"We promised not to tell," I said uneasily.

"Ah. Well, as long as he's happy with that sort of life. I thought it was a phase that would pa.s.s. But as long as he's happy. It's too bad for David, you know. Still, Wallie is a loving father to him." And then I imagined that she looked at me suspiciously.

I looked away.

A few days later her heart, a frail bird's heart, gave way in her sleep. Gerald phoned for an ambulance and then he phoned Patrick. The funeral was private, but there was a column in the newspaper about Vera: her work as a child psychiatrist, the books she'd written. I called Patrick and suggested we get together. "It would be nice to see you," I said, "after all these years. I'd like to meet Adar too."

I was aware, as I left the house, that I was excited-it was the sort of pleasurable excitement I'd feel if I were about to mount a major exhibition, or see a photo of my father. Patrick was after all a link to something, and maybe he had the key-though I hardly knew what I might be trying to unlock.

Patrick introduced me to Adar in the noisy bra.s.serie. I saw almost at once that his marriage was not a success, and during the next few hours I was privy to a discouraging close-up. Patrick's self-protective irony had strayed into the arena of offhand nastiness. He had become cruel-maybe against his will and without his approval, or even his recognition. Subtly he disguised a frozen rage, detached himself from his behaviour. Only when he spoke about his daughter did he step back, or away, as he had when he'd communed with Woofie, all those years ago in his attic apartment. His face lit up, and I saw that he was a loving father. But the rest of the world was as deadly as ever, and he had become deadly in return.

Adar-astute, fragile, sensitive-felt sorry for him. Her compa.s.sionate plan was to reinterpret the cruelty, hand it back to him transformed. It was a doomed project, and the only outcome was intimidation. She was afraid of Patrick, and I wanted to save her. Anthony would have said that the blueprint for utopia in my breast pocket was still impelling me, still defeating me.

I often wonder: did Anthony plan our fraud? It occurs to me that he counted on us to conceal his death, bury him, read a poem over his grave. He thought we were up to it, and that he wasn't important and that we'd be fine, we'd move on, and if we were unhappy, well, people were unhappy; there was no avoiding that. He was wrong about everything.

Yesterday I wrote to Dvora and asked her for Rosie's current email address. As always, Dvora was happy to hear from an old friend: Hi Maya! Great that you guys are connecting! Rosie always writes to me from her hubby's address at Harvard (makes me feel important to see the address on my inbox) but actually I haven't heard from her since last spring. I'll look around in my files (you know me, I never throw anything out) and see if I can find her letter and I'll forward it to you. Guess what, I'm going to be a grandmother!!! Help!!! Emma's expecting twins-probably girls but they aren't exactly sure, could be boys with small (for now) w.i.l.l.i.e.s. I'm attaching a photo of the whole gang. Phil as you see has gone grey and no wonder! He might retire next year as delivering squelchy babies in the middle of the night is getting to be a bit much for him. Our Beautyshop Quartet had to disband because Janet's getting chemo. We've probably all gone croaky by now anyhow, though we placed sixth last year which isn't too bad. I'm still doing the donkey rescue work, not that those bad-tempered grouches ever bray a word of thanks. OK gotta run, fab to hear from you!

