Yanek ate the bread and cheese. The food that the priest’s housekeeper gave him was fresh and tasty. He felt Grandpa Sergei’s presence growing stronger. It was as powerful as if he were sitting next to him.
“Grandpa Sergei, are you here?” the words broke from Yanek’s lips.
“What do you want?” the answer was prompt.
“Nothing. I just wanted to know whether you will always be with me.”
“Always.”
That word brought a smile to Yanek’s face.
Now he knew that he would bury Grandpa Sergei’s clothes in that place.
Without delay he brought Grandpa Sergei’s army shovel from the cart and began to dig. The earth was damp and loose. Within a short time the pit, about a meter square, was ready. He straightened the sides and said to himself: this is a pretty place, high, visible but not conspicuous.
Yanek added some twigs to the fire, poured himself a cup of tea, and felt Grandpa Sergei’s exposed presence.
He wanted to ask whether the place and the tree seemed good to him, but he didn’t ask.
He sat and remembered the trees at whose feet Grandpa Sergei had also sat, and it seemed like a long journey with short pauses. Grandpa Sergei chose the trees, and there was a reason for his choice. Usually it was a tall tree with broad branches, that would protect them from rain and also hide them from the eyes of evildoers. The tree didn’t always fulfill Grandpa’s expectations. But the silence of every tree was inscribed in Yanek’s memory. Grandpa Sergei used to say, “It’s a fine thing to pray next to a tree and to hear prayer.”
Without preparations, he fell asleep on the edge of the pit.
57
Early in the morning he woke up and immediately added branches to the dormant fire. He asked himself whether he should boil water in the kettle on the fire or start the work of burial. Yanek felt that it wasn’t right to drink tea before burying Grandpa Sergei’s clothes.
At night, in his sleep, he planned the order of burial. First he would put in the boots. Grandpa Sergei had two pairs, which he cleaned from time to time and spread oil on them. “Solid boots are the secret of correct walking. A torn boot, with the big toe sticking out of it, is a miserable boot, and you’re better off walking barefoot. A bare foot is an honorable foot,” he used to repeat.
Yanek went to get them, and before placing them on the bottom of the pit, he looked at them. A good army boot that wraps the ankle well, the thought went through his mind.
Before putting them on, Grandpa Sergei used to feel the leather.
Once he said, “My feet have shaped the boots. Now they fit my foot, and they’re comfortable.”
Then Yanek brought the socks. There were three pairs of socks, and he was careful to wash and darn them. Whenever he came home on leave, Grandpa Sergei’s mother used to give him a pair of woolen socks she had knit herself. Of all the socks that he had and wore out, there remained three of his mother’s pairs. Yanek put them on the boots.
Not until he placed the shirts — two army shirts and one civilian shirt — did his hands begin to tremble. Now he wasn’t sure whether the order was correct.
He looked for the Bible in Grandpa Sergei’s bundle and read the verse: “And God said to Abram: Get thee from thy country and thy homeland, and from the house of thy father, to the land I will show thee.” Grandpa Sergei loved that verse. He knew it by heart, but he used to ask Yanek to read it out loud to him.
For a moment he stood in front of the open grave. His mouth opened, and he spoke: “Grandpa Sergei, the day before yesterday you were gathered among your ancestors. Today I’m burying your clothes and your belongings. I didn’t want to abandon them. I pray in my heart that what I’m doing is according to your will. I know, you didn’t give much importance to material things and possessions. But your clothes were always clean and fit your body. As you used to say: ‘the honor of the body is the honor of its appearance.’”
The pit filled with clothes. All that remained of Grandpa Sergei’s bundle were the kettle, the plate, the cup, the knife, the bag of tea, the brandy, the pistol, box of sugar, and the valuables that his father had left with Grandpa Sergei. A thought occurred to Yanek: maybe it would be better to burn the garments than to bury them, in case they’re uncovered. But he immediately changed his mind. To burn them would be a violent action.
Only after he closed the grave did he feel that now Grandpa Sergei had been taken from him. He wanted to take a sip of brandy that would spin him around and throw him to the earth. Often, when Grandpa Sergei saw that Yanek was depressed, he would say, “Yanek, take a sip of brandy. It will spin you around and remove you from depression.”
“Now we’ll fire three shots in honor of Grandpa Sergei,” he said, without planning it. He removed the pistol from the holster and fired three shots, the way Grandpa Sergei had taught him to shoot.
He lit the fire and placed the kettle on the burning branches, sat down, and looked at the fire.
