, I will share with you all I know. On April 29, 1945, the U. S. Army entered Munich and liberated Dachau. When finally American soldiers reached the inner compound of the camp, where the prisoners were held, they could hardly move. In fact, Leon was very ill and spent months in the American hospital before he could stand on his feet again. At that time, he had a chance to go to America, but his dream was to be reunited with his family, his parents and his sister Rebecca, and to find his twin brother, Mark.”
“You said that he was looking for Mark. Did he learn anything about his fate?”
“No, not really. Leon stayed in Munich for some time, looking for Mark and trying to decide what to do next. He was too young, too inexperienced in life, and all alone in a foreign land. When the war ended, one of Stalin's postwar plans was to repress the millions of Soviet citizens who were living outside the Soviet Union. Stalin demanded that those "traitors" be sent back to Russia. Upon their return, they were shipped off to forced-labor camps, as bad as the Nazi camps had been during the war. More than fifty percent of Russian citizens, who went to those camps, never came back. It was a terrible time for those who had lost their motherland and had no future to look forward to.
“Yes, I heard about Stalin’s madness, Alex. It was such a sad time for those who were waiting for their loved ones.” Eduardo gulped a glass of water. “Sorry for interrupting. Please continue.”
“It is really sad what Stalin has done to the former prisoners of war. Following his orders, Russian officials tried to convince them to return to their motherland. Like many others, Leon too yielded to their propaganda, believing that he would be free to reunite with his family. He had heard so many stories about people who had returned and finally ended up in Soviet camps. And yet nothing could stop Leon from going back to his parents. He was young and full of hope.”
“Alex, did Leon return to Russia?”
“Yes, Eduardo, he did. Upon his arrival in the Soviet Union, Leon was taken straight from the train to a forced-labor camp in Siberia. It was his misfortunate fate to go from a Nazi camp to a Soviet one.
After Stalin’s death, in 1953, Leon was released from the camp. On his way home, he met a Polish girl, Agnes, from the same camp who, like him, was wandering around the country without any money or anyone to help her. Leon managed to find odd jobs, supporting himself and Agnes. Soon afterwards, he returned home to Nevel with his new wife.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Portrait in an Oval Frame
Alex cleared his throat and continued, “By this time, the boy, Alex, had grown up and was a pretty clever thing, full of life and energy, spoiled by his grandparents. Leon learned from his mother the tragic fate of this boy and treated him as if he were his own son. One day, Eliza showed him a picture in an oval frame of the woman who had given birth to the child. Leon took the portrait and looked at it for a longtime. Watching him, his mother realized that the photograph awakened in him some mystery from his past, unlocked some deep pain that had been hidden in his heart for a long time.
Leon could not take his eyes off the woman’s face. At last, he muttered, “I knew her well. She was a nurse in our battalion. Mark and I, we were both in love with her, but she fell in love with Mark. He hoped to find her one day and get married. Her name is Rita.”
A stunned silence fell over the room.
“Then, whose child is this?” Eliza asked confusingly.
“I don’t really know. It could be Mark’s child.”
His grandmother cried. Many painful memories came rushing back to her. After discussing it for many days, they finally decided to tell the boy that Leon was his real father.
Even after Stalin’s death, his legacy lived on for some time. Leon’s parents begged him to find a way to leave the country. Meanwhile, Agnes continued to look for her relatives in Poland. One day, she received an invitation to visit them.
“So, eventually, Leon left Russia. Did he ever see his parents again?
“Be patient, Eduardo, my story is coming to the end. From Poland Leon with Alex and Agnes went to America. A short time later, after they had settled in New York, Agnes died of pneumonia. She had suffered too much for too long, and her health was totally destroyed by the hard labor in the Soviet zone. Well, apparently Leon had to move on with his life—there was Alex, his son.
Leon had always carried with him the portrait of a beautiful woman in an oval frame. One day, he had revealed to Alex the truth about his parents and asked him to cherish this photo of the young woman, who was his real mother. As for his parents, Leon has never seen them again.”
* * * * *
Alex looked at Eduardo who at the moment was trying to recapture his own past. Alex opened his briefcase and produced a small photograph in an oval frame of a woman with a lovely face, beautifully shaped by luxuriant black hair.
“Is this her?” Eduardo stared at the portrait.
“Yes, this is my mother.”
Eduardo’s face froze in disbelief.
