Menachem keeps asking if we have not lost our way, and Sruel promises him that the Prut is our guide; just as the Prut strives to reach the sea, so do we. Since Menachem rose from his sickbed he has been filled with anxiety, and he’s once again afraid that one night he will be thrown off the wagon. Everyone has tried to convince him otherwise, but his fear is stronger than he is. Whenever the wagon stops he asks, “Where are we?” as if there were names to the places here.
At night we stop and light bonfires. Tzilla cooks soup for all of us. We are so few, hardly twenty men, barely two prayer groups, and the thick darkness that surrounds us is frightening. Our ranks have greatly thinned, and we now huddle alongside the old men who have survived.
After prayers, the old men gather around Ephraim’s pallet and ask how he’s feeling. He’s embarrassed. He apologizes and says that soon he will be on his feet and will no longer be a burden. The old men soothe him with affectionate words. He doesn’t speak about his pain. Once a day they remove his shirt and rub into his wounds ointment that we bought from the peasants. It doesn’t seem as though his wounds have started to heal.
—
One evening, while we were still seated around the bonfire and trying to soak up the warmth, one of the wagon drivers got up. Without any warning, and in a voice that without any doubt was his own voice, he said, “I’m off.”
“Where?”
“I’m going back home.”
Sruel went over to him. “What’s got into you?”
“I’ve wandered around enough; a man has to return home.”
“What wrong have we done you?”
“Nothing, but I must return home. That’s all.” The wagon driver spoke in a forceful tone of voice.
“What home are you talking about? This is your home. We are your home.”
“And don’t I have a home in Pietrikov?”
“Your home in Pietrikov was burned down, dear fellow. You must get that house out of your head.”
“That’s true, you’re right.”
“We are going straight from here to Galacz. By Hanukkah, God willing, we will be in Jerusalem. It will have been worth it, believe me. There are things for whose sake life is worth living. I wouldn’t give up on our convoy for anything.”
“Why did I feel that I had to return to Pietrikov?”
“It was a mistake. Our feelings can mislead us. What’s back there for us? Only troubles.”
“You say that there’s no point in returning home?”
“That’s just what I’m saying, because this is our home and we have no other.”
“How strange,” said the wagon driver, and his large, crude features took on the sorrowful expression of a beast of burden.
—
That night the wagon drivers drank themselves into drunkenness. Sruel spoke at length about the need for courage and for preparation for the journey’s end, because that would be our true test. Since his recovery from the epidemic, Sruel has become extremely thin, but he does not appear to be weak. He speaks fervently, spurring people to action. The wagon drivers do his bidding, and everyone hangs on his words. The convoy, if the truth be told, moves forward according to Sruel’s moods. When he’s sad, his sadness weighs down on us, but when he’s fired by enthusiasm—and he usually is full of enthusiasm—he’ll climb onto a crate and call out, “Jews, redemption is at hand! Don’t be lazy!” Standing on a crate, he’s like a hooligan who incites the village against the owners of the estate, full of power and belief. As for the wagon driver who wanted to return to his hometown, he walked about for several days wrapped in his coat and without uttering a word. In vain did people try to influence him. His longings, or whatever it was that he felt, must have driven him mad. One evening, without saying a word, he turned toward the Prut and jumped in. Everyone saw him jump, but no one was able to save him. The river seethed like the mythical Sambatyon.
42
Even we did not know how close we were to Galacz. The following day, we stood at its gates. It was morning, and the streets were packed with carriages and wagons. Galacz was a city like any other, but for some reason the facades of the buildings seemed darker. In jest, Sruel called out in Ruthenian, “Make way for pilgrims!” We made slow progress, and our ears picked out the jumble of languages: Romanian, Turkish, and Ruthenian. Everyone seemed to be streaming toward the port, yet the streets were too narrow to accommodate the throngs. But our wagon drivers were a step ahead: they turned onto the side streets and bypassed the traffic. Not an hour had passed, and we saw the water.
