Free The Inbetween People by Emma McEvoy Page A

noon. We collect our post at the same time every day, after we have completed the morning work, before lunch is served, we stand in line and they call out our identification number. It was the first letter I received here, and for a fleeting moment I thought it might be a letter from my mother, that her words might reach me here; only when I held the crisp envelope in my hands and read the typed words I realised that it could not possibly be from her, for how can she know that I am here. Yet for a brief moment, as I stepped forward to receive the letter, the anticipation of the boy was there again, the anticipation of walking home from school knowing there might be a letter from her, my mother; I reached out my hands and the guard passed it to me, a Russian guard, the monotony of his army service etched across his face. Our eyes met, there was contempt in his, I am unsure as to what he read in mine, and then the letter was in my hands, a padded envelope, a passport.
    David paces about his cell, I hear him opening his window as far as he can until it crashes against the black bars. Gusts of cold air dart through my cell, for my window is already open and the wind rushes through in a great draft, I can taste the rain in it.

    W HEN I was four years old, my mother ran away. A May evening, she was standing on the patio uncorking a bottle of red wine, the sun was low, throwing fingers of orange across the sky. Father had returned home from the gardens, shirtless, his face red from the sun and glazed with sweat, he wore a purple handkerchief around his head. Let’s drink some wine, she said, I’ll just wash, he said, oh, come on, Daniel, she said, can’t you just have a glass of wine as you are, you can shower afterwards. He hesitated, no, he said, I’d like to have a shower now.
    I was sitting in the corner of the patio, playing with a fleet of John Deere tractors that I had accumulated over the years. A neat pile of soil lay in front of the parked tractors, waiting to be scooped up. My mother, her face flushed, placed the bottle of wine on the table and went indoors. After a time Father appeared on the patio, where is your mother, he said, where has she gone. He disappeared back indoors to search for her and when he reappeared he was muttering to himself. The bottle of wine was on the table, he poured himself a glass—she should be back soon he said aloud, wherever it is she has disappeared to.
    Father sat back and sipped his wine, closed his eyes for a time. When the first traces of darkness appeared in the sky he sprung up, paced from one end of the patio to the other, stared into the distance—where is your mother, he said aloud, where can she be, and then something else, inaudible, under his breath. Gone, I said, and I crumbled balls of clay between my fingers. Father came towards me, grabbed my hands and dusted the soil from them.
    I must look for her, he said, he picked me up and began to circle the kibbutz, where can she be, he murmured, what is wrong, where can she be. I must have grown heavy in his arms, for he placed me beside him and began to pull me after him. My legs grew tired and after a time he looked at me absently, I’ll have to bring you to the children’s house for the night, he said. He checked his watch, it’s still early, he said. Never mind, someone will be there, and he strode towards the children’s house, though I had begun to cry, for Mother was gone and my legs were weary, and we did not know where she was in the descending darkness.
    Father, I said, I’ll help find Mother, but he ignored my pleas, and strode through the darkness towards the light of the children’s house. Yefat was there, warm and soft, and anxious, she gathered my face to her chest; the poor boy, she said, it’s early, he does not have to be back for almost another hour. Father explained to her that he had to leave me there, so she held me tight, and he strode away into the darkness to find my vanished mother.
    I slept