Once when they were sitting at the entrance to a church, a blind beggar covered with sores stood not far from them. After the service, and after they received generous gifts, Grandpa Sergei said, “Take these two bills and give them to the blind man.”
“I’ll do it right away,” said Yanek.
“The blind man covered with sores was astonished by the gift and asked, “Who gave me this valuable gift?”
“Grandpa Sergei,” answered Yanek.
“May God bless him. And who are you?”
“My name is Yanek, and I’m his grandson.”
“May God preserve you.”
8
Tomorrow is Saturday. Yanek remembers the Sabbath in his home. His father didn’t go to synagogue, but there was a calm atmosphere in the home. His father sat in an armchair and looked at the garden. His movements were few. He read or listened to music. Sometimes they went out on a walk in the woods near their house. His mother spread a cloth on the earth, and they sat and ate.
On the Sabbath their talk was also different. His father didn’t talk about his business. His mother joined him in not speaking, but still it was pleasant. It all lasted until Saturday night. On Saturday night the house would fill with people. The owner of the sawmill came to ask about a few beams and boards that had to be prepared. He was a tall, sturdy man, silencing everyone with his firm speech. The thin web of moderation and quiet that had enveloped the house was torn to shreds, and you couldn’t tell it had been there.
Yanek removes his mind from the sights of home that had surrounded it and returns to reality: tomorrow is Sunday. They will pack their bundles and make their way to the church, they’ll sit at some distance from the entrance and wait for people to give them alms.
This humiliating hour is hard for Grandpa Sergei. The soldiers in the special unit Grandpa Sergei had commanded were honorable men who spoke to everyone with respect. They helped weak people to cross a stream over a narrow bridge, and they brought truly helpless people—people who fell and were wounded—to the nearest infirmary. Grandpa Sergei does sit by the church door, but he doesn’t ask for gifts from flesh and blood.
“I’m sitting here,” says Grandpa Sergei, “because God apparently wants to teach me humility. I won’t violate His will. I’m a soldier and I carry out His orders.”
Though he went blind, he is never without the Bible. He knows the Book of Psalms by heart. He whispers his prayers. He only raises his voice on rare occasions. Sometimes he’ll recite a verse out loud and repeat it several times. He forbade Yanek to extend his hand and beg. “If they give, they’ll give. If not, we’ll ask God to give us something from His open, broad hand.”
Once, when the congregation came out of the church and ignored the wanderers, Grandpa Sergei raised his voice and shouted at them, “God sees you and won’t forgive you.”
Some time ago, after Grandpa Sergei shouted that way, two bullies attacked him. Grandpa Sergei didn’t hold back. He wrestled with them and knocked them down. The bystanders didn’t mix in. They saw Grandpa Sergei’s courage, and their hearts melted.
That’s how their wandering goes. In every corner someone indifferent or evil awaits them. Yanek learned to be cautious and behave with cunning. “We have to know our limitations and prepare ourselves accordingly,” Grandpa Sergei speaks to Yanek as if to a military man.
Yanek is proud that Grandpa Sergei is his commander and obeys his orders precisely. Secretly he hopes that Grandpa Sergei’s sight will be restored, and he will once again command a unit, and he, Yanek, will be among his outstanding soldiers.
They parted from the tree that had been their home for several days. Yanek checked and checked again to see whether anything had been forgotten, he returned the jug to Mary, and they set out.
The path from the tree to the church isn’t a straight line. They walk around the village, to avoid running into people who hate wanderers, and they get to the rear of the church, lay down their belongings, and at some distance from the church they sit down. Grandpa Sergei repeats, “Not by the gift of flesh and blood will we be saved.”
Grandpa Sergei’s faith in God was strong and unshakable. He constantly repeats, “God has given, and God has taken away.” Yanek doesn’t understand this sentence.
One of the people going to church not only refused to give them anything, but he also shouted, “Go to work, and don’t be parasites.” Grandpa Sergei rose to his feet and shouted back, “Shame on you! You’re a big hero over invalids and weak people. God won’t forget that about you.”
