My impulsive decision to go to the summer place surprised me. I hadn’t been there much since Marta died little more than a year earlier. Our favorite trail through the woods, the hidden spot where we used to listen for the quail, the chair she liked to read in, even the old dented kettle on the stove—the memories could be too painful. But I had to get out of the city, where things had become noisy and argumentative, and I especially wanted to be somewhere out of the reach of the news. Burying myself in work at the university hadn’t been enough to keep back the bad dreams, but I had a briefcase full of student papers to read, and the appeal of being by myself in the woods, more than fifty kilometers away, was suddenly irresistible.
I was whistling when I pulled up at the cabin, but as soon as I stepped onto the grass I had the uneasy sense that there was something different about the place. I stopped and looked at this familiar scene as if for the first time: the low, rustic structure set among a stand of ghost-white birches, their leaves already changing color, the land sloping toward the lake, visible from here only as a distant glint. Everything looked the same and yet there was a different feel. Had I seen tire tracks in the dirt road without consciously registering the perception? Was there an odd smell in the air? Something made me come alert. But really, there was nothing obvious that I could put my finger on: no broken window, no tree downed by the wind, and I was about to dismiss these feelings when I heard a sound, a muffled cough coming from behind the cabin, and a stranger came into view. My instinctive alarm gave way to surprise and irritation when I recognized the slight, middle-aged man in a Windbreaker, bald and bespectacled.
It was Lukas, a colleague from the university who also happened to be Marta’s cousin. A colleague, but not by any means a close friend or a kindred spirit, Lukas, who taught economics, was part of a radical political faction that had been using recent faculty meetings to criticize just about everything the new government did, particularly the proposed law making it a crime to publish material that “defamed” the nation.
Lukas and I didn’t travel in the same circles. I teach in a quiet enclave of the humanities, my studies focusing on a circle of classic poets from the nineteenth century who somewhat grandly called themselves the Prophets. In my field there are texts to establish, poetic traditions to trace, allusions to identify, biographical facts, whereas Lukas seemed to inhabit a world of fantasy, mapping out cloudy utopias on the basis of unproven theories. I thought of him as an intractable ideologue, a rabble-rouser, a man with spittle flying from his mouth, hands tearing at the air in front of him as he tried to persuade his listeners to accept his visions. But just then I wasn’t interested in the man’s opinions. How had he got here, I wondered. I hadn’t seen a car. Had he just dropped from the heavens?
“I know this is a surprise,” he said quietly. “Let me explain.” He stood a few feet away, as if waiting for me to give him permission to come closer. I noticed now that he carried a small satchel. “I had to get out of the city in a hurry,” he said. His head was lowered, as if he were searching the ground for some object he’d dropped. “I wrote something,” he went on. “We thought it was for private consumption, but it fell into the wrong hands.” I could barely pay attention to his words, I was so angry. After all, here I was, a few steps away from the cabin that until a few moments ago had promised a spot of peace in these troubled times, and this man had appeared out of nowhere like an evil spirit in a folktale, keeping me from entering. I boiled with frustration. “It’s come to the point where even the slightest opposition is too much for this government,” Lukas continued, finally raising his head. “And now the special police may be looking for me. For all I know they’ve been to my apartment already. People I trust warned me to get out of the city immediately. And especially not to go to the places of known friends.”
I waited a second before responding. “Am I supposed to believe you’re a wanted man, then, on the run?” I took a deep breath. “But why the hell did you come here, of all places?” I was trying to keep my fury under control. “And for that matter, how did you get here? I didn’t see a car.” I glanced around again.
“A mutual friend drove me,” was all he answered, “somebody who knew you were going to be here.” Then he added, “I can’t reveal his identity. But he convinced me the danger is real, that I had no time to waste.” Damn, I thought, how many people had I told about coming here? A handful, at most. But who that I knew would have a connection to Lukas? The question left me in the dark.
