Forest Song: Finding Home

Chapter 1

Come in, child. Oh, please don’t apologize. You’re not interrupting anything. Besides, I knew you were coming. No, liebchen, you're not lost. You're just not quite sure of where you are. Never mind that now. You're cold. Sit by the fire. Have some bread. I just made it. See? It’s still warm. And here’s some good, hot lentil soup. There’s tea steeping on the stove if you’d like.
My name is Judy, not that it matters. Everyone here calls me Babcia. That’s Polish for grandmother. And you're Inga, are you not? Yes I thought so. Well, Inga, it’s good to meet you. I don’t see many healthy young people like you. Most people don’t knock on my door until they're so sick the doctors can no longer heal them or until they’ve tried all the medicine they can afford.
Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply that I'm lonely. I'm not lonely. Why, I’m not even alone. In fact, my life is one long conversation. The woods are full of voices. Listen. Even now Matka Sosna, Mother Pine, is whispering a sweet and haunting tune. Can you hear her? Yes she has a lovely voice. She and the rest of the forest raised me, though I called her by a different name at the time.

You look quizzical. You don’t believe the woods raised me? Well, I’ll tell you about my growing up if you have the time. I know how busy you people are out there. Always rushing here and there, always in a hurry to do whatever it is you do. But you look tired. Would you like a nap? No? Good. Then sit back and relax. And eat. Wait. Let me get your tea. Honey? Lemon? I’m afraid there is no milk. There. Good. No, I’ve already eaten. You arrived later than I anticipated, and I got too hungry to wait. But you go ahead.
Now if I can just get these cushions right. My back’s been grieving me today. Ah, yes, that’s better. Now where should I begin? Well, at the beginning I suppose, or at least at the age of seven.
I was smaller than a meter of pump water then, all arms and legs and long yellow hair that Mama kept plaited in tight French braids. But I was strong for my size, even then. And I was in love with the woods.
My first memory is of the forest’s call. Oh, no, it wasn’t the wind in the trees or the splashing of rain against arthritic trunks. Those sounds were there, in their proper seasons, along with the singing of the birds by day and the chirping of the crickets at night. But there was something else curling through all that, wispy and fragile, that I sometimes could not catch, something as sweet as wistfulness that would whisper near my ear as I lay in my bed. Sometimes late at night I’d awaken with a start and stand on my bed near my slot of a window and watch the shimmering white halo dance like angel wings around the crowns of the trees, and I’d promise, “I’m coming. I’m coming soon.”
We lived just at the edge of the frontier, as Mama called it, at the border of civilization. According to her the woods beyond our field was a lawless place, full of perils far worse than I could imagine, and so she made me promise to stay in our back yard or, if I was with my brother or an adult, the field beyond. But never did she allow me near the woods. She worried about the forest and other dangers too, man dangers. That’s what she called them. Man dangers.
She wouldn’t talk about the man dangers much. All she told me was to stay away from men I didn’t know. But she talked about the forest day and night, weaving stories of a dark and hostile place full of girl-eating vines and plants that would grab my ankles and drag me underground, never to be seen again. And she warned of bears and wolves, about their sharp claws and teeth and how they loved to eat children, leaving nothing but bones and bits of tattered cloth. And bandits. She was adamant about the bandits—terrible men with straggly hair and ragged clothes, and eye patches and angry scars, men who snatched up little girls and sold them as slaves. Each time she told them her stories got worse. The forest was darker, her villains more vicious. Her voice would tremble as she described their fearsome features. And I didn’t believe a single word. Nothing she said comported with what I knew about the forest. Yet every time she spun her yarns I shivered with excitement, wishing them to be true. I thought it would be thrilling to see a bear or a wolf or even a bandit, but when I said so Mama shook her head and complained that I was a willful wild thing.
She scolded me daily for my willfulness, and I guess she was right, because I shot for the trees at every opportunity. Occasionally, with other children or alone, I managed to race through the oats or meadow grass to the wood line, but I never got beyond the forest’s edge before Mama or Papa or Johann, my big brother, would yank me back. Just inside the door, she’d strip me naked and check my body from head to toe for ticks and fleas and signs of other damage. Papa would spank me with his belt, and Mama would lecture me again. And they’d send me to bed without supper. I would listen, my ear pressed against the wall, catching isolated words and the odd phrase or two while they ate their soup and discussed what to do with me.
And later, after our parents were in bed, Johann would sneak some bread to me. I’d pump him for the parts of the conversation I’d missed, and in conspiratorial tones, he’d tell me what he could remember. I’d gobble the bread, and when it was gone I’d lick my fingers and dab the crumbs from my lap while he told me all he knew. Just a shadow in the dark, his silver blond hair glinting in the moonlight that slanted across my bed, he’d glance over his shoulder every few seconds to assure himself that our parents were still asleep. I cherished those moments with my brother. And, to thank him for the chance I knew he was taking, I often let my free hand rest on his knee while I coaxed more from him than he thought he knew.
Less often Mama would tiptoe in, careful to wait until Papa was snoring. She’d bring an apple or some raisins or a chunk of cold potato wrapped in a cabbage leaf. And she’d will the food into my body as if, no matter how fast I ate, it wasn’t fast enough. Her wide eyes darting from my mouth to the door, she’d swear me to silence by all that was holy. I knew not to ask her anything.