After that service, an old woman approached them, bent over, and placed a few banknotes in Yanek’s hat. Grandpa Sergei said, “In the name of God I thank you.” Grandpa Sergei spoke very loudly. He surprises Yanek anew, time after time. The old woman heard Grandpa Sergei’s bellowing voice, was alarmed, and fled for her life.
9
Without delay they set out. The way to the next village was long. It isn’t good to arrive at night. It’s better to be early.
Grandpa Sergei places his hand on Yanek’s shoulder, and they set out at a vigorous pace. Despite his blindness, Grandpa Sergei marches like a soldier. At first Yanek got tired from walking by his side, but now he keeps up with his pace.
Signs of Grandpa Sergei’s military service remain in all of his actions: the way he wraps his leggings, sits, listens, raises his voice when iniquity cries out to heaven, his willingness to take risks, and his great power to accept his rigorous life without complaint.
A few days earlier he explained to Yanek, “There’s no point in complaining. If you decided not to do something, don’t do it. But if you’ve decided to do something, do it with all your strength. Complaining is just ugly.”
He calls unworthy actions “ugly.” A criminal act is “base.” He calls an evil act “disgusting.” Grandpa Sergei tries to be precise in his speech.
For now, there’s nothing to worry about. For supper they have bread, cheese, vegetables, and potatoes. If there are mishaps along the way, they’ll sit under a tree, eat, and rest.
As they moved forward, a pack of dogs fell upon them. The dogs were apparently hungry. First Yanek tried to chase them away with sticks, but the dogs didn’t give up. In the end Grandpa Sergei pulled his pistol out from his belt, shot, and scattered them.
They reached the village of Yanovka toward evening, together with the flock returning from the pasture. They immediately headed for a plane tree, to sleep at its foot.
Without delay Yanek went to collect twigs from the woods. Fortunately he found plenty of dry branches. In a few minutes the campfire burned with a blue flame. Yanek filled the kettle with water, placed it on the coals, and put some potatoes in the fire.
“Is the sky light?” asked Grandpa Sergei.
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“What color is it?”
“Reddish blue.”
“It’s good that God blessed me and showed me everything that He showed me before I was blind: the colors of the sunset, the flowering trees, the animals, and the faces of the people I loved. Yanek, you should say a blessing every day for everything that God shows you and preserve the sights in your heart. Our life may be short, but it’s full of wonders. Observe them. Don’t miss even a single sunrise. God deprived me of vision, and it’s a good thing He brought you to me, and you can tell me what your eyes see. Without you my blindness would be even greater.
“Once I had a dog that guided me, who guarded my sleep at night, a smart, noble dog. I called him Prince. Suddenly, without any warning signs, he got sick and departed from the world. You should know that animals also have souls. To this day I can feel his rounded body and his fur. I liked to talk with him. Too bad you never knew him.”
Yanek prepared the meal, and they sat down to eat. The bread and cheese were still fresh. After the meal he poured a cup of tea for Grandpa Sergei and for himself, and he lit Grandpa Sergei’s pipe. Grandpa Sergei immersed himself in sipping the tea and puffing on his pipe.
After an
hour’s silence, Grandpa Sergei said, “Bring me the sack, please, and I’ll lay my head on it. I’m tired from the road.” He immediately laid his head on the sack.
Yanek sat where he was and thought: One day is like another. The same steps, the same breaks, the same meals, and the same bad people who hate wanderers.
Grandpa Sergei apparently read his thoughts and said, “Every day is a miracle, and every day shows us new things. But because of minor preoccupations, our eyes don’t see them.”
From time to time Grandpa Sergei tells Yanek about his childhood in his parents’ house in the village. The harvest, sowing, and the rains they awaited. In spring and summer, everything is done outdoors. In the winter people don’t leave the house or the storerooms and barns.