“There’s more to go, but we’ll make it shorter,” called Sruel. Over the past few days he had been overflowing with faith and confidence, and if anyone complained or became depressed, Sruel would call out in contrast, “Remember, there’s no God like ours.”
We went from one alley to the next. The Jews were fleet of foot: the money changers and the middlemen scurried from doorway to doorway. After the days we spent being so close to death, the haste of these people seemed a little ridiculous.
We bought fresh bread, sheep’s cheese, and pickles. The hunger that had seized us as we began to recover was still plaguing us. We ate whatever we could lay our hands on, but we never felt full. Itcheh Meir no longer stole clothes, but loaves of bread and sausages.
“Where are you going?” a stall owner asked.
“To Jerusalem.”
This holy name makes no impression here. Everyone knows that old Jews travel to Jerusalem, but sturdy ones like Sruel—why would they travel there? Sruel says jokingly that one hour in Jerusalem is worth seven years in Galacz. The dealers here are practical creatures, and if neither money nor something valuable is involved, they are not interested. And the Jews here, even though they speak Yiddish, do not resemble Jews.
Shimkeh and Chiyuk now look after my teacher, Old Avraham, because all the cash that we had been given for the wagons and the horses was sewn into his coat. My teacher has grown weaker, but his eyesight is undimmed, and whenever a money changer or middleman pounces on us, he tugs at my sleeve and says, “Come hear this rogue. Listen to how he tries to fool people.”
Toward evening we found a large deserted area and halted the wagons. Shimkeh and Chiyuk brought firewood, and Tzilla started a fire, put a pot over it, and began preparing supper. Tzilla’s cooking had the taste of home. And now that sheep’s cheese was added to the potatoes, our appetite was boundless. Tzilla wasn’t stingy and served more to anyone who wanted it.
There were only a few of us left. Yesterday our musical trio fled. I saw them sneaking away, crouching like thieves. As it turned out, everyone had seen them, but no one shouted at them to come back. They ran toward the water and hid beneath some willow trees. Shimkeh, who was sitting on the ground and eating his meal, said, “Our trio has run away. Shame on them; I’m not going to run after them.”
Chiyuk was blunter.
“I’m not going to miss them,” he said. “Lately, the way they’ve played only made me feel gloomy.”
“Don’t blame them,” said Shimkeh, “they’re afraid of Jerusalem.”
“What’s there to fear?”
“They’re afraid that in Jerusalem they’ll be brought to trial.”
“I didn’t hear them speak of it.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Everyone’s afraid of Jerusalem, but they don’t dare to speak about it.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Chiyuk. “I’ve done what I’ve done and I’ve served my twenty-four years in jail. I’ve had what was coming to me.”
“Murderers aren’t liked anywhere, and in Jerusalem they’ll be reminded of their evildoing morning and night.”
“I’d tell them immediately what I’ve done and how many years I’ve served. You don’t punish people twice.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. If anyone starts up with me, I’ll thrash him.”
“The Turks will put you straight into solitary. The Turks are crueler than the Romanians. They cut off thumbs.
”
“You only die once.”
“That’s true, but it isn’t always easily.”
“I’m going to die easily.”
“How do you know?”
“I feel sure of it.”
“Death can be very drawn out, with lots of suffering.”
“Not for me.”
“How come you’re so sure?”
“I just am.”
Sruel was busy chopping branches and I was sitting to one side, listening to Shimkeh and Chiyuk’s conversation. Their voices, unusual for them, were clear. Apparently death had preoccupied them for years, but until now they had never talked about it. While we were laying out the bedding and watering the horses, two thugs pounced upon my teacher. But Shimkeh and Chiyuk were quicker than they were. They grabbed the thugs and beat them mercilessly. There are thieves and rogues everywhere, but here they seem to swarm out of every corner. Sruel said something strange. “Everything is filthy except for Jerusalem.”
