We peered between the planks and my eyes widened. Twenty, maybe thirty peasants swarmed in and out of the synagogue, their excited faces lit by the flaming torches they held high. One of them carried an open bottle of vodka and many were unsteady on their feet. They were looting the synagogue with loud determination. Some dumped piles of worn prayer books into the mud. Several gleefully rattled the silver bells and silver chains and engraved shields used to decorate the Torah scrolls.
When one drunken man ran past, clutching under his arm a velvet Torah cloth with its rich golden embroidery, I stuffed my whole hand into my mouth to keep from gasping. He was one of the farmers whose stall my mother used to visit in the market. Two peasants laughed triumphantly as they danced out of our synagogue brandishing the precious parchment scrolls between them. The scrolls that we treated with such loving care. The tiny black letters that our Torah reader followed respectfully with a carved silver pointer rather than touching them with his own finger. The two men cavorted and stumbled, and the parchment ripped with a sickening sound.
Then I saw the rabbi. He stood silently outside the synagogue, beside a villager who kept one big hand on the rabbi’s long white beard and the other hand around a thick wooden club. The rabbi’s yarmulke had been knocked off and his black coat was covered in mud. His eyes were closed; his lips moved in silent prayer. I saw him only for a moment before I closed my own eyes. But I couldn’t close my ears.
“Where’s the money? Where did you hide your Jewish money?” someone shouted at the rabbi.
“Moneylending bloodsuckers!” someone else yelled.
Then the first voice shouted again, “This is for killing our Lord Jesus Christ!” There was the sound of a blow and a dull grunt.
My aunt pulled us up and away. I didn’t ask where we were running to this time. If the synagogue was not safe, where could we possibly go?
As we stumbled along, a strong smell of smoke filled my nose and I heard crackling.
“They’re burning the houses,” a woman called out as she ran past. Aunt Friedka hesitated, then followed her. On the edge of the village, standing alone, was the large barn owned by the dairyman. The woman ran up to the big wooden door and disappeared inside. Aunt Friedka led us after her into the blackness.
Nechama and I had gone into the barn many times to buy milk since we sold our goat. The familiar smells surrounded us. The cows were all inside, their halters making a clinking sound as they shifted uneasily.
Feeling her way across the hay scattered on the floor, my aunt pulled us to the very back. Then we all scrambled up the ladder into the loft. The woman and her family were also hiding there, and we looked at one another in shock. I knew the children from Shabbes mornings at the synagogue, but we didn’t exchange a word. Everything was upside down; everything was awful.
“We can see the whole village from here,” Aunt Friedka said, hurrying over to the open window.
I followed her. It didn’t look like our village. The sky was a strange color from the smoke and the fiery light. Houses flamed like giant torches, their insides black and their outsides an angry red. Dark figures crossed and recrossed in front of the fires, moving quickly, carrying things, throwing things.
The biggest fire was in the tallest building, a beautiful tall building, a building of beauty. The synagogue was burning.
“We’re going to be trapped up here,” came a sob from the woman we had followed. “They’ll burn the barn. Out, children. We’ll run down to the river.”
The other family half climbed, half fell down the ladder and were gone. I started to follow them, but Aunt Friedka’s hand caught my shoulder. “Better to risk burning than to be out there in the night where they will beat and stab us to death for sure,” she said.
Nechama burst into loud tears. A violent shudder went through my body. How can this be true? Oh, Mama, Papa, please make this just a very bad dream.
I turned back to the window. “Aunt, look!” I cried, pointing down at the cobblestone road that led away from the village square right past the barn.
Screaming and running in sheer terror, falling and getting up to run again, was a crowd of Jews, old people, children, women clutching babies, my neighbors and my friends. Soldiers riding high up on huge snorting horses were chasing them, herding them like animals. They wore uniforms I’d never seen before, with high shiny boots, and carried long whips. Their faces were terrible with excitement and I could hear their hoarse shouts—they were Russians.
“Cossacks,” Aunt Friedka spat out. “So that’s who gave the villagers their chance to turn on us.”
