Between Sky and Sea

by Herz Bergner

  The doctor met the women joyfully and with outstretched arms.

  ‘That’s good,’ he called to them in his careful, studied Polish. ‘That’s nice, you treasures! You are such dear children.’

  One after the other he gave them a fatherly pinch on the cheek and addressed himself to Mrs Fabyash.

  ‘You must walk!’ he said to her, speaking more familiarly in his great joy. ‘Never sit too long in one spot. If you don’t help yourself nobody else will help you, not even the greatest specialists. You must exercise. You must walk although it might tire you. Otherwise you will lose all the strength in your legs!’

  Seeing the doctor’s great cheerfulness Mrs Fabyash became infected by it and her eyes lit up in a lively glance. But soon she remembered her great sorrows and she was ashamed of herself. She became so obstinate the women had to take her back into the cabin. Mrs Fabyash sat there hardly speaking a word to anyone. But sometimes she spoke to Ida, who rarely went up on deck, for all the excitement meant nothing to her. More than ever on the long voyage Ida now remembered her husband, Hershl, and her little daughter, Sarah. They never left her mind for one moment. Everyone, more now than ever before, thought of their own dear ones who had remained somewhere over there in the hell on the other side of the sea, yet Ida suffered more than anyone else. Sarah and Hershl stood vividly before her eyes as if she had just seen them, just that moment spoken to them. Sometimes they stood so life-like before her that she longed to talk to them. But sometimes they were so far away that she couldn’t remember how they looked, and she was plunged into great fear. She thought that by losing them from her memory she had lost them forever.

  Her conscience tortured her and she could find no peace. She imagined that everyone was being punished because of her. Her child’s pink hair-ribbon that she always carried in her bosom scolded her, always oppressed her and never allowed her to breathe freely; it talked to her with child-like tones so that she clearly heard her child’s voice.

  Sometimes when Ida went on deck to talk to the women Nathan would see her. Her full lips, chapped by the sun and wind were pale and colourless, and their very pallor drew Nathan more than ever to them, filling him with a great sorrow. He felt full of pity for her. She was thin and bony. Her laughing snub-nose, her pale amber eyes that had once wrinkled with laughter and merriment or turned into thin slits of anger and malice were now dull and tearful with grief.

  Ida’s appearance now reminded Nathan of his wife and child, of his home, and he felt an aching longing to cast everything to the wind and go to her. The cleft in her lips that had always caused him such unrest now filled him with pain, a pain that choked in him, suffocated him, as it searched for a way out. He envied the people who could talk to her, who could stand so close to her. He alone had to stay at a distance. And not only was he jealous of those people—he envied the very walls against which Ida leaned and he envied the rails that Ida’s hands clasped. Why was he less worthy than those others who could be so close to her and talk so freely with her? Why were they better than he?

  In Ida, Nathan now saw the old country, his father-in-law’s house where he had lived for years. More than once he wanted to go to her. He had much to tell her, a great many thoughts had accumulated in him during the time that they had not spoken. What good was it doing, this keeping away from her? But when he observed her stubbornness, her enormous stubbornness, his mind became empty, his thoughts left him and he became confused.

  Ida was obstinate and she wouldn’t see him. She made it clear to him in every gesture and above all in her hasty, spiteful shrug of the shoulders whenever she passed him. In that shrug lay a world of protest. But despite her malicious stubbornness Nathan could feel that she was suffering and that she yearned to meet him. Only some hidden power prevented her.

  Nathan reproached himself that he always had her in his mind and could not stop thinking of her. But his anxiety about her was always with him. His large, grey eyes that were almost white, his hunched shoulders, his sunken, pale, unshaven face, his thin, wan appearance—everything spoke of his anxiety about her. She remained the only one left to him and he had to look after her. And especially now that the port was so near.

  Although no one knew which port they were bound for, they had prepared themselves for the end of the journey. Nobody had noticed that the sailors were watching the passengers with astonishment, not able to make out why they had got themselves ready to go ashore. They didn’t see the mocking, bitter light in the eyes of the sailors who waited to see what would be the end of it all. Who can tell what malicious people have in their minds? Nobody had time to watch the sailors, nobody even glanced at them.

  At every moment another person appeared on deck in crumpled clothes that had lain for weeks in a corner where nobody had so much as looked. Although they tried to smooth out the creases in their clothes and to get rid of the damp, mouldy aroma that clung to them, no one succeeded. The old ragged clothes, stained and full of rents, suggested no special holiday but rather leaving a hospital after a long illness. Marcus Feldbaum’s green hunting cap was so big on him that it covered his thin, undernourished face the size of a fist, and fell over his ears like a hat on a child after a severe illness. It hung on his head like an upturned pot on a post. Noah’s open-necked shirt ill-matched his shiny, well-worn black suit. Both the ill-fitting suit and the crumpled, grubby collar added years to his appearance. And Rockman’s respectable, new, black hat that he wore only on holy days swam loosely on his head and looked so comical that his face became severe and angry. He now saw how thin he had become, just flesh and bones.

