This answer had surprised the old man and he said, “Be that as it may.”
After that conversation, Sruel treated the falcon differently. Although he didn’t drive it away, he didn’t show it the affection he had shown it earlier. The falcon sensed Sruel’s standoffishness and made many graceful swooping motions to endear itself to him. In time, the old man’s warning was erased from Sruel’s heart, and he went back to loving the wondrous creature that clung to him.
“Sruel,” I said.
“What do you want, dear boy?”
“Have the waters receded?” I asked, just as my teacher once asked.
“I don’t understand you,” said Sruel, and he chuckled. His laughter exposed his tired face and all the goodness hidden inside it.
38
It was only the following day that I learned how close I had really been to being with my mother and my father. I wanted to remember that brief touch, but the feeling eluded me and faded. Sruel brought me a bowl of gruel and a cup of tea. His expression was full of forgiveness, and I saw how utterly selfless his devotion to the sick was. Shimkeh and Chiyuk, who had never taken part in the prayers, now seemed like two pious Jews in later life. Their hard years in jail could not be seen in their bearing. They cared for the sick devotedly, like servants who had learned to love their labor.
To my surprise, the first to raise himself up a bit and show some signs of life was Ephraim. “Thank you, Sruel,” he called out to Sruel, who had brought him a bowl of gruel. His face was pale, and a wonderment glowed in his eyes.
“Good to see you, Ephraim.” The words slipped out of me.
“Who is it?” he said with surprise.
“It’s me, Laish. I feel better.”
“Me, too.”
“What happened to us?” I asked like a simpleton.
“We got sick. You don’t know that we got sick?”
Perhaps because of the peaked cap that he wore on his head, Ephraim looked happy that he was still alive. I was also happy to be alive. People go through the torments of sickness, and then they are spared—and alive.
“Did they also bring you gruel?” Ephraim asked in a childlike voice.
“Sruel brought me some excellent gruel,” I replied immediately, and the memory of its pleasant warmth again sweetened my lips.
Evening came, and the blue lights of the night shone coolly. Two large bonfires burned at the entrance to the mill, but their warmth could not be felt. I felt that the last few days had given us a cruel kneading. Whoever survived would never be the same. Shimkeh and Chiyuk were different, too. For now, at least, they were on their feet, taking quick swigs from their bottles and dashing from place to place. Sruel told them what to do and they were as obedient as day laborers, at the same time growling, “What’s past is gone.”
—
That night we learned that Bronscha had passed away. That strong and bitter woman, who looked like a peasant and cursed like one, had succumbed. Since her return, she had become beloved by us all. Occasionally, a torrent of rage would gush out from within her, but mostly she was quiet and absorbed in her work—helping the old men without asking for payment. Now she, too, was in the World of Truth. From Sruel’s expression, I learned that death had settled into every corner. Had Shimkeh and Chiyuk been less drunk, they would have been enlisted in the struggle against it, but in their unstable condition they could barely carry out small tasks. Sruel wasn’t angry at them, but despair was chiseled into his face.
Most of the day the skies were clear and cold and the silence was thick. Had it not been for the groans of the horses, which were now tied up like prisoners, were it not for those dumb creatures, which would occasionally raise their heads up from the grass to let out a sorrowful neigh, the silence would have overwhelmed us. The bonfires burned without pause. Shimkeh or Chiyuk would come by every hour to toss a log or a bunch of twigs onto the piles, and the fires would flare up.
Sleep was as hard as sickness. Sruel tried giving water to those burning up with fever, but their heads would droop in his hands. Eventually, Sruel himself collapsed. Now the camp burned without anyone looking after it. Large stars hung low at night, illuminating the wagons. Sometimes a cry for help would come from the wagons, only to break off immediately. Shimkeh and Chiyuk were drunk, and they staggered about as if they were asleep. A few of the sick were very demanding, and they kept Shimkeh and Chiyuk constantly on their feet. But most of them were quiet, sunk within their illness.
