Laish

by Aharon Appelfeld

  And for a moment it seemed to me that it was not about the flutist or the drummer that he was talking, but about some part of his body that had become detached from him. Until he found it, his life would not be worth living.

  47

  Our lives now took on a different rhythm. We would get up late and trudge slowly over to the kiosk. Its owner would make us coffee, and we would pay him with some provisions. Every morning there was haggling and quarreling. From the kiosk, we would head toward the docks and the ticket office. Sruel bought an old wheelbarrow, padded it, and put Ephraim in it. Ephraim is as happy as a child.

  Blind Menachem’s eye sockets appear to shrink. “What will be?” he asks.

  Every night Shimkeh and Chiyuk carry out their raids on stores and warehouses, but they have not yet come back with cash. We sell the stolen merchandise, but at the end of the day, there isn’t much left to save. Then Shimkeh and Chiyuk decided to take Itcheh Meir with them. Itcheh Meir refused, claiming that he was weak and did not have the strength to break into stores. Shimkeh and Chiyuk did not stand on ceremony.

  “For years you stole like a lion,” they said, “and now, when we need to buy tickets, you claim that you’re weak.”

  Itcheh Meir was shocked by the directness of their allegation. “I didn’t steal,” he said.

  “So who stole if not you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If that’s the case—take it from us, you stole.”

  “I gave back everything I took.”

  “Not everything.”

  Shimkeh and Chiyuk then forced him to accompany them on their raids, and Itcheh Meir had no choice.

  —

  “What are we doing here?” asked Tzilla unexpectedly. Since we sold the wagons, Tzilla has undergone a frightening change. Her face has suddenly become gaunt. For years she was quiet and withdrawn, but now her eyes dart about angrily, and every few minutes she utters a fragmentary sentence or a string of broken words. It’s hard to understand the source of her fury. Sometimes it seems to me that she blames the people who fled the convoy. Her bearing is tense and her actions are abrupt. I’m afraid of her movements; it’s as if she’s about to draw a knife from the lining of her coat and stab one of us. My teacher, who always treated her with respect, approached her. Tzilla lowered her gaze and said nothing.

  “What’s the matter, Tzilla?” asked my teacher as he bent his head toward her.

  “A crime.”

  “What crime are you talking about?”

  “Our crime.”

  “How have we sinned?”

  “Theft.”

  On hearing this word, spoken with restrained fury, my teacher lifted his hands and said, “Tzilla, my dear, there are so few of us.”

  “He is the one who gives.”

  “About what theft do you speak?”

  “Sir,” she said in a dry voice as she turned toward him, “don’t you see anything?”

  “See what?”

  “Since we sold the wagons we’ve turned into thieves.”

  “Tzilla,” said my teacher, “your words make me afraid.”

  —

  Most of the day we stand on the dock and try to guess what the next day will bring us. The waterfront is threatening: violent people swarm about in every corner, and the local Jews keep their distance from us. At noon we make our way north toward the enclave where fish are sold. We immediately light a bonfire and roast some fish. Tzilla no longer takes part in preparing the meals.

  At times it seems to me that this is nothing but a bad dream. In a little while we’ll return to our wagons and to the waters of the Prut. Indeed, from every alley familiar faces leap out. Last night, I saw in a corner a woman huddled in a blanket, muttering fiercely and trembling. I was sure that it was Mamshe. When I called out, “Mamshe!” she gave me a venomous glance and I fled.

  My teacher, Old Avraham, now urges me on in a strange way. He keeps telling me that in these impure places a Jew must stick his head in a book. If he is referring to pimps, they are indeed all over the place, and prostitutes stand on the main streets. Thieves lie in wait behind fences, and whenever an old man passes by, they attack and rob him. The dockworkers and sailors abuse any woman they come across with curses and lewd gestures.

  We return in the evening and shut ourselves away in the hostel. Shimkeh and Chiyuk sleep next to the door, Sruel by the window, and Tzilla sleeps in the smaller room, which is actually a storeroom. Since we sold the wagons, Ephraim again fills our nights with dread. My teacher sleeps next to him, and whenever he wakes up shouting, my teacher whispers in his ear, “Dreams have no meaning,” and lays his hand on Ephraim’s forehead.

