23
I headed south, away from the iron tracks. In the past I would hire a wagon, ride down to Little Steinberg, and stay there for a few days. In Little Steinberg I once found a few rare books that Rabbi Zimmel had declared to be treasures. Once I brought Bertha here during the summer to show her the broad cornfields. She was moved. She spoke in a rush about her life of wandering, about how she could find no peace because she had been wrenched from her beloved home. The sight of her charmed me and I couldn’t grasp the pain in her words. I was sure her distress was momentary, but she went on with mounting pathos until it rang in my ears. Finally I stopped believing her. It seemed that she was putting herself into a kind of self-enchantment, blinding herself with illusions. I chided her: “We don’t need a house of our own, or a river of our own. We must live without illusions and within ourselves.” She listened to me and fell silent. That evening her eyes were swollen, and she didn’t mention Zalishtshik anymore.
The next day, when I accompanied her to the train, I realized that I had been foolish and asked her forgiveness. “Why are you begging my pardon?” she said. “My weakness deserves a good scolding. One mustn’t yearn for a city that murdered its sons and daughters. I have to wrench such yearnings from my heart and accept that I no longer have a permanent place in the world.” Her words seared me.
In the evening in the Black Horse Tavern I met Kron, Father’s good friend. He had aged. His face was like those of the old peasants sitting at the table with him. He didn’t recognize me.
“I’m Siegelbaum’s son,” I said to him.
“Which Siegelbaum?”
“From the party.”
“The party?” He was surprised and closed his eyes.
“We used to meet on May Day at Stark’s,” I tried to remind him.
He made a dismissive motion with his hand, without opening his eyes. But when I mentioned Roll-man, he opened them, and I saw that the name had rekindled his extinguished memory.
I invited him to have a drink. At one time Kron wanted to emigrate to Australia. But he apparently never left this region, and here he fell into decline. After two drinks he began to talk about Rollman and Stark and Father, and their youth in the training camps, where they were toughened for the ordeals to come. About the war and the estrangement of the Ruthenians he didn’t speak. Suddenly, he clutched his head and fell silent. That night I learned that they had intended to send Mother to Moscow to prepare her for a senior post in the party. But someone, Kron revealed to me, had blackballed that loyal woman.
Later, he remembered them all one by one. Roll-man was our senior member, he did more for the party than anyone else in the region. His leadership extended over Bucovina and Galicia, reaching as far as Poland. Only Stark, his secret rival, reached such a high rank. Kron called Father a hero who knew how to conscript troops, and who, like Trotsky in his time, could inspire them and ease their fear of death. He also spoke of himself, but without vanity. He blamed his religious education, which he said deadened his imagination and his ambition to do great deeds. And he blamed his father, who used to force him to study ancient books night and day, moldy old books that had nothing to do with reality. When he spoke of his youth, his memory was clear, but he had forgotten the name of his beloved mother, for some reason.
“Where are you headed now?” he asked me in a youthful voice.
“I’m returning to the south.”
“It’s good that you’re returning.”
“The south is no different from the north.” Something in me wanted to tell him the truth.
“It is different, my dear fellow, it is different.” Now it was clear that he was immersed in a different geography.
He asked no more questions but continued talking. He spoke of the devotion of the few, who had abandoned old parents and set out on long journeys to redeem the world. At first the Ruthenians loved them and were proud of them, but at the time of crisis they abandoned them, leaving them to their own devices. The Ruthenians themselves joined the murderers. He delivered his speech in a quiet voice, as if reading from a book.
Despair, it seemed, had not marked him even now. He told me plainly that he could no longer afford to keep a room, but he had two strong backpacks. He kept food in one and clothes in the other. During most of the spring and summer he slept in barns, and in winter the taverns were open until late at night, sometimes until dawn. At dawn, he would light a small fire and make a cup of coffee for himself.
I wanted to give him my winter coat, but he refused. “It’s not right for someone of my age to accept gifts. A man of eighty-three has few needs, and the main thing is not to exploit one’s fellow man. Isn’t that so?”
CHAPTER
24
After midnight I boarded a train, curled up next to the window, and wept. It had been years since I cried. It seemed to me that Kron was standing in the darkness and waving goodbye. Like my father, he had the hands of a worker. The empty coach and the rhythmic motion did not calm my nerves. Tears flowed from my eyes as if from a leaky vessel. It’s strange how self-pity strikes just when it seems to have been subdued.
I had two drinks, lit a cigarette, and watched the darkness falling on the leafless trees and the light growing on the horizon. A thin layer of snow covered the mountains, and a sparse, morning mist rose over the small stone houses. Now I can get off, I said to myself, and I got off.
Years ago I used to meet Gobias the wagon driver in the square in front of this station. He was a tall, laconic man who, without asking questions or even speaking, would bring me to Upper Steinberg. I greatly appreciated his silence, and never violated the constraint he imposed upon himself. Now I was glad the wagon wasn’t waiting in its place. I could make my way on foot.