One evening Ephraim lifted his head.
“Laish, can you hear me?” he cried out.
“I hear you.”
“I wanted to tell you that I knew your parents well. They were decent and honest people.”
“Why do you say decent and honest?” I made it hard going.
“Because some people did cast doubt on their good name. But you have nothing to worry about. They were decent and honest.”
“What sort of doubt was cast on them?”
“They were—how can I say it?—they were unusual people.”
“What’s wrong with that, Ephraim?”
“They were different from the rest.”
“Were they smugglers?”
“God forbid.”
“What did they do?”
“They helped the poor, even poor peasants who were not of our people.”
“And why did this give them a bad name?”
“Because they would organize strikes and demand justice for the poor. You have nothing to worry about. They were decent people. I don’t know if I’ve done right by telling you. Last night I saw them in a dream. It’s been years since I’ve seen them.”
“Why didn’t they join our convoy?”
“They were carried off by typhoid. Typhoid will carry us all off.”
“Ephraim, I thank you for what you’ve told me.”
“I’m not sure if I’ve done right by telling you. It seems that I needed to.”
“I’ve always felt that something was not altogether right.”
“Don’t pay any attention to the slanderers. Your parents were decent, honest people and they helped all those who were wretched. They passed away on Hanukkah, on the day of the first candle. Both at the same time, I think. Don’t forget to say Kaddish.”
“Thank you, Ephraim, I won’t forget.”
“They called them Communists, but it doesn’t matter.”
39
Then I was overcome by a deep sleep. I was once again on the road alongside the Prut, but this time I was with my parents. They were wearing short coats and they stood at the doorway of a sawmill, arguing with the overseers. They looked thin beside the sturdy overseers. Almighty God, I said to myself, my parents fought for the downtrodden, and I worry only about myself. Anyone who worries only about himself has no divine spark within him. I must recover and regain my strength, and I must stand up for the weak. Only he who stands up for the rights of the weak will find redemption. There is no other redemption. That’s how the words came out of my mouth. I knew these were not my words, and yet they rolled off my tongue as if they were.
When people awoke from their sleep, they were pale and gaunt, as if their flesh had been passed through a thresher. Hunger gaped from lifeless eyes. Even though they were drunk and woozy, Shimkeh and Chiyuk stood beside the large pots and served anyone who held out a bowl.
These were the same fields through which we had previously made our way, and yet they were different. The desolation stretched all the way to the horizon. The few trees were shriveled; their parched branches rustled dryly. The horses, who only a few days earlier had been whinnying lustily, now stood silently gazing at us with a heavy sadness.
Whoever had the strength to rise to his feet would go over to the bonfires. A few of the old men managed to overcome their weakness and climb down from the wagons. They held their frail hands out to the fire. I didn’t move from Sruel’s pallet. It was hard to believe that a man like Sruel could succumb like anyone else. I moistened his lips a
nd prayed to God to speed his recovery. Without him, we would be lost.
At night, when everyone else was fast asleep, Shimkeh and Chiyuk would drag logs from the nearby woods and throw them onto the fire. The fire blazed throughout the night. I noticed that Shimkeh and Chiyuk had stopped speaking. They mumble, and fractured syllables come out instead. They’ve started calling me Vagadu. Their steps are as heavy as the logs that they drag, and their long coats make them seem short.
The days that followed were white and cold, and at night the bonfires gave off a harsh light. We drank tea and ate roasted potatoes. I would sit for hours staring at the horses and at Sruel’s two emaciated dogs. Since his illness, they have lost their zest. They don’t touch the food that I give them and spend most of the day curled up under Sruel’s wagon. Whenever he coughs or sighs, they prick up their ears.
There was little talking. You could hear the fields breathe, the gurgling of the brooks, and the murmuring of the Prut. Sometimes a stray cow or a foal would wander over, gaze at us for a moment, and then flee. The winter light was thick, and it flowed beneath our feet slowly, like frozen water that had broken apart. Darkness came early; when it did, we would all collapse heavily into the jaws of sleep.
