And The Rat Laughed

by Nava Semel

  If only I could shake the congregants in their pews as they offer their devout supplication. If only I could tell them: the Jews are part of the body of mankind. This part cannot be severed. That is the pit that all of us came from. Remember how you invite anyone who is hungry to join you in your holiday meal, and you even say: A guest in our home is God in our home. After the meal you will pull the bundles of straw out from under the tablecloth, a symbolic wish for longevity. If only they knew what I want to wish them, protected by my sacred vestments. Yes, they look up to me and they trust in me, but in fact I am their hostage.

  I want to scream: Look at those who march along the Via Dolorosa. See fathers and mothers and children. They beg for a measure of compassion, and you, who call yourselves true Christians, turn your backs on them. Of all these admonitions, not a word passed my lips.

  The farmer and his wife were sitting in the front pew, with their son by their side. Had I denounced them in public, the little girl’s fate would have been sealed. All day long she was at it, spreading fresh branches of spruce in the furthermost corners. I asked her to save her strength, but she ignored me. She sat there facing the crack in the wall, waiting for the Star of Bethlehem. During the Christmas mass, she hid in her niche. I hung the Christmas tree upside down from the ceiling, but I could not muster the strength of spirit to decorate it.

  Perhaps because she was so tired, she agreed for the first time to sleep on my mattress. Her curls which have started to grow back rested on my pillow. Under the hairline, I could see the scars. Her lips moved. I recognized the Latin slipping out.

  The clearing in the forest facing me is covered with snow. The frost has glazed the puddles, and everything is shiny as a mirror. Even the animals can open their mouths and speak tonight, but only those who are without sin can understand. People talk about a farmer who eavesdropped on the conversation of a pair of his oxen and heard them speak of his impending death. Tonight, even the bells in the frozen riverbeds are groaning. I want to groan along with them, but I cannot. The stars over the fields are bright. Their light I use to write these entries.

  The beauty of the tall cypresses and of the untrodden snow is so painful. If the world were to show its ugliness now, our bells would sound a warning. But You have covered Your world in a sheath of beauty, to keep us immersed in utter ignorance. As for me, I have chosen to confine myself to the protected side of this covering, and to turn my back on the hidden Tohu and Bohu that are beyond my grasp.

  I do not question Your existence, Father. You exist, as I do. I was created in Your image – cowardly, selfish and weak. The dead light of the stars bears witness.

  Dawn is here, and the pale light puts a new coat of paint on the heavens. All this beauty. The letters under my hand are becoming clearer. I hear a voice. Or do I? Maybe I’m suffering from delusions, brought on by fatigue or madness.

  Stash.

  I fall to the ground at the little girl’s feet.

  Stash.

  This single word embraces the tip of a comforting memory.

  Maybe You do eavesdrop, after all.

  Be that as it may, I shall be her Stash.

  26 December 1943

  St Stephen’s Day

  All day long, they sing hymns of childbirth. Our farmers throw seeds at one another, auguring a fine crop. When I sprinkle the holy waters, the farmer’s son throws fistfuls of barley and oats at me, and shouts: Today is my birthday, you know!

  Today slave and master are equal and all men are free. That is what I told the little girl.

  Stash, she utters, no longer mute. Her entire vocabulary is one word.

  Stash.

  I carry this word. My only prayer.

  28 December 1943

  Holy Innocents’ Day

  This morning, in the middle of mass, the soldiers arrived. A young officer broke away from the group, crossed himself quickly, but did not kneel. He was wearing a long grey coat which covered the tops of his boots, and a grey helmet. He pointed his rifle at my chest. A calm overtook me. If she has been sentenced to die, at least she will not die alone.

  They marched between the pews, crawled underneath, inspected the icons and the holy vessels. They fingered the large crucifix from side to side and from top to bottom, as if someone was hiding there. I wrapped my arms around the altar under which she was hiding, knowing she would not make a sound. Her gift for silence is perfect. I walked the Germans to the door, and slowly closed it behind me. They walked away. The young officer stalled for a moment, then crossed himself.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. At the nearby cemetery I spotted the farmer’s son hunkering down between the tombstones. When he saw me he made a Sieg Heil salute, then left.

  31 December 1943

  St Sylvester’s Day

  It’s cold in the dirt tonight. Her teeth are chattering. I rake up mounds of earth to cover us both, and tell her another story I heard from my grandmother. When the Holy Mother was fleeing to Egypt with Baby Christ, for fear of Herod’s soldiers, she came across a farmer sowing his wheat. She took a seed sack from him, sowed his field with her own hands, and promised him: You will harvest tomorrow. The following morning, when the farmer harvested his miraculous crop, soldiers came by and questioned him about the mother and child. The farmer replied: Yes, I saw them, but that was many days ago, when I was sowing my field. The soldiers gave up their pursuit, and left – and the child was saved. For the time being.

  The ending I do not tell her, for I’m sure she knows.

  1 January 1944

  Stash.

  She brings her dirt-soiled hand closer, and the word comes out, riding on a clear voice. Only when her small finger touches my cheek do I realize that I am crying. She leans over me, perhaps in fear, or taken aback. I take her finger and trace the muddy line formed by the tears on my cheek, praying that some day I will be able to wipe her own tears away.

