The world is nothing but snow.
We walk with raised arms, shielding our eyes from its stinging arrows and from its blinding whiteness. The Rebbe sails, not far above our heads, and we strain to hold him in our sights. Even before he was a bird, he was difficult to keep up with.
In the monotony of our travels, we eventually lose count of the days. Except when absolutely necessary, we hardly speak.
Everyone is morose, exhausted, and numb.
35
A small boy named Efraim is the first to see it, during a break in the storm. He is a sickly child, with a leg so badly damaged, it dangles behind him like a puppet, a marionette with broken strings. The littlest student at our yeshiva, he arrived at the pit in the forest that dark day, with a goose-down pillow under one arm and a tractate of the Talmud tucked beneath the other. This so amused the soldiers they had to cluck their tongues. After shooting first the pillow and then the holy book, they informed Efraim sadly that they had lost their heads. They had misspent his meager allotment of bullets and would now have to beat him to death. And this they did, kicking him swiftly between them, like a small ball in sport. Knocking him in the ribs with their rifle butts, they swept him like so much straw into his grave.
Now affectionately called Pillow by many in our group, he is something of a mascot, our treasure, and every mother’s darling.
When, because of his leg, he can walk no further, a great circle of hands will reach down and lift him onto a sturdy pair of shoulders. This honor, however, he accepts only reluctantly and only when he has completely exhausted himself. He prefers to keep up with Reb Elimelech and myself, in our small quorum of elders, hobbling along with a crutch Reb Itzik fashioned for him from a tree.
Now “Reb Chaim! Reb Elimelech!” Efraim shouts from atop a snowy ridge, pointing to the valley on the other side.
“What is it, Pillow?” Reb Elimelech calls out, smiling. The boy likes to play scout.
He calls back, “You must come! Quickly!”
“We must come, we must come,” Reb Elimelech shrugs pleasantly to me and I am caught off guard by his warming cordiality. Since our talk that night on the stump, relations between us have been strained at best. “Do you hear, Reb Chaim?” he says now with a frank and pleasant face. “What does the boy think, we’re going to turn and go back?”
“All right, all right, we’re coming!” I shout up to him. “Be patient, Pillow.”
Together, Reb Elimelech and I climb the snowy hill, stopping on the ridge. Reb Elimelech lays a smooth hand on Pillow’s shoulder. The boy leans into him, threading his arms around the shank of Elimelech’s thigh. I have tied the burlap sack with the German’s head in it around my waist with a rope and the boy will go nowhere near it.
The three of us look down into the valley, startled by what we see.
Below us, not half a verst away, is an old and rambling building, perhaps an estate or a resort of some kind. It’s as long as a city block or nearly. Its facade glitters with thousands and thousands of windows, each with its own ornate carving, each catching the light of the sun. A river surrounds it on all sides and its waters appear to be flowing.
“How is this possible?” I say to no one in particular.
“Look at it sparkle,” Reb Elimelech hums beneath his breath.
“What is it?” Pillow cries.
“Certainly not water,” Reb Elimelech pulls at the silver threads of his beard. “Otherwise it would be frozen.”
Behind us, the little town of Jews trudges listlessly through the drifts, too distant for us to hurry them with our calls or excited gestures.
The three of us, Efraim, Reb Elimelech, and myself, look again towards the sumptuous hotel. I squint for a better look, cupping my eyes with my hands, and see spilling forth from its many doorways a great tumult of people: bakers in aprons; chefs in tall hats; waiters with starched shirtfronts and shortwaisted coats and long tuxedo tails; a fleet of chambermaids, slimhipped with full bodices beneath their tight pinafores; a line of bellmen, their round hats pushed jauntily to the sides of their heads, each cocked to the left.
Each uniform is a crisp and snowy white.
“A mirage,” I say. “We’ve become snowblind.”
“But I see it, too,” Reb Elimelech confirms, shielding his eyes with the brim of his hat.