“Yes, I believe this picture is of my mother,” Alex repeated, watching how Eduardo too opened his briefcase and took out a small drawing of a woman in an oval frame. To Alex’s disbelief, it was a well-executed drawing of the same woman, Alex’s mother.
“So, if this woman is your mother too, you are my half-brother.”
Eduardo put the drawing back into his briefcase, watching with pleasure the shock on Alex’s face.
“Alex, let me understand—Leon suspected that Mark was your real father?”
“Yes, but I do not understand, I am really confused…” Alex murmured, staring at him incredulously.
“Actually, Alex, now, it is my turn to tell you my story. My father was also a Russian, and he was also a prisoner of a Nazi concentration camp… Here is the story… The grass was wet and cold, but the ground was soft, almost like a fluffy bed he had been dreaming about for all those years….”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Man without a Past
The grass was wet and cold, but the ground was soft, almost like a fluffy bed he had been dreaming about for all those years. There was a fresh scent of earth as it usually happens after a rainy day. The familiar scent brought back a half-forgotten memory.
He moved his arms and found himself prostrate on the ground in an odd position—face down, like a wounded bird with broken wings. Mark made an attempt to get up, to raise himself from the ground, but an excruciating pain in both legs made him fall back. He tried to scream, but the scream was weak, not much more than a whisper. Its echo died somewhere behind the mountains. He licked his lips which were parched with thirst. Mark touched the wet grass and then pressed his hand against his lips and forehead. The cold moisture penetrated his burning skin and brought him some relief.
The morning sun was just beginning to shine. The first warm sunlight touched his aching body, but his consciousness was still hovering in space between night and dawn. Finally, Mark lifted his head and looked around. A stunningly beautiful view unfolded before his eyes. He saw mountains of imposing beauty, flanking him on both sides. They seemed to be so very close to him that he even imagined he could touch their cold stones. The mountains didn’t blend into the background but looked like his guards, standing there to protect him from the bitter wind. He saw the sky, blazing with clear blue and pink shades, turning almost lilac in the far distance. The sun was rising from above the mountains. Their apexes shone under the rays of sun.
All this beauty, painted by the mysterious colors of nature, took his breath away. He hardly noticed how badly he had been shivering from the cold air penetrating his sodden, threadbare clothes. Was he no longer being held? Was he now out of the danger that had followed his every step? But how could that be? These thoughts goaded him to action. Mark made another attempt to turn over, and this time he was successful. He lay on his back, staring into the cloudless sky. He tried now to put his thoughts in order, but in vain—his memory was shattered. His tired brain refused to obey him and to connect him with his past. Only a few foggy shreds that he could not quite grasp emerged from his burning mind. Entranced by the peaceful scenery, Mark inhaled the cold misty air deep into his lungs and then, groaning with pain, fell into oblivion.
* * * * *
Mark opened his eyes again, still struggling to understand where he was, but could discern nothing. Night had suddenly fallen on earth. The darkness was so intense that his eyes could not penetrate it. All he could see was the black menacing moon, oozing out through the open window, and the black, scarcely visible silhouettes of the mountains, staring at him through the heavy clouds. He saw the big monstrous shadow of a bird with spread wings, crawling slowly on the opposite wall. But there was no bird—there was only the silence of the night. The midnight quietude scared him for a moment.
He tried to hoist himself to his feet, but again the pain in both legs forced him to fall back on the pillow. Pillow? Soft and fluffy pillow? How could it be? He touched it, realizing that he was resting on a real bed. A sudden feeling of liberation filled his whole being. Mark let out a cry, still very weak, hardly audible, light as a feather, which flew away into the unknown space. The shadow on the opposite wall disappeared as if scared of his sudden cry. At first, he could think of nothing at all, petrified by silence and the frightening black moon, staring at him through the thick wall of the dark. He thought that the moon was black probably because it was begrimed with dust from the ashes of those who had perished in crematoriums. Their eyes stared at him from beyond, from a remote place of his consciousness where his previous life and his memory had been taken away from him.
He repeated loudly the word ‘crematorium’, and suddenly whole images from the recent past came rushing back to him as if painted in inky, dirty colors on a gigantic canvas. He was frightened by sudden flashes of memory that had no beginning, no end, but only those last hours of his life, illuminated by this black moon… He saw emaciated faces, wasted bodies and eyes crying for help. He saw vividly now the iron fences, the barracks.…
And then, in a lightning flash, for an instant, memories came rushing back to him. He saw the Nazis, bustling with panic, packing and loading their trucks in a frantic hurry. Late at night, under the same black, starless sky, they loaded as many prisoners as they could into open trucks. The heavy-laden vans took the direction that was familiar to every prisoner—they were headed to their last destination, to the end of their lives—the gas chambers. He was the last one to be thrown into the open van. He looked up and saw at the edge of the sky a tiny star, blazing somewhere beyond the visible arch of the horizon, this familiar star, struggling to survive on the border between life and death.