An hour later, she forwarded Rosie's letter: Hi Dvora, I'm very glad things are working out so well for you and that your multi-family Pa.s.sover dinner was a success. It's obvious that you're very popular in the community and no wonder, you were always so kind and generous to everyone and funny. Remember all those toffees you snuck into the pool for us? Yesterday Glenn bought a Wii for the boys, they're very excited about it and making a racket. Did I tell you, there's an immense man, he must weigh three hundred pounds, he runs the coffee shop a few blocks away and I want so badly to be his friend. Not that we ever say more than a few words to each other, but I wish I knew him better. He's so unhappy! I brought him some tulips from the garden but I think I only made it worse. I dreamed we were lovers. Glenn reads The Prophet The Prophet to me every night. Remember Kris gave me that book at the surprise party my parents and Maya organized when I turned 15? I keep dreaming that I'm swimming and I discover I have no arms, only tiny fins. It's a very scary dream. Sometimes I imagine the whole room is teeming with people, half-dead, half-alive. I guess I'm actually dreaming but it feels so real! Do you dream? xx to me every night. Remember Kris gave me that book at the surprise party my parents and Maya organized when I turned 15? I keep dreaming that I'm swimming and I discover I have no arms, only tiny fins. It's a very scary dream. Sometimes I imagine the whole room is teeming with people, half-dead, half-alive. I guess I'm actually dreaming but it feels so real! Do you dream? xx I've read and reread the letter, trying to find in this distressing text-what? exoneration? a way out? or maybe a way in ... though one thing does strike me with cathartic force: the shackles that held our parents to their unspeakable past, those shackles seem to have multiplied through some sort of process of spontaneous generation-and now it's our own past that thwarts us, and we are flailing with tiny fins, trying to move on, but a great, c.u.mbersome weight holds us back.

I clicked on "compose," typed in Glenn's address-how wonderfully simple it is, these days-and wrote: I've been thinking about you, Rosie, and feeling sad that we lost touch-I hear news about you and your family from Dvora, but it's chatty and superficial. I remember your sad eyes. Please write. I guess you heard that Vera died. She never sold the country house-an artist she knows has been living there for many years. Maybe we could drive to the house one day and visit the grave. Or meet in New York and see Anthony's son, talk to Gloria. I'm sorry about everything. I want to see you. Maya.

Glenn replied almost immediately: Dear Maya, I was so pleased to receive your letter, which I read. I hope you don't mind, but you addressed it to me so I a.s.sume you wanted me to print it out and give it to Rosie. Rosie has been unwell. I don't know how much you know, but the problem seems to stem from depression. Maybe if you came, she'd feel better. I don't want to put you out of your way. You have your own life, I know. It's only that I'm at my wit's end, and I know you were once close. If you come, we have a big house and a guest room and you'd have all the privacy you need. Or we'd be happy to put you up in a b&b. Have you ever been to Boston? I think you'd enjoy seeing the sights. Well, that's about it. I have a meeting and I have to run. Thanks for writing. Sincerely, Glenn.

We think we aren't important; we tell ourselves that because we were helpless and ineffectual once, this is who we are, and our exits don't matter-no one will miss us. I told myself that Rosie had Glenn. My desertion was a way of mourning through imitation, a way we have of re-enacting the worst traits of whoever it is we've lost. For those tangled reasons, and others, I did to Rosie what Anthony did to me.

Of course, I don't know why she's in trouble. I only know I haven't been there to help out. And I also know something else now that doesn't occur to us when we're young, and when what we have in common with our fellow-travellers is being young, and it seems as if it's easy to find friends. It only dawns on us later, as people drift away, that friends are in fact hard to come by, hard to replace.

I've already bought my plane ticket and arranged for a dog sitter. I leave tomorrow morning. The past is irretrievable. I will never be in Eden again, trailing after Rosie, helping her gather up her books. I'm waiting, as Anthony did not, to see what comes next.

EIKAH.

Yes, I said when they offered me a blanket they gave me a blanket I sat in the back of a truck there were folding seats on the side walls I sat on the seats with my back leaning against the wall you could choose without concealing that you were choosing without hiding that was what freedom was not having to hide the Russian drivers were full of good humour they laughed and hit each other in play sang out of tune my thoughts were very narrow I barely noticed the weather though I remembered later that it was a sunny day with blue skies and a chill in the air I was planning my future everyone was in a stupor everyone's thoughts were narrow they'd been narrowed if I made it to Prague I'd look for Katya find out if they were all in one piece Katya's father could help if he was alive he liked me he knew people once I wanted to continue my studies in Canada I imagined horse-drawn wagons hands hidden inside fur m.u.f.fs fields of snow fireplaces spa.r.s.ely populated cities fresh eggs eggs were part of my future if I found Katya I would eat two lightly salted poached eggs on b.u.t.tered toast I'd wear a dress I'd listen to the radio everyone had diarrhoea there were seven people in the truck and the driver had to stop constantly we pounded and the Russians laughed and stopped the truck no we didn't pound we tapped on the gla.s.s window between the back of the truck and the Russians but was there a window?