There was a slight breeze and the sweet scent of pine filled the air, bringing a gust of sadness that threw me off my balance for a moment. When my consciousness returned to the present, Lukas was still there, silent, chewing on his lip, and I tried to make sense of his story. “These are fairy tales,” I told him. “We’re not back in the twentieth century.”
His manner till then had been reserved, like that of a supplicant; he didn’t at all resemble the impassioned speaker at faculty meetings. Now he took a step forward, not belligerently but with determination. “Really, you have to open your eyes,” he said. “Yes, we’re going backward. Maybe back further than the twentieth century.”
I was stung by his challenge, though I wasn’t surprised. This outburst seemed typical of the man’s tendency to go to extremes. Still, he appeared to be sincere. And genuinely fearful. “That’s just alarmism,” I said. “I know there’s been a reaction in the country to what’s been going on in the world, and in some way it’s a regression, but it’s just a phase. After all, these are unsettled times. People need reassurance.”
“And the need for reassurance means that the government can’t be criticized?” His voice rose. “That any criticism ‘defames’ the nation?”
Of course I knew about the government’s announced plans for some kind of legislation along those lines, but I’d convinced myself that by the time the actual law came into being, it would include proper safeguards against abuse. “Has it occurred to you,” I asked him, “that you may be being just a little melodramatic about this?” When he said nothing, I went on. “All right, you’re here. Do you have any sort of plan?”
Lukas was silent for a time, sunk in what seemed like sullen bitterness. At last he said, “Obviously, I can’t contact any of my usual associates—I was told not to take my mobile phone to keep the police from tracking me—but there are people in the city who are monitoring the situation for us. If it’s determined that I’m in no real danger, someone will come by to pick me up later today. He’ll sound his horn, I’ll join him and be gone. That way he can keep his identity secret.”
Did he imagine we were characters in a spy novel? Everything he said added to my irritation. So I was expected to entertain this unwanted visitor for at least a few hours. “And if he doesn’t come round?” I asked.
“We’re not that far from the border here,” he said. “There are plenty of places where a person can cross in the woods.”
I was stunned. “Do you really think this is a possibility? You’d actually leave the country because of . . .?” I couldn’t finish.
“Yes,” he said. It was more like a bark than a human utterance, and in that bark I heard genuine despair.
I resented this man’s theatricality, but what he’d said brought a chill. “So that’s your plan?” I asked, as much to buy time as anything.
“Yes,” he said, and fell silent. Possibly he was imagining special police rummaging through his apartment at that very moment. All at once my surprise visitor seemed frail and vulnerable. Could there be any truth to his story? I felt an uncomfortable frisson. I was at a loss about what to do next, though, and once again I found myself missing Marta’s presence. I wished I could have discussed the situation with her. She’d have listened, her head tilted, an ironic smile playing about her lips, but with understanding in her eyes. She was a generous-spirited person—much more than I am—and she’d have taken the man’s plight seriously. The memory of Marta reminded me that Lukas was her cousin and there was a connection between myself and the man, however distant. Possibly he’d even stayed at the cabin as a child. It had been built by Marta’s father, and I’d inherited it after her death.
“You took quite a gamble, then, didn’t you?” I couldn’t resist telling him. “Didn’t you worry that I might turn you in?”
He was looking down with a sour face, like a man trying to swallow an indigestible meal. “Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith,” he said at last. “I consider you an honorable man.”
I wanted to be angry with him, but I couldn’t help feeling oddly touched by his compliment. It didn’t change the fact that his abrupt appearance was ruining my anticipated refuge, though. All right, I reminded myself, how much I accomplished in the next two days was up to me; I could still get a good deal of work done. One way or another Lukas would be gone soon. How quickly I’d accommodated to the new situation. But this tableau just outside the cabin had gone on long enough. There my uninvited guest stood, a few steps away, like a stray dog waiting to be allowed in. Something had to be done.
“You’re welcome to stay here until you think of your next move,” I told him grudgingly. “Have you been here before?” I asked him. He shook his head. “Don’t expect to find the accommodations luxurious,” I said.