“Soon,” he thought, “I too will turn into a small lonely particle of the sky, or an echo, lost somewhere in the mountains.” It was maddening to think that the end was so near, so tangible, perhaps just around the corner. The truck suddenly made a sharp turn, and Mark felt how friendly hands pushed him out of the fast-moving vehicle. And then…the vision escaped him.
The night was still so desperately quiet. He was surrounded by a dark space, not really knowing where he was and if he was alive. And yet he felt being somehow connected with this unknown space, with this black moon and smoky mountains, flashing on the horizon. A flame was rapidly growing inside him, filling up his body, his lungs and then, spreading all over the room—everything was on fire—smoke every-where, as if he were dying with his friends in the Nazis’ gas chamber.
Having difficulty breathing, Mark began to lose consciousness. He made another attempt to lift his head, but hallucinations seized his brain, and he couldn’t distinguish any-more between his delirium and reality. Shadow after shadow swam through his burning mind—shadows of the dead—familiar and unknown faces, vanishing somewhere behind the mountains, back to their unreal world, and among them he saw his own shadowy silhouette. Time, space and memory—all intertwined and froze in this strange, dark, intangible world, illuminated only by a black moon.
* * * * *
He was sunk into a deep sleep for some time—sleep, full of troubled dreams. He woke when the first ray of sunlight peeped through the window, sending a shaft of light onto his face. He dozed for some time, totally unaware of his whereabouts until he heard a sort of rustle, perhaps a puff of wind and then, in the aperture of the door, he saw a silhouette of a woman, emerging from the sunlight. She had a kind and winsome face. He lifted his hand and stretched it out to touch her, to make sure that she was real, but there was an abyss between them, a black hole of space with only some flashes of sunlight, coming through the open window.
He then felt the gentle touch of a hand on his forehead and the tender, soft, voice of a woman, “Siete dal pericolo. Sarete sicuro con me qui. Gli ho portato un certo alimento. ”
He understood her because he had learned Italian in the camp from his Italian comrade.
As the shroud of mist had risen, he saw a tray with a coffeepot, a bowl with porridge and a piece of bread with cheese. He had long forgotten the taste of real food and the voice of a real woman. Mark smiled at her as for the second time in his short life he experienced the miracle of coming back from the dead.
* * * * *
“Please finish your food. You have to get your strength back to keep alive. It looks as if both your legs are broken, but I am a nurse, and I can help you.”
She talked without turning on the light, afraid to scare him. The sunlight was still glowing between their pale faces. He began eating his porridge while the woman gently held his head above the pillow.
“I appreciate your help, but I can’t accept your kindness. I know that by hiding me here you will jeopardize your own life. I really have to go.”
Mark made another attempt to get up but winced in pain when the woman pushed him gently back on the pillow.
“Don’t even try to escape. The Germans have left, and there is no danger for us anymore. You are too weak, and you need rest.”
She took the empty plate and moved closer a cup of hot coffee which sent out a delicious aroma, a scent of something familiar and yet long forgotten.
“This will give you some strength. You have to eat, really. It is such a miracle that you are alive.”
The smell of coffee made him feel giddy. He couldn’t understand everything she was saying to him, but the timbre of her voice was tender, her hands were soft and her lovely face—kind.
“Qual ; il tuo nome?” he asked her in his broken Italian.
“Francesca is my name, Francesca Mancini. I am Italian. What about you?”
“I am Marco.” He made a long pause, trying to remember something, and then with some hesitation added, “Goldano, yes, Marco Goldano. That’s how my Italian friend called me—Marco Goldano. I don’t remember where I came from and where I was born. I don’t know what happened to me before I found myself in that concentration camp.”
“You probably have amnesia. Don’t worry, I am sure it will pass with time. It happens sometimes. You were a prisoner of Mauthausen, a concentration camp. I found you unconscious near the road. You have nothing to fear. I know— it will make you feel better to find out that the war is over. I think that under the conditions you have endured, the loss of memory is normal. I am sure it’ll come back, but now you have to rest. You probably have family somewhere, and they are waiting for your return. You have to live for them. Don’t you want to live after everything that you went through?”