  The clothes changed everyone in a remarkable fashion and called forth a new regard one for the other. Now that they had cast off the rags that they had constantly worn on the ship as if they had grown to their skins, and dressed in their best clothes a strangeness crept in amongst them and the old familiarity disappeared. It seemed as if they had never known each other before. Each was a world unto himself. Although fear had left their faces, sorrow was written there—sorrow and earnestness. It was no longer a large family with the same worries and hopes, but many little families with their own separate worries and hopes.

  Meanwhile the ship trudged on for another day and another night and still no land was sighted. A tiny thought invaded everyone’s mind. It sharply and stubbornly turned like a little, poisonous needle, first slowly and uncertainly, then more strongly and insistently.

  Perhaps...Perhaps the whole story is a lie, a lie from beginning to end. Perhaps Bronya…who knew what the captain told her? Who can rely on Bronya! Perhaps she made up the whole story. That woman has no stability. She carries around empty stories and she doesn’t know where she is.

  CHAPTER XIV

  The sunset was very red that night. The wind that had blown for three days didn’t stop for one minute and it lashed the face sharply. It made mountains out of the waves, piled them together in heaps, built up tower upon tower of clear crystal, then dashed them down and sucked them into the depths as though into great open caves. The ship lurched drunkenly, staggered, fell in its tracks, buried itself in the lap of the ocean, as sometimes a hunted, tired animal about to surrender will bury itself in mother earth and not stir from the spot.

  The sun, an enormous fiery globe, hung heavily over the sea, unwilling to leave the heavens to extinguish itself in the troubled waters. The red, glowing sun, a round, flaming hole in the dome of the blue heavens was mirrored in the sea, where it set fire to the water and bathed the ship so that at any moment it seemed that it might burst into flames. The sun and the sky lay so close to the people on deck that it appeared that they could stretch out their hands and touch them with their fingers.

  Then the sun went down, subsiding into the sea like a great burning hill. It was twilight. Only the sky was still pale and hung low over the ship, stained with red as though reflecting the far-away burning earth.

  The people on the ship watched the sky descend low over them and small, dense clouds outline
d in red looked like torn lumps of smoke that curled, twisted and then merged. Soon the clouds were dispersed and there lay scattered over the sky only flaming wisps like glowing coals and burnt-out ash.

  The refugees had not yet taken off their creased and torn best clothes, as though they were waiting for a holiday but had made a mistake with the date and the day had not come. They didn’t feel inclined to change. They didn’t want to part with those clothes and so lose the faint hope that still burnt somewhere deep in their hearts.

  Night fell and it became very dark so that everything merged with the blackness that surrounded them. The sea stirred thickly and heavily like tar. People on board could not be recognised. They passed each other, brushed against each other and even collided, but still they could not recognise each other. Only when a voice was heard in the black darkness was there any sign of life and only then were they sure that they were amongst living beings and not drifting shadows.

  That night Mrs Hudess watched over her daughters more carefully than ever before, not leaving them alone for one moment, keeping them near her all the time as if she had a premonition that something evil might befall them.

  ‘How long must you keep on playing?’ she pleaded with the children in a voice full of anxiety. ‘It’s high time to go to bed.’

  She recited the evening prayer with the children, slowly and carefully separating each word, before she put them to sleep. Just as she had done when they were very tiny, she undressed them herself, kissed them and fondled them and slowly lay them down in their bunks, tenderly covering them with the old tattered blankets. She turned her cheek for them to kiss and was reluctant to tear herself away. But the girls couldn’t bear her talking to them like babies and they were ashamed of her caresses, now more passionate than ever—they seemed only foolish. They kissed her hastily so that she would go away.

  ‘Now you can go, Mummy,’ they begged her, ‘leave us alone.’

  Before Mrs Hudess went to bed she crept into Mrs Fabyash’s cabin to see how she was faring.

  Reb Zainval Rockman couldn’t go to sleep. He wasn’t at all sleepy and he couldn’t understand how anyone else could be. He kept remembering Fabyash who was always on his mind. He talked to everybody and they all listened to him attentively. Nathan gave him only one ear. He stood as if on tacks and only wanted to know if Ida was asleep. Tonight more strongly than ever before he longed to find her and be close to her. He must no longer stay away from her. The resolution flared up in him, assumed definite shape, took on flesh and blood; but it soon petered out again. It seemed strange and wild and impossible to realise. Nevertheless, he felt that when he met her next he would certainly be strong enough to talk to her.

  Ida too, this night, wandered alone around the ship for a long time, hoping that she would accidentally meet Nathan. In the darkness she searched for him, fearfully looking into strange faces. She was possessed by a great longing for him, by a sorrowand a fear for him that pressed heavily upon her so that she felt a sharp pain and could barely catch her breath. Nobody but Nathan remained to her. The pain cut her deeply, gave her no rest, ate into her until she could bear it no longer and exclaimed softly, ‘Nathan.’

