To the edge of sorrow, p.22
To the Edge of Sorrow, page 22
75
Isidor doesn’t pray at night anymore. Since he stopped praying, we pay less attention to ourselves. The pain of the survivors comes first. No one is more devoted than Salo and Maxie. They know all the survivors by name and by their wounds. Victor, his hair uncut and wild, is regarded as a doctor by some survivors. Victor sometimes apologizes and says, “I’m not a doctor or a doctor’s son; I’m a farmer.” But his dedication is total. Sometimes he says, “Forgive me; I speak only Ukrainian. It’s a limitation that’s hard to overcome.”
We listen to the radio and get ready to go down the mountain. The elderly survivor again warns that it is forbidden to leave the dead unburied. Felix’s repeated assurance that we will soon go down and bury them in a Jewish cemetery does not set his mind at ease. The old man’s warning sows disquiet. The teams building the stretchers try to speed up their work.
In a day or two we will make our way down. The sick and the weak, who were supposed to have recovered, have not yet done so. Yes, the fish we catch in the lake, which Hermann roasts with great artistry, have put several survivors back on their feet, but most are weak and a few seem lost, asking over and over, “Where are we? When will we go home?”
In my heart of hearts I’m afraid of going down. The months we’ve spent together in the wetlands, and especially at the summit, are written in my body: the patrols, the ambushes, the raids, the rescue of the survivors. My high school years seem awkward and strange after the challenges of the wetlands. True, there were teachers at the gymnasium whom I admired, but none of them can compare with Kamil, Felix, Hermann Cohen, or Tsila.
Isidor eagerly anticipates meeting his parents, and if he doesn’t find them at the train station, he will return to the city and wait for them. I am fearful of his expectations and want to tell him, Let’s wait and see, but I don’t say a thing.
* * *
—
A PATROL RETURNED bringing supplies that the Red Cross is providing to the locals. The bottles of vodka and the cigarettes were particularly gratifying. They met a few Jews who had been in the camps but who refused to answer questions.
That night Felix announced that we would begin our descent the next morning, in the following order: First we will bring down the dead and bury them in the Jewish cemetery. After we get settled below, we will take down the sick, then the weak and exhausted, and finally we’ll remove Koba and Grandma Tsirl, and two other fallen comrades, Mark and Gabriel, from their graves and give them a Jewish burial. The descent will take at least three or four days. Two squads will carry the sick and wounded, and two squads will protect the base.
We spent the last night at the summit almost without words. We drank vodka and ate the black bread and cheese brought by the patrol, and we smoked a lot. It’s doubtful that anybody expected miracles. But we were mourning the days of being together that were fast disappearing; soon each person would be for himself, without closeness and camaraderie.
Isidor, who is not used to drinking vodka, drank two glasses and burst into tears. The weeping came from deep inside him, without words, and shook his body. I didn’t know what to tell him, so I said, “Soon we’ll go down.” His body kept shaking, and I doubt that he heard me.
76
We rose early and ate breakfast together. It was strange; there wasn’t much emotion. After the meal, I lit a cigarette and sat down.
At exactly 7:00 a.m. Felix announced that the stretchers were ready and that everyone should go to the stretcher to which he had been assigned.
We stood by the stretchers, and Isidor was asked to read “The Lord is my shepherd,” the psalm Kamil had loved. Felix handed over the command to Danzig.
We lifted the bodies onto the stretchers. Kamil’s stretcher was carried first, and after it came the one bearing Karl. Isidor and I carried Miriam, and on the last stretcher was Werner.
We knew there were rules and customs for funerals, but no one among us knew them. Werner, a man of broad education and intuition, lay on the stretcher, gone from us.
Felix, suffering from his sprained ankle, had changed overnight, appearing restless and apologetic. “I know little about rituals and prayers,” he said, “but I ask of you, look after yourselves and be careful. The German Army may have retreated, but gangs of Ukrainians are surely swarming in their hideaways.”
He stood in place and kept an eye on us for a good while. We felt his presence even in the distance.
It was a sunny day; the snow glittered and the water trickled in brooks. There was a first whiff of early spring, when the double windows would soon be dismantled, with Mama standing in the living room and saying, Spring is almost here.
Men and women were clearing the piles of snow that had accumulated beside their homes and on the sidewalks. Everyone spoke in new voices: Finally, the cold and dark have passed, soon the doors and windows will be opened; children and old people will stand in the gardens.
As we carried the stretchers, careful not to trip, we heard shots. Danzig ordered us to take our positions. We lay in readiness beside our dead. Kamil and Karl, fighters of great stature, always seemed to keep death at a distance. Now they lay on stretchers, covered by blankets, deathly silent.
After an hour of listening for gunfire, we continued on our way. We kept apart from one another and walked in a crouch. The thought that Kamil would not be with us and that we would have to live without him had actually sunk in only now. And for a moment it seemed we were escorting not only Miriam to her eternal home but also her father and mother, her husband and children. They lived with her the entire time she was with us, and now, when she is not mending clothes and not serving soup, they accompany her to the next world. I wanted to share this thought with Isidor, but I couldn’t find the right words. I was wary of being misunderstood and said nothing.