  If she cries, perhaps a day will come when she will be able to laugh too.

  6 January 1944

  Epiphany

  Tell me more, Stash.

  I whisper: That day, three kings of the East came to Bethlehem, to bow to the King born to the Jews.

  She hurls a fistful of dirt at me, enraged.

  Not the Jews. You’re lying, Stash.

  It is believed that God himself walks the earth during this time of year – the days between the birth of Christ and His baptism – keenly watching us.

  I don’t believe it – because if You saw what I see, You would demolish the world. But maybe You too are in their hands.

  2 February 1944

  Candlemas Day

  Holy Mother, Our Lady of the Candles, you know best what it means to be impure, cast out from all the rest. For forty days after the birth you were forbidden to speak to anyone, even to those who are most precious to you. After all, if a woman dies before the purification ceremony, she changes into a Mamuna, a witch who snatches babies and replaces them with the warped fruit of her own womb.

  The farmers brought their candles to the church, for me to say a blessing. Then they set out in a procession towards their homes, carrying the flames and shielding them from the wind, since a flame that goes out is a bad omen. Tonight they will spread the sacred light throughout their homesteads. They will place the candle on the wall over the bed and will guard it for an entire year. It will be placed in the hands of the dying, to ease the agony of passing from this world.

  Stash.

  Only when the little girl speaks do I feel alive.

  5 February 1944

  Today I read to her from the Old Testament. I crawl along, hunching my back, waving a tail like a rat and recording the letters in the dirt to teach her to read and write. In the beginning, God created the Heaven and the Earth. She imitates me. Suddenly, she stops, her legs in mid-air.

  Tell me a different story.

  She shakes her curls. I want to stroke them, but do not dare.

  I mustn’t evoke any memory of the Stefan.

 
; There is no other story. That is how it all began. In the beginning, our Father created...

  She cuts me short.

  Stash, promise me He isn’t a Jew.

  I reply: He is what He is, and He has no name.

  16 February 1944

  Ash Wednesday

  On the day marking the commencement of Lent, I sprinkle ashes on the heads of the congregants, and make the sign of a cross on their brows. My body performs the ritual perfectly, but my spirit wanders. Who is this strange man carrying out his duties so cordially? They know nothing of my true nature.

  My inner self was aflame at the thought that they were branding their fellow humans. Abstaining from eating meat, yet devouring human flesh.

  For a moment I imagined You, Father, covering Your body in the dirt.

  When I turn the pages of my diary, I discover the passage of time outside, so different from the clock that the little girl and I share. With all the power that I possess, I will try to drive the timepiece of her memory off course.

  22 February 1944

  Day of St Peter’s Chair

  What is a miracle? she asks.

  Something unusual, that never happened before.

  Who causes miracles?

  God.

  And who is God?

  Our Father.

  And where is He?

  In Heaven.

  Heaven – is that above us or below us?

  I don’t know.

  When does He make the miracle?

  When He decides to intervene.

  And if we become Father and Mother ourselves, will we be able to intervene?

  I say nothing.

  23 February 1944

  And where are His father and mother?

  I dig in.

  You don’t know anything, Stash.

  She is so disillusioned. She pushes me into the niche. I lie there. My ears are always attuned to echoes, so I will be able to detect the enemy.

  29 February 1944

  I hop.

  I sniff.

  My whiskers twitch.

  My ears are upright.

  I beat my hairless tail against the walls.

  I am her human rat.

  I pad our den with leaves – a warm cradle for our young. My teeth keep growing, which is why I must keep gnawing.

  All this time I go on looking for escape routes, because our very lives depend on them.

  7 March 1944

  St Thomas Aquinas’ Day

  When he was the age of the little girl, Thomas Aquinas asked his teacher: What is God? He too had been forcibly separated from his mother, and had been taken captive.

  So what? Is this a way of telling me that there is nothing new under the sun?

  19 March 1944

  St Joseph’s Day

  If those are the questions that children ask, what do their parents reply? I don’t know what the carpenter Joseph told the little boy that he adopted in Nazareth, when the child asked the meaning of a nasty word whispered behind his back. Maybe the boy shed his tears in secret. There is nothing in the Evangelists about the child’s hurt.

  All winter she asked. Plainly, matter-of-factly. Where do we come from? What was here before us? What will there be here after we’re gone? And I did not have the answers.

  We climb up the stairs to the belfry. I want to show her the world. First, she walled herself in. I devised ways of luring her out of the niche. As we climb up, her body starts to tremble. I recognize her fear of heights immediately. She is dizzy, and her body reaches out for something to lean on. When I hold out my arms, she turns her back and starts running down the stairs. I swear, Stash will not let you fall, child.

  She walks by my side, apprehensive. Are we there yet? she asks. When will we get there?

  From behind the belfry wall she watches children skating on the icy lake. A bevy of spots circling on the glaring white surface. We cannot see their faces, but I recognize them anyway. That’s the blacksmith’s son, and that’s the innkeeper’s daughter. I baptized all of them. A child needs the company of other children, which is why I try to be a child to her as well.

