I was sitting on a cold, black, granite bench in front of my father’s grave. It was a sunny April day and as I walked to the cemetery gate through the dark pine forest I saw green snowdrop stems burrowing through the grey remnants of snow, hardened into rock over the winter. Grandmother was cleaning graves on the Jewish side of the cemetery, leaving the Russian part of the family in my hands. I tried to work quickly under the unblinking gaze of the crows patrolling the cemetery wall like wardens clad in black with their hands tucked behind their backs.
But now there was a new grave to look after, besides all my grandparents and extended family, and I thought I should take some time to get used to it. I shivered as I sat alone, listening to the gentle thuds of my heart, reminding me that at least on the inside there was life and warmth. The city of the dead was sleeping peacefully under the eaves of the mighty pines and chestnuts. My father’s grave was at the very edge of the cemetery and even from the bench I could see the grey porous wall covered in damp moss, submitting to decay. Occasionally I heard a train hurrying past the other side of it, carrying the living on their daily journeys; but here, in the twilight maintained by the mighty pines and oaks the movement was restricted to their branches and it never reached the ground.
In the lifeless air uneven footsteps resounded from the ground with a crunching noise of dead leaves and the squelching of the moss. The Hermit stopped at the entrance to my father’s plot, so I nudged my way to one side of the granite bench, burying half of me in a tall bush that separated this plot from the next one.
‘Hello there. Have a seat.’
‘Hello, young lady. Much obliged’, he smiled, revealing the few grey teeth he’d got left and landed next to me, so that squished together on the little bench in our puffy coats we now looked like fat pigeons perched on a stile. He didn’t smell like the rest of the cemetery, of once living things decomposing - his hands were covered in fine stone dust and as I sniffed in the cold air I detected a whiff of metal. The coat smelled of chestnut bark, as if it had been hanging on a big branch for the last few hours.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk to him. The Hermit was what Grandmother called him and she always pretended to be busy when he passed by. He did look somewhat scary at first, with his bent old back, the clothes to match the colour of the earth and the long grey hair on a wizened long face, that gave him an appearance of a raven, but I knew he wasn’t some ominous apparition. He’d helped me once when I tripped over a wet rock in the path and fell down, cutting my hand on the shears I’d dropped. Before he even looked at the cut I was reassured; a smile rearranged the wrinkled face to look like that of an ancient benevolent tree lord that I read about in a strange English book. He took me to a water pump, squinted at my hand and with one eye shut and the tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration removed all the bits of mud and blood, while I was squirming and twitching my nose. He wrapped a white, well-ironed handkerchief around my hand and never asked for it back, though he saw me plenty of times since.
‘Doing the Russian part today?’ he inquired rubbing his hands together in the misty air.
‘Yes, it’s faster that way. And there are more graves now, I’m sure you noticed.’ I pointed at my father’s black-and-white profile set in red stone.
‘I was here, dear. I helped dig every single grave in this cemetery in the last fifty years.’
He smiled for a brief instant but his brows immediately curled in a frown.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up the funeral’.
‘That’s OK. What was it like? I wasn’t allowed, you see...’ The question fell to the ground and the Hermit looked at the same spot as me, as if picking it up from one of my fresh footprints.
‘It was OK, very decent as far as these things go. No wailing. He looked peaceful and, if you don’t mind me saying, happy.’
I nodded and sniffed in reply and my long black hair fell out of the hood and covered my face.
‘I wondered what he looked like before they closed the... coffin.’
The Hermit produced another handkerchief and thrust it in my palm, squeezing my fingers till the bones creaked.
‘You shouldn’t have to come here so often to do this. I never see your mother. Why doesn’t she come?’
‘Mum and Dad never got on too well.’
He nodded, looking as if he just pricked his finger on a large pine needle.
‘And did you?’
From beyond the stone wall a breath of air touched my face, ruffling the hair out of my face.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how it should have been. Does it matter?’
His lips started stretching into a smile but gave up half-way.
‘Not at all. That’s what I’m saying. That’s why she shouldn’t leave it up to you. What happens when your grandmother dies? Will you come here like she has done for forty years, on your own?’
‘Umm.. I never thought about it. To be honest, I doubt I will come at all. I want to live somewhere else, you see,’ I said, watching a tiny flicker of the sun passing between tree tops.
‘And so you should if that’s what you want. Don’t think they would mind.’
I chuckled keeping my eyes under the hood.
‘If Grandmother heard you now, she’d grab her shovel and wallop you.’
