Laish

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “But we haven’t yet reached Jerusalem,” Sruel insisted.

  Pinchas has greatly changed, although it seems to me that he is still pale. His plan is full of details and sounds logical enough, but there is something about him that’s not right. Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps my own fearfulness prevents me from seeing things as they are. Menachem asked Pinchas if he could join the choir, and Pinchas promised him that his place in the choir was assured because he had proved himself more than once. On hearing Pinchas’s answer, a smile of relief spread across Menachem’s face. Pinchas’s plans frighten me. People with great visions always have tremendous plans. Dealers are also visionaries, but in the end they turn visions into commodities. And where are they now, those knights of tobacco and salt?

  I curled up under the tarpaulin, but I couldn’t sleep a wink. Since the epidemic I haven’t touched my notebook. Many have abandoned us and many have passed away, and there is no trace of them in the notebook. I pray with all my heart that Old Ya’akov will not be too angry at me. My teacher, too, does not rest. Again and again he entreats Sruel to go back to the place where those in the convoy who died were given a hasty burial.

  “A Jew who isn’t given a Jewish burial suffers greatly. It is our obligation to arrange for this and to do right by him,” my teacher pleads. Shimkeh and Chiyuk are brought before him again. Once again, they swear like peasants that, apart from Bronscha, not a single person from the convoy died in that dreadful place, and that Bronscha was given a Jewish burial in a village called Lutznitz. My teacher hears their testimony with his eyes closed. The eyes of murderers are unclean, and it is forbidden to gaze into them. My heart also tells me that they’re not revealing the whole truth, but how can we prove they are lying? They were the only witnesses to our sickness, and only they saw what happened there.

  —

  Meanwhile, the wagon drivers have returned to their evil ways. When they get drunk, they force Shmuel Yosef to play for them. Shmuel Yosef does not argue or refuse, but a plaintive sobbing rises from his taut strings.

  “Why don’t you play some cheerful Jewish tunes for us?” Shimkeh asked, but Shmuel Yosef was so immersed in his playing that he did not hear him. In his drunkenness, Chiyuk poured a pail of kerosene onto the bonfire and almost set the wagons on fire. People tried to prevent him from doing it, but he overpowered them and poured. The flames leaped to great heights, and soot rained down on us.

  “You’ve ruined our nice bonfire!” someone said, but Chiyuk ignored him. He was staggeringly drunk, and it was fortunate that he had no revolver within reach. Sensing danger, Sruel had hidden it from him, and so we were spared a dreadful tragedy that night.

  45

  Then it began to rain fiercely, and we were forced to abandon the place. The distance to the harbor was not great, but we were mired in mud. The wagons got stuck in it, and every few feet we had to get out and push them. By the afternoon we had managed to pull ourselves out of the muck and drop anchor in the streets alongside the harbor. Now we were in the very heart of the port, in the midst of the hustle and bustle, being jostled from place to place amid a huge crowd. I had previously been in big cities, but I had never seen such a crush as this. People were almost trampled under the horses’ hooves.

  After hours of jostling, we were tossed into a crowded forecourt that was full of wagons. I say “tossed,” but this isn’t the truth. A tall, sturdy man suddenly appeared, shouted, “Follow me!” and carved out a path for us. It was obvious that this man ruled the mob and that they would do whatever he said. His help, of course, wasn’t free. He immediately demanded his fee, and it was steep. Had all the wagon drivers been with us, we wouldn’t have paid what we did. Only three of them remained: Shimkeh, Chiyuk, and Sruel. Although they protected us heroically, they couldn’t stand up against the threats of this thug. It soon became clear to us that he was the leader of a large gang and had scores of thugs behind him.

  And this did not end the hardships in Galacz. That night, our wagons were beset by creatures of the darkness who took the form of aggressive beggars, the bitterly disabled, and, most painful of all, child-demons who would thrust their frail hands into our wagons, snatching whatever they could.

  It was obvious that here the strong ruled, and whoever wasn’t strong would not survive. Chiyuk fired a few shots into the air, but this threat was effective for only a short time.