He responded with a weak smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that.” There were bird sounds all around us, but Lukas showed little awareness of his surroundings.
“For both our sakes, I hope your friend is here shortly,” I said with a forced smile. I’d never been more sincere.
As I led him into the cabin, I tried to suppress the remnants of the anger that clung to me like a sweat-soaked shirt. I didn’t feel righteousness, only irritation: this man had invited himself to what was to have been a private time, a retreat. Who wouldn’t be angry? But I sensed that his spoiling my work wasn’t the whole of it, that the growing discomfort I felt was driven by something deeper than mere frustration.
The unique combination of smells that greeted us—a hint of cedar, the ashes of old fires, an indefinable sweetness—had always been enchanting to me, and a whiff of something vaguely similar in the city could transport me to the cabin in an instant. Even more, these spaces, spare and empty except for such simple adornments as the elk’s antlers and the stuffed owl with its wings outspread, never failed to evoke a deep and complicated response. Now, though, the exciting sense of returning to earlier, happier periods of my life was blunted by the presence of this man, who followed me across the wide-planked floor. Could I just ask him to sit in a corner, I wondered, while I went about my work? How could either of us get anything done when we’d both be waiting for the sound of a car pulling up the road? And what kind of host would I be, whether or not I’d chosen the role, if I just left him to himself? After all, he’d shown up here with only that small satchel. On the other hand, I absolutely didn’t want to talk to him about his supposed danger at the hands of a government that, in his eyes, had turned monstrous. His views were extreme, I wanted to believe, but lately my own faith in the stability of the world hadn’t been strong. Like many people in our country, I’d been disturbed by the tendencies of the new government, its inclination toward authoritarianism, its rewriting of recent history, its appeal to our people’s basest emotions; but I resisted accepting Lukas’s dark vision of a place where a man could be snatched off the street and thrown into prison just for daring to oppose some action of our present leaders.
Fortunately, there was the practical to occupy the two of us. Lukas helped me bring in the groceries; he stood by as I lit the fire in the stove to take the chill off the place. I pointed out one of the bedrooms, where he could lie down if he wanted to or just secrete himself if that was his choice. There was a closet with outdoor gear, sweaters and gym wear, sneakers and boots, that Marta and I had always kept for general use. “If you want something less formal to wear, you’re welcome to it,” I told him, though with his pallor and his indoor manners he didn’t seem like the type who’d be interested in hiking the trails.
He nodded distantly. “Please go on with your work,” he said at last. “Forget I’m here. And thanks, truly.” He went into the bedroom and closed the door but, of course, it was impossible not to be aware of his presence. What was he thinking of behind that door? He might be studying the fading frieze painted by Marta’s great-grandfather, trolls and goblins sporting among mushrooms, folk figures that earlier generations had used to represent forces over which humans had no control. More likely, he was listening intently for the sound of the car that would deliver him, trying not to think of the special police questioning his neighbors. Was he foreseeing a desperate flight through the woods until he was safely across the border? These seemed like scenes from a melodramatic movie, but I didn’t doubt they were real to Lukas. How could I keep a mental equilibrium under those circumstances? Of course it crossed my mind that if, improbably, he was right about the state of things, I might be considered an accomplice by the government, but his story seemed so far-fetched and, in any case, he’d be here only a few hours, one way or another. No, I persuaded myself, nothing was likely to happen to me. However wicked the government might have become, it was hardly likely they’d spend much energy pursuing a small fish like Lukas.
I made some tea and settled myself with a cup at the table, where I started to look at my students’ writing. I’d re-set the clock on the wall, but I was determined not to look at it. It was hard, though, for me to concentrate—I kept listening for sounds my guest might make in the bedroom, but he was as silent as an insect moving across the ceiling—and after a half hour I decided to go for a stroll to the lake to clear my head. Even though it was unlikely that Lukas’s deliverer would show up this early, I assumed he’d want to stay in the house where he could hear the sound of the car that would signal his release from immediate danger. I told him I’d be out for a few minutes and listened for his acknowledgment from behind closed doors.