It was a beautiful day before Herr Schuler came, sunny and warm for the end of March. The yellow and purple crocuses Mama had planted as a bride had erupted, having spread from a mere handful to a veritable crazy quilt of blooms. Squirrels berated the feral cats while robins squabbled over nesting sites. The earth smelled heavy and wet and rich, and I knew something wonderful would happen before dark. I’m coming, I promised silently to the woods from my narrow bedroom window. Today is the day. And I felt the truth of it as surely as I felt the truth of the coming summer.
Herr Schuler arrived just after breakfast, his rickety wagon loaded with iron. I’d never liked the grinning blacksmith. In truth I still don’t, though he’s been dead now for years. He looked at me in a way that made me ashamed, as if he could see through my clothes. Short for a grown man, he made up for his lack of height with his bulk. And, though he was bald, he wore a full beard, which made him look like a bold and hairy bear, much more dangerous than any bandit or wolf my mother could devise. I ran to my room when I saw him.
All winter long my father had been threatening to put a fence around our yard. And all winter long I’d taken comfort in the fact that winter passes slowly. Suddenly, however, the snow was gone, and the blacksmith was there with his load of iron. Papa and he took lengths of it from the wagon and laid them side by side in the lane. And people came from all over our little town—the men to help erect the fence, the women bringing food and to help with the cooking.
Jochen Bruner, who lived on the next farm, was there with his laughing, robust mother and his ruddy ox of a father. Twice my age and nearly twice my height, he was my brother’s friend, and I had a crush on him. A skinny boy with dusk colored eyes and a broad face full of freckles, he was as beautiful as any god I could imagine. I adored his light brown hair, the way the ends curled at the nape of his neck and bleached every summer to almost blond.
I loved that he pulled on his ear when he was thinking, that he always considered his words before he spoke. Jochen was wise and could talk about anything, but his special talent was with machines. With a touch as sure as the gentlest healer, he could caress a broken contraption in his hands, intuit what had gone awry, and fix it better than any man we knew. All the farmers, including Papa, went to Jochen with equipment they couldn’t fix on their own, and every time he made it right, returning it with a shy little smile and refusing to be paid. Jochen worked for the love of machines, not for financial reward. I was convinced that he knew all there was to know about how the universe worked.
And he was kind to me, much kinder than most boys, so that I fostered a fantasy that he had a crush on me too. Normally I would have been glad to see him, might have even flirted a little. But I did not want to see him that day, did not want him to be part of my defeat.
Mama and the women cooked all day, filling canning pots with cabbages and mashed potatoes and making loaves of whole-wheat bread. There was thick, dark ale and even sausages oozing clear fat through their crispy skins. And it was up to the children to serve it all in oversized bowls and borrowed pitchers and tin meat platters as heavy as shields. Jochen tried to help me with the heavier things, but I was too embarrassed to let him.
We set up a table just beside the cellar door at the base of the steps from the kitchen. And all day long I ran in and out with the children from the neighboring farms fetching pitchers of ale and plates of meat while the women washed dishes and filled them up again.