Those were the most beautiful hours of his journey with Grandpa Sergei.
He poured himself a cup of tea, and the sadness that had threatened to take possession of him since he arranged the clothing gripped him more strongly.
“I believed we would both go to greet my parents,” he said, and tears welled up in his eyes.
Without thinking of it, he removed the cross from his neck and lay it in the cart. Then he took off the peasant shirt and the linen trousers and tried to put on the clothes that his mother had put in his backpack. But, unfortunately, time had done its work: the clothes had become small on him, and he decided to loosen the seams. That worked, and he managed to put on the clothes.
Now, in his ragged clothes, he looked like a refugee. Before setting out he stood next to the grave and said, “Farewell, Grandpa Sergei. I’m leaving you. You will always be with me. I expect to hear your voice and see your face. I’m going to look for my parents, and I pray I’ll find them. I’m not afraid. You taught me not to fear.”
58
He immediately hoisted the pack to his back and set out. It was cold, but he was pleased he had decided to take Grandpa Sergei’s military jacket. In the past days he hadn’t taken it off by day or by night.
Fields and groves of trees surrounded him with silence on every side. He marched without stopping.
Everything that had happened to him in the past days was as if erased from his mind. He was void of sensations and emotions, and it was good that his half-frozen feet were willing to march and to bear him.
After an hour of walking he wondered: where were the demobilized soldiers, and where were the refugees? Nothing could be seen or heard.
The peasants he had met during the journey with Grandpa Sergei didn’t conceal from them what they had done to the Jews. Their expression was a mixture of indifference and sadistic pleasure.
Grandpa Sergei would scold them and say, “You mustn’t take pleasure in other people’s misfortune.”
Yanek heard and didn’t hear their words. In any event, he didn’t ask much, and Grandpa Sergei didn’t tell a lot.
Suddenly a group of refugees emerged from the tall weeds. They marched energetically, and it seemed like they knew where they were going. Yanek joined them and noticed that they didn’t talk a lot. After walking for an hour they stopped and sat at the side of the road.
A woman who was sitting next to him raised her head and asked, “What camp are you from?”
“I wasn’t in a camp.”
The woman was astonished and asked, “How come?”
“I was with Grandpa Sergei.”
“In his house?”
“No. We wandered from village to village,” Yanek said, feeling as though he was divulging a secret.
“Do you call him ‘Grandpa Sergei’ because of his age?”
“No. He was a grown man, but not an old one.”
Only now could he see the refugees’ faces, familiar faces, like those of his parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. It seemed to him
that if he looked at them carefully, he would find his relatives.
“Take a slice of bread and some sausage,” the woman offered.
“I don’t eat meat.”
“Why not?”
“Because Grandpa Sergei didn’t eat meat.”
“Have some bread and cheese.”
“Thanks.”
Yanek looked at the people again. They were so familiar, as if he had seen them in his house, or in the lumberyard.
“You wandered with Grandpa Sergei during the whole war?” The woman went on to ask. “Weren’t you afraid?”
“With Grandpa Sergei, you aren’t afraid,” Yanek said and he was glad he had found the right words.
“What city are you from?”
Yanek named the city.
“Not far from here. What’s your family name?”
“Wiener.”
“Wiener of the big lumberyard?”
“Yes.”
“I knew your father and mother. Who didn’t know them? Everyone in the city and the surroundings needed wood. In the Wiener lumberyard you could find all kinds of wood: wood for heating, boards for furniture, beams for houses, wood for wagons, and hoops for barrels.
“It was a whole world. Next to the lumberyard there was a coffee house that was decorated tastefully. People used to go there before buying or afterward, or they came to eat soup. Young couples would meet on dates there. The coffee house was always full, but never crowded.
“Near the lumberyard there was a shop where all the toys were made of wood: children, clowns, dogs and cats, big wooden blocks, houses of various sizes, some for pennies, some for a lot of money.
“What can I say? It was a whole world. You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you very well. You used to stand next to your father and eat ice cream. Now we’re going back to emptiness, to the empty roads, to the empty houses. Everyone is a remnant of a family.”
Suddenly she hugged Yanek and in a soft voice she said, “You have to be strong and not let your spirits sink,” and for a long time she kept talking about the lumberyard and everything it gave to the city, and while she was talking, she fainted and fell to the ground, but she managed to say, “Watch over this boy. He’s a precious boy. He has no one in the world.”
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Long Summer Nights Page 17