  Toward morning, during the last hours of darkness, there was another attack. This time Ephraim’s blankets were stolen from him. The wagon drivers had fallen into a deep sleep and Ephraim’s shouts did not reach their ears.

  My teacher, Old Avraham, recovered and hurried us to prayer. The overcrowding, the filth, and the violence did not bring him to his knees. He was sure that if we were strict about saying our prayers, we would leave the place as new people. One needed only to purify oneself and refine one’s thoughts. The main thing was not to despair, because despair was rooted in impurity. I was afraid of his confidence and of his eyes, where traces of sickness still flickered.

  Suddenly I saw a vision of the Prut as I had never seen it before: absolutely clear all the way down to the riverbed. Early in the morning, before the first glimmer of sunrise, the old men would ritually immerse themselves in its flowing waters. And as they returned to the wagons, they would hum the prayer “Lord of the World” in a melody that seared us with its longing.

  Since the old men disappeared, it was as if their blessing was no longer upon us. The darkness of morning continues until noon and the low clouds choke us. Who knows what has become of our old men? Sometimes I think that they have returned to their beloved Prut and are sitting on its banks and immersing their gaze in its clear waters. When the hour for prayer arrives, they rise and pray.

  —

  Meanwhile, Sruel had made his way over to the port authorities, where boat tickets were sold. We saw him struggling with the door. Since the old men slipped away during the epidemic, Sruel takes charge of everything for us. My teacher and his good friend Yosef Haim hardly ever leave their wagon. My teacher rarely leaves because all our money is sewn into his coat, and Yosef Haim doesn’t leave because he is blind. Tzilla stands by the stove and cooks. I’ve noticed how very focused her expression is: when she cuts the red cabbage she purses her lips like someone trying to prevent his hidden life from emerging.

  The convoy is on its last legs. In my dream last night, I saw our flutist and drummer hiding in the reeds.

  “Why don’t you come back? Shmuel Yosef is waiting for you. We are all waiting for you,” I called out as I struggled against a feeling of suffocation. When they heard my voice, they crouched down low.

  I tried to get to my feet to go over to them.

  “We’ve already run away,” they called out toward me.

  “You can come back,” I told them. “Everyone loves you.”

  “We want to go back to the Prut.”

  “There’s no one there; we’re all here.”

  “We’ll stay in the reeds; we like the reeds.”

  “The reeds are damp, and they’ll be even damper in the autumn,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter.” They fixed their eyes upon me with complete indifference.

  —

  In the evening Sruel came back from the bursar’s office with despair in his eyes: there was not enough money for the tickets.

  “And if we sell everything?”

  “Even that won’t be enough.”

  “Aren’t there Jews here?” my teacher asked with a naïveté that touched the heart.

  “There are Jews, but they’re just the middlemen.”

  “How much do we need?”

  “A lot.”

  That night Shimkeh and Chiyuk had no pity on the thieves; they beat them until they bled. My teacher begged them to take pity on the thieves, but his entreaties went unheeded. In the end, they caught a young thief, and to their surprise he started to beg for his life in our language. He was swarthy and did not look Jewish. Shimkeh deemed it
necessary to give him a talking-to.

  “Who taught you how to steal?”

  “My father,” the thief answered, trembling.

  “Stealing is forbidden,” said Shimkeh, and released him.

  —

  In the middle of the night, Shimkeh and Chiyuk disappeared. Their departure reminded me of other times when they had disappeared. When the convoy ran into hardship—and it happened more than once—Shimkeh and Chiyuk, together with Ploosh and a few other wagon drivers, would raid warehouses and plunder them.

  “Thieves!” the old men would shout, and they would refuse to eat from what had been brought. But the other members of the convoy were usually content with the raids because they brought not only provisions but warm clothes as well. They once brought a chest of drawers made of shells, and everyone stared at it as if it were a precious object.