And the people continue to pour forth. Brawny masseuses in loose-fitting clothes, laundresses in knotted babushkas, porters in livery, dishwashers and gardeners, dustmen and groundskeepers. They gather before the main entrance, standing in lines, like a civic group posing for an official photograph. They smile to us, across the distance, waiting for their administrators to join them, which they do and quite soon. The Maître d’Hôtel, the Concierge, and the Hotel’s Direktor. Their swift arrivals prompt a smattering of sincere applause from their gathered minions.
“But who are all those people, Reb Chaim?” Pillow asks, hiding now half behind Reb Elimelech, half behind myself.
The Direktor, a heavy man in a bulky blue suit, steps forward, approaching the far side of the river careful not to walk too near its plashing waters. From there, he raises his hands and beckons to us.
“He’s beckoning to you, Reb Chaim.”
“To me?” I regard Reb Elimelech dubiously.
“To whom else?” he says.
I scan the Heavens, but there are no helpful birds in sight.
“Herr Skibelski,” the stout Direktor calls up the slope with a silver megaphone handed to him, by a bellman, on a silver tray.
“This is Chaim Skibelski,” I call back, hanging my cane on the crook of my arm and cupping my hands to my mouth.
“We are ready to receive your party now,” the man shouts, again through the silver mouthpiece.
“Eh? What did he say?” Reb Elimelech mutters in my ear.
“He said they’re ready to receive us.”
Reb Elimelech glances quickly down the slope at the nearly three thousand souls struggling along behind us.
“Dear Heavens,” he says, fretting. “I think they’ve overbooked.”
36
We descend the little slope, the three of us, and walk carefully towards the river, the German’s head bouncing against my hip. Pillow holds on to the shank of my cane. The slant of the hill is difficult for him with his useless leg.
Nearer, we see that it is not an illusion at all. The river, indeed, is flowing, despite the frosty temperatures. I lift my eyes from its bank and look across at the beardless face of the Direktor, smiling above his tie and the collar of his blue serge suit. His ruddy cheeks glow with health and vigor in this bracing wind, and his blond hair, thinning on top, blows in slightly separating strands.
“Willkommen, willkommen,” he says, placing one large hand inside the other. “All is prepared, all is prepared.”
Despite the river’s churning noises, his voice carries across it. We can hear him easily and he no longer needs the megaphone.
“Excuse me, Herr Direktor, forgive us,” I say. “But I don’t understand. What exactly have you prepared?”
“Careful, Chaimka,” Reb Elimelech mutters through a fist, pretending to stroke his beard.
“Why, your rooms, of course. And all the facilities.”
The Direktor turns a good-natured and sardonic face to his staff, all lined up in semicircles behind him. In response, sardonic grimaces appear on each of their faces, as though each had placed a paper mask of the Direktor’s likeness over his own.
By this time, our town is catching up with us, straggling forward, sliding down the valley’s slope, gathering in a loose congregation at the river’s shore. They are nervously quiet, our Jews, uncertain what to make of this cheery group standing in neat lines, all in immaculate white. In the mirror of their robust cleanliness, our own bedraggled and betattered state seems all the more wretched. But the shame that otherwise might spread through us like a fever is quenched by a natural, if fearful curiosity. After all, who are these people blocking our path? And
what do they want from us?
Behind me, I sense a stirring, as those not in the first line bob their heads and stand on their toes to get a better look. Quickly, words are passed from the front to the back of the crowd. Herr Direktor, Herr Direktor. Instinctively, I scan the grey, lowering skies. There is not a crow in sight. I glance, quickly, for reassurance, towards Reb Elimelech, but he is staring at the back of his hands. I clear my throat and address the Direktor.
“You say our rooms are ready,” I attempt a deferent smile. “However, I do not see a way across this river of yours.”
The Direktor smiles broadly, clenching a thick cigar in his sparkling teeth. He pulls at his earlobe and nods towards two burly porters. Stepping forward, they lift him onto their broad shoulders where he sits, between their heads, as though on a small divan.
