Read Online The Mascot by Mark Kurzem - Free Book Online

a moment.
    I felt the same way. It was as if I had been transported from the safety of the family kitchen to a cold autumn morning in Russia more than fifty years before.
    I filled the kettle at the sink and put it on the stove. I remained standing where I was, wanting to separate and reclaim myself from my father, who remained frozen on the other side of the room.
    I placed a mug of tea on the table before him. He gulped from it so greedily that for a moment I was afraid that he might burn his throat, but the hot liquid revived him almost immediately. He stared at me resolutely and began to speak again.
    â€œI was there all day, among the trees, watching what went on,” he said, picking up where he had left off. “All the time I kept biting my hand, rocking back and forth like I was having a fit.
    â€œI know it’s frustrating,” he said, “but I don’t have any choice about what I can remember and when. My memories are here inside me like vipers inside my bones gnawing their way out.”
    My father had accurately read my concerns. Some of his memories were unnervingly acute while others were no more than vague impressions containing many gaps. Still, he was only a child at that time.
    I looked at him now, suddenly shocked by the coolness of my appraisal: I still recognized him as my father even if I had never seen him in this state before. It was as if the face I had known all my life had been peeled back to reveal the unadorned man, the raw human being.
    I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after 2:00 a.m., but my father showed no signs of flagging. I waited for him to continue.

CHAPTER FOUR
INTERROGATED
    W hen I woke up among the roots of the tree it was dark. I crawled back to the edge of the wood. The moon was out, so I could see back down to where”—he paused, lowering his voice—“it had all gone on.
    â€œThat place,” he added pointedly, “was all covered up now, and I couldn’t hear any sound. I didn’t know what to do. I simply stood there. Then suddenly I heard a twig snap, and turned and ran back through the trees. On and on, away from my village—my home—I kept on running, too frightened to look back.
    â€œIt got colder and a heavy mist had descended to the level of my neck. I didn’t want to be caught, so you know what I did? I crawled along under the mist. I couldn’t see much, but I knew nobody would be able to see me, either.”
    My father seemed pleased by the recollection of his ingenuity.
    â€œI was freezing. That’s what I remember more than anything in those first days. I’d run away from home with only what I had on—short trousers and a jumper. I couldn’t stop my entire body from shivering. Sometimes I had to grip my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering. My feet were really burning, as if the ice were eating into them.”
    I thought of my father’s feet now. He was in his early sixties, and ever since I could remember his feet were gnarled and badly swollen, which doctors later attributed to the cold and damp of the forest penetrating his delicate child’s bones.
    â€œHow long were you in this forest?”
    â€œI have no idea. I was lost. I just wandered. Then I would fall asleep, wake up, scavenge for food, and go to sleep again.”
    â€œWhat kind of food did you eat?”
    â€œPlums. Wild plums. Berries. I didn’t know which ones were suitable. I ate them to fill the hole in my belly. Once or twice I ate poisonous ones and got so sick I thought I would die. I just lay on the ground, throwing up, and at those moments I couldn’t have cared less who or what found me—bears, wolves, monsters. Then I would have to force myself to get up and keep walking.
    â€œNot that the berries or the plums were ever enough. There were days when I couldn’t find anything at all to eat, and I would chew on the sleeve of my jumper. That made me feel safe and helped me