or was it only a metal wall?

it must have been a window how else would I remember the Russians laughing and slapping each other's shoulders I was half-asleep when the truck stopped suddenly ten kilometres from the city we all froze in panic maybe it was all an illusion maybe they were back maybe some parts of Europe were still under their control anything sudden did that to us the mind gets trained in one direction learns to protect itself but there was no one there only a little girl sitting by the side of the road dressed in strange clothes that didn't fit her the Russians had stopped for her but no one moved the Russians were waiting for one of us to climb down and get her but no one had the strength for it I was afraid the truck would move on the girl would be left behind she was half-dead like the rest of us any minute she'd stop clinging on and her death would be our fault worse than our fault when we weren't selected because we didn't choose only hoped some of us hoped but here we had a choice it was very hard I staggered up undid the half-door at the back someone helped me with that I got out of the truck and took the girl's hand and led her up inside the girl sat on the floor she thought she had no choice she didn't know the war was over I said the war is over she didn't seem to understand me it was impossible to tell what language she knew if any she had a devious face like a small demon she'd lost her mind she clutched my shirt with her small dirty hand the shirt the Red Cross gave me I guessed she was between seven and fourteen hard to know with everyone shrinking and looking so old one British soldier thought I was an old woman he said to someone bring the old lady over here the way the girl clutched me was closer to seven her eyes were closer to fourteen but even two-year-olds had those sad old eyes in the ghetto and fourteen-year-olds clutched we all lost our ages the truck reached the city the Russians offered us cigarettes Prague was impossible nothing had changed nothing had changed it was all the same there were broken windows from the riots heaps of rubble but apart from that it was the same we were the nightmare intruding on the city the Russians let us off the truck we dispersed the girl wouldn't let go of my shirt and anyhow there was nowhere for her to go the Russians were returning to the DP camp they could take her I couldn't leave her with the Russians I'd have to take the girl with me to Katya's everyone stared at us or looked away afraid the first few days we'd slept in a field wrapped in blankets from the Red Cross a tall man hovered above me repeating over and over I killed him, I killed him he dangled the rope he'd used to strangle an officer in front of me then he moved on to someone else dangled the rope in front of them we'd all lost our minds it was only a matter of degree I had ways to hold on to sanity I studied the human mind sadism torture starvation group behaviour under threat I pretended to myself that I was doing research undercover now I was encountering revenge the German officer he'd strangled was lying face down in a ditch no one cared we were tired it began to drizzle and we were taken in trucks to a train British soldiers gave us sardines sweet lemon juice the sun shone in through the open doors I tried to tell the soldiers that if we ate more than one sardine at a time and more than one tin in a day we would die I tried to warn people but two men and a woman ate too fast and died in great pain I slept on the train and then I slept five or six days at the American post I heard that a Russian truck was leaving for Prague and I managed to find it now I had to find Katya's house I was lucky someone took pity on us and gave us a ride the girl was still clinging to my shirt the driver talked about the riots I wanted a bath he let us off at Katya's house I looked up and saw the red curtains of her apartment Katya's apartment the curtains were a good sign the driver told us that two thousand people were killed in the uprising Katya and her parents could have been among them I wanted a bath and eggs and to be rid of the girl my own baby died on January 14, 1942 he was shot on the way to the ghetto, in my husband's arms along with my husband it was worse for other parents that realization came to me in the months that followed the realization that given the choices, it was worse for those whose children were still alive I rang the bell I could hardly stand on my feet a maid I didn't know opened the door a crack she kept the chain on she called out: refugees an old man and a girl old man I laughed at that my first laugh in the new world Katya came to the door she undid the chain she said we don't have much I'll see what I can find I said it's Vera I'm not old and not a man I'm Vera this is a girl we picked up I don't know anything about her Katya let us in we sat in her living room the maid prepared tea Katya said what can I give you we have four eggs I made bread this morning I said I'd like poached eggs on b.u.t.tered toast and hot milk with cocoa the girl should have a soft-boiled egg and as much milk as you can spare nothing that's hard to digest Katya hurried to the kitchen to tell the maid I was laughing Katya was crying I said let's have some music Katya put on the radio and a cla.s.sical piece came on Faure I think the little girl let go of my shirt walked to the middle of the room began dancing ballet precise ballet movements she kept it up for half a minute or a minute then she fell to the floor and began shrieking piercing demonic shrieks she peed on the carpet and Katya's father walked in alarmed there was an old man on the sofa a girl shrieking in a puddle of urine on the floor when the girl saw the man she stopped shrieking terrified ran back to me clutched my shirt again Katya said it's Vera her father said I know who it is he sat down next to me and kissed my hands Jan? he said I shook my head Jan and the baby were shot on Jan 14, 1942 just as well I said considering considering what was coming I said I want to go to Canada can you arrange that?