“When I was a boy, I would sit by the windows and look at the snow flowing down from the sky. The stove was hot, and we drank milk. Even then I knew there was a God in the world, though I couldn’t feel Him. During the winter people repair their tools, change the handles, sharpen the knives and scythes, but the main business was with the wagons: changing wheels, greasing the axles with pitch, and strengthening the shafts.”
When Grandpa Sergei talks about his native village, his voice is soft. It’s clear that he’s connected to it with all the fibers of his soul, and Yanek has the feeling that in that first piece of earth, even if there were wicked people and criminals there, heaven was close to earth, and on Sundays the choir boys in the church raised up the people’s souls.
In moments of grace, Grandpa Sergei tells Yanek about his father’s lumberyard and about his grandfather. He started to work in the lumberyard after his military service, when Yanek’s grandfather was still managing it “and your father was very young.”
The lumberyard sprawled over a large area. There were all kinds of boards and beams. “Your grandfather and your father were decent men. They never sold defective merchandise.” People from distant villages and towns used to come to buy from them.
“You knew my grandfather well?”
“Yes. He observed the tradition. He was strict with himself. When he passed away, my life was narrowed. I remember every one of his movements and words. He never insulted anyone. He spoke quietly and tried to understand everyone, Jew or gentile.”
“Grandpa died before I was born, and I bear his name,” Yanek told him.
“That’s a great privilege, believe me.”
“I’ll try to be worthy.”
“May God bless you,” said Grandpa Sergei. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Yanek continued to look at the twilight, which grew redder.
In the morning two peasants showed up, raised their voices, and shouted, “Get out of here, filthy parasites. Clear out, or we’ll make you wish you had.”
“We’ve done no harm to anyone.” Grandpa Sergei rose from his bedding.
“Beggars aren’t wanted here. They steal.”
“I’m blind and my grandson Yanek helps me. He who places a stumbling block before a blind man or harms him, God will not forgive him.”
“You’re not God’s spokesman.”
“You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Clear out, or we’ll make you wish you had.”
“Wicked men. He who dwells on high sees everything. The world isn’t lawless.”
Grandpa Sergei is in no hurry to clear out. Threats don’t deter him. They just strengthen his trust in God. More than once he struggled bravely against tall, sturdy peasants. His old age brings no shame upon his youth. “If we aren’t brave, we’ll lose the image of God,” repeats Grandpa Sergei.
Nevertheless, the night was not peaceful. First it rained, and Yanek quickly removed the tarpaulins from the pack. With a small tarpaulin he covered the packs and bundles, and with the large tarpaulin he covered them.
“The rain smells good,” said Grandpa Sergei. “Too bad it put out the fire and wet our clothes.”
Grandpa Sergei is sensitive to smells and tastes. When Yanek serves him fruit or a vegetable, he smells it. According to the smell, he decides whether the fruit or vegetable is good enough to eat.
At the tail end of the night, the rain stopped. Yanek lit the campfire and placed the kettle on it to boil water. There’s nothing like a cup of tea in the morning.
“We didn’t sleep last night,” said Yanek.
“No matter, we’ll make up what we lost.”
Yanek asked whether there was a difference between wanderers and beggars.
“There is,” said Grandpa Sergei with a strong voice. “Beggars are concerned with their lives and nothing more. True wanderers want to purify themselves, to draw near to God, and thereby to help those in need. A wanderer isn’t a beggar in his soul. He’s a free man. True, from time to time he’s forced to sit at the entrance of a church and ask for gifts from flesh and blood. But he doesn’t do it as a beggar.”
Yanek likes these nighttime conversations with Grandpa Sergei. He doesn’t always understand the words, but they are always heartening. Nor is Grandpa Sergei’s anger that of a fanatic or someone selfish. When he tells about his home village, about his parents, his sister, the church and the priest, his eyelids tremble.
“Will we ever get to your village, Grandpa?”
“Maybe,” and it was clear that the question wasn’t an easy one for him.
10
When it was fully morning, Yanek asked, “Grandpa Sergei, should I go to Sonia’s to buy supplies?”
