“In Palestine?”
“Yes, in Israel. Does that surprise you?”
“No . . .”
“My parents were Russian and my forefathers were Polish. There are lots of Russians of Polish origin; you know, Poland was always in Russia’s sights, and whenever they took a piece of Polish land, the Jews living there turned into Russians. Life in Russia was not easy for Jews, well, life anywhere wasn’t easy for them, although the French Revolution upset things. Napoleon’s troops took the idea of liberty with them wherever they went, but this idea clashed with the thoughts of tsarist Russia. If in the West our living conditions changed, and many Jews transformed themselves into preeminent men, important politicians, such was not the case in Russia.”
“Why not?”
“The tsar and his government were very reactionary and extremely scared of anything different. So they made Jews live in the so-called ‘Pale of Settlement’ in areas in the south of Russia, in Poland, Lithuania, Ukraine, which were all then part of the Russian Empire. The Russian courts didn’t even take the loyalty of the Russian Jews into account when Napoleon invaded the country. Catherine didn’t like us, in fact it’s difficult to think of a tsar or a tsarina who wanted us as subjects.”
“This is Catherine the Great.”
“Yes, of course. She did all she could to expel us.”
“But she didn’t manage to. . .”
“No, she didn’t manage to, she had to content herself with passing laws that restricted the activity of the Jews. There weren’t many Jews who lived in a dignified way at that time: a few merchants, a few moneylenders, a few doctors . . . Yes, there were some who got special permissions granted them and who were able to live almost as normal citizens. Have you heard of the pogroms?”
“Of course, I know what the pogroms were.”
“There was an assassination attempt against Tsar Alexander II in 1881, and one of the plotters was a woman, a Jewish woman, Gesya Gelfman. In fact, she did not play an important role in the plot, but she was excuse enough for a savage wave of violence to be unleashed against the Jews throughout the Empire. The pogrom began in Yelisavetegrad, and spread to Minsk, Odessa, Balti . . . Thousands of Jews were murdered. And one year later, many of the survivors had to abandon all they had because the new tsar, Alexander III, signed an expulsion order.”
“Did your family suffer in those pogroms?”
“Do you want to hear about it?”
“Yes,” she murmured. She needed the man to relax. She needed to relax herself.
“If you have time to hear the story . . .”
“It could be one way of understanding things a little better.”
2
Saint Petersburg - Paris
“My paternal grandfather was a fur trader, just as his father, Simon, had been. They traveled all over Europe selling Russian furs to furriers for the sewing of sophisticated coats for rich clients. Their best customers were in France. Simon had a furrier friend in Paris, Monsieur Elijah. When Simon died, my grandfather Isaac took over the business and expanded it. He used to exchange part of his stock for coats that he then took back to sell at the court in Saint Petersburg. The Russian aristocrats liked what came from Paris.
My grandmother Esther was French, the daughter of Monsieur Elijah, who was unable to stop young Isaac from taking his daughter, for all that he tried to oppose the match. Monsieur Elijah was a widower, and Esther was his only child. Esther and Isaac married in Paris and traveled from there to a town near Warsaw, to the house where Isaac lived with his widowed mother, Sofia. They had three children, Samuel, Anna, and Friede, the youngest. There was one year between each of them. Monsieur Elijah always complained about his daughter and his grandchildren being far away, and when Samuel, my father, was ten years old, my Uncle Isaac decided to take him to Paris so that he could meet his grandfather. Samuel was not a healthy child and his mother said goodbye to him full of apprehension. She knew that it would be a gift for Monsieur Elijah to get to know his oldest grandchild, but she wondered if Samuel would be able to deal with the inconveniences of such a long journey.
“Don’t worry, Samuel is nearly a man already,” her mother-in-law Sofia said, “and Isaac will know how to look after him.”
“Make sure he doesn’t catch cold, and if he does get a fever, stop your journey and stay in an inn, and give him this medicine. It will help,” Esther insisted.
“I know how to look after our son; you take care of the others, don’t let them out of your sight, especially not Friede, who’s too curious about everything. I’ll be happy knowing that you are not alone, that you have my mother to help you.”
It was a relief for Isaac that Esther had established good relations with his mother. Sofia was a strong-willed woman, but she had melted under Esther’s kindness. They seemed more like mother and daughter than mother- and daughter-in-law.
After traveling for several weeks, Isaac and Samuel arrived in Paris; when they got there they found out about the disturbances that were affecting all Russia.
“The tsar’s been murdered. I’ve heard them say that there are Jews implicated in the conspiracy,” Monsieur Elijah declared.
“It can’t be! The tsar has improved conditions for all Jews. What good would it do us if he were to disappear?” Isaac replied.
“Apparently people are taking matters into their own hands and there have been some attacks on villages in the Pale of Settlement,” Monsieur Elijah added.
“It’s just the excuse that all the tsar’s opponents needed to attack the Jews! I hope that reason and truth will prevail.”
“It’s terrible that Russian Jews are not allowed to leave the Pale of Settlement,” Monsieur Elijah said sadly. “At least in France we can live in the cities, right here in the heart of Paris.”
“The terrible idea of the Pale of Settlement is Catherine’s fault. Catherine the Great’s advisers wanted to cut the wings off our merchants and artisans. But now there are a lot of Jews who live in Saint Petersburg itself. They need special permission, but it is possible,” Isaac explained.
“Yes, but not for everyone,” Monsieur Elijah replied. “At least you don’t live far from Warsaw. I would be worried for you if you lived in Moscow or Saint Petersburg.”