His eyes slowly closed. He was still too weak to talk with Francesca. She hesitated for a moment and then bent over and gave him a fleeting kiss on the cheek. Mark felt the warmth emanating from her body, her soft lips on his cheek, and he fell into a state of fleeting tranquility. In his half-sleep, somewhere far away, he heard the first loud church bells ringing, and then the others chiming in. It was such familiar music from his distant, all-but-forgotten childhood.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Flashbacks
A few weeks passed, and Mark found out the place where he was now living was called Mattighofen. It was a lovely town in Austria, situated at the edge of a little hill, stretching down to the Matting River and the romantic Schwemmbach Brook. They lived far from the hustle and bustle of busy city life, in a tiny, crude cottage, surrounded by the beauty of nature—forests and high plateaus, lakes and meadows.
As the days went by, Mark’s health began to improve. His young body fought to live. Every day, Francesca was by his side, caring, trying to alleviate his pain, physical and emotional. She was delighted to have Marco with her and to care for him, and watch how rapidly his conditions improved. She was happy, when leaning on her shoulder, he squeezed her hand in his, carefully taking his first steps in her tiny, cozy house. She guided him when they walked out-side on the warm sunny days and the quiet moonlit nights. They often admired together the beauty of the scenery. Sometimes, they sat outside under an old, oak tree with wide branches, enjoying the warm weather or reading her favorite books.
Francesca began to teach Marco Italian and was impressed by his ability to learn the language—he turned out to be an ardent student, always eager to learn. Francesca would bring him books from the library. While she was at work, he spent most of his time reading. They were now all alone in the whole world—two lonely souls with a tragic past and uncertain future, two souls desperately searching for happiness.
Everything around him—the peaceful scenery, the warm breezes and the light scent of flowers, intoxicated him, made him forget his past. However, with time, Francesca began noticing that he often languished into obscurity, wanting to be left alone, ignoring her presence. She wondered if his soul was slowly drifting away from her, away from the real world, where he had now existed and was constantly searching for his forgotten years. Although with his continuing recovery, he showed some good signs of gaining strength, he was still deeply troubled by the profound loss of memory of his distant life. He still had those black holes in his mind. He could not find his way around, no matter how hard he struggled to remember his childhood, his parents and the place of birth. He tried to forget those miserable days in the concentration camp, when death followed his every movement, casting a dark shadow of terror on his tormented soul. Terror? How many years had he lived in this constant state? Only now, he began to free himself from its monstrous fetters and to breathe freely without looking back in fear that his every step was being watched.
There were times, when in the sleepless hours of the night, flashbacks would come to haunt him. He saw an old synagogue, facing a picturesque lake, old oaks and weeping willows, bowing low over the dead water, surrounding its old walls. At times, he would suffer from hallucination, and he saw himself sauntering along the river with a young man who looked like his mirror reflection. Sometimes, he felt as if he were dwelling in a different dimension—unfamiliar faces, strange rigid landscapes, a dark lake and an old cemetery with a lacey wooden fence. These fleeting images appeared in his sick mind and then vanished into the unknown.
As for Francesca, she was profoundly religious. She saw a sign from God in Marco’s appearance in her life. He now belonged to her, and only to her. Her goal was to make him happy by helping him forget his past. Deep in her heart, she feared the return of his memory. She was afraid of losing him. However, with time their attachment to each other grew deeper by the day as did his total dependence on Francesca.
One day, he asked her for a piece of paper, pencil and oil paints. In amazement, she watched him drawing her portrait.
“You are so beautiful, Francesca. Your dark hair and blue eyes are in such contrast with your complexion. It is such a pleasure to paint your expressive face. We don’t even know each other, and yet I feel at home with you, the home I probably had, but don’t remember it any longer.”
“I heard you speaking Polish or Russian in your sleep, but you look Italian. You are a very handsome man, Marco. My husband too was a handsome man. He was a German soldier, and he was killed at the very beginning of the war, somewhere in Poland. Perhaps, it is for the best. He was too young and too na;ve to understand the horror of this war. He was a good man who was brainwashed. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Does it still causes you pain?”
Mark put his brush aside to look closely at Francesca and for the first time he saw pain crossing her lovely face. With feverish strokes, he returned to painting her portrait. It was like a miracle being born on the canvas as Francesca’s grieving face came to life under his brush.
