“How many trains went by last night?”
“Seven.”
“I see they’ve picked up the pace.” I heard Sigi’s voice.
They all compared and counted. The trains passed through the valley with crisp speed, like red-hot bullets. I was shut off and heavy. If there was anyone I hated, it was that old woman. She didn’t speak anymore but prophesied, and her prophecies were poisoned arrows. “In a little while,” she used to whisper, “in a little while the end will come to all the killers of our Lord Jesus. One mustn’t rush the end. Let things take their course. Everything is for the best.”
Nobody realized how close the end was. One morning we saw that there was no one on the towers. Black crows hopped on the flat roofs. The jailers had fled, too. Even the commissary had abandoned his storeroom. None of us could believe our eyes.
“There are no more Jews,” announced the old woman. “Arise, women, and return to your homes.” But no one dared get up. The sun was full and low, and a silence, like after a great war, was spread on the valley and on the barren ridges. Sigi stretched her hand, a large hand, through the bars of the window and said, “Everything has stopped moving.”
29
I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO, and I walked out. I was at peace. Green meadows stood before me. The years in prison made my heart forget many people, but not the meadows. A few abandoned animals grazed in ditches. By the look of the animals, I knew that the year had been rainy, the crops had come along nicely and in season, and the harvest had been on time too. At harvest, my mother had been like a gale wind. She preferred hired workers to my father. My father knew nothing of devotion in his work. The older he grew, the lazier he became. My mother, in contrast, never rested. She used to work from morning to late at night. At the end of the harvest we would bring the sacks of grain to the flour mill, where the people squabbled and insulted each other. Once, I remember, a man was stabbed in the chest.
I turned and saw that the prison still stood in its place. From there it looked wretched. Seen together, the buildings seemed like the shelters peasants put up at harvest time. My fears had been unnecessary. The entire fortress looked precarious, and even the fences were very carelessly made.
I wanted, for some reason, to see what was left to me after all those confined years, and I could only see heaps of beets in the frost. All the people who had surrounded me, and there were years when I hadn’t been isolated, had not even left the look of their faces in me, nor their smell.
Not far away, the women prisoners wandered off together, raising columns of dust with their steps. For a moment it seemed to me that everything would remain this way forever. I would look at them from a distance, and they would whisper to each other, and even if we moved apart, the distance between us would not be shortened. That thought made me tremble with an old kind of fear.
I walked toward the ditches. The cows lifted their heads, and I drew close and touched their skin. For years I hadn’t touched an animal, not, in fact, since I had left the village. I fell to my knees and plucked handfuls of grass.
Contact with the fresh grass moved me, and I turned toward the hilltops. The hilltops reminded me of my aunt Fanka’s house. Aunt Fanka, my mother’s sister, was a very special woman. She lived outside the village, on a bare hilltop, and she didn’t need people. I saw her just once, but her thin face remained stamped upon me. It had the kind of spirituality you don’t find among Ruthenians. For years, her face hadn’t reappeared to me, and suddenly, as though from the thickness of the dark, it rose up again.
At the foot of the hill stood a pond full to the brim. Ponds like that are found at the edges of every village. Here they water the animals, and here boys come to bathe. Once Waska had also drawn me to the pond. He was bashful and didn’t stroke my breasts.
A few haystacks stood abandoned next to an oak. I approached them and said, “I’ll rest awhile.” The dry straw made me sink into a deep doze, a slumber without visions. At first it skimmed and floated, but it became heavy during the night, pulling me downward. Had it not been for a thirst that roused me from time to time, I doubt whether I would have awakened.
Sudden rain forced me from the haystack, and I stood under a tree. No one was within sight, just fields of yellowish stubble with glowing hues like darkened amber. For many years I had not seen a yellow like that. The fear of God fell upon me, and I knelt.
The rain turned out to be a passing summer shower. The clouds scattered, and the sun stood high in the heavens again, a large, round sun of the kind that had shone upon me in the meadows when I was a girl. Here too it grew steadily lower, as though it were about to fall at my feet. Suddenly, I knew that everything I saw was merely a fragment of a vision whose beginning was far from me, whose middle was within me, and what was revealed before me now was merely an illuminated passage leading to a broad tunnel. The light was strong and spilled out at my feet. It seemed that I had stood in this place years ago but that life had busded about then, faces had surrounded me, and I had examined them.
Toward evening a wagon drew up beside me. A peasant woman, wrapped in a rustic blue kerchief, drove her horses indolently. When she was close by, I asked, “Where is the city?” I was immediately thunderstruck by the word I had uttered.
“There’s no city around here. You’re in the heart of the country, mother.” She spoke to me in the old-fashioned way, just the way we used to talk at home, in the heart of the country.
“And where are the Jews?” I asked, and immediately knew the question was out of place.
“Why do you ask, mother?” she answered me, and her face, a young woman’s face, appeared to me from inside the kerchief.
“I don’t know,” I said.
After a moment of surprise, she said, “They took them away.”
“Where did they take them?” I asked again, not in my own voice.
“To their fate, they took them, mother. To their fate. Don’t you know?” There was ingenuousness in her face.