Ephraim began talking to me again about my parents. It must have troubled him because he again swore to me that my parents were honest and decent people and that anyone who had given them a bad name would not get off lightly. It was not for themselves that they had worked so hard, but for the sake of widows and orphans.
“Were they young?” I asked for some reason.
“They were very young,” Ephraim was quick to reply.
—
Peasants arrived from neighboring villages and spread their wares on the ground. Anyone who could summon the strength to drag his legs would go over to them and buy something. Shimkeh and Chiyuk bought dried fruits for the old men and vodka for themselves. They drank nonstop, and their drunkenness made us dizzy. It was hard to stand on one’s legs, but even harder still to lie on the hard bedding.
Between the first light of day and the dark of night, several images appeared to me: Sruel’s falcon did not stir from his side. Sruel drove him away, but the bird was not deterred and returned to him. Ephraim spoke to Shimkeh and to Chiyuk as if they hadn’t beaten him, as if they were his childhood friends. Shimkeh and Chiyuk did all the work without saying anything, but occasionally a wave of anger surged out of them, and they fell upon the tethered horses and beat them.
My teacher, Old Avraham, opened his eyes wide and called out, “Laish!” In my excitement I wanted to say a blessing, but the words had left my mouth. I moistened his forehead with water and immediately saw that he had spent many days struggling with the Angel of Death. His face was scratched and two wounds festered on his neck.
Death, I felt, no longer clung to us, but hovered over us. Giving charity saves you from death! I remember the rattling of the charity boxes at the entrances to the graveyards. Now there is no need to pile on entreaties. The dealers give charity generously, as if they finally understand that life is short and that it’s best to dispense with money at the right time.
Tzilla has risen to her feet and stands at the stove cooking soup in large pots. Since Bronscha’s death, she has taken her place. It’s hard for her to stand and so she leans against the railing of one of the wagons. A blind old man, Yosef Haim, is trying to revive the prayer group. The old men find it hard to climb off the wagons. Even though he is barely steady on his feet, Yosef Haim manages the impossible and brings his friends tea or gruel, entreating them to rise for the prayer group. It seems to me, too, that if we begin the day with prayer, we will regain our strength and be back on our feet. A life without prayer is meaningless. Before I fall asleep, I recite the prayers that I remember by heart. But it’s hard to pray without a prayer group. Prayer without a minyan has no wings; it sinks down to the lower depths.
The big secret, the secret surrounding those who are missing and have died, Shimkeh and Chiyuk carry within themselves. During the past weeks many have passed away. The wagons have emptied out, and loosened knapsacks and parcels are strewn alongside the wagons. Clothes that once covered people lie torn and shameful on the ground. Shimkeh and Chiyuk were the sole witnesses to the disappearances. Who knows the fate of these people? If Shimkeh is asked where the missing have gone, he waves his hand as if he were about to bring down a horsewhip on a rebellious animal and spits to the side.
40
Then the cold became very fierce, and those who could drag themselves to the forest and gather firewood got up and staggered over. The bonfires blazed, but they were barely able to warm the hands that stretched out toward them. We bought strips of cured leather from the peasants and wrapped them around the frozen legs of the old men.
“We’ll die in this wasteland. They did well, those who ran away,” one dealer grumbled to himself. But I was sure that this time, too, I would be saved. Since Old Yehezkiel had blessed me, his blessing protected me, and I knew that whatever danger threatened us would not touch me.
Meanwhile, peasants from the surrounding area brought their sick to the old men. The old men overcame their own weakness to get up and bless them. The peasants have a deep-seated faith in our old men. The old men lay their pale hands on the heads of the sick children while the children scream loudly.