“You are a genius, Marco. Why didn’t you tell me that you are an artist, not just an ordinary artist, but a great one?”
“I didn’t know it myself. It is a discovery to me as well.”
He peered at the portrait, trying to recollect something long forgotten. He had never complained to Francesca about how many times he had hoped to retrieve his memory, but it kept floating off into oblivion. It felt as if a thick wall had sprung up and didn’t allow him to look beyond it. All his attempts to get a glimpse of his past sank into the darkness of obscurity, into the unknown. His memory seemed to have vanished forever, and all he had was his present and perhaps his future. He watched his life from the outside, like a stranger watching the life of a neighbor. And only sometimes, varied reminiscences would recapture the familiar aroma of grass or flower. He would wake up every morning with the resolve—from that day on he would begin building a new world, he would make Francesca happy—but how little it meant to him, his future, when he still had no memory and no past.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mysterious Drawings
Mark was tall, with curly dark hair, soft skin and delicate hands. He had exquisite and graceful manners. Francesca was impressed. But his shy, gentle smile was rarely seen. Most of the time, his grieving eyes were looking in-ward, into soul. He was a strange man, reserved and distant from the rest of the world. Yet, when he painted, his strong slanted brush stokes reflected his fiery temperament and flamboyant emotions.
Watching him paint, Francesca often ruminated over his artistic talent and his creative energy. He worked with obsessive inspiration and powerful determination. His eyes burned with passion, his lips twisted, and his face had an almost unearthly expression. His paintings had opened the door to an unreal world, away from the bitterness of the outside world. At first glance, the rage of colors blinded and disturbed Francesca, but then there was magic—she would become magnetized by his unusual and powerful palette of colors. The same magic happened in her heart and her soul, and she surrendered to the power of her emotions.
One early morning, when Francesca had left for work, Marco experienced a strange feeling, as if his brain had suddenly been set on fire. With trembling hands he grabbed a brush. Mysteriously, the face of another woman began slowly to crystallize in his imagination. Then, in a dreamlike state, he painted another portrait of that imaginary, unknown woman holding a child, until finally, her features sailed away from him, and he fell into delirium. The daylight swam into twilight, but Mark didn’t wake up. He had some strange dreams. His sleep was peaceful, as if he had been drained of all his strength and had exhausted all his emotions.
When Francesca returned home from work, she found Marco sleeping peacefully behind the house. He had fallen asleep in front of the isle with his head drooped down on his chest and a brush in his hand. The warm wind blew his curly hair, and the last dying sunrays fell on his face, calm in his dream, almost happy. Francesca stood there, frozen in place, watching Marco’s face in his sleep, realizing how far away from her he was in that instant.
She watched closely when Marco opened his eyes and mumbled something under his breath as if talking to him-self. She glanced down and took from his hands a brush and a drawing of a girl with refined features, framed by dark, luxuriant hair. The face of the unknown girl mesmerized Francesca with its spiritual beauty. It expressed such depth and such sadness. In the background, a dark forest merged with a dark sky. A black moon was looking down at her as a symbol of love and death. She felt as if Marc and this unknown girl were connected and just moments apart from each other. The portrait suddenly opened the door to his past, revealed to her the whole story, a thousand details of Marco’s tragic and forgotten life. The strong brush strokes in the background and the tender colors of the girl’s face emerged from the drawing to tell her about the true power of love.
The next drawing fell to the ground. Francesca picked it up and was stunned to see a portrait of the Madonna and Child—the face of the Madonna was the same face as that of the woman. Did Marco have a child? Francesca’s thoughts were in turmoil. She was distressed not knowing what to do next, unsure of their future. This sudden revelation had cast a shadow over it.
How could she now imagine her life without Marco? He still slept and did not move when she took the drawings out of his hands. It was obvious that he was still living in his dreams, desperately looking for a way to his lost past. Francesca knew that when he woke, he would not remember either the drawings or the face of the woman he had once loved. She went to the house and hid both paintings in a secret place. She couldn’t risk her happiness. Francesca decided not to tell him anything until his memory began to show signs of recovery. In the meantime, Mark shouldn’t know anything about the girl from his past. When Mark eventually came into the house, Francesca was already bustling around the kitchen preparing dinner. He felt guilty and grateful at the same time.
“I am sorry, darling, I should have prepared dinner myself before you got home, but I fell asleep and lost track of time.”
“Did you have a nice dream, Marco?” She looked inquiringly, straight into his eyes, afraid to hear his answer, but what she heard put her mind at rest.