“Aren’t you afraid?” The words left my mouth.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, mother. God took them. And where are you from, mother?”
“From the prison.” I didn’t hesitate.
“Thank God,” she said, and crossed herself. “Praised be God who frees the prisoners. Were you in for a long time?”
“More than forty years.”
“God preserve us! Take a few of this season’s fruits,” she said, offering me a handful of plums.
“Thank you, my child.”
From the time I entered prison, I hadn’t seen plums. Sometimes a few withered apples would make their way into the shed, and they would be gobbled down swiftly, core and all. The sight of the plums moved me, as though it were a gift from heaven.
“Thanks, my child, for this lovely gift. I shall never forget it. May the good Lord reward you for the kindness with all the good and lovely things He possesses.”
“Thank you for the blessing,” she said, and bowed as they do in the country.
“What’s your name, mother?”
“Katerina.”
“God almighty!” she said, opening her eyes wide. “You’re Katerina the murderess!” Without a moment’s delay, like someone who has met the devil himself on his way, she raised the whip and lashed the backs of the horses. The horses, startled by that sudden whipping, reared up on their hind legs and drew the wagon away with a rush.
30
I DIDN’T MOVE FROM WHERE I WAS. The lights of day mingled with the lights of night, and night in that season is as short as a heartbeat. You lay your head on the straw, and dawn already breaks out. I knew I had to do something, to move forward or to raise my voice, but the silence that surrounded me on all sides was great and thick and my legs were heavy, as though metal had been cast around them.
Some distance away wagons full of clover lumbered along. I saw that just an hour ago it had been mown, and soon the peasants would pile it in the broad feeding troughs. Children skipped in front of the w
agon wheels the way I had done when I was their age. “Who’s there?” I called out. Since my encounter with that peasant woman, I was attentive to every noise. In the villages they forgive murderers but not murderesses. Murderesses have been regarded as a horror and a curse from time immemorial. They are pursued to the death. A murderer, after he’s served his sentence, returns to his village, marries, and fathers children, and no one reminds him of his deed. But a murderess is forever a murderess. I knew that and wasn’t frightened. On the contrary, I had a strong desire to approach the wagons and feel the clover with my hands, but the wagons quickly passed me by.
Meanwhile, I remembered that during the long summer evenings the Jews used to come to the village and spread out their wares on hangers and improvised stands. And there were stands for special fruits, dates and figs, stands for creams and perfumes, household goods and furs from the city. In the summer twilight, the peddlers looked like ancient priests breathing enchantment into their belongings. That was the summer market, and everybody called it the Jews’ long market. They sold all night, and toward morning the prices would drop to half. I didn’t sleep during those nights, and my mother, who knew what I wanted, would drive me into the house with a stick. Nevertheless, I stole, sometimes together with Maria, but mostly alone. Everybody was drunk with the lights of the night at the summer market, and from the sparkling of the lake, which spread an enthralling glow. You could buy everything at that market— pumps and high-heeled shoes, beads, cloth, and even transparent silk stockings. My young head was not given over to wonders at that time. The urge to steal was stronger than everything, and I stole whatever came to hand. Poor Maria—at our last meeting at the station she wore a necklace around her neck, one we had stolen together from the Jews. She too is in the world of truth, and only the summer light, the eternal summer light, flows as it always used to flow.
I uprooted my legs and advanced. The night light grew stronger above me. I was thirsty. The years of hunger in prison hadn’t left me with hunger, only thirst. I drank from the pond, and for the first time I saw my face: not Katerina of the meadows and not Katerina of the railroad station and not Katerina of the Jews. Very little hair remained on my head, and my face was thin and old.
Some distance away, on the hilltops, serene smoke rose in columns over the houses. I knew that everyone was seated at the table, and the lady of the house was serving fatback, cabbage, and potatoes. In the long summer evenings it’s hard to sleep. Even babies in the cradle are awake and absorb the rustling of the night light. For an instant I forgot the many years, and I wrapped myself up in moments of peace that remained from my childhood.
But not for long. The smell of burning came to my nostrils. First it seemed that the smell was rising up from the ditches where the cows were grazing in the daylight. It wasn’t a harsh or oppressive smell. For some reason it reminded me of the picnics that Maria and her companions used to have in the woody glens on summer days. The boys used to steal chickens from the village, slaughter them, and roast the meat on coals. I was about twelve years old, and the sight of the slaughtered fowl on the coals frightened me greatly. Maria, from sheer anger, used to threaten me, saying, “You mustn’t be scared. If slaughtered chickens scare you, who’ll save you from the murderers?” Even then Maria had been hard and brazen, as though she weren’t a young girl but some forest creature. The fear of that moment came back to me, and I moved on. My feet were heavy, but I walked without stumbling. The night light grew dimmer, but the brightness wasn’t spoiled. The meadows spread out along the hilltops bathed in blue.
I knew something was amiss, but what it was exactly, I couldn’t say. It was as though my head was emptied. Now I felt a strong desire for a drink. For years no strong drink had passed my lips. What the women drank in prison was worse than sewage. I remembered that I had promised Benjamin that I wouldn’t drink, but now I knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep that promise. If a peasant came and offered me a drink, I’d grab it.