It was good to be outdoors on the path to the lake, striding across the pine needles that softened the earth beneath my feet and sweetened the air. It was warmer out, the autumnal chill having burned off since my arrival. I got to the lake in a few minutes and looked out over the calm water. The sunlight glinting off the surface made it hard to see in places, but some kind of fowl, a duck or a wigeon, was swimming near the opposite shore; a fish leaped closer by. Marta and I had loved it here, especially after the season when, except for a few locals, we were the only ones about. Occasionally I might feel the sharp bite of regret that we didn’t have children, but we had each other, and that was enough.
All that changed when she became ill. We rarely came to the lake during those days when we struggled together to deal with the cancer that had come upon her so suddenly. The relentless advance of the disease was frightening enough. But things took a darker turn after it became clear there was no hope for her and she discovered Father Bork, a “healing” priest with the eyes of a wolf, who became a constant presence at the hospital. In a stunning change, skeptical Marta became a believer in the last weeks of her life, a zealot, and now when I visited her she told me she was offering up her sufferings for the souls in Purgatory. Increasingly she shut me out, even coming to feel in her final days that I was her enemy. Our last visits were grim and wordless; there was no doubt she preferred the times when Father Bork and a few of his black-clad disciples gathered around her bed and chanted prayers. The memory of those days brought a sense of disenchantment to the scene I was looking at.
Even as I stood there breathing in the fishy smell of the water, that disenchantment shaded toward something more unsettling, a primitive sense of fear that I couldn’t help connecting to the man in the cabin. What if he were right? What if the nationalist government, traditionally one side of a continuing argument that had been going on throughout our country’s history, had now become another version of our former oppressors, bent on destroying hard-won freedoms, taking us back to the terrible past? I shivered in spite of the warmth. I looked again at the lake. A cloud had passed in front of the sun, and the water was a steely color, I could see clearly now that the bird across the lake was a green-headed duck, and I was somehow reassured. Feeling better, I was ready to return to my work.
Back in the cabin, I wondered what Lukas was doing in that bedroom. Had he brought writing materials in that satchel? I sat down at the table and turned my attention to one of my student papers. The writer contended, not very originally, that the Prophets had been blinded by the nineteenth-century idea of progress. Opposing the oppression of those who then ruled over us, they looked forward to freedom for our people, a way of life that was just and humane. Most of the poets had the good fortune to die young, none of them had foreseen what was going to happen in the coming century after that freedom was won, then lost again, and our people were once more ruled by different oppressors. I wanted to tell the student that this was a never-ending struggle and though the poets’ dreams were overturned even after their initial hopes were fulfilled, they were worthy dreams.
I was interrupted by Lukas, who quietly entered the room. “I thought I’d get a drink of water,” he said.
“Be my guest,” I told him. “Are you sure you don’t want some tea?”
“Please don’t interrupt your work,” he said. As he stepped away from the bedroom, he moved haltingly, as though in the brief time he’d spent behind the door he’d already adopted some of the habits of imprisonment.
“I was just about to take a break.” I indicated the papers. “Student work . . .” I let him fill in the rest. Against my will, it seemed, I was reverting to the habits of hospitality. Actually, I’d become curious about this man I knew only superficially. By now I was convinced of the sincerity of his belief that he was in danger. Whatever my lack of personal sympathy toward his ideas, I couldn’t just ignore his situation. That chance had thrown the two of us together filled me with a sense of mystery.
Lukas poured himself a glass of water and brought it to the table, where he sat across from me, careful to keep his glass away from the student paper. “Anything interesting there?” He gestured toward the pages.
I smiled. “The youth of today are infuriated with their predecessors for their ignorance.”
He shrugged. “A healthy response. It’s a necessary ingredient for progress,” he said.