It was a cold night, but no rain fell. Tzilla had bought excellent coffee from one of the dealers and prepared Turkish coffee and baked a cheesecake. Even though there were so few of us and we were weak and tired, we enjoyed the coffee and cake and the warmth of the bonfire. There was a feeling of closeness that brought other days to mind, days when we had been more numerous and more unified, the old men and the dealers occupied with their own concerns but not cut off from one another. The thought that our musical trio, whom we had loved so much, had abandoned us so close to the boat tightened our hearts and dampened our spirits.
43
The following day, in the half-light of early morning, we set out in the direction of the harbor. The wide wagons, which had once overflowed with people and packages, were jostled easily, and their emptiness echoed in the deserted streets. The water glittered from afar and long ships discharged black vapor.
“Laish, have you prayed already?” My teacher, Old Avraham, grasped my forearm.
“Not yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Perhaps we’ll have a minyan.”
“It is forbidden to depend on miracles.”
Since the epidemic, we have not had a prayer group. My teacher has been trying in vain to bring the men together. Everyone is preoccupied by his own affairs. Even Ephraim, who used to pray devotedly, will only mutter a few blessings, as if he were discharging an obligation, and no more. It’s hard to pray without a group. My teacher rebukes us again and again, saying that life without prayer reduces one to below the level of the beasts of the field, or even plants. Even animals and plants yearn for the Creator, and they express that yearning in their mooing and rustling.
“Life without yearning for God is a base life. Have pity on your life and pray,” my teacher pleads.
Being jostled from place to place has not made old visions recede. Last evening the memory of Mamshe surfaced again. When we sold another two horses and two wagons, the buyer asked about the large cage and what it was for. Sruel, who conducted the negotiations, was embarrassed for a moment, but quickly rallied and said, “It’s for sick animals or storage.” The explanation seemed reasonable enough to the peasant, because he inquired no further.
Since Sruel spoke those words, it was as though Mamshe had come back to life. Last night they talked about her at length. Ephraim said that in the past few days he had seen her several times, and it appeared as though she were wandering about in the vicinity. Even though his visions have been shown to be false, they can still have an effect on us. Blind Menachem also heard her voice at night, and she was revealed to me in a dream, in the same green dress that she always wore, only more beautiful.
“There’s no doubt,” said Ephraim, “that if we manage to bring her to Jerusalem, she’ll be healed.” He told us how, many years ago, two people—a man and a woman—were sent to Jerusalem from his hometown. They had been crazy, and after a year came the good news that they had been healed.
—
We arrived at the coast by noon. It was a deserted strip of land, and all the debris of the port was littered along it. Some scrawny dogs who had found shelter in the garbage burst out of their den and fled. The coast was neglected, but the waters glittered dark blue. Several ships sailed by in the distance, and their elongated appearance made them seem huge. Ephraim was greatly moved by the sight; he stood up and recited a blessing.
The harbor itself was not far, but for some reason we didn’t rush to get there. The winter sun was kind; it warmed us and dried our clothes a bit. Sruel took out the nets, and we immediately began to spread them out on the water. Handling the nets brought to mind the Prut’s beautiful curves, its swiftly flowing waters, and the boulders that jut out like fearsome water creatures. The haul was not big, but it was enough for lunch.
“These are not like the fish of the Prut that melt in your mouth,” said Shimkeh, and everyone agreed with him. Tzilla was happy that she had the provisions to prepare us a meal. Once we had been a large community of men, women, and children. Now all we needed were two or three pots.
We sat silently, as if we grasped for the first time that we were the remnants of a large camp, part of which had scattered and part of which had died strange deaths. The late Fingerhut used to say that the convoy was the figment of a sick mind; he would also say that a thief’s end is jail.
As we were sitting there our fiddler appeared, as if rising from the depths. He stood at a bit of a distance, the fiddle in his hand, as if he were afraid to draw near.