The men gouged out holes with their digging irons, leaving great ugly wounds in the earth as deep as Papa’s forearm, as wide as Mama’s head, not caring that sometimes they pried up flowers with the stones. Yellow-brown dust flew like swarms of gnats, colonizing everybody’s hair. Some of it gritted between my teeth and crusted the ale I carried. The air stank of food and of ale and of sweat and of my humiliation.
Herr Schuler followed me with his eyes, wiping his ale-dribbled beard on his sleeve and grinning as though I had nothing on. Somehow he managed to position himself so that I could not avoid him. When I picked up an empty pitcher he was there, smirking over his digging iron and demanding more to drink. When I staggered under the weight of a full one he appeared just behind me, his body brushing mine as he reached around me to fill another mug.
I deliberately chose to carry bread when I could, or cabbage or sausage, anything but ale, anything that would keep the blacksmith away. But whatever I carried he was there. Once, when I picked up a tray with only a single sausage left on it, he stayed my hand. He grabbed the sausage and poked my crotch with it, laughing his stinking alcohol laugh, the laugh that made me want to crawl out of my skin. He took a bite then shoved it at my mouth. Jochen saw and turned bright red. I dropped the tray and raced to the kitchen. I wanted to vomit. But Mama shoved a bowl of potatoes into my arms and made me carry it out.
Without warning Herr Schuler swept me up and held me over his head, leering with his crooked yellow-brown teeth.
“We’re building a cage for this one,” he roared, his broad hands rough on my body as, helpless, I dangled like a trophy on display. “This one’s a wild bird,” he bellowed. “Can’t let her fly away!” And all the men laughed except Johann, who, at sixteen, had been working with them.
“Put her down!” His face red with rage, his hands balled to fists, he trembled, actually trembled from his silver-blond hair to the tips of his dirt caked shoes, every muscle hair trigger tense, demanding an excuse to attack. Herr Schuler snorted and, balancing me on one hand by the crotch, he performed a grotesque pirouette.
“Put her down!” he mimicked Johann’s tenor voice, making a song of the taunt. “Oh yes, I have to put the wild bird down.” My brother grabbed a tool and lunged at us, swinging it like a broad axe. Papa and Herr Bruner tackled Johann and disarmed him, but my brother glared at us from the ground, a warning that his anger was not spent.
When Herr Schuler put me down, brusquely rubbing his coarse hands between my legs, my shame overflowed in stinging tears, striping my gritty face. I raced back to the kitchen and collapsed on a chair, my organs fibrillating with the fever of disgrace. The women were too busy to notice.
There was no point in begging to work inside. Mama liked the blacksmith’s wife and, therefore, trusted him. And so, after I had taken a moment, I forced myself to rise, forced my legs to move, forced my arms to carry bowls and pitchers and trays, and ground dust and the remains of my dignity between my teeth.
Papa and Johann were mixing concrete in a wheelbarrow, Papa nagging it with a hoe as my brother dumped the water. I wanted to go over to Johann, to thank him for standing up for me, but he and my father were arguing, their body language shouting though their voices were hushed. I let the moment pass.
After the men had dug all the holes and had braced the posts into place, they filled the gouges with Papa’s slurry and relaxed while they waited for the mixture to set. They ate and smoked and drank too much, their voices too loud, their jokes too crude.
The respite gave the blacksmith ample time to torment me again. But he didn’t. Whereas I had spent the morning dodging him, suddenly he was side stepping me. I virtually bubbled with the thrill of owning my body, got drunk on the excitement of moving unmolested. I actually felt like a wild bird, rollicking and free. I even allowed myself to look at Jochen. I think I even sang.