It occurred to me that at the moment we were simply a pair of academics discussing ideas, which made our present situation seem more normal. “Progress,” I countered. “Is that what’s happened to us?” I looked at him: if what he believed was true, all he possessed at the moment were the clothes on his back and the contents of his satchel. “You of all people might question that.”
“History doesn’t move in a straight line,” he responded.
All at once I was exasperated by concepts like history or progress. When I looked at my own life, I saw no narrative line that made any sense. Like the sudden thrust of an ice pick driving through the flesh, lacerating tissue, scraping against bone, once more I felt the absence of Marta, an absence that had begun, appallingly, before she died. What happened to our life together was the most grievous crime I knew of, an unforgiveable insult, though there was no party to sue. All this time I’d tried to fool myself into thinking I’d been dealing with it in some way, by showing up punctually at the university, neatly dressed, continuing to have my hair cut, for the most part staying sober, channeling the anger that thrashed within me, trying to persuade myself that I was going through some prescribed stages of grief; but I had to admit that sitting there at the table with this man who was either hopelessly deluded or in real danger, I felt the crushing weight of an inconsolable loss. I should never have come here, I was now convinced.
Lukas must have seen something in my expression. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone softer, more solicitous. “Did I say something?” No, no, I assured him, it was a private matter. But I felt as if I’d revealed too much in spite of myself. I certainly didn’t want to share my private sorrows with him.
Lukas may have been thinking similar thoughts. He sat there not far from me, silent, his head lowered as if he were trying to read the student paper, or the pattern in the wood of the table. “None of this had to happen,” he said all at once. “Our group talked over the proper response to the government’s recent actions, and we came to the conclusion that it was best to wait, to take their measure and develop a strategy, that we should lie low for the time being. But Elias, a newcomer, kept insisting that we had to plan for the time when we needed to be bolder. He said we should have provisional statements of our more radical program, we should put them into writing.” Lukas looked away. “Elias was insistent. He kept taunting us for being timid.” He laughed mirthlessly. “It was too much for my vanity. I said I’d write up a series of proposals for internal use only. Somehow they fell into government hands.” He shook his head. “Elias should be called Judas.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I was silent.
“I can’t blame anyone but myself,” Lukas said.
I could sympathize with the man’s self-condemnation. I’d felt like that myself more than a few times. But I was disturbed by the details of his account, the idea of government spies infiltrating the university. The fact is, his story shook me. I thought of my grandmother, who’d lived through our country’s dark times in the twentieth century. She could never really adapt to the new freedom; she continued to live as if those bad times could return at any minute. I tried to turn away from my own feelings, though, to Lukas’s situation.
The man seemed lost in thought. “They want to quash dissent in the universities before it gets too far,” he said. “They’ll want to frighten academics.” After a pause he added, “They’ve certainly frightened me.”
“And you’d actually leave the country, if it came to that?” I tried to imagine myself facing that prospect. To have to start all over at this age wasn’t a pleasant thought.
“I’m not a brave man,” he said. “I don’t have the strength to survive a prison sentence.”
I nodded. I could understand that. “But what about leaving your family?”
He looked up, made a sour face. “My wife left me last year. She took our daughter with her.”
It was the first time I’d heard this. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“She thought I was giving too much of myself to politics. She was right, of course.” The corners of his mouth turned down. It occurred to me that I’d grown used to his presence, to the timbre of his voice, this man who’d been up till now a distant figure in my life, just part of my surroundings.
All at once there was a rapping on the door, and the two of us froze. I hadn’t heard a motor; this had to be someone who’d come here on foot. My mind was working too fast for me to even guess who it might be, but I knew it was important to keep Lukas out of sight. I motioned to him to return to the bedroom, and he did so quietly. He even had the presence of mind to take his glass of water with him.
“I’m coming,” I called in response to the knocking but made sure Lukas was safely in the bedroom before I opened the door. “Ah, Bruno,” I said when I saw it was one of my neighbors who lived here year-round.
