The Essence of Stories

Twice over the past couple of months, my brother has mentioned listening to Mama (our grandmother) and her sisters tell stories about the war—adding that they had a profound impact upon him.

On both occasions, we were discussing something entirely different. His comments were side conversations—or perhaps branching threads—and, as quickly as they appeared, they faded into the background as the conversation continued.

On the first occasion that he revealed this to me, I was shocked. I had no idea that Mama used to take my brother to visit her sisters, and I began imagining what kind of stories he bore witness to at such a young age. (I was just two and my brother eight years old when Mama died.)

This time, I paid closer attention. He is recounting the same story. This is important to him. I made a mental note to return to the conversation when the time was right.

That time came today. I had been talking to my brother on the phone for at least an hour—perhaps two—when the opportunity presented itself for me to ask what he remembered about Mama and her sisters sitting around telling war-time stories.

Before I go any further, I should add that I have my brother’s permission to share this.

He explained that he does not remember the stories themselves. Rather, he remembers the essence of them. He likened it to the girl in the red coat who appears throughout the movie Schindler’s List—we are never told her story, but many of those who survived recall seeing her.

My brother did not need to explain this phenomenon, as I am all too familiar with it. I remember that Apuci told a lot of stories. A few from his childhood, some about our ancestors, and many more about his time in the military. I cannot recall the details of the vast majority of the latter, but I remember the essence: he got up to a lot of mischief!

My brother, on the other hand, assures me that he can recount all those military—and air force—stories that I cannot.

Apuci lived rurally as a child, and my favourite story was how, as a very small boy, he found two newly hatched chicks. He gathered them up, one in each hand, his small fists wrapped around their necks, and ran to Mama bursting with pride. By the time he reached her, the chicks had succumbed. But the story doesn’t end there. The chicks were then pinned to his clothes, and he spent the rest of the day walking around with them hanging from his chest.

Fascinating how our memories function—and which stories we hold onto in great detail while others slip away.

Perhaps, in the end, it isn’t the stories themselves that endure.

Perhaps it is their essence.