Perfectly Ordinary People(124)

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said.

‘No. And I’m not sure I can explain it to you,’ Igor said. ‘But we had to be very careful all the time. Not to laugh too loudly. Or too camply. Not to dance too enthusiastically. Never to shriek in a high voice, no matter how big the surprise. Not to dress too flamboyantly . . .’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I get it.’

‘Ultimately, we ended up working so hard at being ordinary that I think we became too guarded. A lot of us did, anyway. In the seventies, for example, there were lots of straight men wearing flowery shirts and jewellery and boots with heels and patchwork flares, but we would never have dared. So we ended up being too careful – being more worried about being found out than we needed to be. So we ended up, as you said, being somewhat austere.’

‘That’s sad,’ Dad said.

‘It actually sounds like really hard work,’ I added.

‘Oh, it was! But for a while back there our lives depended on it. For a long time – for most of our lives, actually. And then, by the time things began to change for the better, it had become a habit. That’s what made our friendships so special.’

‘Because, with each other, you could be yourselves?’

‘Exactly,’ Igor said.

‘In fact, that’s it,’ I said, feeling suddenly hopeful. ‘That’s what I want to know. It’s what I sensed was always missing. What was Grandpa Chris really like? What was he like when he was able to be himself? Because I don’t think I ever saw it.’

‘I don’t think I did either,’ Dad said. ‘I think that’s why.’

‘Why . . . ?’ I repeated.

Dad shrugged. ‘Why everything, really. Why our relationship was so vague.’

Igor nodded slowly. ‘He was very damaged,’ he said. ‘The trauma lasted his whole life. I’m not sure if you want to know this, but there were things . . . His nightmares . . . His fear of dogs. His fear of being hungry. The fact that he could never really . . . you know . . . have sex. Not properly.’

‘Because of what the Nazis did to him?’

‘Yes. He had terrible problems, you know . . . down below . . . Right up until the end. But we got on fine without all that. We were still very tactile and that was enough for me.’

Igor smiled gently and then continued. ‘But he wasn’t just a bundle of trauma. I wouldn’t want you to think that. He was funny. He was very funny. And he was generous and kind – one of the kindest people I ever met.’ He swallowed with visible difficulty and his eyes started to glisten. ‘He liked to dance. He was a crazy dancer – all arms and legs. Genny used to say that he danced like a bunch of cats in a bag! And he liked to sing. He sang all the dooby-doo bits to all the pop songs.’

‘The dooby-doo bits?’ I repeated, grinning.

‘Yes, you know. The bits the backing singers do. That would have been his dream job: a backing singer in a band, wearing flares and a flowery shirt and stepping forward to sing shooby-doo-wa.’

‘The singing plumber,’ Dad said. ‘I never heard him sing once, so I’m struggling to imagine. But I’ll take your word for it.’

Igor shrugged. ‘He liked gardening, and flowers. And poetry, and music. I was always more classical, but Chris liked the Beach Boys and Bowie.’

‘Bowie?’ Dad said. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, he loved Bowie. I think he had a bit of a crush on him, truth be told. And Lou Reed.’

‘OK,’ Dad said, looking embarrassed.

‘He liked to bake. He made wonderful bread. He loved to tell stories. He could make up an incredible story about just about anything . . .’

‘Yes, he told us lots of tales when we were kids,’ I said. ‘Dad felt they were a sort of device, to avoid talking about anything important.’

‘Sometimes they were,’ Igor said. ‘And sometimes they were the only way he knew of to talk about anything important. They were how he dealt with the past. Most of his stories were rooted in the war in some way. So I think making stories was a sort of device he used to rewrite things – to rewrite his memories, to ease the pain. It’s actually a psychological process called sublimation.’

‘That’s very true, actually,’ I said. ‘I spotted bits of Grandad’s stories in Genny’s interview. Like that town La Vielle-Loye in the wolf story.’

‘Like the wolves themselves,’ Igor said.

‘The wolves?’ I repeated.

‘Yes. Johann was mauled to death by dogs. So I think telling a story where they tore the Germans to pieces instead was a kind of therapy, and I think that’s why he told that one so often. And all his stories were that way. They were all elements of the past, rehashed.’

From the corner of my eye I saw Dad wringing his hands together, so I turned to look at him.

‘The truth is that I didn’t know him at all,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘That’s what’s so hard. Neither of them ever let me anywhere near.’

‘I know,’ Igor said. ‘And that’s why I wanted them to tell you the truth. That’s why Ethel and I both did. We could see the cost of not telling you – the distance it created. But you know, considering what he lived through, I think he did pretty well. That’s what you need to keep in mind. You have to remember where he came from – what he lived through. Bringing up a child after that . . . well, it’s quite an exploit.’