We burst out laughing but I immediately felt ashamed of placing myself out of the reach of the dead and fixed my eyes on the brown pile of leaves I’d made before.
‘It’s OK, it’s no disrespect to laugh in their presence,’ smiled the Hermit.
I nodded again, sheepishly.
He got up and my right side began to feel cold again.
‘Time to go, little lady. Nice to meet you.’
‘And you.’
The Hermit walked softly out of Dad’s plot, but then turned, his eyes jumping from me to the pile of leaves to the gravestone.
‘Look, I am no usher of souls, but here’s what I know - the part of your family that’s gone, they aren’t here. They are in your memories and your feelings and maybe somewhere else. And your questions won’t be answered here either. Respect them, remember them, but do not tie yourself to the dead.’
I slowly stood up with one hand in the air, aimed at him while my brain was giving shape to a suitable question, but the Hermit was already hobbling off, deftly avoiding odd tombstones protruding onto the path.
‘Wait! What’s your name?’ I shouted and my voice echoed off the wall behind me and darted past, catching the Hermit near the end of the lane. He half-turned in the shade of a great tombstone and crisply replied:
‘Call me Salem; it means Peace’.
That was the last time I ever saw him and I’m glad I waved and smiled back.
I polished the jagged red and black granite tombstone, which Mum said she’d picked to suit Dad’s edgy character, dusted off the the grave and put away the muddy tools under the bench. The teeth of the rake bit into the earth and dragged out onto the path leaves and mud, erasing my footprints inside the plot. I followed the familiar path leading to the three hundred year old chestnut in the middle of the cemetery, passing the big grave of the family killed in the Second World War during bombardment, whom I often thought about. The dead leaves made a heavy thud on the floor of an old metal bin and with my fingers covered in mud, pointing away from the sides of the coat I went to find water.
Grandmother was standing by the tall, curved water pump complaining it was stuck. I tried it in the direction she pointed. It creaked and wobbled but did not produce a drop. Granny picked up her bags and went deeper into the cemetery, mumbling, to look for another pump, but I persisted for further five minutes. In the end I kicked the pump hard and as the last attempt twisted the round lock in the opposite way. The ice cold water burst out, drenching my coat and planting glistening drops on the nearby trees and a sudden gust of wind picked some of them up, carrying them over the wall together with fluffy golden pollen and earthy scent of chestnut. People passing by eyed me suspiciously as I was laughing out loud. With water running off my coat and boots I shook the drops off my hands and headed out through the gates, never to return.
But now there was a new grave to look after, besides all my grandparents and extended family, and I thought I should take some time to get used to it. I shivered as I sat alone, listening to the gentle thuds of my heart, reminding me that at least on the inside there was life and warmth. The city of the dead was sleeping peacefully under the eaves of the mighty pines and chestnuts. My father’s grave was at the very edge of the cemetery and even from the bench I could see the grey porous wall covered in damp moss, submitting to decay. Occasionally I heard a train hurrying past the other side of it, carrying the living on their daily journeys; but here, in the twilight maintained by the mighty pines and oaks the movement was restricted to their branches and it never reached the ground.
In the lifeless air uneven footsteps resounded from the ground with a crunching noise of dead leaves and the squelching of the moss. The Hermit stopped at the entrance to my father’s plot, so I nudged my way to one side of the granite bench, burying half of me in a tall bush that separated this plot from the next one.
‘Hello there. Have a seat.’
‘Hello, young lady. Much obliged’, he smiled, revealing the few grey teeth he’d got left and landed next to me, so that squished together on the little bench in our puffy coats we now looked like fat pigeons perched on a stile. He didn’t smell like the rest of the cemetery, of once living things decomposing - his hands were covered in fine stone dust and as I sniffed in the cold air I detected a whiff of metal. The coat smelled of chestnut bark, as if it had been hanging on a big branch for the last few hours.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk to him. The Hermit was what Grandmother called him and she always pretended to be busy when he passed by. He did look somewhat scary at first, with his bent old back, the clothes to match the colour of the earth and the long grey hair on a wizened long face, that gave him an appearance of a raven, but I knew he wasn’t some ominous apparition. He’d helped me once when I tripped over a wet rock in the path and fell down, cutting my hand on the shears I’d dropped. Before he even looked at the cut I was reassured; a smile rearranged the wrinkled face to look like that of an ancient benevolent tree lord that I read about in a strange English book. He took me to a water pump, squinted at my hand and with one eye shut and the tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration removed all the bits of mud and blood, while I was squirming and twitching my nose. He wrapped a white, well-ironed handkerchief around my hand and never asked for it back, though he saw me plenty of times since.