According to my calculations, the train put me slightly off the main route, but that made the distance to Weinberg even shorter. From here it is twenty-four kilometers. If I am determined, I can make my way in two days. The area is hardly inhabited. A few houses are scattered on the hills, and aside from the tavern, there’s no temptation. In the past I liked to sit there, sip drinks, and look at the peasant women’s faces. The women’s drinking customs are different from the men’s. First they chat, joke, and curse. After a few drinks, a kind of bitterness falls upon them, and they withdraw into the corners and curl up like sick animals. Only when the men come in after work do they wake up and flee to their homes.
In winter, latent hatred of the Jews arises here of its own accord. A single word is enough to rekindle the blaze. In the past the curses would frighten or infuriate me. But in recent years I have liked sitting and watching the people. Once a dispute broke out here over the number of Jews in the world. Some contended that most of them had been exterminated, and only a ghost or goblin remained here and there. But the others claimed that there were many Jews, and they multiplied fast. Now they were to be found wherever there was power and money.
The owner of the tavern was pleased to see me and immediately offered me a drink and a sandwich. He calls me the man from Hungary, and for some reason he is convinced that I am planning to build a brick factory here. He told me at length what had happened in the area during the past year. Among other things he reported that in June a big party had been held in the tavern courtyard in honor of the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the Steinberg Regiment. All the veterans of the regiment had gathered, the widows, sons, and grandsons. There was even a small orchestra. The celebration lasted all night.
“And who gave the speech?” I tried to draw him out.
“Colonel Nachtigel.”
Whenever I hear Nachtigel’s name, my arms go limp, and I am afraid I won’t be up to doing the deed. I feel the same weakness in my nightmares. I want to overcome it by the hike I’m taking to Weinberg.
“Man is an insect,” I blurted out.
The tavern owner widened his eyes and then narrowed them purposely, saying, “I agree with you. Every tavern owner would agree with you. Night after night they wallow on the
floor like pigs. I have to throw them out by myself. Once they’re outside, in the cold, they wake up and crawl home on all fours. That’s how it is, night after night.”
“And can’t anything improve them?”
“Man’s a monster, don’t you know that?”
That coarse sentence summons up for me, out of nowhere, my father’s face. Father used to say, “Conditions corrupt, exploitation corrupts. Remove those obstacles, and man will be revealed to you in all his glory.” Even in the labor camp, bent over and reviled, he did not repudiate his faith. Once when he said, “Not even in hell will I deny my faith in man,” one of the prisoners, a ruffian, approached him and slapped him in the face to remind him that the Communists had burned down his cement block factory.
CHAPTER
25
I stayed at the tavern for about two hours and then set out. Snow was falling, and the cold grew more intense. But I was determined to make my way on foot. Murder is no trivial matter, and I must become fit. I progressed about two kilometers into the woods and unwrapped the pistol. I set up a target and fired a magazine. The reports were loud, and I aimed well. The accurate shots pleased me.
At this point my annual trip reaches the three-quarter mark, and here I usually permit myself to tarry a bit, to eat a good meal, and to plan the last quarter. This time a new spirit throbbed within me, as if I knew I wouldn’t be back here again.
According to the information in my possession, Nachtigel is now seventy-two. He was married but had no children. During the war his wife was responsible for sending warm clothing to the front. Nachtigel returned home from Lvov several times on leave. He didn’t bring his wife to the East. He began his career in Bucovina, transferred to Galicia, and finished his service in Poland. In all of those places he was responsible for labor camps. He killed the weak and inefficient. He would keep the strong and those with professional skills under his supervision for some time, beating them and torturing them until they weakened and died, then others would be sent in their place. For his efficiency and devotion he was promoted and received several medals.
After the war he escaped to Uruguay and lived there among other former officers. In 1968, he returned and settled in the Zwiren region. From time to time he would change houses. Three houses were at his disposal: one was his and he inherited the other two. At first he hired sentries, former soldiers of his, to guard his dwelling. After his wife died, he wasn’t afraid anymore. He settled in Steinberg and finally bought a new house in the region of his childhood, in beautiful Weinberg.
The sky was low and dark, and the snow kept falling. I felt that if I continued walking, my legs would freeze, and I would never reach Weinberg. I boarded the local that everybody calls “the little train” and curled up near a window.
The trip and the tension had exhausted me, and I closed my eyes. Again I was with my father, dragged from hut to hut, completely submerged in the Ruthenian language. Ruthenian words summon up before my eyes the straw mattresses upon which my father used to lay me down at night. It has been years since a Ruthenian word has left my mouth, but that language is still woven into my being. All the dairy dishes, the breads, the drinks—they all come to life at the sound of a single word. Nor do I forget in my sleep how the Ruthenians trampled on my father’s devotion. Nevertheless, in my sleep everything is different. Even a hostile word pleases me. I’m with Father again, as if we had never been separated.
I awoke in a panic and went to the dining car. In this season it is often crammed with drunks. They wallow in their hallucinations and invoke the memory of their army days, when they ate out of cans and swept through the Russian steppes on motorcycles to conquer the world. But this time the dining car was empty. The owner lost both his legs during the war. He offered me a sandwich.