My teacher, Old Avraham, opened his eyes again to ask how Ephraim was. I told him. I was afraid that he would ask about the others. Shimkeh and Chiyuk have kept secret the whereabouts of the many who have disappeared, and will reveal nothing to anyone. It may be that they themselves don’t know too much; they have been wallowing in drunkenness for weeks. My teacher discussed with me the verse The heavens are the Lord’s, and the earth He has given to mankind. He warned me against asking too much, since questions are the province of Satan. Satan pretends to be an innocent questioner, but in truth his intention is to ensnare you. After every attempt, one must devote oneself to prayer. Were it not for prayer, we would be exposed to every misfortune. My teacher already told me these things more than once, but now his words carry a new power.
Then our wagons were beset by unfamiliar creatures: a few village thieves and two wounded soldiers. Previously, they would never have dared to approach us, but now that our wagon drivers were also sick, they rummaged through the knapsacks and parcels that lay alongside the wagons.
“Send them on their way,” Sruel ordered. But Shimkeh and Chiyuk, who usually do his bidding, made dismissive gestures, as if to say, What does it matter? Eventually, Sruel raised his voice and chased them away.
—
Jews do not inhabit this desolate region. But yesterday, a Jewish peddler arrived, and when he heard that we were journeying to Jerusalem, his eyes opened wide in alarm.
“Don’t do this,” he said.
“Why?” Sruel asked.
“Because the road is dangerous.”
“In Galacz you get on a ship that brings you straight to the Land of Israel. Didn’t you know?”
“The sea is the most dangerous.”
“We aren’t afraid.”
Apparently the peddler didn’t expect to get such a response and was taken aback.
“If only I had some of your faith,” he said after a while. “Here there are no Jews. All the Jews have fled this place; I’m all alone here.”
“What are you afraid of?” Sruel lifted his hands.
“Everything,” said the peddler with a tearful smile.
“By us it is written, ‘You must not be afraid.’ If it’s so written, that means there must be something to it.”
“But I’m afraid all the same. The nights are the most frightening for me.”
“You mustn’t be afraid. Fear is a great sin.”
“What should I do to overcome the fear?”
“Say ‘The Lord is our God’ three times a day.”
“That will uproot the fear from my heart?”
“Without a doubt.”
“I
’ll try,” he said and went on his way.
The peddler’s expression remains with me. Some expressions can be harder than words. Words can be revoked, but a fixed gaze seeps into you like poison. I once heard my teacher say, “Lower your gaze and don’t stare.” Now I know what he meant. Even Ploosh the Cruel was sensitive to people’s glances. If he ever sensed someone staring at him, he would raise his head and shout, “Take your eyes off me!”
Meanwhile, Shimkeh and Chiyuk have adopted a new habit, a frightening habit. At night they take Ploosh’s revolver out of its hiding place, fire it into the air, and shout. Sruel, who has the power to make them do his bidding, doesn’t stop them.
“Let them amuse themselves a bit. They work hard all the time,” says Sruel, and he laughs at the strange sight of them in their long coats.
41
Shortly thereafter we sold three wagons and six horses, as well as the belongings left behind by those who had disappeared and those who had fled. The sale was swift and successful, but we felt like thieves. Sruel returned and downed a few glasses. Then he stood there giving people encouragement and promising that everything was for the best. Now we were lighter and the road to Jerusalem was open. But no one paid any attention to what he was saying. Shimkeh and Chiyuk sat hunched over the bonfire. People didn’t remember their devotion and didn’t come over to thank them. Surprisingly, they weren’t annoyed at this ingratitude. They wallowed in their drunkenness, their faces closed and expressionless.
We set off without saying prayers. The old men sat in the first wagon. Very few were left. The wind was strong, but the tarpaulins protected us and the usual stuffiness prevailed inside. Before we left, the old men tried to find out where the dead had been buried. They pleaded with Shimkeh and Chiyuk to show them the graves. Evasive at first, Shimkeh and Chiyuk eventually claimed that no one aside from Bronscha had passed away, that everyone else had escaped. The old men didn’t believe them. Shimkeh raised his hands and cried out, “We did the best we could; don’t come complaining to us.”
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