  Night after night, Shimkeh and Chiyuk set out on their raids of the stores and warehouses. Last night, they were very bitter and claimed that they should be getting a cut from the merchandise they were bringing, to buy themselves sausages and vodka. Without real food, who has the strength to get up every night? Sruel did not try to bargain with them, and just gave in. With great embarrassment, they thanked him. Itcheh Meir goes with them. At the outset his successes were infrequent, but in the past few days he has managed to bring back some cash. Shimkeh and Chiyuk saw him in action and marveled at his nimbleness. They treat him like a real partner now and share their drinks. But even now he doesn’t look like a thief. His mannerisms are as steady as those of a dealer. It’s hard to understand what he’s hiding. Now he’s content, as if his embarrassing secret had been given a clandestine remedy.

  —

  The Gregorius is the name that appears on the fluttering poster. The ship’s bursar has written up an invoice on a piece of cardboard and given it to Sruel. Now I see him up close: he’s of average height, clean-shaven, and he’s wearing a striped suit and a beret.

  “In the entire port there’s no other ship you can trust,” he said. “Only the Gregorius. The rest are nothing but scrap metal; no one should entrust himself to scrap metal. Furthermore, the captain is German, as are his officers. They are disciplined professionals. That’s what I can offer you.”

  “We’re three hundred short.” Sruel revealed our secret to him.

  “Go to the Jews; they help their brethren,” said the bursar.

  “Where are they?”

  “Everywhere.”

  Sruel made a strange gesture, bending over as if he were bowing, and said, “Thank you very much, sir. We will do everything within our power. When does the ship sail?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Ah, so we must hurry.”

  “Correct.”

  When Sruel returned to us, he was as white as a sheet.

  —

  We went back to the deserted waterfront and sat down. The skies were overcast and brown seagulls circled above us with wild cries. Years ago, we had been attacked by hornets in an open field. Sruel had not been afraid, and he got rid of them as if by magic. I wondered why he was not now making the same nimble movements to drive away the malevolent seagulls. He just sat where he was and stared at them as if he had been bewitched. The words that more than once had saved us from despair were nowhere to be found. In vain did my teacher attempt to embrace us all with his pleading glances. It seemed as though we would sit there until the seagulls pecked out our eyes.

  Fortunately for us, a fisherman appeared and offered us fresh fish. Sruel went over to him and bought some for all of us.

  “Where are you coming from and for where are you bound?” the fisherman asked.

  “For Jerusalem.”

  “Almighty God,” said the fisherman, and he crossed himself. The awe in the gaze of this gentile surprised us all. Without our asking, he also gave us bread and hard-boiled eggs.

  After the meal, my teacher cried out, “We must condemn despair!” We immediately rose to our feet. Slowly, listlessly, we walked along the seashore. Ephraim no longer prophesizes. He asks questions, and there is an alarmed tone to them. Sruel pushed the wheelbarrow and explained that now it’s up to us to raise the money, no m
atter how. The phrase “no matter how” frightens me, perhaps because my teacher once told me that it’s forbidden to say “no matter how.” Since we sold the wagons, Ephraim stopped speaking of the future and retreated to visions of the past, to the years we spent together. Longing draws his heart to the Prut. When he speaks of it, the brightness returns to his eyes. But Sruel dampened his enthusiasm.

  “Even then the prayer shawl was not woven of pure threads,” he said.

  It grew dark, and we returned to the hostel and lit a lamp. Sruel opened two bottles of cognac, filled some shot glasses, and invited us to drink with him. After he had a few, he was in high spirits. He embraced Shimkeh and Chiyuk and referred to them as brothers in great deeds. He also drew Itcheh Meir close to him and said, “We have great hopes for you, comrade.” Itcheh Meir joined in the drinking and looked content.

  “So, how do you do it, Itcheh Meir?” Shimkeh asked in a tone that held a trace of mockery.

  “I don’t know,” said Itcheh Meir, and he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Don’t play the innocent.”

  “My word of honor!”

  “And you didn’t learn from anyone?”

  “No.”

  “So when did you pick it up?”

  “In childhood.”

  As soon as Itcheh Meir said the word “childhood,” his face reddened.

  Sruel kept drinking and went from one person to the next, filling everyone with hope and encouragement, saying that although the amount of money we were short was large, we would get it in the end. Shimkeh and Chiyuk would do their best, and Itcheh Meir would not drag his feet, either. Sruel was in high spirits, but his voice was not the one we were used to, and this frightened us.

  While Sruel was downing drink after drink, piling up lofty words, envisioning miracles and wonders, Itcheh Meir put on his jacket and said, “I’m going out.”

  “Where to, comrade?” Sruel sought to detain him.

  “To make up the shortfall.”

  “But carefully, my friend.”

  “I promise.”

