Against the Wind by Madeleine Gagnon

her, nothing had happened. “It’s over, my dears. It’s over. I was in a vacuum. There’s nothing. Nothing to remember.”
    There was also Mrs. White, as everybody called her, an old woman from a rich, important family – “Two of my sons are doctors,” she would say proudly – who regularly had to be brought in by her family, who were always so distressed to have to take this responsibility for the mother and grandmother they adored. But they had no choice when she became violent, carrying a butcher knife in her big handbag, strolling the streets of Notre-Dame-de-Bellevue, her affluent suburb, opening the bag and taking out the knife, threatening passersby and ranting incoherently. However, she never attacked anyone. She only threatened people, but that alone caused such an uproar in the little community that the family once again had to resign themselves to “committing” her.Mrs.White, so beautiful with her white hair tied up in a bun, her long lacetrimmed dresses from another era, her gentle voice and delicate hands, her angelic smile like that of a little girl who has played a trick – a good trick – on you.
    Mrs. White, who would sneak into the kitchen looking for a knife when no one was there. But each time, the staff would follow her and make her open her bag in front of anyone who happened to be around, and remove the knife and put it back. Then Mrs. White would become so sad, so confused and embarrassed, and would take her fine linen handkerchief from her lace sleeve and bring it to her eyes. But she had no more tears, and she would wipe her dry eyes, saying, “I’m crying without tears. All my tears disappeared in the wild desert where I was lost for so long when I was seventeen.” She would cry loudly without tears until a nurse led her away for an injection.
    One day she told Joseph, “my dear boy, Joseph,” that he could not imagine what had happened to her when she was seventeen and had been trapped in the “great desert” of concentration camps and had emptied herself of all her tears and lost part of her soul. Because when she left the desert, almost everyone in her family had been exterminated in the camps. “There are camps in America,” she said, “invisible camps and Shoahs, but I see them. Every time they appear, I absolutely have to find a knife, or else … or else there is death. Not only mine, but the deaths of all those I love. And your death, Joseph, your death.”
    Joseph would hug Mrs. White then and ask her to sing the plaintive Yiddish songs that delighted them and made them cry at the same time.
    There was Ben, whose family name Joseph did not know, nor his background, a stout, good-natured man who was always walking his imaginary dog, a dog that almost seemed real, so convincing were the movements and gestures Ben made, talking to the dog, whose name was October, as if it were his best friend, obeying without hesitation when October wanted to go somewhere, because October talked to him too and gave him orders when it felt Ben was too absent. “When I’m out of myself, October brings me back to reality,” Ben had confided to Joseph.
    Sometimes, Joseph walked with them. The speeches Ben made to October were so fascinating – they were coherent, intelligent, subtle and very erudite – that Joseph learned all kinds of things about history, religion, anthropology, archeology and geology. The history of the universe, the Earth and humanity seemed to hold no secrets for Ben. His corner of the hospital room was filled with books, which he would discuss with October in Joseph’s presence and would loan to Joseph with October’s consent.
    But in life “outside,” people would not tolerate this imaginary October or seeing Ben walk him everywhere and talk to him nonstop, neglecting his work and his family and friends, who no longer recognized him. So he was kept here until