Suddenly a number of Jews broke away from the screaming crowd and rushed toward the barn. Several Cossacks chased them, jumping off their moving horses, landing skillfully on their feet, and running into the barn.
“Please no, not in here,” Aunt Friedka cried. She rushed over to the ladder to look down and I was right behind her. Nechama wept into my back, but her voice was almost lost in the hideous screams below.
The Cossacks pulled out long knives. As if they were slaughtering cattle, they began to kill everyone in the barn. I saw. I saw people running, blinded by blood pouring from their heads, cut down from behind, and finally still. Men. Women. Children.
I didn’t realize that Aunt Friedka was sobbing until the sobbing stopped and my aunt’s breath caught loudly. A Cossack had noticed the ladder, was looking up at us, had one hand on the ladder, was climbing up with his knife raised.
I shrieked. Aunt Friedka moved quickly. As the Cossack’s head reached the level of the loft, she lifted her skirt and kicked hard. I heard a grunt and for a moment the man swayed, his left hand clutching tightly to the wooden floor of the loft. He was so close I could smell vodka on his breath, could see his eyes clouded with rage. Then he took one step higher, lifted his right hand, and stabbed furiously, stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. Aunt Friedka gasped, pushed her hand against the sharp knife as if she could stop it, as if she could stop anything. And then she fell heavily on top of Nechama and me.
There was a curse and a thud. The Cossack must have lost his balance and dropped off the ladder to the barn floor. Nechama let out a high-pitched scream, but I was past screaming. I waited silently for the Cossack to climb back up again and finish his job. We were going to be killed. I waited.
Below, the screams had turned to a few faint moans. I heard a sudden sharp command, rapid footsteps, then the beat of horses galloping away from the barn. Silence.
After a few minutes, perhaps a long time, Aunt Friedka’s body became unbearably heavy on top of me. I couldn’t think; I refused to think. With all my strength, I managed to crawl out from under my aunt, and I pulled Nechama out, too. Then, dragging my sister, I crept away from the ladder. Just a little farther, Devorah, I told myself, just a little farther. If we can only get to that hay at the far end. No one stopped us. I crawled and dragged, crawled and dragged, then I curled around Nechama and pulled hay over both of us. There was dry hay dust in my mouth and wet blood all over my dress. Not my blood. Not Nechama’s.
“Shh,” I said to Nechama, without feeling anything at all. “Don’t start screaming again or I’ll cover your mouth to keep you quiet.” Nechama turned wide, crazy eyes on me, but she gave only a few last desperate hiccuping sobs. I put my arms around my sister. I don’t remember anything more after that.
Loud rustling in the straw woke me the next morning. I was frozen from cold and shock and my arms were stiff from holding Nechama. I saw two large, unlaced boots approach across the loft, a woman’s stockings rising above them. Slowly I lifted my head above the hay and looked up at a strangely familiar face. It was Panya Truda, the Christian villager who used to keep our cholent warm for Shabbes lunch and who had washed our clothes once a week when we had had money to pay her. Panya Truda’s face was white and her hands were shaking as she reached down to touch Nechama’s still body. Nechama stirred in her sleep and Panya Truda gasped.
“Stay still,” she ordered me. “I will s
end my daughter to find someone to take you away.”
Then she shut her eyes for a moment. “O Lord Jesus, help the babies, they are the only ones,” she muttered.
I knew I should not think. I felt for the photograph in my pocket and kept touching it with my icy fingers. It seemed a long time before Panya Truda and her grown daughter came back with two blankets, which they wrapped around Nechama and me, completely covering our heads and eyes. They lifted us up like bundles, then carried us down the ladder and across the barn. Panya Truda sobbed softly as she stumbled over large objects on the ground.
Outside, there was a bitter smell of smoke. Burning torches in the night. I would not think. Nechama and I were put down onto something quite soft. I could tell from her quick breathing that she was awake and terrified.
Then Panya Truda drew the blankets down from our heads, and I could see that we were lying in the back of a cart with a layer of hay on the bottom. Panya Truda was standing between us and the barn so that she blocked our view. She whispered urgently, “Devorah, Nechama, this man is taking his cart back to Pinsk. It is far away. He said he will take you with him, to some Jews there. I have put bread and cheese and milk for you right here in the cart. Do not come back. There is no one left here. May your god forgive us.”