  The name having escaped her lips she was startled and wanted to draw it back, but nobody had heard her voice and nobody answered her. Only the foaming sea answered, with a roar of mocking laughter as it bared its white teeth. It rose from its place, arched its mighty, black spine and wildly reached out with strong wet paws to touch the ship as if it wanted to test how much longer the ship could hold out.

  All the time Ida imagined that Nathan was passing her by and she ran after him. But she was wrong. He had always been near her; she had felt his nearness, even when she had not looked in his direction. But now when she really wants him, when her anxiety for him is so deep, he is not here and he can’t hear her calling him.

  On this night, just as at the beginning of the journey, the people were gathered together in their cabins. And just as during the early days of the journey they talked until late into the night about the countries they had been forced to wander throughsince that day when they had fled their homes before the Nazi hordes. They felt towards each other a deep intimacy, a kinsmanship that could never be disturbed, a love that streamed from the depths of their hearts. They were again one big family with the same sorrows and aspirations.

  As always, the chief spokesman was Reb Zainval Rockman. He invited into his cabin the Warsaw doctor, Feldbaum and Noah and he told them that Fabyash had vividly appeared before him. Yes, Fabyash! Although they were all certain that he only wanted an audience to bore with his tales, nevertheless they listened to him very carefully. And the doctor, who liked to talk a lot himself, stared into Rockman’s eyes with an all-knowing, sympathetic, half-senile smile as if to say: ‘I understand everything. I understand.’

  The half-clever, half-senile smile caused a cold shudder to pass through Rockman and he felt bewildered. A sensible man who never lost his wits, Rockman now felt that things were happening around him that were beyond his comprehension, outside the reach of his mind. Back home in his own township he had been very highly regarded; everybody, even children, respected him. He was a peacemaker and his quiet, commonsense advice helped to straighten out the most difficult tangles with no ill will to anybody. They never had to tell him much; he guessed what was in the other’s mind, exactly what he was going to say, before he opened his mouth. With his own children he had quarrelled for a long time, until at last he saw that they were not so wrong, perhaps they were even right. And then sometimes he looked into the books to discover their truths.

  Although Reb Zainval Rockman tried to persuade himself that with God’s help everything would be all right, he now felt that the end was near. No good could come from such endless drifting over the sea, where the waters were not safe and where every moment life was in danger. Something terrible would happen. He could read it in the faces of all the Jews who still tried to persuade themselves, just as he did, that everything was not yet lost. He looked around and by the dim light he saw their pale, bloodless faces and it struck him that they were not the faces of living beings. They were not living people who surrounded him. Even the voice of Reb Lazar, the grocer, reading from the Holy Book, rang strangely as if it came from another world. Reb Lazar, who was a humble man and always spoke softly, had a confident voice when he was readingand this voice now cast fear into everybody; but at the same time it gave them strength so that everyone became quiet and listened to him.

  Nobody felt like going to bed, although they yearned to lie down on their bunks and sleep and sleep and forget everything.

  It was late at night when they finally prepared to go to bed. Rockman went into his cabin, hardly able to get past the sleeping bodies on the floor. He undressed and, as his habit was, laid his clothes neatly and correctly by his side. The cabin was so crowded that every now and then someone touched another’s hand or foot. Snoring and wheezing was heard and a heavy, salty odour hung in the air. A child woke from sleep and cried loudly. Someone shouted in his sleep, muttered about something for a moment as if making a confession and then lapsed into a moaning cry.

  Then suddenly a loud crash drowned out everything else. The roar was as mighty and as terrifying as if the world was going under.

  But the world didn’t go under. Only an old Greek freighter, with its passengers and crew.

  The explosions continued, following more quickly and more heavily upon each other. The sea shot into the air along with pieces of wood, iron and steel that flew far apart, scattering in all directions. Fire pierced the blackness and dismally lit up the surrounding night. Then the funnel wailed into the blackness, rising in a crescendo as if shrieking for help. But its choking, spluttering voice was soon completely cut off as if someone had forcibly stopped its mouth.

  From all sides the water rushed on to the ship that was helplessly sinking without a sigh. The fire wrestled with the water, leaping from one spot to another, hiding and then
reappearing. Raging flamboyantly, it thrust into the face of the night several laughing, red tongues that danced wildly, curled and twisted and then shot out again. The dense smoke was choking and suffocating; it grew and enveloped everything like a great, smoky mountain.

  The water poured in—poured like an avalanche, running swiftly and strongly as if in a race, over planks, walls, sheets of iron that fell to pieces like plaster, over everything that still floated on the surface of the sea. The water pounded vehemently with the clang of iron, destroying everything in its way and in such haste that it seemed to want to make an end of everything. Mountainous walls of water, like walls of iron and steel, rose higher and higher, one above the other, tearing the weary ship limb from limb. So great was the noise and havoc that the muffled human cries could not be heard. The sounds that came from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship were like voices from covered graves.

  The sea shouted with triumph, hurried and bellowed, slobbering with joy as though satiated after a wild, drunken orgy. It seemed that the sea had broken over its shore.

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