“Shmuel Yosef!” called Sruel.
On hearing this, Shmuel Yosef moved to the side. Now everyone got up and wanted to go over to him, but it was just this reaction that terrified Shmuel Yosef, and he ducked down. Then it was decided that only my teacher, Old Avraham, would approach him. But when my teacher did so, his presence must have unnerved the fiddler, and he fled.
About an hour later, Shmuel Yosef emerged from his hiding place, came over to us, and sat down alongside one of the wagons. Only now did we see how worn out he was; his shoulders drooped and a bitter expression hung on the corners of his mouth.
“What happened?” asked Sruel.
“Nothing.”
“And where are the others?”
“I don’t know.”
People did not bother him further, and he sat where he was without moving. Suddenly he opened his mouth and said, “I didn’t want to run away. They forced me to. I had it good here.” No one reacted to what he said, so he added, “If you don’t want me, I’ll take off. I’m not blaming anyone.”
On hearing this, Sruel went over to him and said, “What are you talking about, Shmuel Yosef, we love you just as you are. You were our fiddler and you’ll always be our fiddler. We love your playing and we wouldn’t trade it for anyone else’s playing.”
Shmuel Yosef raised his head and opened his eyes wide, wondering if his ears were not deceiving him.
“You mustn’t worry,” continued Sruel. “You’ll play and we’ll see to everything else.”
“And you forgive me?” he asked in a choked voice.
“Why do we need to forgive you? Have you done us any wrong? You only brought us good things.”
Shmuel Yosef lowered his head and his faded baldness revealed everything that his face couldn’t express: embarrassment and contrition.
That night we experienced a closeness that we had not felt for months. Conversation flowed from every corner; people drank coffee and reminisced. Even Itcheh Meir, whose thief’s mark was carved on his forehead, disclosed to us something about his compulsion that greatly moved us. Finally, Shmuel Yosef was asked to play; he agreed and stood up. There was great excitement, and when he was finished everyone went over to him and embraced him.
44
The next day no one stirred. Tzilla put up a full pot of excellent coffee and people sat and drank silently. The joy of the previous night had receded; it was impossible to patch together a conversation from what remained. We were afraid to leave the place. T
he feeling was that were we to move, people would disperse and we would never find them again.
“This is a good observation point,” Sruel said, “and we should watch and wait. There’s no hurry, and we must regain our strength.” Even he, who had been so eager to reach the harbor, did not hurry now. But it was Tzilla’s cooking, more than anything else, that kept us tethered to that deserted strip of the shore. Shimkeh and Chiyuk improved the stove and collected driftwood, and Tzilla set to cooking and baking with the diligence of a seasoned chef. The winter sun hung low and pale, and at night we would make bonfires that radiated light and warmth.
The epidemic had greatly weakened our herald, Reb Pinchas. Only here did he begin to rally, and something of his old expression returned. In contrast to the rest of us, he had lost his appetite. Tzilla would make him gruel with honey, promising that the honey would heal him, that there was no remedy better than honey.
It turned out that Pinchas had been harboring a plan to collect a large group of people who would travel throughout the Jewish Diaspora, from city to village and from village to city, to give heart to the weak and the oppressed and to instill faith within them.
“And what of the Redemption?” Sruel asked.
“We’ll travel to Jerusalem and from there we’ll draw strength. As we say, ‘From out of Zion will go forth the Torah, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.’ ”
“I don’t understand you,” said Sruel. “We’ll leave Jerusalem?”
“We won’t leave her forever. We’ll fulfill the verse From out of Zion will go forth the Torah literally, with a large group that will include a choir and a trio of musicians. We’ll prepare everyone in Jerusalem. When the choir is ready, we’ll go forth and travel throughout the Diaspora, which is full of darkness and sadness and is in need of a little happiness. At the end of each tour, we’ll return to Jerusalem, until we have saved them all. Doesn’t this make sense?”
Laish Page 17
