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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Komjaty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Beregszász
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
The Ghetto
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Afterword
Books by Aranka Siegal
Copyright
This book is dedicated
to those who did not survive.
They are deathless and timeless.
Auschwitz could not sever the bonds
of love and friendship
which contributed to my survival
and which will live within me
to the end of my days.
And the Lord said unto Moses “… Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions, even all their sins; and he shall put them upon the head of the goat, and shall send him away by the hand of an appointed man into the wilderness.”
LEVITICUS 16
LEFT TO RIGHT
TOP ROW : Rozsi, Lilli, Lajos
MIDDLE ROW: Piri (Aranka Siegal), Etu
BOTTOM ROW: Joli, Sandor
KOMJATY
1
FROM THE TIME I was five my mother would send me from Beregszász to spend the summers with my grand-parents in Komjaty. The open fields, the river, and the forest of this. Ukrainian village became my playground. The color of the wild flowers, the feel of the forest, the sound of the water, the humming of the insects, the warmth of the animals—these experiences became the play from which I learned so much.
I rose to the rooster’s crowing and roamed everywhere until dusk. What seemed strange at first—the people, their clothes and habits—quickly became familiar. Their language was Ukrainian, but Babi spoke to me in Yiddish. “No, not Hungarian, or Ukrainian,” said Babi; “you must learn Yiddish.” Soon I could ask questions in three languages.
In 1939, when I was nine, the impending war in the rest of Europe still seemed far away from us and my mother had sent me to Komjaty to spend the spring holidays with Babi and my older sister Rozsi. Mother, not wanting Babi to live by herself after the death of Grandpa Rosner, had decided to send each one of us five girls in turn to stay with Babi. She started with Lilli, the oldest. Lilli, however, did not last long as Babi’s companion. She met her husband, Lajos, in Komjaty and, after a summer romance, was married at sixteen. Then it was Rozsi’s turn to join Babi.
Like Babi, Rozsi thrived on the farm. She shared Babi’s love for the animals and the fertility of the fields. Life in Komjaty was predictable and simple. The climate and the seasons made the decisions for the inhabitants. At twelve years of age, Rozsi knew that she wanted to live with the land. She wanted earth, not cement, under her feet.
A few days after I arrived, a major battle over disputed borders broke out between Hungary and the Ukrainian Resistance Fighters trying to hold on to their independent state. Babi, Rozsi, and I could hear bursts of gunfire from the border most of the day. The women, children, and old people huddled together in their small whitewashed and straw-thatched houses. The animals had been gathered and locked in the barns. Babi sat in her chair in the kitchen, with her shawl around her, fingering the worn pages of her prayer book as her mouth moved in silent prayer. Rozsi sat beside her, crocheting.
I was frightened and cried, wishing I were home in the safety of my own city in Hungary. Babi’s house seemed small and exposed, set in the midst of her flat fields. The fence around it was only waist-high and the gates were without locks. The front porch didn’t have a gate and led right to the kitchen entrance. The kitchen was the center of the house, flanked on each side by a bedroom. The larger of these served as dining and sitting room, as well as our bedroom. The guest bedroom on the other side was used mainly for storage. None of the rooms seemed very secure to me; anyone could easily enter at any time.
“I want to go home,” I said.
“Don’t be afraid,” comforted Babi. “Nothing bad will come to us. Our house is full of His books, and they will protect us.”
I was not completely reassured when, toward the end of the day, I heard a rowdy bunch of victorious Hungarians march up the road. I ran out with my long, knotted scarf of red, white, and green and tied it to Babi’s gatepost as a welcome sign. The village was kept awake long into the night with the sounds of celebration coming from the tavern.
Babi lit the kerosene lamp and let it burn until I fell asleep. In the morning when I awoke, I immediately went over to the window and looked out: I was curious to see if Komjaty had changed overnight under the Hungarian occupation. Dressing quickly, I went into the kitchen, looking for Babi and Rozsi, but they were in the barn, tending the animals.
I put on my sheepskin coat and red rubber boots and went out into the woods. The forest ground was a patchwork of colorful flowers, gray puddles, and white snow. By the time I had gathered a bouquet of flowers, my cotton stockings were soaked with icy water, and I realized that my boots had several small holes in them.
As I started to run back to Babi’s house, I could hear the loud gushing of the river and went to look at it. All the lesser streams, as well as the melting snows, channeled into the Rika at this time of year, swelling the water so that it rushed down, taking away everything lying in its path except the largest boulders.
My attention was caught by a log floating toward me. As the current carried it closer, I realized that it was not a log but a body. It was a body clad in a Ukrainian uniform, face up, approaching head first. Despite my uneasy confusion, I stepped closer to the water’s edge and stooped on a rock to get a better look. The face, puffy with death, was that of a boy between eighteen and twenty. He had the high cheekbones so typical of the young men of Komjaty, but I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed. I dropped my crocuses, and soon they were floating, scattered on that young man’s body as the stream flowed past me.