“I don’t remember, darling. I don’t remember anything, even the dreams I have just had.”
“Stop worrying, Marco,” she smiled at him, “I don’t remember my dreams either. Nobody does. They always disappear the minute you wake up.”
“It happens to me in real life, Francesca. The minute I open my eyes in the morning, I can’t remember my past, as if I have never lived before this moment.”
Mark realized how fortunate he was to be alive and to have Francesca by his side. He felt as if he were being reborn. Little by little, out of darkness and tragedy, out of havoc and pain, a greater love branded deep into their lonely hearts. When it seemed everything inside and outside them had been destroyed, out of ashes, pain and suffering, a new strong feeling had emerged.
The power of love and the fire of creativity moved Mark’s brush and his talent flourished. The fame of this great artist had grown among the locals and spread far beyond. Francesca could sell his paintings, and in addition to her work in a hospital, they could live comfortably without thinking of tomorrow.
Strangely enough, Mark neither tried to recreate the pain-ting of a young woman, nor did he remember anything about those two small drawings. Nevertheless, he was often mystified by his own imaginative paintings. He felt they had been brought back from his remote memory. Once, painting his self-portrait, he painted the same face next to himself, as if he were seeing himself in a mirror. Upon finishing this portrait, he had the feeling that half of his heart and soul had been lost somewhere in another remote space. This staggering discovery made him wonder more often about his life be-fore he found himself in the Austrian concentration camp. However, he was growing used to his new environment, to Francesca, to this small, cozy house and the mesmerizing beauty of the Alps that had inspired him so greatly.
In less than a year, Marco and Francesca got married. By this time, Francesca was carrying his child. After all his suffering, life had granted them happiness. His life was now a seamless procession of days devoted to his work and peaceful evenings with his wife.
As for Francesca, her worries about Marco’s past memories dissolved in their happy time together. She desperately wanted to believe that their happy live would never end. However, in one tragic moment everything collapsed, and their happiness fell apart like a house of cards.
It happened on the day their son was born. Holding his child in his arms, Marco was lost in a reverie. Even the birth of his baby didn’t bring complete solace to his heart as if he were afraid to lose him, afraid that someone would try to take his baby away from him. Somewhere, deep down in-side there was still fear. Maybe, it was the same feeling of terror he had experienced before? He realized that this feeling had grown in his heart along with his happy days as something forgotten, like the vision of a small lonely star he always saw beyond the horizon during his sleepless nights, the remote, resplendent star of his dream.
It was almost midnight when Marco returned home from the hospital. He was happy—in a week he would bring home his wife and their newborn son whom they had named Eduardo. He went outside to search for his lucky star, to share with her his happiness, but the star was not there. Instead, a huge dark cloud, moving from behind the mountains, dappled the sky and turned the moon again into a black sphere. The air was full of sounds, and the scent of mountain blossom filled the air. Dream-like memories of something familiar fluttered up in his mind.
Looking into the pitch darkness, as if awakening from a long dream, his eyes began to behold a different picture. His memory surged and receded like strong ocean waves. Time floated back, turning into a familiar road that led him out of darkness. Slowly, he began to hallucinate, revisiting a small island of his memory, forgotten long ago and locked away from the rest of the world—the island of his past. His mind conjured up a picture of the flowing water of a river and the lusterless surface of a lake, a small cemetery with a wooden lacey fence. Like an old imaginative painting, far away he saw a house at the turn of a river, near a cemetery, and a dark river, flowing into a picturesque lake. There was a red cloud of smoke, rising above the water.
Happy memories crowded in on him as his eyes traveled farther down the river. He saw himself walking with his twin brother along the bank. It was the day when their peaceful lives had suddenly ended. Step by step, he summoned up their last summer together. The grass, thick, dark-green, had grown up into the sky, piercing it with its sharp ends, trying to break off the morning dust and eventually disappearing in the evaporating clouds. The rising sun emerged from behind the trees, and sunrays fell upon the earth. He could hear the loud shriek of seagulls, flying away and then coming back to the water.
And then slowly, his memory began to recover all the details of his life—his parents, Rebecca, Leon, the happy days with his family. Now, he remembered the day when war broke out and then… Mark succumbed to those familiar images that were slowly materializing from his forgotten life. He felt a sharp stab of pain….
Rita, Rita, he whispered into the night. It was the name of the woman he loved, the woman who had carried his child.