While I was standing there, given over to my desire, the heavens opened and a light from on high covered the blue meadows with a mighty splendor. I covered my face and knelt down.
“Katerina.” I heard a voice.
“Your servant, my Lord,” I answered immediately.
“Remove your shoes from your feet, because you are standing on a holy place,”
I took off my shoes and sat, closing my eyes. For a long time I was withdrawn into myself, but the voice didn’t speak to me again. Later, when I raised my face, I saw ruins looming up before me, actually one ruin and two walls remaining from a building that had collapsed. The empty windows were full of light.
“What must I do, O Lord,” I said, and I didn’t know what I was saying.
The heavens did not open again, but the light was strong and my attention great. When I drew near the ruin, I saw with my own eyes that I hadn’t been wrong. It was a Jewish ruin. There were still signs of a mezuzah on the doorpost. Everything, every shelf and hook, had been pulled from the walls, and what hadn’t been ripped away by human hands had been tattered by the winds.
“I consecrate you as a temple,” I said, and stepped inside. The light inside was sharper than outside. I put out my hands and wanted to call out, God in heaven, for I immediately saw that the dreadful rash had left my hands and they were as they had been, the fingers short and the thumb thick.
31
IN THE OPEN FIELDS there are no secrets. The peasant woman who happened upon me had spread the rumor, and the rumor had taken flight. Now peasants were standing on the hilltops and pointing at me: “There she is, the monster.” Fierce was my desire to pluck off a branch and thrash them. My hands shook and I felt the power in them. Yet my legs were not what they used to be, now heavy and swollen. Still, I didn’t hold my tongue but shouted, “Curs, you’ve slaughtered the priests and fouled the altar, and now God no longer dwells in this place.”
That very night, I cushioned the floor of the temple with straw. Amazingly, that little bit of straw changed the look of the ruin, and I sat for hours and recited psalms. That chant exalted my senses, and afterward I could see only visions of light.
In the midst of this, summer ended. The fields turned brown and low clouds descended from above and spread over the fields. Suddenly, I saw the Jews of the autumn. The autumn Jews were lonely people, with long suitcases in their hands. They used to make their way by foot. The autumn Jews were mostly tall and you could find them leaning on a tree, next to a well, and sometimes at the edge of the village, sitting and observing. Children were afraid of them for some reason, and the adults would drive them away, the way you drive off an unfamiliar horse.
I spent most of the day in the ruin. Sometimes I felt that my distant years were close by, and I heard my mother’s voice: “Where are you? Why don’t you take the cattle out to pasture? It’s late.” Sometimes I heard nothing, I just saw: my mother in the dairy and my father next to the fence, swigging from the bottle. A cold and dissolute smile spread on his face, and not far from him were his two bastards, the way they had appeared once, cramped together on a little wagon, convicts on their way back to prison after a day’s work.
Now the autumn was growing clearer, and I knew that there were no more Jews left in the world, and only within me had they found refuge for a moment. That knowledge filled me with sudden fear, and I went out. On the path above me rolled a wagon full of hay. The moment they noticed me, the peasants raised their arms and called out, “There she is, the monster.” My hands were full of strength again, and I raised my voice and shouted, “Wicked curs. There were ancient priests among you, preserving the faith, and they colored this heaven with their holidays, merchants who bore precious fragrances in their suitcases. Those creatures, the tortured descendants of Jesus, wandered about here and reminded everyone that there is a life of truth. We hated them—there was no end to our hatred. We used to steal from them whenever we had an opportunity. We bit them and struck them. How we loved to batter them. And in the winter, we w
ould go and hunt them. That’s how it was, year after year. There was no end to our hatred. Now we have murdered them. We have murdered them completely, but you should know that no one in the village can say his hands didn’t spill that blood.”
For many hours I would wander along the streams. When it rained I would take shelter in the ruins. They were Jewish houses from which everything had been sundered. But to me those ruins were like temples. I knew every corner. Sometimes I would find a candlestick or a goblet, sacramental objects, and they would bring to mind the memory of the holidays, Passover and Shavuot.
Thus I walked from ruin to ruin. The nakedness was laid bare down to the marrow. But just there, among those straight-standing remains, the Jews were revealed to me as they never had been: hidden servants of God.
Only here did I dare ask to join that hidden tribe. Accept me, I asked. I didn’t know whether I deserved that grace. I had no one in the world, only you. I wasn’t asking for any special favor, neither here nor in the world of truth, just to be close to you. Ever since I met you for the first time, I have loved you. I love you the way you are. None of your manners disturb me, none of your movements. I love your movements as they are, without any change. If it were given to me to be among you, I would be. I can cook, sew, clean the yard, bring supplies from the market. I’m not so young anymore, but I can do all that work. You know me.
The cold days came, and I wept a lot. Boys stood on the hilltops and shouted, “There she is, the monster!” My desire was fierce to chase them, but I knew that my legs wouldn’t carry me.
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