  Toward morning, before sunrise, Shimkeh and Chiyuk arrived laden with things and immediately crammed the stolen goods into the wagons. They looked short, bitter, and exhausted. Sruel went over to greet them.

  “Was there cash?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “So what was there?”

  “Flour and corn.”

  “And what else?”

  “Some clothes.”

  46

  The following day we sold the horses and the remaining wagons. Shimkeh and Chiyuk grumbled loudly, expressing their bitterness in snarls and growls. The buyers were two peasants, a father and son, who paid most of the sum in cash and the rest in provisions. We sold our things to them separately, for a few coins. Among them were the long stoves that Sruel had soldered in Sadagora, the huge pots that we had bought from the gypsies, floor mats, and two carved chests in which the dealers had hidden their wares. That was all we had. My heart tightened at the sight of our belongings. Tzilla asked if it was worthwhile to keep the small stoves, and Sruel made a gesture of dismissal with his right hand, as if to say, “What for?”

  To spite us, the peasants took their time loading the wagons, examining every item, joking, and asking questions about their quality. Sruel also gave them his two dogs and asked that they be treated as house dogs. On hearing his request, one of the peasants chuckled and said, “They’re already old and they don’t bark.”

  “They have lots of experience. A thief wouldn’t dare approach your house.” Sruel spoke to them in a pompous tone of voice.

  “We’ll try them out.”

  “Trust me,” said Sruel, laying his hand on his heart.

  The wagons had not yet left, and through the cracks I could see the belongings that had surrounded me since my childhood. I had in the past parted with many of my possessions, but now I saw up close the silent, sold objects strewn about as if they had been abandoned, and I knew that only in the World of Truth would I see them again.

  The peasants finally set out, but I remained standing there. My teacher, Old Avraham, stood beside the small Holy Ark and stared anxiously at it.

  “We don’t have anything now,” said Shimkeh.

  “We do. We have the money to buy ourselves tickets,” Sruel cried out in a vigorous voice.

  Tzilla made cheese-and-egg sandwiches and gave one to each of us. Her hands were reddened from the dampness. Over the past few days she had made us three meals a day. When I offered to help her, she said, “I can manage by myself.” She was intent on her work and kept carefully to the exact mealtimes. People were very happy with her food, which brought to mind forgotten childhoods and warm homes. When I looked at her, I imagined that I was looking at my mother’s face.

  Meanwhile, Sruel’s falcon appeared in the skies. We could see him gliding silently in wide circles. This marvel, repeated every evening, always stirred us anew. Would he also cross the sea with us? Sruel shrugged, as if to say, Who knows? His bond with this winged creature is a hidden one. If anyone asks about the falcon, he says, “Who can fathom the heart of a falcon?”

  Without a roof over our heads, we were forced to rent two rooms. The rooms—sort of an annex to a tavern—were narrow and dark, and they were filled with a suffocating stench of beer and vodka.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Shimkeh, and one of Ploosh’s expressions glittered in his eyes.

  That night, Shimkeh, Chiyuk, and Sruel sat and counted the cash. We had a sum in hand, but not the amount that we needed. Shimkeh and Chiyuk announced that they were prepared to stay behind—that they would work at the port, save their money, and make the journey later. Sruel would not accept their offer.

  “We came together and we will set sail together,” he said. “We won’t leave anyone behind.”

  For as long as we had the horses and wagons, we had a home. Now, in this godforsaken hostel, with its mildewed walls and sealed windows, we felt like smugglers. The hostel owner would come every day to collect the rent, and it was clear that he, too, had a gang to protect him. Night after night, Shimkeh and Chiyuk would set out on their raids, bringing back full sacks. The next day we would sell the stolen goods. The thought that we were saving up money lessened the humiliation but not the fear.

  My teacher said that this was not ordinary suffering, but suffering for a higher purpose. Eventually, he said, it would elevate us. We must not despair. Since the epidemic, we no longer studied Torah and there was no prayer group. My teacher, who had been equally strict in his observance of simple and difficult laws, who had always spoken to the heart of the matter, now talked in incomprehensible verses. One had to assume that he did not know about Shimkeh and Chiyuk’s nightly wrongdoings. Had he known, he would certainly have been alarmed. His eyes have dimmed, but his mouth and his heart are still close to the Torah, and it is the sole subject of his thoughts.