can you get me a visa?

I want to study there even if I have to start over I want to start over anyhow the eggs were ready the girl clutched my shirt in one hand and held her spoon with the other we tried various languages with the help of dictionaries I was back in a world that had dictionaries damask paintings on the wall of children on a sled finally we had some luck with Italian the girl understood Italian I asked for a bath Katya said the water was only tepid but she'd add hot water from the kettle I undressed the girl didn't let go of my shirt she sat on the floor holding the shirt I got into the water and lay down the water turned dark brown we changed the water four times Katya vomited she was too thin to be pregnant it was seeing me naked that made her vomit the girl refused to be bathed Katya wiped her with wet towels Katya was afraid of her but to me she was ordinary her demonic shriek in the living room had been ordinary it was this life that was out of the ordinary I wanted to sleep Katya gave me her bed the girl slept with me we slept for days on end slept and ate our cells regenerating with remarkable speed the human body was remarkable the human mind was even more remarkable how had I not gone mad?

how?

I didn't know even my memory had survived intact another mystery Katya asked a friend who spoke Italian to come visit he tried to find out more about the girl where she came from she didn't know Katya's father managed to get me a visa he pulled the usual strings he wrote to McGill University they were willing to take me I'd have to start over my period returned my tissues repaired themselves my hair began growing back the maid took a liking to the girl went out walking with her the girl had a wild look in her eyes still but she was well-behaved she was learning Czech if you studied the mind several lifetimes you still would not understand more than a fraction there was endless oddity about us at night I returned to another world nightmares you'd call them Gerald but they were memories replaying themselves in my mind during the day I could control my thoughts I controlled them but at night at night they returned but if you hold me tonight maybe I'll sleep better with you I feel safe is that what you mean when you say you love me I feel safe with you Gerald for me that's enough for me that's enough do you understand?

can you understand?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

David Davidar, my publisher, inspired me with his humanity, spirit of generosity, and unwavering integrity. David will never know how much I owe him for his faith in my work; creativity cannot thrive without the sustenance of such faith.

It was a joy to work with my editor, Nicole Winstanley. Nicole's unfailing good humour, patience, energy, and insightful comments were a gift. The entire Penguin team has been incomparable. A special thanks to copy editor Heather Sangster for astute and thorough scavenging.

Joan Deitch, who lives in London, is a brilliant, devoted editor as well as fab friend and confidante, sweet and funny and unstinting with her time and expertise. Her encouragement was invaluable; she held my hand through all the panicky middle-of-the-night worries and entertained me with her lovely letters.

Penn Kemp came up with many imaginative, sensitive, and poetic suggestions. I am very grateful to Derek Fairbridge for his careful reading and numerous helpful comments. I am obliged to John Detre for making time to answer questions about the 1960s and for generous professional a.s.sistance. It was, as usual, fun plying Ken Sparling with musical questions; apart from providing scintillating answers, Ken always had a wise and intriguing word for me.

I was deeply moved by the heartfelt responses to the ma.n.u.script of Tom Deitch, Cesar Garza, and Ruz Gulko.

Marsha Ablowitz, who was so kind to me when I was five years old, reappeared in my life and was as kind as ever. Her contribution is deeply appreciated.

