To the edge of sorrow, p.6
To the Edge of Sorrow, page 6
Suddenly, for no visible reason, Tsila burst into tears, a silent crying that shocked us. Salo and Maxie arrived at once, hugged her, and sat her down on a crate. She shook for a long time. Finally, she quieted down, opened her eyes, and asked, “What happened to me?”
And once, on the way back from a mission, one of the fighters began to cry, quietly, inaudibly. Only Felix, whose ear is alert to every sound, picked up his stifled weeping. He immediately ordered us to lay our packs and bundles on the ground, got down on his knees, and asked the fighter what happened. The man was unable to answer. It was good that Salo was with us. He took an empty medicine dropper from his pack and squeezed some air into the fighter’s mouth. After a few minutes, the color returned to his face.
What would we do without Salo? His tent is open day and night, and when a mission seems especially dangerous, he is included in the squad. Grandma Tsirl says to beware of doctors. But not of Salo: the angel Raphael, the healer, lives within him.
18
We move on toward the high, dry places, to the summit. We proceed cautiously, ever on the alert, bedeviled by many problems. For good reason the wetlands are called “a land that devours its inhabitants.”
Last night I took part in an attack not far from the base, on an enemy patrol that had followed us. We attacked along with a squad that covered for us, but in the end it was a limited success. The enemy patrol was able to retreat with its wounded, leaving behind a rifle and two magazines. One of our fighters was lightly wounded in his arm.
Again, it’s clear: they are not letting us be. The weather and the swamps do not prevent them from tracking us. If we had considered cutting back on our patrols and ambushes and making raids far away from the base, it’s becoming increasingly clear that we won’t be able to do so. They will not easily give up on a handful of Jews. For good reason Kamil repeats that the war is at a climax and we must redouble our efforts.
We captured the deputy manager of the railroad station. Felix interrogated him about military deployment in the area and the movement of trains, about collaborators and the Jews remaining in the area.
He was frightened. Felix calmed him down and promised that no harm would come to him if he would tell us the truth. In reply to Felix’s question, he confirmed that the army is no longer an arrogant conqueror, as in the past. The officer in command of the civilian population has lost interest in the affairs of the local government. A month ago they were still looking for Jews who were hiding among the population. Now they’ve stopped. As for the trains: civilian transport has been reduced; most of the trains are now filled with soldiers, weapons, and ammunition. There are still a few Jews in the work camps. The weak and sick are killed. There are no longer any Jews in the villages. Families that had hidden Jews are no longer willing to take the risk, and they hand over the Jews who had been hiding in their homes. A family man who had hidden Jews was executed in the village square.
So ended the formal part of the interrogation. The deputy station manager grew more relaxed and provided a long and convoluted answer to Felix’s question about who was now living in the houses of the Jews. “Populating the abandoned homes was not handled fairly. People with connections, the ones who host officers in their homes, who throw parties and orgies, got the fancy houses. The simple houses and apartments were taken by the bullies. The fair and honest people got nothing. That’s how the world has always worked.”
He spoke with infuriating calm, as if he’d forgotten he was speaking about people who had been murdered and that distributing the spoils was a continuation of the killing.
“All the houses are inhabited now?” asked Felix, not raising his voice.
“All of them.”
“And what will happen if the Jews come back?” Felix asked, in a different tone of voice.
“They won’t come back,” the man was quick to answer.
“Why?”
“Because they were murdered and buried in the forest,” he said blandly.
“Damn murderers,” Felix muttered, losing patience.
“It is God’s will, what can you do,” the deputy station manager replied sanctimoniously.
He apparently didn’t realize that Felix was a Jew. Felix speaks Ruthenian like a native. His years of service to the Communist Party, of organizing and distributing propaganda in the villages, made him into a Ruthenian. The charm of it wore off just a few years ago. Since then, Felix has been a different person, say people who knew him well.
“What do you think about murdering Jews?” Felix asked coldly.
“What can I say; it’s God’s will.”
Felix was about to let out a curse, but the commander in him would not allow it.
After a brief negotiation, the men agreed that in two weeks’ time they will meet again in these woods. Felix explained that it was best to aid the freedom fighters, since the Russian Army was approaching, and whoever helped the fighters would be rewarded. At the same time he warned the deputy station manager that while the partisans are generous and would not harm honest people, traitors, informers, and collaborators would not be forgiven.
The man listened, extended his hand to Felix, and said, “I will come to this place in two weeks; you have my word.”
19
Kamil and Felix prepare us for a long, arduous stay, a period that will change us. I work hard to excel in training, to get stronger and someday be a squad commander. But there are days when I feel alone, forgotten, lost in the darkness that wraps around us like a thick robe that does not keep us warm. At those times I feel that our inner journey is a process of forgetting and that soon I won’t remember anything that was once mine.
But opportunities for such thoughts are limited. Last night we went on a raid a few miles from the base. It was a big and complicated raid, and I took part. At first we were able to circumvent a dangerous swamp, but later we found ourselves trapped in thick reeds that enclosed us on all sides. Squad commander Danzig, a superb navigator, maintained his wits, and we finally found a strip of land that led us to a mountain ridge and a pair of houses on which our patrols had gathered much intelligence.