While wandering into his past, Mark forgot the present and didn’t care about his future anymore—he returned to his youth to relive it again with all its happy times and all the tragedy, and most of all his deep love for the girl with the luxuriant, black hair. After agonizing hours of retrieving his past, he knew he would not be able to continue living in the present. Marco took a piece of paper and began writing a letter:
My dear Francesca, my love,
Walking back from the hospital into an empty house, I realized I can’t live without you. You are my love, my angel who brought me back to life. Now, there are the three of us— you, Eduardo and I. It seems I have everything I could ever have dreamed of… But today something happened… I don’t know how to describe to you what I experienced when my memory came rushing back to me… The truth is that in my past life I loved a woman who carried my child….
He couldn’t finish the letter. Along with his memories, pain had been growing inside his heart like a fire. The flames were powerful enough to burn down the bridge that invisibly connected him with his present life. His wounded soul flew away into the unknown, into the timeless emptiness of the universe. The moon emerged from the darkness and grazed the summit of the mountains. The lonely familiar star appeared high in the clear firmament to illuminate his final journey to eternity and to bid its last farewell. It seemed as for a moment peace and tranquility hung over the earth, and all the despair, the horrors of war, like a breath of evil, turn-ed into ashes. Slowly, the moon became black again, and pitch darkness mantled the mountains. In this dark space, he heard the lamenting and chanting litany for those who had perished forever. He saw their shadows moving into obscurity, leaving behind them their past and their shattered dreams. He saw glowing light shooting from above, and then his heart stopped beating.
Chapter Thirty
Vicissitudes of Fate
“You didn’t finish your story, Eduardo. What happened next?”
“Next? Well, after my father—or to be more exact, I can firmly conclude now, our father died of a heart attack, my mother went back to Italy to live with her aunt. Francesca could still sell Marco’s paintings to make a decent living for both of us. His work was selling well and was soon exhibited in many galleries around the country. One day, when I turned eighteen years old, my mother showed me the two drawings that she had put away and kept hidden for all those years. One drawing was a portrait of the woman in an oval frame. The other one was also of that beautiful girl but with a child, a boy. Mark painted her as Madonna and Child.
“Why did you say our father?” Alex interrupted Eduardo.
“Yes, because I am sure now that Marco was your father too. Why do you think he painted a portrait of your mother with a child and that letter…?”
Suddenly, as if remembering something, Eduardo opened his briefcase and put on the table a photograph of another drawing. It was a well-executed portrait of two young handsome men in their early twenties, who looked like twins.
“It’s a self-portrait of our father. It was a mystery to me why he always painted two faces instead of one. Now I understand. Keep all these drawings, and perhaps one day you will be able to trace deeper the mystery of our past. This is the end of my story, Alex,” he confessed.
Alex took the portrait of two brothers into his hands and scrutinized it carefully with great curiosity. It was uncanny how much the twins resembled each other and at the same time—both of them.
“This is a portrait of Leon as I remember him when he was young. I assume that the other man is his twin brother, Mark, my real father. What a strange chain of events. How sad it is that Leon didn’t live long enough to learn the real fate of his twin brother.”
“I think that deep in his heart Leon always knew that Mark was my father. Probably, he didn’t want to cause me any pain. He was always the only father I knew and loved.”
“Alex, but now, it’s perhaps your turn to tell me if you know anything about your mother’s fate?” Eduardo broke into the flux of Alex’s thoughts.
“Unfortunately, I don’t know much. When Leon visited Nevel, he made some attempts to find out what had happened to my mother. After exhausting and frustrating inquiries, finally in Moscow’s old archives he found out that after being arrested in Nevel as a German spy, she had been sent to a forced labor camp somewhere in Siberia where she had soon died. After Stalin’s death her name was cleared, but for her it was already too late.”
With those words Alex glanced at the door where Eleanor had appeared. She saw both of them at the same time and was transfixed, unable to move. Alex immediately got up to greet his wife but suddenly felt that something was very wrong.
“Eleanor, please meet my new friend, Eduardo Goldano, also an artist.”
Eduardo swiftly rose from his chair and gently shook her hand, unable to take his eyes off her face. Eleanor stared at him too for a prolonged time, rather uneasily. Then, her eyes traveled from one to the other. Alex, watching them covertly, tried to relieve the tension.
“Just imagine, Eleanor, I met Eduardo by chance. It was a complete fluke that we just happened to be in the same place at the same time. It happened incidentally, and incidentally, as you can see, we look alike, and now we have found out that we are even related.”
