Gate
by Andrew Lee-Hart

 

 

The gate was blocking our way, immovable despite its age.  We stood and stared at it, wondering what to do next.

 

“There’s some kind of star” Tabitha said, examining it, “gold or yellow. I wonder what it means?” She traced it for a moment, and then licked it her finger to clean it a little.

I shrugged, not that interested, just annoyed that the gate was stopping us going any further on our adventure.

 

We had set off that morning; it was Saturday and neither us had anything in particular to do. We caught a bus to the other side of the city and decided to explore, neither of us knew this district, and in fact it was quite cut off, with only one bus going there a day. There were only a few houses, and fewer that actually seemed to have people living in them. Apparently it once was quite a popular place to live, but that was long before Tabitha and I were born.

 

After eating our sandwiches on a bench by the river, we had wandered aimlessly rather depressed by the empty buildings and lack of people. But then we had come across a path at the end of a cul de sac, which took us through some trees, and then gradually higher and higher. It was a hot July day and were soon both breathless and sweating. And then we had come to the gate, which stood there, as if from another world.

 

“I bet there is a good view of the city from here” I said, “once we get to the top.”

“But how do we get through this gate, it won’t budge?”

There was no way around it; the gate was next to a brick wall on one side, and on the other the ground fell away steeply.

“I wonder what used to be here?”

“It must have been important, or vulnerable.”

 

The gate was steep, with little to hold onto, but I used to go mountain climbing when I was a student, so now I was feeling more refreshed I decided to see if I could get over it. I stepped back half a dozen paces, and then with a quick burst of energy I gave a jump and my momentum helped me scramble onto the top of it. I looked down on Tabitha, with her light brown hair which despite all our walking looked immaculate. She gave me a smile and a bow.

“Jump up, and I will pull you up,” but she shook her head.

“It’s too high, go in and you might find another entrance. I don’t mind waiting.” And she leant against the gate, got her mirror and her hairbrush out of her handbag, and started to do her hair.

I looked down at her for a moment, and then turned round, and without thinking about it jumped over to the other side.

 

I fell a little awkwardly, but after lying on the grass for a moment realised that I was not hurt.

“You okay?”

“Yes” I shouted, “it was a soft landing.”

“Oh well let me know what you find, and bring me back anything interesting.”

 

The path carried on upwards for a short while, and then, turning a corner, on a plateau, there was a strange building in front of me, like a large bus stop, open to the elements on one side. It was empty and there was a sense of eeriness about it. The walls were made of brick and were crumbling a little, and then I noticed some writing in pink paint, it was faded, but was clearly nasty even though I could not understand all of it.  

 

And then I turned around and saw the graves, rows of them, some still standing, but most of them, laying horizontally, someone having got in here, despite the gate, and caused havoc. There was more paint, this time daubed on many of the stones, whilst rusting beer cans and other litter lay strewn around. No wonder they needed a gate.

 

At first, and I am not sure why, I tidied up a bit, trying to push the gravestones back up and pile the litter in a corner, but it was too much, and even after half an hour or so I had made little or no impression. So I just stood and looked, and despite the desecration in front of me, I felt something special was here, to be tended and loved.

 

And then somebody tapped me on the shoulder, and Tabitha giggled.

“I got bored of waiting” she told me, “and that gate wasn’t as high as it looked”, and then she too became engrossed in the graveyard, “what are Yids”? she asked, curiously, “and what is that funny cross?”

I shrugged, “not a clue”.

“And what are these words” she continued, looking down at a gravestone, “I can’t understand it, is it another language? But they aren’t letters, just squiggles, not like German or Spanish. And look there’s that star again.”

“There’s some writing in English” I pointed out, I think they are the names of the people who died. And standing close, hand in hand we read them out; “Bahm”, “Levine”, “Cohen”, Leader…..

 

“What strange names, foreign; I have never heard them before.”

“Some kind of community I guess, perhaps from abroad, seeking shelter, and then they died out.”

“It’s a shame; all these people forgotten, and their graves vandalised…”

We sat there, and then Tabitha wandered and found a view of the city, but neither of us were particularly interested.

 

“We can come back” Tabitha, “bring some cleaning stuff and some bin bags, and tidy up. We could come each Saturday, I feel it is important.

“Thank you”, although I am not sure what I was thanking her for, “I would like to do that.”

We held each other tight for a moment, and then headed back down the hill.

 

The next day I sat with my grandmother in her flat, which was not far from where we were living. As usual it smelt of gravy and air freshener, but otherwise was neat and tidy. My grandmother was my only surviving relative, and I used to visit her at least twice a week, although I did not actually like her very much, something about her precluded affection let alone love, although I am not sure what it was exactly, she was kind enough in a limited sort of way and unlike many old people never said anything offensive or rude.

 

“What are Yids” I asked her “and kikes.”

“Why? Where did you hear such words?”

And I told her of our trip earlier that day, and what we had found.

“Someone wrote Kill the Jews; and I don’t know what that means. And yet deep down…..” And I broke off not sure what I meant, hoping that my grandmother would understand and make it clear. She knew the old world when everything was apparently different, but which nobody would talk about.

 

But all she did was look at me, there was a sort of smirk on her face, as if she was a guilty schoolgirl, who had done something particularly unpleasant, and knows that it is wrong, but can’t help being proud herself, despite everything. And so we sat there in silence until I got up and kissed her on the cheek, and drove home where Tabitha was waiting for me.

 

And the next Saturday Tabitha and I got the bus back to the graveyard and spent the day cleaning and tidying, as if to make the world a little better and more Holy.

 

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