The information was this: In the big, elongated house live the parents and their younger son. In the adjacent house live the older son, his wife, and his two small children.
The raid was swift and took them by surprise. We conducted a search and took what we needed from the cupboards. The mother fainted from the shock. One of us spoke to her gently and promised her that when victory comes she will merit special consideration for supporting the freedom fighters.
The woman roused herself and cried out, “Bless you, bless you, brothers, may God protect you in all your endeavors.” The married son at first refused to cooperate, but in the end he did as he was ordered and showed us the way to the storeroom.
We stocked up on supplies: sugar, salt, dried fruit, dairy products, wheat flour, and corn flour. We returned to base observing all the rules of retreat: those who carried the goods walked first, and the others protected them on high alert. More than one mission has failed on the way back. Now we are extra careful.
We returned before dawn, exhausted and filthy, but I was proud of myself. It pains me that my parents aren’t here to take pride in me. The booty we took was very valuable. Kamil went from fighter to fighter and hugged each one.
Afterward, we were graced by sunshine that warmed me and dried my clothes somewhat. I slept till late afternoon. In my sleep I was at home, leaning over the blue ceramic stove. Through the curtain of sleep, I heard my father wanting to know what had happened to me since he’d last seen me, but Mama didn’t let him wake me up. When I woke up, the day was fading and growing cold, but the heat of the ceramic stove felt good, and I was happy that my parents, the house, and the stove were still standing.
All of a sudden, the spirit came over Kamil, and he spoke about our forefathers and the God of our forefathers, with whom we must connect. Denial had eroded our best qualities, Kamil said, and we had reached rock bottom. We couldn’t believe our ears. He didn’t seem like the commander who had led us through hostile forests and strangling swamps but like a spiritual leader flooded with faith.
The veteran fighters do not think as Kamil does. A thin trail of fog always accompanies his words. But there are people who interpret his states of mind as wings that propel his bold actions. Now he is talking more and more about denial, alienation, abandoning the wellsprings of life, international movements that eat us up inside. Without our forefathers and the God of our forefathers, our lives hang by a thread.
This tall and powerful man—who leads his soldiers in daring raids, who knows the map of this region like the palm of his hand—is transformed at night, when he is joined to words and phrases whose sounds frighten us.
Tonight Kamil spoke about the great Russian writers: Gogol, Dostoevsky, and Tolstoy, whose thinking was ahead of their time. They understood that there is no existence without faith. Their writing is an icon of Russian Orthodoxy. It is only we who have abandoned our beliefs, followed foreign creeds, and have thus forgotten who we are and what our place is in this world. Dostoevsky, Kamil said, should be read chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph, the way religious books are read.
Several fighters ran out of patience, and one shouted at him, “You want to do the impossible. The connection with the ancestral god has been broken once and for all. You can’t connect what can’t be connected. We’ve gone into the mountains not to receive new tablets but to save our lives. Protecting life is an important value, and revenge is not without value. To connect with the old beliefs that led us to the ghetto and the camps—this is an unforgivable sin. This is not a time for mystical delusions. Yes, we have been mortally wounded, and the pain is enormous, but we will not bandage the wounds with false bandages. We need iodine to disinfect the wounds, not whispered words.”
Kamil did not respond. He sat leaning on his hands, hearing the accusations as if baring his back to the whip. There was no one that night lonelier than he. For a moment it seemed as though he was about to break down, lay his weapon on the ground, and say, I can see that my faith is not to your liking. I have no desire to argue; there is no point in arguing about faith. If you lack confidence in me, it’s best I leave, go on my way and to my fate, and you do what your heart tells you to do.
Instead, he did not utter a sound.
Hermann Cohen was able to defuse the confrontation. Though he is no longer young, his mind is as quick as a young man’s. He reminded the accusers that were it not for the inspiration of Kamil, who led us step by step, from hill to hill, avoiding traps, we would not be here. “Let Kamil finish the work until victory comes,” he said.
Although Hermann Cohen spoke with old-fashioned moderation, his words were strangely effective. I’ve already learned: Strong words don’t always sway the mind. It’s often practical, logical, colorless language that works its way into the heart’s hidden recesses.
This may be the place to mention one of our men who is neither seen nor heard—Reb Hanoch by name.
Reb Hanoch has been blind since birth, and all his life made a living by knitting and basket weaving. In his youth he married a blind young woman, and they had three intelligent children. In one of the last aktions, the blind were rounded up and sent in carts to the train station. Reb Hanoch fell out of his cart and lay in a ditch till nightfall. Then he got up and, luckily, was noticed by Kamil, who was looking for fugitives and brought him to us.
Reb Hanoch is one of the founders of our base. He knits stocking caps, scarves, gloves, and socks. All the fighters are pleased and praise his handiwork. There’s nothing like a stocking cap to rescue the ears from the bitter cold. Reb Hanoch knows our needs and works day and night.