After making the sandwich, he sat down next to me. During the war he served in Czernowitz for some time, moved on to Galicia, and finished his service in Poland. At the end of the war he tried to escape from a prison camp, but the cold was fierce, his legs froze, and he developed gangrene. Had it not been for an old Ukrainian woman who took him to the hospital, he probably would have died. I ask him if he happened to run into Nachtigel on his way. To my surprise he disclosed many details about him to me. He had been under Nachtigel’s command for some time and had seen him at work: he was a professional.
“What made him a professional?” I asked.
“His faith that the extermination of Jews would bring relief to the world,” he answered, short and swift.
“You also believed.”
“Certainly. Without belief, you don’t kill.” His blue eyes looked directly at me. There is no regret in his heart. On the contrary, the years and the suffering have only intensified his faith. I overcame my muteness and raised my voice: “It is forbidden to kill.”
“That’s true, but we had to kill the Jews.”
If he weren’t a cripple, I would have taken him by the throat and throttled him. There was no one in the dining car, just the two of us, but his proximity paralyzed me. Still, I got my tongue to work and shouted, “No excuses, murderer!”
“I’m not making an excuse. I’m going right to the point. Extermination of the Jews was a great task, a historical mission. No one could have overcome them. They controlled everything. Only the Germans, in partnership with the Austrians, could bring it off. Clear thinking was necessary, thinking without fear, without hesitation, and with great precision.”
“Shut your mouth!” I grabbed his throat.
“My legs have been amputated. I have no choice but to obey your instructions.”
“You’re a murderer!”
“I’m not a murderer. I did what I was told.”
I punched his face. He was scared but didn’t call for help. His face became rigid.
“No politeness!” I told him. “For killers there is no politeness.”
“I’m not asking for mercy,” he stammered. “I hate mercy.”
“I didn’t beat you for what you did in the past. For that I should kill you. I beat you for your thoughts now. If I were braver, if I had something of you in me, I wouldn’t hesitate to butcher you.”
He didn’t reply, and I kept on shouting and threatening. But the more I shouted, the slacker my hands grew, and weakness seeped into me. Finding no other words to say, I called him a murderer again, a bloody murderer. The words came out of my mouth soundlessly, drowned out by the deafening noise of the wheels. When the train reached the station, I stepped to the door, and from there I threatened: “There’s no forgiveness, not even for cripples.” I got off the train and walked away hurriedly.
Only at a distance from the iron tracks did I feel how awkward my words had been. As after every failure, this time, too, I felt physically unclean: A greasy odor rose from my clothing, and my face was unshaven. I paused. This was the way to Weinberg, I knew it well. It was hard to go wrong: tall oaks grew along the road, sheltering the low houses. Still, it seemed to me that I hadn’t gotten here under my own power, but that a kind of nightmare had propelled me from tunnel to tunnel, through long railway cars, ugly buffets, and iron-barred caves, where tethered horses stood with frightening patience.
CHAPTER
26
From here to Weinberg is a distance of two and a half kilometers. But before going up to the village, I must visit Lotte, Rabbi Zimmel’s cousin. After the war she returned to her native village and found that the cemetery had been broken into. The tombstones had been desecrated, and weeds covered the graves. She immediately rented a small house near the cemetery and began to restore it. Like her elderly cousin, she never again left the village.
Over the years her face changed, and now her figure is like a local peasant woman’s, short and sturdy. Her brow is tan, and talk is hard for her. When I appear at the door, she steps backward and an awkward smile spreads over her face.
“How are you, Lotte?”
“Fine,” she said, her smile becoming more awkward.
“It’s ve
ry cold in Steinberg.”
“It’s cold here, too.”
That’s about how our conversations usually begin and end. It’s hard to draw a word out of her. Sometimes when I ask, she shows me the cemetery, which is full of flowers now and looks like an exotic garden. But, she surprised me this time.
“How is my cousin?”
This caught me short, but I recovered quickly and lied, “Excellent.”
“Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Gladly.”
She stepped away to prepare the tea, and I surveyed the house. It was an old peasant house whose low ceiling and thick beams grazed your head. The building was no more than a square room with an old brick oven in the middle. Some distance from the oven are a wooden table and two benches. At one side, an old dresser. These appear to be all her possessions.
In the past she would tell me about her garden, about the cow, Lily, about her good nature and the fine milk she produced. If I happened to come at the end of the summer, she would make a little package of cucumbers and tomatoes for me. Over the years her words had grown scarcer. Her contact with people, which was limited in any event, became even more restricted.
She served me the cup of tea. “Thank you very much,” I said, but she didn’t respond. I saw my presence wasn’t easy for her. She sat across from me, shrunken, without uttering a word. If she weren’t so closed, I would tell her about her elderly cousin’s death. It’s hard for me to know how to deal with heavy-tongued people. I was afraid of a sudden outburst and didn’t reveal a thing to her. Fortunately, she didn’t ask again, and I was glad.
A year ago she complained to me that hooligans had broken through the fence and desecrated the tombstones. She spoke with great anger, and it was clear that if a trespasser had found his way onto her land, she would not have hesitated to raise an axe against him.
The Iron Tracks Page 10