She spoke briefly to a stranger sitting at the front of the cart. He clucked to his horse and the cart began to move away from the village. Soon we rounded a curve and I could no longer see Panya Truda standing still in the center of the track. The driver was looking straight ahead as if he didn’t want to know what he was carrying. I huddled down into the hay, pulled my little sister back into my arms, and tried to sleep again, stroking Nechama’s head when she cried softly for Mama.
I don’t know how many days we rode. Once, the driver drove the cart hurriedly off the road to make way for a band of rough-looking young Polish boys, and another time he had to wait while a large group of soldiers trudged past. “Reds,” the driver called the soldiers as he spat at their backs from a distance. “Bloody Reds. May Jesus Christ save the souls of the sweet Czar and his family.”
I kept silent. I hugged Nechama and fingered my photo of Papa and Mama, baby Nechama, and me as a little girl. We were all together in the photo.
THE SHIP TO AFRICA
September 1921
We departed London for South Africa on September 2, 1921. Each of us carried a knapsack with a change of English clothing, and some of us had a few belongings from home. In my coat pocket was the old photograph of my family.
The first time I saw our ship on the great Southampton dock, I came to a sudden halt. “Move on, you’re blocking the way!” one of the children behind me called irritably. Then, as the others saw the white vision, they, too, froze.
“That’s not what you would call a … boat,” Itzik said slowly, while the other big boys around him whistled appreciatively. I murmured my agreement. The majestic ship rose several levels into the air, dazzlingly high and white, with the British flag right at the top. The deck was lined with blue railings that seemed to extend forever to the left and right of us. Below the deck were lines of funny windows, all perfectly round. There must be levels of rooms all the way down, maybe even some under the water. The ship was bigger than the hotel, bigger than the whole village of Domachevo.
“The Edinburgh Castle!” Mr. Ochberg announced. “She’s the queen ship of the Union-Castle shipping line, children. A bit worn from her service during the war, but a treat for us all.”
At the top of the gangplank, two sailors wearing lightning-white uniforms with sun-gold buttons were as polite to us as if we were adults.
“Welcome aboard,” they said. “We hope you have a pleasant voyage.” I drew myself up to look taller and more dignified, but Nechama was bouncing with excitement next to me. “Faygele said she heard there are two ballrooms and a big pond for swimming!” I looked at her in disbelief. How could a ship have a pond where you could swim? And why would a ship need two rooms for people to play with balls?
Soon I felt too sick to wonder about anything. I discovered that there were indeed several levels under the water, and our cabins were at the lowest level. Down there, the ship creaked loudly and frighteningly. There were no windows and no fresh air, and the smell of oil hung above the tightly wedged lines of bunks. We lay side by side and groaned. Soon the stench of vomit was added to the odor.
“I want to go home. I want to get off,” Faygele moaned. “Stop the ship.”
Each time I tried to get up to help, bile rose to my throat and I fell back onto my bunk. In the bunk above me, Nechama escaped from sickness into a blind sleep. A kind Englishwoman who had volunteered to escort us to South Africa bustled in and out of our cabins, murmuring in her broken Yiddish. Braindel and Rosha, smug in their immunity to seasickness, helped her to bring buckets and wet facecloths and a little dry toast.
After that first long day, my stomach began to settle. I tried standing up, holding my belly with both hands. Nechama slept on. The Englishwoman had promised I’d feel better outdoors, so, clinging to the moist railing, I climbed slowly up the black iron stairs to the open deck. A cool salty breeze filled my lungs as a vast green dreamscape unrolled in front of me, bejeweled with white foam and swirling with ever-shifting designs. I fell instantly in love with the ocean.
After that I didn’t go downstairs except to sleep. Hour after hour, the wind soothed my thoughts as I gazed at the water that seemed a world unto itself. Maybe the ocean is a mirror reflection of heaven, I thought dreamily. Maybe Mama and Papa are floating in a paradise of green and blue swells, weightless, sunlit.