Sometimes he asks if there’s any news from home.
“Let’s hope for the best” is the answer.
“They already sent everybody off to the camps?”
“Apparently so.”
“Have any letters arrived from the camps?”
“Not yet.”
The men respect his blindness and don’t hide the truth from him.
Every few hours Reb Hanoch stops his work, stands up, and prays. His prayers have a unique melody. Kamil goes into his tent now and then and tells him that his hats and socks save people every day. Hearing his words, Reb Hanoch says with a smile, “May we all be privileged to perform the commandments.”
20
We will not forget the night Kamil spoke about the tribe and the God of the tribe. His words echo to this day. It’s hard to escape the thought that the man leading us in this dangerous territory is motivated by ideas that make us uneasy, even scare us.
People still remember that at the beginning of the journey Kamil was like anyone else, without highs and lows. His moods appear to have changed during the journey. His face, in any case, has changed; more and more he resembles a Christian monk.
If doubts remained, it is now clear: Kamil wants to instill in us the feeling that it is impossible to fight a determined enemy without love of the tribe, its God, and its beliefs. These three concepts, separately and together, drive people crazy.
“Commander,” one bold fighter shouted on that night, “take pity on yourself and us and get these delusions out of your head.”
After that, Kamil secluded himself in his tent and handed the command to his deputy. His absence was hard for us. I sometimes feel that our opposition demoralizes him and that he prefers to be alone and see no one.
Following a few days of isolation Kamil returned to the children and the elderly and Grandma Tsirl.
* * *
—
DANZIG HAS INFORMED Kamil that Milio’s progress in recent weeks has been surprising. “He looks at me attentively and asks me with his eyes to sing him the lullaby of the little goat.”
Milio is no longer frightened when a fighter wants to hold him in his arms, and when Kamil asked to hold him, Milio smiled and agreed.
“What else does he do?” asked Kamil with curiosity.
“He watches. He can sit for hours and look at things.”
That same night Kamil led a patrol to the lake to catch some fish for dinner. His determined expression was back. He checked the fighters’ weapons and ordered two men to switch their heavy coats for lighter ones. Every outing with him has a fateful air but also a sense of confidence that Kamil has the power to strike fear in our enemies.
They returned with a big haul. Tsila and her friend Miriam quickly set about preparing the fish for dinner, and Hermann Cohen built two fires to roast them. We sang till late at night, and there was a feeling of togetherness, that we should not speak ill of others and must honor a commander of the caliber of Kamil, even if we do not agree with his opinions.
* * *
—
ON SATURDAY NIGHT we didn’t go out on a mission. We sat around the campfire, and our comrade Sontag felt moved to tell us about his grandparents’ village: about the long pastures that reach to the horizon, and his grandfather and grandmother sitting at dusk on the veranda, watching the light change colors. They don’t speak, and their silence is uncomfortable, as if this evening was not similar to the previous evening but, instead, something they had never experienced before. They love this stretch of land in the foothills, which changes its face with every season.
“I would come there twice a year,” Sontag said, “at Passover and on summer vacation. Sometimes in the winter, too, at Hanukkah. The passage from city to country, from tumult to quiet, from explicit to implicit, left me speechless. During my first years of gymnasium, the village seemed remote and primitive—a word we often used, not always fairly. I didn’t understand their way of life. I thought their lives lacked consciousness—another word we relied on now and then.
“Only in my last year of gymnasium did I suddenly discover the interior and exterior rhythm of their lives, the way they merged completely with the seasons, their capacity for wonder but more than that—their capacity for gratitude. They always spoke softly, their heads lowered, eyes downcast. And suddenly my ideas and those of my friends seemed shallow. We were creatures of the intellect, without simplicity and genuine vitality.
“Once my grandma asked me if I prayed. I couldn’t lie to her, and I said no. She didn’t respond or ask anything more. I didn’t know what else to say and foolishly added, ‘In the city they don’t pray.’ She didn’t respond to that, either.
“That was my last conversation with her. Who knows where my grandparents are now? Last night I dreamed about them and asked their forgiveness. They were surprised by my request, and Grandpa said, ‘What do you mean? You always brought us joy. We couldn’t wait to see you. We would look at you and ask ourselves which of our relatives you looked like, and both of us, Grandma and I, decided you looked like Uncle Efraim—the same features and facial expression.’
“I started to say to him, ‘Grandpa, I’m from the city, and the turmoil of the city is in my bones,’ but Grandpa ignored me and repeated, ‘You look like Uncle Efraim.’
“Uncle Efraim lived in a small village, ran a small general store, and was regarded as an expert in herbal remedies. Everyone trusted his medicines and concoctions. The farm wives would bring produce to barter, but most people came and received his advice and medicines without paying a penny. Uncle Efraim never complained. Whenever he heard that the advice or medicine was effective, his eyes filled with joy and gratitude. In his village it was said of a good man that he had a soul like Efraim’s. I don’t know what resemblance my grandparents saw between me and Uncle Efraim. Uncle Efraim was a simple man who worshipped God with awe and happiness.
