Fugitive Pieces Page #4

Yeah.

You know, when you first came here...

you were what... 11?

- Mmm-hmm.

- Just a little bit older than Ben.

Hey! What's this?

An apple.

Is an apple food?

Why do you throw it away?

I don't want the other half.

Can you imagine?

Take it.

I said take it!

During the war...

everything had value,

no matter how small.

A button, a pencil, a spoon!

Not to mention the things

that could make you weep.

A good pair of shoes.

Hot water, a scrap of food.

Isn't that right, Jakob?

Now my own son

throws away an apple.

Joseph.

Well, if my only son doesn't even

understand the value of things...

why did we even survive?

I'm sorry.

Why don't you play something?

I know I have

written to you before.

This letter is in regards

to a missing person.

First name Bella...

last name Beer.

Biskupin, Poland, 1942.

Age fifteen.

I'm seeking

any information...

regarding her possible

whereabouts...

Please post the following

every Friday for one year.

I know the records

are incomplete...

I know I have written

to you before.

Check your list,

taking into account...

possible variations of spelling.

First name Bella,

last name Beer.

Age fifteen.

Jakob...

I want to tell you something.

Hello?

Jakob?

It's Ben, how are you?

Oh, hi, Ben. Uh, Im fine.

- I'm just sleeping.

- We were thinking of you.

How are things in Hydra?

Good... how's Naomi?

- She's fine.

- And your dad?

How's he, since...

He's okay.

Well, Ill be seeing him soon.

I'll be back for class,

in a couple of weeks.

- That soon?

- Yeah.

Okay, hang on.

- Jakob!

- Hi, Naomi.

Good to hear your voice.

Well, say you'll come to dinner.

Oh yes, of course,

soon as I get back.

Great.

Finally!

How was your trip?

Oh, you remembered my olive oil.

How could I forget?

Hi!

Welcome back.

Listen, there's this woman

from the museum knows.

She's a curator, very smart.

Oh, no!

All right, then.

"All right", what?

Invite her over sometime.

Uh'hu...

Well, actually, she already did.

Jakob... Michaela.

Naomis had us on her

thesis diet for months now.

When I was doing the Russians...

all we ever ate was

cabbage soup and perigees.

Then it was the Latin Americans.

Empanadas, rice, beans.

And now it's Sweden.

And every other day,

we're eating salted fish.

That's not true!

And... what's wrong

with salted fish anyway?

You know, when I was small...

I was obsessed with salt.

I think it started because

we traveled so much...

and everywhere,

I kept hearing about salt.

City of salt.

Road of salt.

And in the Sahara, there were

entire cities built of salt.

I used to imagine caravans...

weighed down with

thick cakes of salt.

I'm talking too much.

So, Naomi.

- How's your project?

- Um, good.

I... Collect songs and lullabies

fom everywhere in the world.

Become a kind of a mania with me.

A song for every occasion...

or person.

By now I can match a song

or a ballad to anyone.

- What about Jak...

- What about Mich...

What about Jakob?

- What about Michaela?

- Jakob. No!

No, I don't...

Try, try. Um...

Well, for you, I... I would

have to say, "Moorsoldaten"...

Hmm...

"The peat bog soldiers".

Peat bog.

You're very good.

Do you know the song?

Oh, yeah.

- It's... well, it's...

- Huh...

it was written by

prisoners during the war.

And they weren't allowed to

sing anything but marching songs...

while they were working...

so they wrote something that

sounded like a marching song...

but...

Well, really,

it's a song about hope.

Sing it.

Uh...

"Wherever the eye may wonder...

heath and bog everywhere".

"Birdsongs brings no solace...

and trees stand bare".

Very good.

So, you still live in Greece.

Back and forth.

I write there, teach here.

How long have

you known Naomi?

Well, to tell you the truth,

not that long.

I've only been at

the museum a few months.

How long have you known each other?

Well, Ive known Ben

all his life, really.

I was there when he was born.

His parents lived in the

apartment next to ours.

Ben was very premature.

And when his mother

went into labor...

His father came running

Into our apartment in a panic.

And Athos, my godfather,

was away at a conference...

so I called the ambulance and...

anyway, I ended up being at the

hospital when she gave birth.

When they brought him

from the delivery room...

He weighed less

than three pounds.

So small.

In this almost

transparent body.

He was like a spirit.

Not even a person.

No bigger than my hand.

Take off your coat.

I'll make some tea.

Oh, this is...

From my mother's

side of the family.

She's Russian, he's Spanish.

Fabulous arguments,

as you can imagine.

And they used to go on for hours.

What stamina.

Hmm.

Hmm.

What?

Lemon.

Why? You... you want milk?

No.

Even the horror of the past...

you try to reinvent it

and re-imagine it.

Like my grandmother.

Yeah, sort of.

Not always so amusingly.

Take specific moments and...

your mind fills in the gaps.

I've spent years

trying to imagine...

Bella's route from the house.

Where did she die?

In the street?

In the train?

In the barracks?

You try to reconstruct...

visualize every possible scenario.

I used to dream that

maybe she escaped.

I haven't dreamt

that in a long time.

I also used to wonder...

what might have

happened if Id stayed.

Waited in the house

instead of running away.

Maybe she came back.

There's a poem by Akhmatova.

"You are many years late...

how happy I am io see you".

Joseph?

Joseph?

We shouldn't tell the rabbi...

or they won't let him

into the cemetery.

At least he waited

'till my mother died.

I still can't believe

he would do that...

after everything

he went through.

Your father suffered a lot, Ben.

He didn't suffer.

He was impenetrable.

Can I ask you something?

I don't understand how you could

have gone through what you did...

and still be so generous,

Still write the things you do.

I used to think that

if I understood you...

I could understand

my father better.

But it's like you're

from different worlds.

Well, I don't think so.

Your father told me not long ago...

that he still would dream...

about his mother and father.

The smallest things.

The detail of his

mother's coat, a button...

his father's shoes,

outside in the rain.

And that when he woke up

in the morning...

old as he was...

he was still crying.

Jakob...

I want to tell you something.

The mistery of wood is not

that it burns...

but that it floats.

Go, Jakob.

After years of

trying to be closer to them...

I now fear that I am only haunting...

my parents and Bella with my calling,

Startling them awake in their black beds.

All the years Ive felt

Bella entreating me...

filled with her loneliness...

I have misunderstood

her signals.

Like other ghosts,

she whispers...

not for me to join her...

but so that when I'm close enough...

she can push me back

into the world.

Whoa!

Ah!

Mmm.

Garlic.

And, uh...

Basil.

Mmm. Sweat.

Honey.

Mm, oh, coconut oil.

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