I saw two more soldiers in the river before I turned my back. These bodies, in the middle of the river, were being thrown from rock to rock. The bodies all had one thing in common; they were all missing hats and boots. Thinking of my stepfather, whom I had so often seen in his officer’s uniform, and of my baby brother, Sandor, who would grow up to wear one, I started running again and did not stop until I reached Babi’s warm kitchen.
Babi was standing in the doorway putting on her shawl, getting ready to go out to look for me. “Don’t you know better than to run off without telling us where you’re going?” she scolded with concern in her voice.
“But, Babi, I saw three dead men floating in the Rika!” I said. She didn’t say another word, but took off her shawl, wrapped it around me, and walked us back into the kitchen while I continued, “They were Ukrainian soldiers. What will become of them?”
Without answering, Babi gen
tly guided me down into the chair, took off my wet boots and stockings, fixed hot milk, and cut a thick slice of black bread which she buttered and sprinkled with coarse sugar. As I drank the milk and ate the sweet, crunchy bread, I watched the burning logs turn to ashes in the open stove while Babi carefully worked the thread through her loom. Her voice came toward me from what seemed a great distance, although she was not more than two meters away. “They are at peace now,” she said, as she worked her loom. Soon I fell asleep and did not awaken until Rozsi returned from her day in the fields.
There were no more reprisals by the Ukrainians, and a few days after seeing the bodies in the river I went into the fields, where the villagers were trying to make up for lost time. Because of the fighting, they had been afraid to go out to farm the fields. I watched them work for a while, and had just started toward the river when I heard the metallic sound of hoofs hitting the rocks in the dirt road. Horses were rare in Komjaty; most of the wagons were pulled by oxen and few people in the village kept horses.
Surprised, I turned to see a Hungarian mounted policeman—even more of a rarity in Komjaty. He was dressed in the traditional Hungarian uniform of gray-green flannel, fastened by rows of brass buttons and trimmed in braid. His hard-crowned hat was topped by long black and green feathers from a rooster’s tail, and the hat was held in place by a narrow black leather strap encircling the young man’s clean-shaven chin. He waited for my eyes to meet his before he broke the silence. “Am I on the right road for Komjaty?”
“There is only one road,” I said.
“I am coming from Salánk,” said the policeman, “and I have to get back before dark. I was told it was four kilometers.”
“You must be heading for Big Komjaty,” I said, “because Little Komjaty is just beyond the clearing.” I pointed the way. “Can you see it from up there?” I was no taller than the horse’s legs.
“I was told that people here don’t speak Hungarian.”
“That is true, but I am from Beregszász, and I am here on vacation visiting my grandmother.”
“Where does your grandmother live?”
“Just up the road—the sixth house on the left.”
“Would you like a ride back?” he asked, getting off the horse. Before I had time to answer, his gloved hands gripped my waist and lifted me up the height of the giant horse. He mounted behind me, and resting up against his chest, I could feel his brass buttons and belt buckle through my light cotton dress. He asked me my name, and I told him in a breathless voice, “Piri Davidowitz.” I was overcome with the thrill and pride of sitting up so high, and anticipated relating the whole experience to my friend Molcha.
Babi, along with a group of villagers, was in the road, watching in awe the unaccustomed sight of a mounted policeman. The scene had created almost as much excitement in Komjaty as the appearance of the first car in Beregszász.
“Is everything all right?” Babi managed to ask in Hungarian.
“Oh, yes, your granddaughter was giving me directions to the police headquarters in Big Komjaty. I am on official business from Salánk. She also told me that she is on a visit from Beregszász. I don’t know if you are aware of it, but the borders are temporarily closed and the trains are not running. Piri’s vacation may last longer than you planned.”
Babi took in this information very slowly and then replied, “May this be the worst the war brings us. Would you like to have a cool drink of water before riding on?”
He got off the horse, lifted me down, and set me next to Babi. Removing his helmet, he saluted her, clicking together the heels of his boots. “My name is Wajda, Ferenc,” he announced and then added, “Yes, thank you, I would like some water.”
Babi went into the kitchen and returned with one of her good glasses filled with cold water. She handed it to Ferenc, who drank it down in a few gulps and gave the glass back to her.
“Your granddaughter is quite a little lady; I was lucky to meet someone who speaks Hungarian.”
Babi nodded. “My name is Rosner, Fage.”
Ferenc replaced the heavy helmet on his head and mounted his horse. After he left, the villagers walked away, without comment. Frowning with distrust, Babi took my hand and led me into the house.
2
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, I was on the porch when I spotted Ferenc in the distance. He stopped at our gate, and I was flattered that he remembered me when I ran up to him.
“Szervusz, Piri,” he greeted me. “Would it be all right with your grandmother if my horse and I had some water?”