“I was hiking,” he said, “and I saw your car. I didn’t expect you’d be here.”
I threw up my hands. “I came on the spur of the moment,” I told him. “I have a mountain of work to do, and I thought this would be the ideal place to get it done.”
Bruno was a big man, slow of foot but able to outlast you on a hike. He was a dentist in the nearby town but he seemed born for the outdoors, and he loved to walk the trails around the lake. As he stood there smiling, his face was slick with sweat and an acrid odor emanated from his clothes. His booted feet were firmly planted on the stone slab in front of the door. He shook his head. “I always thought you academics had the easy jobs,” he said, “but to waste a beautiful day like today indoors—that’s practically a sacrilege.”
I smiled amiably, trying to will him away. “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. I made a gesture toward the table where the student papers were visible. “But duty calls, as you can see.”
Bruno looked toward the table, squinting as though confronted with a perplexing dental problem. “Better you than me,” he said. I nodded fiercely in agreement, but the man showed no inclination to move from his place in the doorway.
“As you can see,” I told him, “there’s quite a pile. I’ve just got started.”
He kept looking into the cabin. Was he taking a survey of the place, was there something askew? I was becoming uneasy. “I’m planning to stay today and tomorrow. Maybe if I get a good start on these I can take a break tomorrow, I might be interested in a hike.”
He beamed. “What about a bit of canoeing?”
“Sounds good,” I told him. “I’ll need some physical exercise for sure. Maybe I can drop by your place. Or give me a call. Tomorrow.”
He lingered near the door a few more moments. What Lukas had told me had made me distrustful of the most ordinary encounters. I’d never thought much about Bruno’s political leanings. He seemed a direct, hearty man with no sinister shadow. On national holidays he seemed patriotic enough, flying our flag, singing the old songs born of the national struggle. Could he be susceptible to the prime minister’s recent claims that our country wasn’t being sufficiently respected, that there needed to be a rebirth of what had made it great in past times? Just the possibility made me suddenly wary. I was glad when, after a few moments of small talk, he bade me good-bye, reminding me to drop around tomorrow.
When I was sure he was on his way home, I signaled to Lukas that it was all right to come out. Unconsciously, I noticed, the two of us had fallen into the habit of speaking with lowered voices. I tried to assure him that Bruno was an innocent interloper, pushing back my own anxieties; but we continued to speak quietly as though neither of us believed he was far away. Once again I thought of my grandmother: she obsessively saved stray buttons and safety pins, the smallest remnants of fabric, as though she anticipated a coming shortage of everything. I was her favorite, being the oldest, and she used to warn me gravely always to be prepared for the hard times to come. What hard times, I asked her. There will always be hard times, she assured me.
Now Lukas and I faced each other across the table, and he seemed disinclined to return to his solitary waiting in the bedroom. I had the student papers nearby, but I didn’t have the heart for the job. I kept thinking of Lukas’s ambiguous fate. I had to admit that by now I was strongly inclined to agree with his assessment of the danger he faced. Certainly his story had influenced my response to my neighbor. The thought brought a low-level anxiety that was mixed with a guilt that often accompanied memories of Marta as well as a general dread that seemed to be associated with my grandmother.
All right, I told myself, I’m not going back to those papers, not just yet. Whatever I’d planned for the day, I was harboring a man who was possibly being pursued by people who wanted to imprison him, and I ought to at least help him. But how?
“This friend,” I asked, “this man who drove you here, exactly what did he tell you?”
Lukas, who’d been lost in thought, looked up. “We have someone in the government who’s sympathetic to our cause,” he said, “someone who keeps an eye on things. Even I don’t know who that person is. But there were signals. Apparently some action against me for what I wrote is under consideration by a special committee. Once they decide to act, they’ll act quickly.”
“So it’s possible they might decide against acting?” I ventured.
“Yes. If they make that decision my friend will come back for me.”
“And you have no idea when that might happen?” I said.