“Wait. Let’s listen to the mood of the village first.”
“Sonia’s a good woman. She’s friendly to me.”
“Wait a bit. We’ll eat something and then decide.”
As we’ve said, threats don’t unnerve Grandpa Sergei. On the contrary, in times of danger his movements become quieter. At such a time Yanek doesn’t move his eyes away from Grandpa Sergei.
After Grandpa Sergei sipped some tea and puffed on his pipe, listening to the noises from the village for a long time, he said, “Now you can go to Sonia’s.”
Grandpa Sergei knows the village ways of life, his hearing is keen, and his nostrils are alert. He knows when danger is approaching them and when it’s moving away.
After Grandpa Sergei let him go, Yanek lifted his feet and ran.
Sonia greeted him and asked, “How has it been?”
“Good.”
“Are your wanderings difficult?”
“Thank God, reasonable.”
“What can I give you?”
“What you gave me last time.”
“I’ll do that.”
She went to the garden right away and brought two red tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, and a few potatoes. She added a loaf of bread from her kitchen, a hunk of cheese, and a jug of milk.
Yanek handed her a fifty-mark bill, and Sonia didn’t bargain with him.
“Thanks,” said Yanek. “Tonight I’ll return the jug.”
“May God preserve you.”
In a few minutes he returned to the tree. Grandpa Sergei asked, “How did it go?”
“Everything was fine.”
Yanek added some branches to the fire, spread a cloth on the ground, and prepared the meal. While doing that, he thought: Some people are angry at you and throw stones at you, and some people are like Sonia, and God’s light hasn’t gone out in them. Her question, “Are your wanderings difficult?” touched his heart. She apparently knew from her own body that a person without a roof, exposed to the winds of the skies and the whims of people, deserves a little consideration.
After the meal Yanek asks, “Why do people hate wanderers?”
“In their eyes, every wanderer is a thief, or strange, or a person you can’t depend on. True, some of the wanderers are thieves, but not all of them.”
“Do they hate wanderers the way they hate Jews?” Yanek wondered.
“They hate the Jews even more.”
“Do I look Jewish, Grandpa Sergei?”
“Since we started wandering together, you’ve changed. I assume
your face is tan. But one thing I can tell you: the language you speak is completely Ukrainian now, even though you spoke German at home.”
“I don’t feel like I’ve changed.”
“That’s how life is. You change, and only after a long time do you feel that you’ve changed.”
“Will my parents recognize me?”
“I’m sure they will.”
Later Yanek told Grandpa Sergei, “Last night I dreamed that hooligans attacked us. I tried to get up and hit them, but my arms and legs were tied. All my efforts to free myself from the bonds were of no use to me. In the end I fell from a great height and woke up.”
Grandpa Sergei listened and said, “Your dream has told us what we must do. It’s an ordinary dream. In the army I used to dream that I was falling from a high place, plunging down, and waking up. Sometimes I would dream that a giant was holding me, hoisting me up to a great height and throwing me down.”
Grandpa Sergei often said, “Don’t let the giant men in your dreams panic you. They’re imaginary. When the dream goes away, they evaporate.”
“On Sunday will we go to the church?” Yanek asked.
“We’ll see,” answered Grandpa Sergei. “If the village is quiet, busy with its own affairs and not thinking about wanderers, we’ll go. But if the people decide to expel the wanderers, we’d better keep our distance.”
On Saturday they didn’t move away. Yanek rose early for his daily run, climbed some trees, and did a few new calisthenics that Grandpa Sergei taught him. But aside from that activity, he didn’t do anything. Grandpa Sergei sat and listened. From time to time he asked whether people could be seen in the street and whether there was a wagon at the door of the tavern. Grandpa Sergei says that in the tavern not only the beer is in a ferment, but also people’s instincts. On Saturday night, men get drunk, and if a wanderer or a leper or a deranged person crosses their path, they have no mercy on him and beat him, and if the wanderer gets up and resists, they slug him till he bleeds.
Long Summer Nights Page 3
