When I first met Max he was married to a tall, ambitious woman named Hermina, a woman of Danish extraction. The cold blue of the north floated in her large eyes. She hated me and the antiques Max bought from me, but I continued to come. I felt close to Max. His marriage, I was pleased to see, did not last long. Since then there has been no barrier between us. I like his practicality, his honesty, his quiet demeanor, his simple speech.
A few years ago several Jewish merchants arrived in Upper Rondhof, refugees like me. It was the sabbath. Max wanted to please them and installed a synagogue on the ground floor: three Torah scrolls that I acquired for him, a few lecterns, a holy ark, and a curtain. The merchants wrapped themselves in their prayer shawls and prayed. After the prayers, he gave them a meal. One of the merchants, whose name is Fretzl, a competitor, disclosed to me that it had been years since he had felt as close to his parents as on that sabbath. He, too, like me, wanders through these regions. But fortune does not usually favor him. That year, however, he did find a pair of silver candlesticks from the sixteenth century with the blessing for the sabbath candles engraved on their stems. But that’s all. It’s hard to make a living from that. He plans to emigrate to New Zealand.
A week with Max restores me to some of the hidden realms of my life. Max himself doesn’t ask a lot of questions, nor does he offer advice. His appearance is surprising. Unlike most of us, he’s tall, and moderation is woven into his movements. Between the counters in his shop he looks like a northerner, restrained and quiet, as if he was born not in Sadgora but in this province, where the late autumn is serene, and the colors exhilarate the soul. But at night, when I sit with him in the salon, his face changes. His forehead darkens and his gestures become agitated. He speaks simple, clear Yiddish, and an old tremor runs through it. He promises once again that everything he has purchased from me will be carefully preserved, and when the time comes, he will send it all to Jerusalem.
Sometimes, when he is in good spirits, after two or three drinks, he tells me about his ancestors, the sages of Rydzyna, about the Haggers and the Friedmans and their descendants scattered all over the world, even as far as Argentina. When he talks about his ancestors, I sense that he is connected to them by a hidden bond, though not to each of them equally. About Stark and Rollman, for example, who were also descended from Rydzyna, he hardly speaks. They grieved their forefathers too much, he once told me. Strange, this man, who is steeped in the world of action, and who looks like a local, this man becomes bent and sad when he returns to his apartment at night. You see clearly that he isn’t alone. His ancestors accompany him. It’s hard to know what they urge him to do. Perhaps he has become used to their reprimands and no longer responds. Once he told me that an evil worm had penetrated the renowned dynasty of Rydzyna, and that it had been gnawing at its descendants for generations. I wanted to know more, but Max wouldn’t explain. A week in his fortress renews me. The scattered links of my existence draw close together again, and I sit in the coffee house for hours. From the window I survey the spectacular orange colors of autumn. Last year I made peace with one of my rivals here, a short, affable man who admitted that he had been trailing me for years, trying in vain to learn the secret of my success. Now he had finally become a partner in a grocery store not far away. Though it’s hard to compete with Max, they’ll try.
Not every day brings conciliation. Sometimes melancholy takes over. My eyes darken, and I see no way out. This year I asked Max’s advice, and he said, “I have put melancholy behind locks and bolts.”
“All these years?”
“All these years, my dear fellow.”
“And if it breaks out, what is to be done?”
“I beat it with sticks until it returns to its prison,” he said, with a snicker that sent chills down my spine.
CHAPTER
17
On October first I left Max’s fortress and set off on my way. The distance from here to Weinberg is about a hundred and twenty kilometers, and in Weinberg the murderer is about to move into his new home. The week in Max’s company made me forget my duty. Max always wins me over. He is easygoing and generous and makes me feel like his partner in a great secret venture. In truth, he subsidizes most of my journeys. Without Max, I would have settled long ago into some gloomy grocery store, counting pennies like a beggar. He pays me in hard currency and adds to the sum here and there. When I leave his fortress, my pockets are full of marks and dollars. I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for Max. He has a lot of property, and he is well protected. Still, his devotion to the collection touches my heart. It’s an absolute devotion.
This year the parting was hard for me. I could have stayed another week, but I didn’t dare. On the way to Weinberg I had a few obligations as well as preparations for the final struggle. As I stood in the railway station, I felt a weakening in my legs. It seemed that my life was approaching a dark alley. I suddenly felt sorry for the people who had been my hosts, especially Max, who had prepared a large, comfortable room for me. Now it seemed that he, too, was in danger.
While my thoughts grew darker, the train appeared and came to a stop. I got on as if in a dream. I went into the dining car. The waiter, who knows me, turned on the classical station.