  From the time that we sold the remaining wagons and horses, it was as if the dreaded Ploosh were once again dwelling among us. I see his expressions in Shimkeh and Chiyuk. They now blame Sruel for selling our home too hastily. Sruel explains to them time and again that this money will not be squandered; we’ll guard it closely and buy the tickets with it. The word “tickets” echoes in my ear like a whispered charm. But Sruel’s explanations do not satisfy them.

  “Instead of a house,” they say, “we’ve been left with a moldy kennel.”

  “I don’t understand you,” says Sruel, as if he were facing a fortress wall instead of two people.

  To alleviate their sadness, Shimkeh and Chiyuk have bought a few bottles of cognac, some cheese, and some pickles. They sit on the ground, eating and drinking, playing cards, and cursing the Jewish merchants who fortify their doors with iron bars and lock them tightly. The gentiles’ shops are easier to break into, but they don’t contain merchandise of any value. The previous evening, despite all the fortifications, they broke into a Jewish shop and found plenty of clothes. Sruel greeted them happily afterward and called them men of valor. Blind Menachem constantly asks how things are, how everything is progressing. His curiosity is insatiable. Sruel invents things that never happened to tell him.

  When his mood was improved by the cognac, Shimkeh turned to Shmuel Yosef, the fiddler.

  “What wrong did we do to your friends that they ran away?” he asked. “Didn’t we provide them with a living?”

  “I don’t know,” said Shmuel Yosef, springing up fearfully.

  Shimkeh must have forgotten that the wagon drivers had often woken the musicians during the night and forced them to play. At first the musicians would refuse or argue, but eventually they learned that if they did not give in to the wagon drivers’ demands, the outcome would be grim. It was true that in moments of grace—mainly when they were drunk—the wagon drivers would give each of the musicians a bar of halvah. And sometimes the musicians received even more generous gifts. But most of the time the wagon drivers ignored them, as if they were servants of lowly status.

  “We spoiled you too much,” said Shimkeh.

  Shmuel Yosef was terrified by his threatening words.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  “If the desert
ers return, we won’t accept them. They betrayed our trust,” said Shimkeh.

  I wondered at the expression he used—“betrayed our trust”—until I remembered that the wagon drivers had frequently used those words. It must have been a phrase that was used by people in jail.

  Shimkeh did not let up. “Where did you intend to run off to?”

  “Not far.”

  “And you weren’t afraid?”

  “We were afraid.”

  “And why did you run away?”

  “I didn’t want to run away,” said Shmuel Yosef, as he shrank into himself.

  Again I saw the musicians before my eyes. There was a wondrous harmony in their playing, as if they were all born of the same father. At the end of a night of playing they would sit together silently on the ground. After an hour of silence, one of them would say, “Time to go to sleep.” They would immediately get up and drag themselves over to their wagon. No one spoke to them. Their lives were shaped by the notes of their music, and when their music fell silent, it was as if they had ceased to exist. Many knew Shmuel Yosef’s story of terror, but no one knew a thing about the flutist and the drummer. They were inward-looking people and only rarely, if things became unbearable, would they complain.

  “I was sure that they wouldn’t run away,” said Sruel.

  “It’s a fact, they ran away,” said Shimkeh.

  “I find it hard to understand.”

  “We spoiled them too much.”

  “I miss them.”

  “I can get along fine without their noise.”

  “If I knew where they were, I would go and bring them back.”

  “I’m not prepared to forgive them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they betrayed our trust; a person shouldn’t desert his post.”

  “In spite of this I would take them back.”

  “I wouldn’t. Where we were, anyone who betrayed a trust would have been murdered.”

  “It’s strange,” said Sruel, “I can’t fall asleep anymore without music. I have insomnia.”