  “We know that you’re a person of great resourcefulness. But still, be careful.” Sruel spoke with a kind of brotherly gentleness. As soon as Itcheh Meir went on his way, a heavy gloom gripped all of us, as if we had turned him in. Shimkeh and Chiyuk quickly got drunk, babbling and poking fun, and plotting all kinds of strange settling of scores with the wagon drivers who had fled. They even mentioned the departed Ploosh. Sruel asked them not to raise specters of the dead, but they continued to fault Ploosh, calling him a swamp creature and a troublemaker.

  Later on, they also went out. Sruel asked them to do everything with caution and not to endanger themselves unnecessarily, because we still faced great trials. Shimkeh and Chiyuk were confused. Barely in control of themselves, they shouted at the top of their lungs, “Death to thieves and freedom to the tormented!”

  Sruel accompanied them part of the way. Pinchas the herald, who let something foolish slip from his mouth, was sternly upbraided by Sruel.

  “Shut your mouth!” Sruel shouted at him. “People are going forth to war, and you’re slandering them. They’re endangering their souls, and you’re calling them vulgar. Where do you get the nerve? Bow your head and sanctify their names.” My teacher, who feared a quarrel, placed himself between them.

  “Children, what do you want from me?” he cried. “I’m old and weak.”

  After that, all words died out. Only Sruel continued to mutter. He confused things that had taken place years ago with what had happened the previous night, grieved over the two musicians we had lost, recalled the pitiable Mamshe, and praised Shimkeh and Chiyuk, who had always been at the forefront of the camp. A short time later, his spirits fell and he burst into tears. He wept for his father and his mother who had to wander about in their old age, who visited him in jail every month, bringing provisions and clothes. He cried bitterly, and no one dared to approach him.

  Two hours later, Shimkeh and Chiyuk returned empty-handed. It turned out that sturdy guards had been posted at the doorways of the stores and warehouses. Two thieves were beaten before their very eyes, and they had not been able to break in anywhere because everything had been sealed with iron bars. They looked dejected and embarrassed, like soldiers who had failed at their mission and expected to be reprimanded.

  “If that’s how things are, we’ll need to find another method,” said Sruel, without blaming them at all.

  But Itcheh Meir, it turned out, had been more fortunate. He returned with his pockets full of coins. Not that his luck was complete: one of the beggars from whose pocket he had stolen woke up, pulled out a knife, and stabbed him in the arm. After his wound was washed and dressed he was given a sandwich, and Sruel sat and counted the coins. Most of them were base-metal coins that are usually given to beggars.

  “How much is there all together?” asked Itcheh Meir.

  “There’s some, but not much.”

  “It won’t be enough.”

  “No.”

  —

  Toward morning, at the last watch, Sruel decided by himself that there was no choice but to steal Yosef Haim’s money. The blind old man had sewn his money into the lining of his coat and we knew that he had a treasure trove in there, but we had no idea how large it was. It would have been preferable to send Itcheh Meir to perform this delicate task, but Sruel decided that he must do it himself. As he would sometimes say, there are tasks that a man must do with his own hands. It was his misfortune that Yosef Haim woke up and began to scream at the top of his lungs. On hearing his shouts, the owner of the hostel came running. Sruel hastened to explain to him that two thieves had just attacked the old man and robbed him of his money. They had been armed, so there was no point in putting up a fight. The owner of the hostel listened, spat to the side, and said, “Thieves, criminals—they’re everywhere!”

  It turned out that we had not been wrong; the money that was in the lining of Yosef Haim’s coat made up the shortfall.

  Early in the morning, without stopping to drink coffee at the kiosk, we headed straight for the docks. Itcheh Meir and Sruel sat for a long time in the bursar’s office. They gave him the banknotes and the coins that they had accumulated in small envelopes. The bursar counted, counted again, and eventually issued the tickets.

  On their return, no one greeted them. The sun came out from behind the clouds and lit up the quays. Porters dragged bags and brown seagulls circled above, shrieking with hunger. In my mind’s eye, I again saw Yosef Haim’s thrashing legs as Sruel was picking apart his coat. He had struggled with all his might to rescue his savings.

  Then everyone got busy preparing their bundles. It was strange that this activity, which was completely without grace, brought to mind the clear waters of the Prut and the willows along its banks. It appeared to me that all those who had fled were standing at some distance and staring at us. I was surprised at Sruel for not calling out to them.

  A little later, Sruel did speak. He spoke of the sea, calling it the Great Sea. His hands were pressed close to his body, like a man who does not ask for thanks for what he has done. Everyone listened very carefully. Yosef Haim no longer cried over the robbery. But his eye sockets were as swollen and red as if his eyes had just been plucked out.

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