“Guten Abend,” addressing us again through his gleaming megaphone. He is high enough that only those of insufficient height in the far back might have trouble seeing him. “Und willkommen. Welcome to the Hotel Amfortas.” He grins congenially. “You are our guests here. Unfortunately, good people, there is no way across the river except through it. A geographical anomaly. Although neither I nor any of my staff have made the trip—we were all born on this side of the shore—I can assure you there is nothing to fear. Previous visitors to our resort report that the waters are warm and refreshing, restorative, even delightfully so. Please do not be afraid, my dear Jews. You may leave your old clothes on that side of the river. We have fresh things for you here, which I am sure you will find more comfortable than the worn, traveling garments you now possess. So! Who will be the first to cross the river and share in the banquet we are preparing for you here!”
He sweeps a thick arm towards the building behind him. Reflections no longer obscure the views through the hotel’s many windows, and we can see waiters inside rolling enormous wheeled carts piled high with tasty-looking foods. They lay shining white tablecloths across long banquet boards. Elegant women arrange vases of bright flowers on each and every table.
“The food is kosher,” Herr Direktor notes, “and the flowers we grow in our hothouses.”
Although we cannot hear them, a quintet of musicians sways serenely in a corner of the banquet hall. Through the windows of the upper stories, chambermaids are fitting the beds with clean sheets and plump comforters. I imagine them leaving small chocolates or squares of marzipan on every fat pillow, and my mouth begins to water.
“As the day is quickly waning,” the Direktor commands in his booming voice, “and there are so many of you, we must begin now or we will never finish by sundown when the river freezes. Please, then,” he says, “who will be the first?”
Behind us, the crowd shrinks back, although I confess my reaction is entirely different. I find I’m obsessed with the idea of food. Food! How long has it been since I’ve eaten? My stomach growls like a bear waking from a winter’s nap. At home, with the Serafinskis, this never happened. My sleeping belly was indifferent, completely so, to the parade of food outside its cave. But now, to my growing alarm, I can’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the long tables behind the windows, which fill now with the fiery pink reflections of the sky’s fading light.
Still, no one moves.
“Juden, please,” Herr Direktor calls through the megaphone in order that no one might fail to hear. “Forgive me for being so impatient, so impolite. You are our guests, but the time is drawing short. Who will be the first?”
37
Our motley crowd shrugs, managing to avoid one another’s gaze, while prodding each other on with our eyes. A low, murmuring conspiracy envelops us like a dark cloud, casting us in shadow, removing us, if only by degrees, from the questioning eyes of the insistent Direktor and his benevolent staff. I can’t help stealing a glance, across the river’s waters, at his open, rosy face, so concerned now, his cheeks glowing in the winter wind, the little commas of his nostrils flaring. Our resistance is nothing he hasn’t seen before. The sun is failing, the temperatures are dropping, we are all dead. This he knows and uses subtly to his advantage. Why should we sleep another night on the cold, hard ground when there are warm beds, and hot soup is being offered? All we have to do is swim across a river but, still, our fear prevents it.
“I’ll do it,” a small voice pipes up bravely.
“Pillow?” An astonished Reb Elimelech protectively grabs onto the boy’s thin shoulders, holding him back.
“Efraim, don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “You could easily drown or, worse, freeze.”
“Eh? What’s this?” the Direktor calls delightedly from across. “Have we a volunteer? Very good, very good!”
“What does it matter, Reb Chaim?” the boy reasons with me. “I’m already dead.”
“You think they can’t kill us as often as they wish!” I snatch at the boy, pinning him tightly against my legs.
Still, shaking his shoulders, he is able to release himself from my grip. My bitten hand can’t hold him. Angry at himself, Reb Elimelech glowers at me, as if to say, So this is how you abandon a child. Like you abandoned the rest of us!
“But Reb Elimelech, what am I to do?”
As we stare helplessly at each other, Pillow approaches the river. Its waves have whipped up fearsomely and are churning. Alone, in the snowy field, he looks smaller than ever. Before our cringing eyes on one side and the subdued urgings of the hotel staff on the other, he removes his flat cap without even a glance back and his frizzy sidelocks sway slightly in the wind.
“That’s right,” the Direktor calls. “You can throw it on the ground, that’s right. You won’t be needing it again.”