I began saving bits of food from my meals for the seagulls, which soared effortlessly between heaven and ocean. If I held out a bit of bread and kept perfectly still, a white creature of the sky would skim down with strong wings and perch briefly on my wrist with dry, scratchy toes.
One day, I was so absorbed in the gulls that I was caught off guard. Two sailors had been watching me, and before I knew it they had walked right up to me.
“Good morning,” one said in Polish.
I dropped my bread and stared at them. My eyelid twitched. What were these men in uniform going to do to me?
“My name’s Pete. Used to be Piotr when I was a kid in Poland. What’s your name?” he continued with a friendly grin. The other sailor was smiling kindly, too.
“Devorah,” I ventured.
“How do you like the Edinburgh Castle?” Pete asked. His Polish sounded stiff, as if he hadn’t spoken it for a long time, and sometimes he inserted a few English words. It was the Polish of Panya Truda—and of the villagers who burned our shul.
I managed to give a nod, which apparently satisfied him.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Pete agreed before turning to say a few words in English to his companion. “My friend Joe here wants you to try his peppermint toffees, so let’s sit down for a bit and we’ll tell you the story of the Edinburgh Castle.”
Before I had a chance to wonder about danger, I was sucking on a candy that filled my mouth with a delicious icy fire, and Pete was telling me sea tales. It turned out that Joe spoke some German, which is similar to Yiddish, and also that he had a comic talent for acting out the meaning. When he imitated a greedy gull, I startled myself by sending a real laugh out into the wind, my head giddy with sea air and freedom.
Nechama and some playmates found me on the deck and gaped at my new friends.
“Where you sleep, there’s not much fresh air, is there?” Pete said to Nechama and me and the rest of the growing audience. “Yessir, we can see it in your faces!”
Joe performed a little pantomime of the children rolling from side to side and then being sick into the ocean. Bubbly laughter opened my chest.
“Now come along with us, don’t be shy,” Pete continued. “We’re going to show you the posh quarters for the toffs up above.”
We followed Pete and Joe on the tour. It soon became clear that “posh” meant fancy and “toffs”
meant wealthy people. After a quiet conversation with a sympathetic steward, Pete and Joe allowed us to peek into a spacious suite with real beds and a separate sitting area, oil paintings and gold light sconces on the walls, and immense bowls of flowers everywhere. We gasped in admiration.
“That’s a stateroom,” Pete explained proudly. “The King’s first cousin once slept in that very bed.”
“We sang for the King,” piped up Nechama. “The Queen smiled at me.”
It was the sailors’ turn to be impressed. “Blimey,” Joe said. “I’m honored to meet such famous singers.” He swept a grand curtsy to the ground.
I laughed along with the rest. There was no need to mention how disappointed I’d been in the King and Queen. “Blimey.” That sounded like a useful word to remember.
Many of the other third-class passengers were also friendly and spent hours teaching us songs and drawing funny pictures for us on scraps of paper. I tried drawing, too, and one of them admired my sketch of our village. “You have artistic talent,” he said, in front of everyone.
The unexpected compliment made me bold enough to ask him and his Yiddish-speaking friends, “Did you know anyone from a village called Domachevo?” But most of the refugees wanted to talk about the future rather than the past.
One day, I noticed a group of smartly dressed men and women peering down at us from the deck for first-class passengers.
“I wish they’d stop staring,” I whispered to Nechama, squirming uncomfortably.
“I don’t mind. Some ladies in beautiful dresses came down and gave us sweets and little cakes this morning.”
“Weren’t you shy?” I asked.
“No, because the cakes had thick pink icing on them,” replied Nechama.
I opened my mouth to remonstrate. How was I supposed to keep Nechama safe if she went around talking to strangers? Then I remembered my own quick friendship with the kind sailors, and I shut my mouth again.
Seventeen days after we left London, I was awakened by loud noises and shouted commands. I trembled. I was suddenly back with Nechama and Aunt Friedka as a neighbor shouted warnings of a pogrom.
The Night of the Burning Page 8