When dusk had roosted like a gray dusty hen, the women built fires so the men could see to hoist the barred panels and slide them down, matching panel holes to the uprights. My heart collapsed in on itself.

I’d known there would be a fence at the end of the day, but I hadn’t understood that it would be so big. Taller even than my father was with bars as unyielding and straight as soldiers, it was graveyard black, a monstrous jail.

All business, the men labored in the dark, faces slick with exertion and with the heat of the fires, the flames occasionally sputtering sparks like love seeking lightning bugs.

“It’s so big!” Mama gasped from the kitchen door, drying her hands on her dirty apron, her face beatific and streaked with light as sporadic sparks darted and died. The blacksmith guided the gate into place, swinging it open and letting it close until he was pleased with the way it moved. When he clanged it shut for a final time and affixed the lock and gave Papa the key, Mama released an involuntary sigh, and my hatred for her was so pure it frightened me.

After the neighbors had gone, reclaiming their pitchers and platters and taking packets of leftover food, Mama filled a bath for me, but I wouldn’t take my clothes off until she’d left the room. I could not be naked in front of her, couldn’t stand the idea of her hands in my hair lathering the soap and rinsing it. I refused to hear her bedtime story, and, when she tucked me in and blew out the lamp, I turned from her goodnight kiss.

That night, for the first time, I was too disheartened to answer the forest’s call.

In the morning when the forest didn’t wake me with a song I remembered the fence, and my heart ached once again. I stood up in bed and peered from the window. The early morning shadows of the fence made bars, black and hostile, across the ravaged crocuses. Anger and hurt, shame and outrage roiled in my stomach, erupted, and stuck in my throat. I lay back down, pulled the covers over my head, settled into my gloom, and wept.

I wept savagely, viciously, abandoning myself to brutal, bed-battering sobs. I wept with the passion of a late March storm. And then I resolved to defeat the fence.

When Mama came to wake me I was already up, already dressed, already yanking the brush through my sleep-tangled hair. I’d expected Papa to wake me with his belt because of my rudeness to Mama over the bath. Papa did not tolerate disrespectful children. But Mama coaxed the hairbrush from my hand and, like a lover who hopes to charm his way out of a lie, she brushed my hair until it shone and braided it with ribbons.

“Guess what!” She worked too hard at perkiness while she sectioned and plaited my hair. “I have a wonderful surprise for you!” I took some satisfaction in her grief-clogged voice. For the first time I used my smile as a tool. Charm and compliance would serve me well until I could plan my escape. “Yes!” She shook her head too vigorously, taking heart in my lying smile. “We’re going to visit Frau Felden.” She clapped her hands once and rubbed her palms together, grinning as if to convince herself.

“You like her, remember?” She bounded from the bed and rooted through my closet, pulling out my newest dress, the one I wore to church. “Here, take that off and put this on.” She held up the dress, pink and flowered with a starched white collar and a bright green ribbon sash. I did as she said, and she tied the sash in a big fluffy bow at the small of my back “You’ll want to look your best.” She patted my hair. “Yes, yes.”

It wasn’t exactly true that I liked Frau Felden. Since I’d met her only once three years earlier when I’d been four, I barely recalled the woman, though I had a vivid memory of her china figurines.

Frau Felden had a rosewood étagère on which she kept the statuettes, most of which would fit in a woman’s hand. Some blonde, some dark, all dressed in glossy gowns, their petticoats ruffling at their too-small feet, they drew me like a garden of butterflies. The last time I was there, I had run to the collection, had reached for a doll, had burned with shame when Mama had snatched my hands and clutched them behind my back. I remembered the thrill when Frau Felden had pried me free and had wrapped my fingers around a brown haired beauty. Walking backwards, her hands supporting mine, Frau Felden had somehow found an easy chair, had sat, and had allowed me to hold the figurine over her lap. She’d allowed me to handle the pretty face, the cascading curls, the fancy green dress. And, when I had thoroughly examined the doll, she had let me carry it back to its shelf and place it next to the others. I’d felt deliciously grown up.

Mama pinned a towel over my dress so I wouldn’t spill and spooned out our daily oatmeal. When we’d eaten in silence and she’d finished with the dishes, she checked my hair for a third and final time, tied her shawl over her shoulders, and pulled my winter coat over my arms, buttoning it up to my neck. She kissed Papa and Johann. And then she started walking.

Most people we knew didn’t own cars then, and neither did we. We didn’t even have a horse, though we did own a wagon with a broken wheel. And so we did whatever business we had to do within our small...