Pillow does as he is told and tosses the cloth headpiece into the snow. He lays down his crutch and unbuttons his coat, pulling it from his thin shoulders and leaving it near his cap. He unbuttons his wool vest and his shirtfront quite gingerly. The purple and scarlet bruises that decorate his narrow chest and his slender back send an anguished current through our crowd. There are gashes where the lime has eaten into him. With a nervous hand, he brushes away a group of maggots that are feeding on his chest.
He might as well be made of paper, he is so thin and frail.
Careful of his leg, Pillow allows his gabardine trousers to fall. Lifting the ruined leg to his chest with both hands, he manipulates it from the compressed cylinder of fabric, then hops once on his good leg, jumping from his fallen pants.
“That’s right, boy,” the Direktor shouts like a proud father through the silver megaphone. “Show these old fogies what’s what, eh!”
From the lines of staff, Pillow receives a polite smattering of applause. It sounds like distant rain. Their encouragement has a chilling effect on the boy’s resolve. He looks back, towards me.
But who am I and what do I know? I’m not his father, after all. What can I tell him? I shrug, my hands opening like a blossom before my chest.
Pillow nods, forgiving me my helplessness. He looks towards the river, dragging his mangled leg behind him, his scrotum tightening in the icy breeze. His back twists as he rows with his shoulders and elbows, compensating for the leg.
The staff stomps and cheers his every step and the Direktor claps his hands smartly, bringing forth, from the bathhouse, two big peasant women. Their hair is braided in tight loops against their heads and each carries a thick woolen towel, as long as a shroud. They kneel, on one knee, by the far shore, ready to greet the boy who trembles on the other side, from fear or cold I cannot tell. His efforts and all the attention have exhausted him. Before him, the river boils and rages, as if stirred by a giant spoon.
“Ready when you are, Pillow,” the Direktor trumpets, having learned the nickname from our nervous calls. “Jump as far upriver as you can because the current will pull you down.”
Obligingly, Pillow limps two or three meters upriver, and before anyone can say anything, the moment has passed. The boy has jumped in.
“That’s it, that’s it!” the Direktor calls.
&nb
sp; “Help! Help me!” Pillow cries out, flailing, his small head bobbing up and disappearing beneath the river’s flashing surfaces. With only one leg, how did we expect him to swim!
Laughing, the Direktor fishes him to the other side with his long and sturdy pole. Pillow latches onto its hook, sputtering and coughing, and the Direktor reels him in, lifting his slight body easily out of the waters. The river washes from his blushing torso, his teeth clatter, and the peasant women swath him in their towels. Hugging him between them, they smother him in their expansive bosoms, drying him with the long strokes of their bare and muscular arms.
“They’re squeezing the life out of him!” a woman behind me screams in protest, but when the two women release him from their cloth prison, the boy jumps up on two sturdy legs, waving happily across the river’s rush.
The two peasant women smile, dimples in their apple cheeks.
Gone are the bruises and the scars, the deep red gashes where the rifle butts tore his flesh. Pillow is whole again, his body healed. He stands, naked, his arms raised in triumph above his shining head. His thin belly is curved slightly, bending back, and his hairless penis hangs to the side.
“Pillow, tell your friends what the river is like,” Herr Direktor urges, while the one attendant wraps the boy in a thick white bathrobe, and the other places thongs upon his feet.
“The water is warm and alive!” Pillow calls in a happy girlish voice. “Almost toasty!”
“Warm and toasty,” calls the Direktor. “Did you hear that, Jews?”
The staff roars its approval, and it isn’t long before the whole of us are shedding our worn, worm-eaten, bullet-pocked clothing, and moving in a naked, talkative throng towards the river’s lip. The snow freezes our bare feet and we hop and skip and jump in, splashing like children on a hot summer day.
The river is warm and alive, indeed, with a quality nearer to light than to water. It whirs and hums electrically, buzzing against our ears, clothing our nakedness in shimmering cocoons. Its spangling incandescence fills every hole in my body. I open my mouth, below the surface, and let the golden, lambent, flashing phosphorescence fill it.
A Blessing on the Moon Page 10