For unending support and quota-free listening as I made my way through all the stages of producing this book, and for enthusiasm about my writing these past forty years, I thank, inadequately, Shirley Rand Simha.

For expert help with many hurdles, I am grateful to Chris Heap.

Joan Barfoot understands everything. I can't thank her enough for her thoughtfulness and magnificent books.

Many thanks to Mindy Abramowitz for the open line.

I am fortunate to have fellow-artists Richard Cooper and Margaret Wolfson on my side. I am most grateful to Andrea Levy for providing a loving second home for Larissa, and much else.

For technical help my thanks to Lisa diLanzo Brombal, Ze'ev Gedalof, Helene Hampartzoumian, Howard Johnson, Peter F. McNally, Charles Stevens of Cottage Blooms, West Falls, and the staff at the wonderful Guelph Library, whom I kept busy and who were so very accommodating. I was extremely lucky to find the superb Tel Aviv photographer Shlomi Bernthal and gifted Israeli actor Shir Shomron for the cover photo, which was beautifully adapted by the inspired Penguin design team.

I would not have survived the demands of a sixty-hour workweek without the unrivalled sports therapist Johanna Thackwray.

I am humbled by the many heroic death-camp survivors in my life and family. In the end, there are no words with which to tell their story and no way to understand what they experienced. This silence hovers at the edges of the novel and of all our lives. We give it meaning by living with love and striving for justice.

This book is dedicated to my daughter Larissa, whose radiance transforms my life every minute of every day.

ABOUT THE BOOK.

Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth is the story of Maya Levitsky, a wise, witty, and unconventional art history teacher and daughter of a Holocaust survivor. When a brush with the past brings her to reflect on the singular events that have shaped her life, Maya begins, through the lens of her Jewish background, her s.e.xuality, and her beloved art, to unravel the strands in her personal history that have both bound and anch.o.r.ed her. She asks questions that we have all struggled with at some point: How much do the living owe the dead, and how useful is it to look back? Where does the line between oneself and one's family begin and end? Does evasion save or defeat us? How do we manage the shackles of guilt? is the story of Maya Levitsky, a wise, witty, and unconventional art history teacher and daughter of a Holocaust survivor. When a brush with the past brings her to reflect on the singular events that have shaped her life, Maya begins, through the lens of her Jewish background, her s.e.xuality, and her beloved art, to unravel the strands in her personal history that have both bound and anch.o.r.ed her. She asks questions that we have all struggled with at some point: How much do the living owe the dead, and how useful is it to look back? Where does the line between oneself and one's family begin and end? Does evasion save or defeat us? How do we manage the shackles of guilt?

Set in Montreal, the book brings to life many familiar facets of the immigrant experience of the 1960s: the dry cleaners where Maya's mother, lost inside a tangle of love and trauma, works to support her daughter; the hippie summer camp that lures Maya away from her mother; the Hebrew school that offers refuge from the perceived dangers of the outside world. Through her attachment to Rosie, Maya finds that, much as she wants to proceed on her own terms, she cannot escape the ghostly presence of the Holocaust and its incomprehensible horrors. When disaster makes its way into the lives of this second generation, Maya and her closest friends find themselves unable to rescue an innocence they never really possessed.

In this touching, searching, and unusually revealing story, Canadian novelist Edeet Ravel continues a project begun with her acclaimed Tel Aviv trilogy about the effects of war and trauma on ordinary people. Looking back from the vantage point of the present, Ravel's wry but sympathetic narrator sheds light on the way that events-past and present, tragic and comic, casual and intimate-shape our lives and make us who we are. And while the book encompa.s.ses many issues and themes, from cultural transformations to the weight of both personal and common history, it is more than anything a tribute to the triumph of friendship and love in the face of tragedy.

ALSO BY EDEET RAVEL.

Ten Thousand Lovers

Look For Me

A Wall of Light

FOR CHILDREN AND YOUNG ADULTS.

The Thrilling Life of Pauline de Lammermoor

The Mysterious Adventures of Pauline Bovary

The Secret Journey of Pauline Siddhartha

The Saver