Alex didn’t finish his sentence. He caught a startled expression on Eduardo’s face.
“Eduardo…Eduardo…” Eleanor repeated again and again in disbelief, almost whispering, ignoring Alex’s long speech.
“Nora….” Eduardo wrapped his arms around his brother’s wife, as if he had known her all his life. The light scent of her fragrance brought back memories of the snowy day when he saw Nora for the first time in New York, twenty years ago. He and Eleanor exchanged smiles. Her eyes shone. Alex could almost feel how the attraction like electricity jolted through their bodies.
Alex watched the whole scene, wondering about the connection between the two until he finally grasped the truth. Love is always the winner, he thought, trying to comprehend the situation and suppress his jealousy. How odd it was that the past repeated itself—both of them too, like Mark and Leon, loved the same woman.
Alex was not sure if he was dreaming or if everything that had happened during those two days was real. Once more, he turned to Eduardo.
“Eduardo, do you still think it was fate that united all of us today?”
“Fate? Oh, no, to be perfectly frank with you, I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in the power of love. It was the woman in the portrait in an oval frame who guided us and whose love and courage brought us all together. Don’t you think so?” Eduardo glanced fleetingly at Nora.
“There’s something queer and truly, deeply disturbing about all of these happenings. It’s so unexpected. I feel as if in the darkness I suddenly found a door. I opened it, and there, behind that door, there is light, the light born out of darkness. The truth finally has emerged from the mystery of our past. Well, I am afraid that I have to leave you two alone.” Alex voice was calm, and he hardly looked at his wife.
He picked up his briefcase, opened the door and walked out, away from his past, away from his failed marriage. No one spoke. No one ran after him. No one tried to stop him, as if he had just turned into an apparition. He felt no pain of separation from Eleanor, Eduardo, his dreams, his world. He knew he would see them again someday—someday, when he would be able to look straight in their faces and convince himself that he was no longer betraying his artistic gift.
A short while later, he walked along the unfamiliar evening streets of New York with its majestic skyscrapers, piercing the dark moonless sky with only one tiny bright star watching over his every move. He knew that soon a new road would spread up before him, and the different path would open to a new beginning. But for now, he was all alone in the world, with an uncertain reality, wondering about the validity of his life.
His mind split up into strange images of his failed marriage, meaningless art and unknown tomorrows. An unfathomable solitude embraced him like a new friend. He remembered the day he arrived in New York when he walked alone along its dark, empty streets. Now, they swallowed into their yawning abyss one more lost soul, searching for a new meaning in life. He remembered Eduardo’s praise of his early paintings, his watercolors, and he realized that his own voyage in the sea of life had just begun.
Alex looked at his pocket watch and hastened his steps. A little later, at the train station, he bought a ticket to Philadelphia and checked the time. It was almost midnight on October 7th, 2003. He still had about fifteen minutes to wait for his train.
On the empty platform somebody called his name, “Mr. Gold, Mr. Goo…old.” Alex tuned around and faced a portly little man in an ill-fitting business suit. The thought flickered into his mind that he had met him somewhere before. Then he recognized him—it was the same man who on the day of his arrival in New York had kindly offered him the newspaper with the article about the opening of his exhibition.
“What a nice surprise! How did it go?” the man exclaimed joyfully and bowed slightly, extending his hand for a handshake, as if they were old friends.
“You know, Professor, I was there, at your show, but I could not get to you. You were surrounded by your admirers. I think that your work is magnificent, marvelous! I was so impressed by those photographs of you with world leaders, movie stars. And I have no words to describe the beauty of your portraits. You are a genius, Mr. Gold.”
Alex tried to object, but the man paid no attention.
“Mr. Gold, it would be such an honor if you will agree to paint my portrait. I’ll pay well, really, really well.” Now, he looked at Alex questioningly, waiting for a reply.
“Your portrait?”
Alex hesitated before answering, raking the man from head to toe.
“Ha, ha, ha, do you really want me to paint your portrait? It is such a temptation. I can hardly refuse such a magnificent offer, but I am afraid you are a bit late. Matter of fact, as of today, I am not painting portraits anymore. However, I am sure you won’t have any trouble finding a young and talented artist who will be able to perpetuate your face for the centuries to come. Good luck!”
With those words, Alex waved goodbye and rushed down the platform to catch the train that was about to take him away from his past to a new chapter in the still unwritten tale of his life.