I sat next to the window and saw Max’s face in the reflection. The last evening we were in the coffee house and sipped a few drinks. I told him about Bertha and about her longings for her native city. Max confided to me that years ago he had also suffered from relentless insomnia. He was about to travel to Sadgora to prostrate himself on his ancestors’ tombs to ask their forgiveness, but certain obstacles prevented him from making the journey. In the end, he never went. He fell ill, had an operation, and came through it well. Since then, his insomnia has gone away, but sharp pains sometimes awaken him at dawn. The words left his mouth softly. I saw then, for the first time, that he, too, though elegant in his dress, belonged to our family of wanderers, spending days and nights in this wasteland to drug his rebellious nerves. Still, with him, the struggle seems different. His mighty ancestors have declared war on him and caused him pain. That night he explicitly mentioned the spirits and ghosts who lie in ambush in every corner and conspire against him. The nights are especially difficult, for then their dominion is complete. He also told me about his wife, whose hatred for the Jews knew no bounds. In the first years of their marriage her hostility had a kind of defiant charm, but in the last year, she had become the incarnation of evil. She had even threatened to burn his collection.
Years ago, after a week with Max, I would board the local and ride straight to Brunhilde. But in recent years Brunhilde hasn’t been what she was. Her beauty has faded and she grumbles about her two husbands, who she says cheated her out of her property. She calls the Jews soft and threatens to expose Max’s dishonesty. The train passed by her house, and in my heart was neither regret nor sadness.
The train stopped at a few stations where I once liked to stay overnight. I restrained myself and didn’t get off. I said to myself, maybe I’ll find a devoted woman here or an antique, but that would put me off my course. I must reach Weinberg soon. But when the train stopped at Zwiren, I felt impelled to get off.
Until the middle of the last century there was a small but well-established Jewish community in Zwiren. Over the years it fell apart. The houses were abandoned, and the synagogue was deserted. But, wondrously, three houses still stand, and also the ruins of the synagogue. At the Monday fair years ago I found a ladle with the Hebrew word for milk engraved on it. Hebrew letters in these remote places move me, but my greatest discovery in Zwiren is August, a quarter-Jew. Because of that quarter he’s suffered all his life, and even now people haven’t stopped reminding him of his blemish. A tall, broad man, in all his gestures he resembles a peasant, the son of peasants. When he first discovered that I am a Jew, he was very pleased and invited me to his house. Since then, whenever I come to Zwiren, I stay with him. We sit and drink tea and cognac until late at night. During the war they had sent his aged m
other, a half-Jew, to a camp in Germany to improve her character. She returned from there thin and withdrawn, and she didn’t speak again till the end of her life.
When the cognac warms his heart, he speaks about the quarter-Jew within him with a kind of secret admiration, as if it were an aristocratic disease. With disgust he dismisses all those who have conspired against him since his childhood. When he was a child his mother had protected him, and his father once beat two boys who called him names. During the war they hadn’t drafted him into a combat unit, but made him a warehouseman in a fire company garage in southern Germany, not far from the place where his half-Jewish mother had been imprisoned in the camp to improve her character.
Still healthy and erect, August is now seventy-five. In the evening we walked through the village. Again he showed me the Jewish houses and the ruin of the synagogue. He confided that his two sons don’t show much fondness for him, and only once a year, on Christmas, do they visit.
We sipped some more drinks. I told him about my travels, but said nothing about Nachtigel, only hinting that a critical year was before me. The gaiety drained from his eyes, and sorrow settled in. Finally, he turned to me and said in a half-serious voice, “We aren’t going to live forever. So I want to give you something of my own, even now. This vessel, or whatever you want to call it, belonged to my Jewish ancestors. My mother gave it to me, and I have kept it all these years. The truth is it has become a burden. The time has come to put it into reliable hands.”
“Why to me?” I tremble.
“Because you’re a Jew, aren’t you?”
“Not an observant one.”
“But still a Jew.”
I removed the wrapping and saw a kiddush cup engraved with the words “Holy Sabbath.” I wrapped it in its velvet cloth again. I wanted to say, I don’t have a house of my own, where shall I put it? But I was too moved to speak. He looked at me like a peasant who had sold his faithful animal to a cattle trader.
“Why are you giving me this now?”
“I don’t want to keep it in my house. That’s all.” He raised his voice a little. I lowered my head. “You understand,” he said. “I can’t keep it any longer.”
“Then I’ll watch over it,” I said softly.
“I’ve done my part. It’s no longer my responsibility, thank God.”
“I’ll watch over it,” I repeated, wanting to flee.
The train came early, and I left him hastily, as if the earth were burning under my feet.
CHAPTER
18
From Zwiren to Upper Zwiren is only half an hour by train. But the atmosphere is entirely different. Upper Zwiren lies on an exposed plateau that rises far from neighboring settlements, and if the train didn’t pass by at its feet, it is doubtful whether anyone would remember its existence. I discovered it many years ago, and since then I never skip it. The train arrives around noon. Few passengers get on or off. The station says more about the place than anything: a derelict structure without bathrooms or supervisor, it resembles an abandoned chapel.
This time the wind was cold, as before a snowfall, but the climb wasn’t difficult. I carried my valise with vigor, and at one o’clock I was in my usual place, under a broad-limbed oak with a view of the surroundings. I took out the sandwiches and thermos that August had prepared for me. The sandwiches he makes have a homey taste, maybe because of the fresh cream cheese. His coffee is thick and warms the entire body. August himself was as a hidden presence this time. I took from my valise the kiddush cup he’d given me. It was a simple goblet, undecorated, and the letters engraved on it were crude, without polish.
