More Ears Than a Cornfield

I hear the distinctive sound that tells me Amlev is home. The entry door to our dwelling is old and warped. On days like today when it is mild and wet, the wood of the door swells to meet the frame, pushing it out of alignment. You need to thrust your body weight against the door for the key to engage. The squeak lets you know the door is in position. Turn the key and the bolt slides with a metallic thud so striking, it could easily be mistaken for a gunshot. Twist, click, thud. That sound lets me know he is back.

We are fortunate that our dwelling only has 5 units. There are two DUs in the basement and two on the main floor. Ours is alone on the upper level. Since Lev was an engineer before the fighting, we were afforded a larger DU with a big sunny window and a private water closet. I love not having to share walls, but the floor talks. Any movement at all and the oak boards moan and complain. Just walking from the stove to the bed sounds like an elderly couple bickering. Groan, squeal, groan, squeal.

I hear Lev’s footsteps on the hollow stairs, unusually heavy and measured. Positioning myself at the door, I feel a strange weight pressing down through my shoulders and into my knees. Something seems wrong. As the door swings inward, I hear my own words. “With duty, Amlev.” He pauses in the doorway and locks eyes with me. He lowers his gaze as he steps inside and closes the door. He has with him a drawstring sack which he gently lowers to the floor. I slip his faded woolen coat from his shoulders and hang it from the solitary hook on the back of the door, right over top of mine. He turns to me as if to say something, but thinks better of it. “Come sit and eat.” I tell him.

Without a word, Lev goes to wash his hands. I make my way to the stove. Grabbing a rag, I tilt the lid of my battered and well-seasoned pot. A cloud of steam hits my face and drives the comforting smell of spinach stew into my nostrils. Only after lifting a ladle of stew do I notice my hand shaking. I steady my hand and fill the bowls, preoccupied with thoughts and questions. What was Lev going to tell me? Perhaps he is tired or not feeling well. Maybe he learned some news today and is reluctant to share it. He never wants to worry me, especially now that the baby is coming. And the sack. What did he bring home? Suddenly I remember the bread is still in the oven. Rag in hand, I hastily reach for it and burn my exposed little finger. I drop the loaf pan on the open oven door with a clang. The sound startles me. It feels louder than it probably is, but you can never be too careful. Sometimes it is the littlest things that raise suspicion with neighbors or the dwelling authority making their rounds. I certainly know there are ears listening. “More ears than a cornfield.” Lev would say.

Lev had slipped past me as I was fussing with the bread. He was sitting at the table, waiting patiently for me to emerge from my daydream. Wrapping my finger in a scrap of cheesecloth, I get on with the business of serving the meal. Sitting across from Lev, I robotically proclaim our gratitude for the bounty supplied by the state. Lev appears calm, despite the beads of sweat glistening on his temples. He keeps his face down, staring into his bowl and spooning the brown liquid into his mouth. My mind is racing, and my finger is throbbing. Breaking the silence, I blurt out “More bread?” I reach for the bread and feel Lev’s hand on mine. I raise my eyes to see his, burning through me. I watch him pick up the bread knife and place it in the center of our humble table, like a dividing line between him and me. He gently unpins the insignia from his work shirt and places it on his side of the table. Then he pulls a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. I recognize it immediately. My locket. He carefully unwraps the faded lavender fabric and lays the locket on my side of the table. Lev searches for signs of understanding in my face. Instantly, I know what is happening. The knife represents the river. The insignia is the state. My locket is freedom. We are fleeing.

I finger my locket and pop it open. Spring-loaded panels inside reveal pictures of three girls and one woman. One of those girls is me. I am the only one in my family still on this side of the river. Two of my sisters and my mother were on holiday when the fighting started. They remained safe at my uncle’s home about 30 miles east of the river. My sister Elbet and I were at university on the west side of the river. She and I were separated during the campus uprising. I never saw her again, although I used to fantasize that she was happily walking our uncle’s orchards picking pears and plums. To be truthful, I hadn’t thought about her or any of my family for a very long time. I keep the locket tucked away, as it is contraband. Only Amlev knows where to find it, wrapped in my mother’s handkerchief and sewn safely into the lining of our mattress.