“Grandma is out in the fields, but I think it would be all right for me to give you some water.” Inside me, I was not certain at all; I had a strange feeling about him and Babi. I could not explain it, but he did not seem to fit in with her life. Babi took up so little space while he needed so much. I felt he could crush her in some way. I tried to hide my fear.
“Are you coming on official business again?”
“Oh yes, I will have to make this trip regularly.”
“What does official business mean?”
“I deliver the new rules from the new government.”
Taking the water bucket from the kitchen, I ran across the road to our neighbor’s well while Ferenc led his horse to the trough. Tercsa’s water, clearer than Babi’s, came from a mountain spring. As I drew the water bucket up from the well, I looked over into our yard to see Ferenc standing in the shade of one of Babi’s plum trees. He seemed large and rigid under the umbrella of white blossoms. As if reading my thoughts, he suddenly removed his helmet and shook the feathers free of petals. Without his helmet, he looked much younger and more human. He had a handsome face, but his mouth and chin were soft, like a girl’s. I finished drawing the water and returned to our yard, carrying the full bucket. Ferenc took a cupful and asked, “Don’t you get lonesome here without friends?”
“I usually come here with my sister Iboya to help Rozsi, but Iboya was sick so I came without her. Then the trains stopped running and she couldn’t join me.”
“Has your grandma always lived here?”
“Always.”
“Then how come she can speak Hungarian?”
“From visits to us in Beregszász.” Again that uneasy feeling about Ferenc and Babi crept up in my stomach. I stopped talking.
“Who is Rozsi?”
“She is my older sister—she is in the fields with my grandmother.”
When the horse had finished drinking, Ferenc saluted me again and rode off.
* * *
A few months later, Rozsi was picking some snap-dragons near the fence for our Sabbath table. She was singing as she worked, absorbed in the task, when Ferenc appeared on the road. All motions and song stopped at once; I could see Rozsi’s stunned face from the porch where I was peeling potatoes. Ferenc came up to our gate and dismounted. Taking off his helmet, he bowed gallantly in greeting.
“My name is Wajda, Ferenc; I am an acquaintance of your sister Piri.”
Rozsi remained speechless. I came up to her. “Ferenc is the policeman I told you about.”
“And you must be Rozsika,” said Ferenc, adding the endearment -ka.
There was a long, silent pause as Ferenc and his horse continued to stand outside the gate while Rozsi and I remained inside. Finally, Rozsi found her voice and said, “You may water your horse here if you like.”
“I’ll run and fetch water from Tercsa’s well,” I volunteered and went to get the water bucket.
When I returned, Rozsi was standing by the trough near Ferenc. She held the yellow flowers in her right hand and stroked the horse with her left. Ferenc was watching her and hardly noticed me when I offered him the water. Rozsi was wearing her holiday dress; its bodice hugged her small chest while the full skirt billowed out from her waist to her slim ankles. Holding her head high, she looked over the horse at Ferenc, and her long, chestnut-brown hair glistened in the sunlight.
They were talking about the effects of the Hungarian occupation on Komjaty. “T
hese people will never learn Hungarian,” Rozsi was saying. “They are Ukrainian and they will always be Ukrainian. There is little room for politics or learning new things in their lives. Their time is taken up just by surviving.”
“What about you?” Ferenc asked. “Aren’t you bored by this simple life? Don’t you miss the cinema in the city?”
“Not really…” Rozsi started to answer when Babi came walking through the fields beyond the back of the house. We saw her stop, put her hand over her eyes to shield out the midday sun, and then take the roundabout way to the house through the vegetable garden. It was obvious that she did not want to confront our visitor, and we sensed her annoyance. Rozsi stopped stroking the horse. Ferenc handed me back the cup, took up the bridle of his horse, and led him to the gate.
“Would it be all right for me to stop again?” he asked hesitantly.
Playing with her flowers, Rozsi answered slowly, “Yes, I think so.” Ferenc mounted his horse, turning back once before he disappeared out of sight.
As we entered the house, Rozsi and I exchanged looks of apprehension. Babi was in the kitchen, cutting up turnips, and when she noticed us, her knife came down hard on the cutting board. Rozsi picked up a vase from the cupboard and began to arrange the flowers in it. Babi scraped the turnips into a pot, added water, and put it on the hot stove. Then she exploded.
“That was a fine picture I just witnessed on my land. If you live long enough, you see everything. I can understand Piri’s befriending one of them, but you, Rozsi, I’m disappointed. I thought you were old enough to know better.”
“We were only giving him water,” I said.
“My granddaughters do not have to slake the thirst of our enemy. I had no choice the day he brought you back from the Rika, but Rozsi doesn’t have to pay attention to him.”
“Just because he is Hungarian doesn’t mean that he is an enemy,” protested Rozsi, her face flushed. I felt sorry for her; this was the first time I ever heard Babi speak to Rozsi in anger. I sat down on one of the kitchen stools.
Upon the Head of the Goat Page 1
