Chasing memories

The first time she calls me, Clara sounds a bit unsure “I hope that you will be willing to meet with me, I have some questions. “ She does not introduce herself, so I stop her in mid-sentence, and a long awkward pause takes over the line.
“Let’s start again,” I try to ease her in. “You are?”
“Oh, so sorry, I never told you who I am and why I am calling,” She clears her throat while I wait patiently.
“Clara, “she starts, “I am a third-year student at the University of Tel-Aviv, “I want to meet with you and ask a few questions about your last book.”
“Why me?” I probe.
“Because I am doing my final project for my degree, it’s about historical fiction, and I thought you could help me by telling me how you wrote your book.”
Now I am getting impatient, a bit insulted too. “My book is not fiction; you know that don’t you?”
“I know,” she says, “but I like to talk to you about the process…” She stops and clears her throat again, “Please can we meet? Anywhere, you choose.”
And so it happens that the next day I find myself, in my favorite café at the end of Sheinkin St. 
Being early, I get to pick a table on the sidewalk with my back to the café. I can watch the kaleidoscope of people walking by and wonder if I will identify Clara before she sees me. It is one of the little games I play on my spare time, now that I have so much of it.
This time, it’s easy; I see her coming from the other end of the street. Long black hair tied back in a ponytail, quick and jumpy walk, slender built, exactly like I imagined she will look.
The minute her eyes meet mine she nods her head and smile. The smile lights her eyes and makes her look even younger.
“Hi, I am Clara,” She does not shake my hand; instead she slumps into the chair across the table and pull out a book from her big pocket book. She lays it on the table, facing up; it is my last book the one she came to talk about. She fumbles in her bag for a few more minutes and finally she brings up a thin folder and a pen. When she is done, she leans back and looks at me expectantly.
I return her gaze and smile but say nothing.
“Your book,” She starts when she realizes I am not going to speak.
“I like to be able to write about my family like you did, and maybe you can share some of your experience with me.”
When I still say nothing she smiles, take a deep breath and starts again;
“It’s my professor, he saw my first draft about abandoned towns, and he thinks I should dig deeper.”
I remain quiet and take another sip from my coffee.
“Abandoned towns, “She seems like she is going to start at the beginning this time, “This was my proposal for a final project, Professor Noble, my teacher, did not like it.”
Ok, this is going to be longer than I anticipated.
“Why don’t you order something to drink, “I suggest,” and start from the beginning, “I have time.”
***
“So four months later, when I brought him the first draft he read it, said it was good but that I should dig deeper.” Clara takes the last sip from her cold lemonade and looks at me waiting for my reaction.
“What were his exact words,” I try to gain time.

Clara looks thoughtful and then as if reciting words she repeated to herself over and over says; “This is really good work, but you are not even close to the real purpose, to your true mission. You were going to search for ‘real’ stories about people in abandoned towns, weren’t you? But you missed the most important person, you missed yourself.” His exact words, she chuckles.

“Ah, and then he said; ‘I will give you an extension, go and complete what you need to do.’”

“So what do you think he meant?” I am still playing for more time.

“I think that I missed the main thing, I was so blind, my professor saw it; he saw that I was driven to research towns that no longer lived so I can run away from the one story I was destined to tell, my family story. In each town I visited I found something I could take with me. But in the end there is no one who can tell my story.” She looks at me, apparently troubled. “I know very little about my family, I never bothered to ask and now it is too late, almost everyone is dead.”

To that I have an answer that I am not sure she will like; “This is how you do it, “I say slowly, “You start with what you know, and then you continue, step by step one detail after another, that’s what I did.”

She looks confused and for a long moment say nothing, then with a quick movement pulls out her laptop, opens it and starts to type. For a few moments I watch her fingers dance on the keyboard and her brow knotted. When she picks up her head she is breathless like a swimmer who emerges out of deep cold water.

“Can I read you what I just wrote?” she asks and without waiting for my answer starts to read.

 “This is what I know to be true. In June of 1938 when my mother turned fourteen she had to leave her home. It was abrupt, it was not planned, it happened in the dark of night. The train ride, the border crossing, the soldiers that one of them winked at her when no one noticed. It was like watching a movie, only this time she was the star. In March of that year the Germans took over her home-town Vienna, life from that moment on changed for her and her family and everyone she knew, after that nothing was ever going to be the same.”

I look at Clara and nod, I don’t have to say anything, she is on her way, I know it, and she knows it too.