‘Doing the Russian part today?’ he inquired rubbing his hands together in the misty air.
‘Yes, it’s faster that way. And there are more graves now, I’m sure you noticed.’ I pointed at my father’s black-and-white profile set in red stone.
‘I was here, dear. I helped dig every single grave in this cemetery in the last fifty years.’
He smiled for a brief instant but his brows immediately curled in a frown.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up the funeral’.
‘That’s OK. What was it like? I wasn’t allowed, you see...’ The question fell to the ground and the Hermit looked at the same spot as me, as if picking it up from one of my fresh footprints.
‘It was OK, very decent as far as these things go. No wailing. He looked peaceful and, if you don’t mind me saying, happy.’
I nodded and sniffed in reply and my long black hair fell out of the hood and covered my face.
‘I wondered what he looked like before they closed the... coffin.’
The Hermit produced another handkerchief and thrust it in my palm, squeezing my fingers till the bones creaked.
‘You shouldn’t have to come here so often to do this. I never see your mother. Why doesn’t she come?’
‘Mum and Dad never got on too well.’
He nodded, looking as if he just pricked his finger on a large pine needle.
‘And did you?’
From beyond the stone wall a breath of air touched my face, ruffling the hair out of my face.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how it should have been. Does it matter?’
His lips started stretching into a smile but gave up half-way.
‘Not at all. That’s what I’m saying. That’s why she shouldn’t leave it up to you. What happens when your grandmother dies? Will you come here like she has done for forty years, on your own?’
‘Umm.. I never thought about it. To be honest, I doubt I will come at all. I want to live somewhere else, you see,’ I said, watching a tiny flicker of the sun passing between tree tops.
‘And so you should if that’s what you want. Don’t think they would mind.’
I chuckled keeping my eyes under the hood.
‘If Grandmother heard you now, she’d grab her shovel and wallop you.’
We burst out laughing but I immediately felt ashamed of placing myself out of the reach of the dead and fixed my eyes on the brown pile of leaves I’d made before.
‘It’s OK, it’s no disrespect to laugh in their presence,’ smiled the Hermit.
I nodded again, sheepishly.
He got up and my right side began to feel cold again.
‘Time to go, little lady. Nice to meet you.’
‘And you.’
The Hermit walked softly out of Dad’s plot, but then turned, his eyes jumping from me to the pile of leaves to the gravestone.
‘Look, I am no usher of souls, but here’s what I know - the part of your family that’s gone, they aren’t here. They are in your memories and your feelings and maybe somewhere else. And your questions won’t be answered here either. Respect them, remember them, but do not tie yourself to the dead.’
I slowly stood up with one hand in the air, aimed at him while my brain was giving shape to a suitable question, but the Hermit was already hobbling off, deftly avoiding odd tombstones protruding onto the path.
‘Wait! What’s your name?’ I shouted and my voice echoed off the wall behind me and darted past, catching the Hermit near the end of the lane. He half-turned in the shade of a great tombstone and crisply replied:
‘Call me Salem; it means Peace’.
That was the last time I ever saw him and I’m glad I waved and smiled back.
I polished the jagged red and black granite tombstone, which Mum said she’d picked to suit Dad’s edgy character, dusted off the the grave and put away the muddy tools under the bench. The teeth of the rake bit into the earth and dragged out onto the path leaves and mud, erasing my footprints inside the plot. I followed the familiar path leading to the three hundred year old chestnut in the middle of the cemetery, passing the big grave of the family killed in the Second World War during bombardment, whom I often thought about. The dead leaves made a heavy thud on the floor of an old metal bin and with my fingers covered in mud, pointing away from the sides of the coat I went to find water.
Grandmother was standing by the tall, curved water pump complaining it was stuck. I tried it in the direction she pointed. It creaked and wobbled but did not produce a drop. Granny picked up her bags and went deeper into the cemetery, mumbling, to look for another pump, but I persisted for further five minutes. In the end I kicked the pump hard and as the last attempt twisted the round lock in the opposite way. The ice cold water burst out, drenching my coat and planting glistening drops on the nearby trees and a sudden gust of wind picked some of them up, carrying them over the wall together with fluffy golden pollen and earthy scent of chestnut. People passing by eyed me suspiciously as I was laughing out loud. With water running off my coat and boots I shook the drops off my hands and headed out through the gates, never to return.