* * *
—
WE ARRIVED at the railroad station. It was filled with people, including some survivors. There was no fear, just restlessness. We made our way to the cemetery by means of a sketch Felix had given Danzig, and within half an hour we stood at its ruined gate.
Some of the tombstones had been broken and vandalized, and many were uprooted, leaving empty cavities. We looked for a plot to bury our dead and didn’t find one. Finally, we found a corner at the foot of an old poplar and started to dig; fortunately, we had spades and hoes and baskets made of rope. Danzig, who had not recovered from his wounds, apologized that he couldn’t take part in the digging. Immersed in the work, we temporarily forgot our sorrows. We didn’t think about what our hands were doing.
Before we put them in the ground, Danzig spoke. “Kamil, my esteemed commander. We never imagined that at the moment of victory you would not be with us. You were a father and brother to us; you trained us step by step and turned us from ordinary people into fighters. We walked scores of miles together, and with every mile you taught us the duty of a Jew at this time. Forgive us; we didn’t always understand what you meant, and forgive those who argued with you. You had a vision and you wanted to guide us by its light. I assume that more than once you were sick of us. You withdrew to your tent, and what you went through in your despair we will never know. You knew what each one of us needed. We, for our part, didn’t always make the effort to understand your best intentions. We loved you: the way you stood and spoke, the way you taught us what matters. Now you are leaving us. Where are you going, dear man?” The last words choked him up, and he became pale.
Our spirits plummeted. We stood beside the bodies and the graves, exposed in every direction. Manfred, Karl’s friend and ideological ally, did not hesitate and spoke directly to him: “You were like your famous namesake, loyal to your comrades and to all mankind. You did not discriminate between people. You left us a great legacy: love. Your love is planted in every one of us. Long live world communism, long live true communism.”
The last blunt words spoken by the fighter roused us from our stupor. Next Isidor spoke up. “We didn’t know anything about Miriam,” he said. “Do we know anything about the lives of angels? They appear at the hour that we need them. Everything you served us, Miriam, everything your hands made for us, was steeped in your love. Rest now, my dear one; you deserve perfect peace.” Then he fell silent.
One of the fighters who carried Werner on the stretcher lowered his head and said, “I didn’t know you, dearest Werner, and I didn’t know your life story, but every word and sentence that came from your mouth was pure. You are taking this purity with you to heaven. All those who met you in this world got from you more than they deserved—I did in my case, anyway.”
We delayed no longer. We buried them one after another. I had grown weaker in recent days, and it showed: I trembled, and my hands could barely hold the spade. Isidor worked his wonders yet again. He said Kaddish in a quivering voice beside every grave.
We stood a long time by the filled graves. We knew the friends we buried deserved greater praise and glory, but our sorrow produced no words. We stood bereft of all we once had and walked with bent heads through the broken gate of the cemetery.
77
We got moving without delay. We carried the empty stretchers at intervals of one hundred feet. Luckily, we encountered no rioters. The path was rough for walking and seemed longer than it was. We didn’t reach the base until late at night.
We saw at once that our friends hadn’t sat on their hands. They set up more tents to house the sick and wounded. Salo and Maxie looked drained and could barely drag their feet. Maxie hugged me and said, “I don’t dare ask what it was like. Thank God you got back safely. And thank you for doing the most painful duty of all.” It wasn’t Maxie talking but rather his grief and fatigue.
Hermann Cohen greeted us in the kitchen and served everyone a sandwich and cup of coffee. I was hungry and thirsty and ate with a great appetite. At the same time I hated myself because only a few short hours ago we had buried our friends in the ground, and now I was enjoying food and a hot drink.
Emil also hugged me and said, “I’m happy you returned safely.” I didn’t know how to respond. “We did our duty,” I said, “and it was lucky Isidor was with us. When words fail us, it’s good to have prayer to hold on to.” That’s wasn’t exactly what I wanted to say, but I was glad I was able to string a few words together. Emil told me that the medical team stays close to the wounded, bandaging and splinting as necessary. The wounded don’t stop thanking them. In the camps where he had been, people didn’t help each other. Whoever got sick knew the end was near and that no one would prevent it.
Danzig wrapped Milio in his arms and told him that Kamil, Karl, Miriam, and Werner had gone up to the sky and were resting there now. Milio listened with his mouth open, not making a sound. Tsila, who cared for him when Danzig was away, looked at him with loving eyes and said nothing.
I was tired and wanted to close my eyes, but Felix asked to speak. He began: “We thank the squads headed by Danzig, who brought our friends to their proper burial. This was a difficult mission, and you performed it with perfection; it’s good that you are with us.”
That’s how Felix is. He’s good at not talking, but when forced to, he relies on convenient words like “mission” and “performed.” Only this time, they weren’t the right words. I was tired and oversensitive, so I paid attention to the way he spoke. I knew that criticizing a friend’s language at a time of pain is either foolish or wicked. I learned that from Kamil, who was famously precise when it came to speech.