  The parents of the children in the village where I grew up forbade their children to include me in their games. They pointed at me, and whispered. For many years, I had no idea what they were saying.

  Bastard. A boy with no name. Now the dagger of memory returns, stabbing me.

  “Mother hen cooked some porridge. She fed this one. And this one. But she pulled this one’s head off. And fru-fru-flew away...” How can I remember what nobody ever told me? I was the shameful evidence of my mother’s corporeal sin.

  Although the little girl is fascinated with the sight of the children skating, she wants to go back down. And I did not tell her that there are places that one should avoid because the ice is too thin.

  25 March 1944

  Day of Annunciation of the Lord

  This day will be called The Day of Our Lady of the Brook, because the ice is beginning to crack. The Holy Mother will open up the covering of the earth, and will breathe life back into all those who sleep below.

  Sleeping below?

  Whenever I think that I’ve succeeded in prodding her onto the road to recovery, suddenly the malignant memory slashes through and pushes her all the way back.

  How will I find a message of hope to convey to this child?

  27 March 1944

  Nothing will make them abandon their rituals. This year, like every other, they set out for the carnival, carrying likenesses of the horse and the goat and the rooster, and with them the effigy of Marzanna, Goddess of Death. Generations of Christian faith have not succeeded in eradicating that ancient memory. I often think that my mission was futile from the very start. In the evening, men and women will gather at the inn for an auction of matings. Years ago, my father chose an innocent girl, and took her to the haystack, where he inspected her teeth and her nose and later her other parts too. I do not know whether upon returning to the inn they exchanged coins and colored Easter eggs, as evidence that the transaction had been finalized, nor at what point she was banished in disgrace, leaving me in the care of her mother. The stories that a child seeks are precisely the ones not intended for his ears.

  I will not let You hurt this child, Father. If I cannot erase the evil deeds from her memory, I can at least rid her of the nasty names.

  Even while she seems to be healing, I am in a constant state of despair.

  2 April 1944

  Palm Sunday – a week before Easter

  The children of Jerusalem greeted even the donkey of Christ by spreading out their coats at the gate to the city. Commotion in the church. Today the farmers come and go, willow branches in their hands, and I say the blessing. They were picked in the first week of Lent and left to soak so that their buds may open on this very day. St Jerzy opens even the jaws of the frogs with his keys, as I explained to the little girl who was frightened by the croaking.

  Flogging the congregants. For them, it is a way of inducing health and prosperity. The women will beat the members of their family with gooseberry twigs until they cry in memory of the crown of thorns. I flog them till they bleed. Despair has its rewards, Father. It gives me strength.

  At the pig-slaughtering ceremony, the men place the animal on a special platform. They turn the suckling pig on its back, and grab it by the legs. The farmer gave me the honor of holding the tail of the floundering animal as he stabbed a sharp knife in its throat. The farmer’s wife presided over the women who were draining the blood into a bowl, to be used in the preparation of sausages and salty meat delicacies. In the evening, they sent me pig’s liver mixed with buckwheat. I buried it in the bed of nasturtiums. The little girl’s eyes looked longingly, but I was determined.

  We will have no part of this forbidden meat.

  3 April 1944

  Monday before Easter

  Late at night they came banging on the church doors. Instantly, the little girl hid in her dugout and was silent. She
knows how to keep her very breath from making a sound. In haste, I put on my habit. I could barely button it. I kept thinking that someone – whoever it may be – has found out and informed. But I discovered that I was being summoned to perform extreme unction.

  I retraced my steps. This was the first time I had no choice but to leave her alone at night. I promised her: Stash will return. I let my tail swoosh loosely along the ground, but she turned her back.

  At the dying man’s bedside I was asked why my habit was covered in dirt. The farmer’s son was there in the doorway too. Murderers can be recognized by their lack of a shadow, but behind Your back a new breed has evolved, with shadows larger than their bodies.

  4 April 1944

  Tuesday before Easter

  Inside the coffin lies the oldest man in our village, and beside him is the comb he used on his hair, and the needle used for sewing his shrouds, as well as a handful of coins – entrance fee into the next world.

  The mourners are delighted, since these are the most auspicious days for dying. All of the graves are wide open, and the soil will not weigh down on the dead person. That was one lucky man, that Antek, they tell each other. Dying in the week that commemorates the dead – that’s no trifling matter.

  People here tell the story of a farmer who disobeyed the rule about refraining from all work during this Holy Week, and was swallowed up by the earth, plow and all. Whenever a carriage enters the cemetery, the mourners riding in it cross themselves, because they imagine that the dead man’s shouts for help are rising from under the wagon wheels.

  Three times I sprinkled dirt on the coffin and extended my wishes to the dead man. After leaving the cemetery, the mourners did not look back. I refused to attend the wake. I remained on my own by the fresh grave, thinking about death, in the form of a tall woman draped in white. Once a farmer locked her in a tobacco box for seven years, until the earth complained that it could no longer bear the weight of the humans, and the farmer was forced to release her. These are stories I never tell the little girl.