“I was told a meeting was scheduled for mid-morning. That’s why I left the city when I did,”
We both looked at the clock. It was near noon now. “For all we know, they may already have decided not to act,” I said, feeding my hopes. “Your friend may be on his way here.”
He nodded glumly. “I wish I hadn’t written that piece,” he said. “I can’t help feeling I was manipulated. I got us all into trouble.” He briefly glanced away in the direction of the stuffed owl, its wings outspread, arrested in mid-flight.
“Things may not be so bad,” I told him. Actually, I was feeling just the opposite. However Lukas’s fate turned out, I could no longer persuade myself that we were still living in the same country we’d inhabited a few months ago before the new government had come into power. If what Lukas had told me was true, the university might be harboring government spies, and the opposition had infiltrated its own spies into the government. Nothing could be said in innocence anymore. I couldn’t look down on Lukas and his group as paranoid fabulists any more, just as I couldn’t dismiss the extreme statements our prime minister had made during the campaign as mere politics, couldn’t believe that the job of actually governing the nation would soften his edges. Here in my tranquil retreat on the lake it was clear to me that there was a struggle going on for the soul of our country. Who knew how that might end?
“Look,” I told Lukas, “I hope your friend shows up soon with the news that no actions will be taken against you, but how will you know if they come to the opposite decision?”
“By midafternoon, my friend said. The meeting of the special committee was scheduled to start at 10:00 and really shouldn’t last more than an hour, but there’s always the possibility of delay. The problem is, our contact might not be able to get back to us, so we might not know for sure; but it would be too dangerous to wait beyond 14:00. After that it wouldn’t be safe.”
It was as if time itself had become palpable, and I felt on my skin the urgency of his situation. My recent gloomy thoughts had made me pessimistic about the possibility of his friend’s arrival. “Look,” I said, “if it comes to that, I can drive you near the border and drop you off in a wooded area.” I pointed to the closet. “If a change of clothes would be a help, please feel free.”
“Thanks,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’ve already been a great help.”
I could think of nothing to say, and the two of us stood looking at the student papers on the table. At last I said, “You must have family who lived through the bad times.”
He nodded. “I heard about the knocks on the door in the middle of the night, the men in leather coats. It must have been awful, living through that, and for so long.”
“I heard the same stories from my grandmother,” I said. “I thought those days were over for good.”
“So did I,” he said, “until recently.”
I looked at the student paper that took the Prophets to task for not correctly foreseeing the future. “It’s so easy to feel superior to those who lived in the past,” I said. “And yet one day soon enough we ourselves will be part of that past.”
“Yes,” he said, “which is why we have to fight while we can.”
We’d entered an area of questions that had no answers, and my mind turned elsewhere. “You were a cousin of Marta’s,” I said. “How well did you know her?”
“Not well,” he said, and paused as if to search his memory. “I remember a time, though,” he continued, “when we were children, when she brought me some lemonade.” He nodded to himself, remembering, a half-smile crossed his face. “We were at uncle Anton’s for a name-day celebration. I was, I don’t know how old, but I’m sure I was the youngest there. The older children crowded the table where the lemonade was, and I couldn’t get to it. Marta saw the trouble I was having and got me a glass.” He looked at his hands. “That’s what I remember,” he said, “she was older and she helped me.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” I said. “She was a wonderful woman,” I added, though I was barely able to finish the sentence. I appreciated learning this detail about Marta, of whom I could honestly say that I hadn’t known very well either. After all, shouldn’t I have been more of a help to her in her final days? Still, the anecdote captured something of her generosity, of her eagerness to remedy an injustice. Yes, that was the woman I’d known. True, in the end I couldn’t give her something she felt she needed, and she betrayed me with Father Bork, but the times we’d had before were real, too, weren’t they?
Outside, the light had already changed. Lukas’s memory of Marta as a girl had stimulated my imagination, and we might have gone on talking about her, but instead we fell into silence, our eyes regularly turning toward the clock as if its familiar numbers had been replaced by undecipherable hieroglyphics.