After a short pause, he continued: “Our hold on the mountaintop is about to end. We have enough food for a few days. There’s no point in more raids. We’ll go down and see what we have to do.”
“And what about our equipment?” somebody asked.
“We won’t take the tents. We’ll take the blankets and sheepskins. Also pots and pans, personal items, plates and cutlery and cups. And of course all the books.”
“And everyone will go home?” asked a survivor who recently recovered from illness.
“We’ll have to see what the conditions are. We must not rush. The descent must be orderly and secure.” Felix’s dry, logical words filled me with melancholy, and I sat down.
Salo approached me. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s hard to return to everyday life,” I said.
“At this moment, dear fellow, we can’t be weak. We have to bring the survivors to a safe place. Let’s pray that the worst didn’t happen and that most of the people who were taken to the camps will return. Our mission is not over. Our beloved Kamil surely wants us to bring the survivors to their families.”
Again I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no reason to be sorry. You are a wonderful fighter, a loyal friend, and devoted to the survivors.”
I knew he wanted to appease me. “Soon I’ll come to help the medical team,” I said.
“Rest a while; the medical team is well staffed.”
The survivors are recovering, and some of them are eating hungrily and asking for second helpings.
* * *
—
SUDDENLY I HAD a vision of Kamil as I’d never seen him before, collapsing with anguish. Many a time he would leave the big tent and seclude himself in the small command tent. It sometimes seemed he was angry with us. Only later did we learn that, among other reasons, he would seclude himself out of depression. Kamil was a strong man, and when he fell, he fell hard. Once, in a moment of great enthusiasm, he said, “We will be together from now until forever!” His tone of voice attested that he had just emerged from black despair. Kamil never spoke about this hidden wound. Now it came to me in a flash: all his life he battled the abyss.
78
Again I’m boiling water, bringing the pots into the big tent, and helping Victor bathe the sick. They look at us with admiration and don’t stop thanking us. Once in a while one of them props himself up on his mat, looks at us, and says, “Who are you?”
The snow has ended, and it is raining. We can hear avalanches of snow detaching from the summit. Michael came over and asked if the uncles and Aunt Miriam have reached heaven yet.
“I guess so,” I said.
“Why do they have to be buried before they go up to heaven?”
“That’s how it’s done.” I couldn’t find other words to explain it.
“Will they appear to us?”
“In dreams, I assume.”
“If they are going up to heaven why do we mourn for them?”
“Because they are far away from us.”
“Will we see them in dreams the way we used to see them?”
“I assume so.”
Michael stands beside me and looks like an angel who hasn’t yet grown wings. I remember him sitting on a little crate, copying verses from the Bible or sitting hunched over and solving math and geometry problems, totally focused. His questions are startlingly sharp. Grandma Tsirl loved him and would answer him with serious attention.
The delicate fabric we wove among us is unraveling. We are left bare, and the few words that served us in the past no longer do us much good.
It’s impossible not to keep seeing Karl—his height and broad shoulders and magnificent smile. Always ready to give of himself, always fishing in his pockets to find something sweet or funny. When he doesn’t find anything, his smile widens with embarrassment.
We remember fondly the study evenings when he would recite some Marxist teaching and remind everyone that he was a communist and the son of communists and that until communism ruled the world everything was flawed. Despite the clichés, you couldn’t be angry with Karl. When he spoke, you could see the child in him, and many fighters wondered how that cruel ideology had infected this man who wanted only to do good. Sometimes he would ask Danzig’s permission to take Milio in his arms. Milio would look at him with wonder, as if to say, Your height, Karl, you’re a giant, but I’m not afraid of you.
Milio’s face is so expressive. You can understand him with no effort. I sometimes think he grasps our situation better than we do. Now and then I detect pity in his face.
After the shelling, he covered his eyes with both hands. Danzig asked him to uncover them, but Milio did not respond. Now, too, he keeps closing his eyes. Milio’s existence is a perpetual riddle. I look at him with the fear that he will soon utter a sentence that will shock us all.
79
One more day, two more days, remain in our stay at the summit. The time grows shorter. The coffee has run out. We drink tea and roll tobacco in newspapers. Whoever is not treating the sick and wounded is building stretchers.
The disquiet that we had suppressed all along now rises to the surface. Stinging words never heard before unsettle the atmosphere. Felix asks for restraint and reminds us that during our entire time here, we had never vented our anger. Every fighter must do exactly as Kamil ordered. Now that he is gone, we must follow his orders with even greater diligence. Nobility means obligation, says Felix, repeating a motto of Kamil’s. In recent days Felix has often relied on Kamil’s words. Truth to tell, they don’t suit him and sound awkward. Felix should stay Felix, even when there’s a need for words and maxims.
We already have the stretchers that will take the first people down tomorrow morning. What will happen? How will we carry on? I can’t form a picture in my mind.
Emil is on his feet and feeling well, but he won’t be among the first to make the descent. His hope of finding his blind parents has not abated. He speaks of them all the time, as if trying to inform them that he’s not far away.