Sometimes August could be amused by the quarter-Jew within him. If he said something clever, he would announce, “It wasn’t me, it was the quarter in me.” Other times he would talk about the quarter as if it were a childhood disease that had long been cured. Only when he spoke about his mother and her many years of muteness did his blue eyes fill with tears. Years ago, when I told him that I intended to travel to Jerusalem one day, he asked with the earnestness of a peasant, “Is it so you can visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre?”
“August,” I said. “I am a Jew.”
“I forgot,” he said. “I should have remembered.” Then he asked, “The Jews don’t believe in the reincarnation of Jesus?”
“No.”
“What do they believe in?”
“In the Old Testament.”
“And the Old Testament doesn’t mention Jesus?”
“No.”
“If so, what did the priest mean in his sermon on Sunday?”
August’s questions exhude the smells of the earth. His forefathers were peasants, and from them he inherited innocence and strength. When he recalls his father, who worked his farm with his own hands, no trace of the Jew is visible in him. Sometimes I love the peasant in him more than the frayed quarter. The Jewish quarter in him makes him look sad. Sadness does not suit his round face.
Before melancholy overcame me, I remembered the purpose of my arrival here. I drew the pistol from my valise and unwrapped it. That solid piece of metal always pleases me. In the end I sell the treasures and manuscripts, but it remains faithful to me. Only Max knows the secret and supplies me with a few new magazines of cartridges every time we meet.
After I fired two magazines, I heard a voice calling. The voice was clear and strong, and I bent to listen.
When the voice called again, it sounded like Bertha’s voice. Years ago I brought her here to show her the landscape and the pistol. At first she was excited, but this soon turned to dread. She murmured words I could not understand, and I was forced to return her to the station, to console her. Needless to say, I never got to show her the gun. I didn’t know then what forces lay within her. Now Bertha is sitting on the riverbank staring at the water. God only knows what thoughts she harbors.
I cleaned the gun. Every time I clean it, I feel myself fill with patience, and the fear of death diminishes. Once Max told me that the transition to the next world must be very short. When I asked him how it is done, he replied, “It takes practice.”
When I wrapped up the pistol, I saw Bertha once more, the way she had first appeared to me: a young woman immersed in her work, her expression intense, as if her gaze were fixed on some wondrous sight. Wonder gave her face the beauty of someone who heeds her own mysteries.
It was four o’clock. The sun was already setting, kissing the horizon. I returned the pistol to my valise and hurried back down. At five the last local passes through, and I did not want to miss it. Strange, after every target practice here, I see many faces. All the stations bunch together and acquaintances who live many kilometers apart, Jews, half-Jews, and enemies, mingle with each other, like relatives. That vision belongs to this place alone. This time, too, it was revealed to me. But this time, for some reason, the people were burdened with bundles and sunk into themselves, as if they knew there was no escape.
CHAPTER
19
From here I know I should have gone straight to Weinberg. But I dreaded the thought that I was approaching the murderer. I wanted to see Rabbi Zimmel. Over the years I have spent many days in his company. The journey without his blessing now seemed like a disaster. I got off at Sandberg.
The station in Sandberg is like all the other small stations. The square is gray concrete, and the buffet is cramped. Rabbi Zimmel always sits with me until the train comes and then sees me off. Waiting in this deserted place has often been an hour of grace for me.
I was barely off the train when I knew something was wrong. The buffet’s only window was shut tight, and a sharp light flooded the square. Tethered horses were pulled from the rear cars. The horses advanced with short steps, flinching, as if they had been commanded to walk on coals.
I entered the buffet and asked to see the owner. He told me Rabbi Zimmel was very sick and no longer left his room.
“Since when, my dear fellow?” I asked the gentile like a fool.
“I don’t
know,” he said in a dumb, arrogant tone.
“And where is the carriage?”
“At this hour there is no carriage. The driver has gone back to his village.” He turned away. I stood in the illuminated square and saw the tethered horses standing at the entrance to the storehouses. Their heads were bent and vapor streamed from their nostrils, as if they had climbed a mountain. On the spot I decided: though the valise was heavy, I would walk.
Until the end of the last century there was still a Jewish community in Sandberg. Over the years the young people moved to cities, and the old people departed one by one. Rabbi Zimmel, who was then young, remained to watch over the few old people, the synagogue, and its extensive library. During the war he was sent to the camps with the old people. First he was deported to Minsk, and then sent to labor camps. From there he was taken to a small extermination camp in Hungary. At the last minute he was saved. When he returned to Sandberg after the war, he was astonished to find the synagogue secured with the very lock he had placed there. The key was still in its niche. He had intended to come for a single day, to prostrate himself on his ancestors’ tombs, and then to join the refugees on their way to Palestine. But when he found everything in its place, he took pity on the synagogue and its books. So he stayed. It turned out that a woman who had worked for the Jews for many years had come every week and cleaned the synagogue and the adjoining rooms. Several times vandals had been about to set the place on fire, but the woman had threatened them with divine retribution, and they were deterred. She died a few days before his arrival.
The Iron Tracks Page 8