His words bring me back into my body once again. “Mita, I had a productive day today.” Lev reaches for the bread. “I am always learning new skills.” He tears a chunk from the loaf. With precision, he picks away at the soft interior as if to carve it. “I am pleased for you.” I reply as naturally as I can, although my attention is focused on his hands. “You have had so much opportunity at the plant Amlev.” I watch as he places the bread sculpture along the edge of the knife. It clearly resembles the rock outcropping on our side of the river. It is well known that this is where the water is shallowest. Many people attempt a crossing at this point. Some are successful, but the river is closely watched. Crossing elsewhere is near to impossible.

Like a game of chess, I await his next move with anticipation.  I watch him scoop carrots from his bowl. He arranges five of them equidistant from each other across the bread knife river, just north of the rock formation. I know with certainty that the carrots are markers for the old bridge footings. The bridge was lost close to 6 years ago, and the footings are a constant reminder of what was. They rise more than 30 feet from the deep and churning water. I nod in acknowledgment to let him know I am following him. I feel an uneasy pressure to keep talking. “I am always curious about your work Amlev. What more can you share?” I know what his answer will be, but I wait for it. He gently replies, “Mita. You know my work is for the state.”

He pulls a small handful of pebbles from his pocket and begins to place them along the bank of the river on the west side. Guard posts. They are numerous and span the entire length of the river, especially concentrated along the calm and shallow portion south of the old bridge. He takes a larger pebble and places west of the old bridge. I can tell it from its position that it represents our dwelling. In centimeters, it looks like a short distance from the river, but I know it is over 8 kilometers as the crow flies. We live on the outskirts of the city where there are more trees and fewer buildings. Closer to the river it is more densely populated. Trees give way to rows of buildings, paved streets, and back alleys. He traces his finger from our dwelling to the river, winding through what I believe to be the park. This route is certainly more concealed but would add at least 2, if not 3 kilometers to the trek. The route ends at the old bridge.

              No. That can’t be. We are crossing at the old bridge? The water is too swift and deep. I look up at him. “Lev…”  I stop. There are so many questions I want to ask. He pulls back his shirt cuff to check the time. He reaches for my hand and I reach for his. His tone sounds more pressing.  “Mita, now that the rain has cleared, we should go for a walk. I could use the fresh air.” He wraps my locket back in the handkerchief and hands it to me. “You can save the cleanup for afterward. We have less than an hour before the curfew bell.” I slide my chair back to stand but feel lightheaded and need to sit down again. I never bothered to hope for this day. It is all so sudden. So surreal. Are we really leaving right now? Tonight? My family. Our baby. I am overcome. Tears are stinging my cheeks.

“We must go now or not at all, Mita.” Lev is standing at the door, putting on his coat. “I would like to walk to the park if we have time.” I wipe my face, take a deep breath, and rise on steady feet. I walk to the door conscious of every squeal and groan of the floorboards beneath me. Lev picks up the sack he left at the door and pulls it open by the drawstring.  He reaches inside and pulls out what appears to be a tangle of rope and old bottles.  With both hands, he straightens the rope to reveal a crude floatation device. He wraps it twice about my waist and ties it off with a solid knot. It smells of industrial chemicals and is bulky. I am barely able to button my coat. The handkerchief I tuck into my cleavage. I have never carried my locket out of the house for fear of having it confiscated. That is the least of my worries tonight. We make our way into the stairwell and close the unit door. There is no need to tiptoe down the stairs.  It is common for us to walk at night. It is also normal to attract the inquiring eyes of our neighbors. We reach the bottom of the stairs and the entry door. Turning the deadbolt is like starting a timer. Our neighbors were keenly aware of when Lev came home tonight and will undoubtedly mark when we leave for our walk and if we return. Twist, click, thud.