They couldn’t hide the worry they felt. The news that came from Russia was so vague that they even began to worry about the safety of their family.
“Samuel and I will go straight back. I won’t be calm until I’ve seen my wife and children. I know that my mother is looking after them, but I can’t leave them alone any longer.”
“I won’t rest either until I know you’ve arrived safely and send me news that everyone is well. You should go as soon as you can.”
Two days later an old friend of Monsieur Elijah, one well connected at the court, came to visit them.
“You can’t go back. They are killing hundreds of Jews. The trouble began in Yelisavetegrad, but it has spread all over Russia,” the visitor explained.
The situation upset Monsieur Elijah greatly.
“Perhaps it would be dangerous for you to go back . . . ,” he said, without too much conviction, because in his heart he wanted to know as soon as possible that his dear daughter Esther and his grandchildren were not in any danger.
“We can’t stay here, we have to go back. My wife and children might need me,” Isaac replied firmly.
“Maybe you should leave Samuel with me. He never stops coughing, and there are days when he has a fever so bad he can’t get out of bed.”
“I know, but I can’t leave him here. Esther would never forgive me. She loves all her children equally, but has suffered a lot because of Samuel’s poor health. If we don’t go back together she’ll be sure that something has happened to him.”
“I know my daughter, I know she’d prefer for Samuel to stay here, safe.”
However,
Monsieur Elijah could not convince my grandfather Isaac, who set off as soon as he could. He traveled with Samuel in the post coach, drawn by a team of strong horses, and had as his companions for the journey two other businessmen who were heading for Warsaw, going home with the same sense of alarm that he felt.
“Father, is mother alright? And Friede and Anna? Nothing will have happened to them, right?” Samuel kept asking his father about his mother, and his brother and sister.
The journey seemed to last forever. They were scarcely able to get a good night’s sleep in those wayside inns where being Jewish meant that they were not always welcome. Sometimes they even had to sleep outdoors because the innkeeper didn’t want to give them a room.
“How are we different?” Samuel asked his father one night, as they both lay on a narrow bed in a wretched inn somewhere in Germany.
“You think we’re different?” Isaac answered.
“I think I’m the same as everyone else, but I know that other people don’t see us like that and I don’t know why. I don’t know why there are boys who don’t want to play with us, or why we don’t go to the city more often, and whenever we do you and mother both look like you’re afraid of something. We walk with our heads down, as if trying not to be seen, or bothered. That’s why I think we’re different; we’ve got something about us that the others don’t like, but I don’t know what it is, and that’s why I’m asking you.”
“We’re not different, Samuel; it’s the others who insist on seeing us differently.”
“But they think that it’s bad to be a Jew . . . ,” Samuel dared to say. “They say that we killed Jesus.”
“Jesus was a Jew.”
“And why did we kill him?”
“We didn’t kill him, don’t worry, it’s not bad to be a Jew, just like it’s not bad to be a Christian or a Muslim. You mustn’t think about these things. When you’re older, you’ll understand. Now go to sleep, we’re leaving early tomorrow.”
“When will we get to Warsaw?”
“With a bit of luck, in five or six days. Do you like Warsaw more than Paris?”
“I just want to know how long it will take to get home, I miss Mother.”
When they reached Warsaw they had to stay with Gabriel, one of Isaac’s distant cousins. Samuel was coughing, he had a temperature and was shivering, to which was added the exhaustion brought about by such a long journey.
My father had to stay in bed for several days in spite of grandfather Isaac’s impatience.
“Calm down, your son is in no state to travel. You can leave him here with us, my wife will look after him; come and pick him up when you are sure that your family is well, it’s only a day’s journey from here,” his cousin urged him.
But my grandfather would not hear of leaving his son in Warsaw, especially when he was so close to his own house.
They set off at last, though Samuel was very weak and his cough was still not completely cured.
“It must be something very bad to be a Jew,” Samuel kept on repeating as he fought against the fever.
“It is not, my son, it is not. You must be proud of what you are. The wickedness is not is us, but in those who refuse to see us as human beings.”
Grandfather Isaac was an enlightened man, a follower of the ideas of Moses Mendelssohn, the German philosopher who had founded the Haskalah movement, the Jewish Enlightenment, which proposed that the Jews should make European culture their own. Mendelssohn translated part of the Bible into German and opposed the most orthodox trends in Jewish thought. He insisted that being a Jew was not incompatible with being a German, and called upon the Jewish community to become fully integrated in the societies within which they lived. Guided by these ideas, my grandfather tried to convince his community that there was no contradiction between being Jewish and feeling oneself to be profoundly Russian. Although there were various orthodox elements that rejected this sort of assimilation, these people, too, felt Russian and could not imagine living anywhere that was not Russia. The important thing, my grandfather said, was not to be closed in upon yourself, but to open yourself up to everyone else, to know them and be known by them. This was how he had brought up his children, and how he himself tried to live, but the Russia he found on his return from Paris was a Russia that rejected the Jews even more than before, if such a thing were possible.
They arrived in the evening, with the dust from their journey covering their clothes and their skin. Over time, their shtetl had grown up not far from a Gentile village, and the relationship between the Jews and those who were not Jews had always been filled with mistrust and a subtle hatred that had occasionally exploded into anger. Any suffering in the Gentile village would always be blamed on a Jewish cause, as if it were impossible for the townspeople to realize that their misery was caused by avarice, and by the policies of the tsars who had taken their land from them.
When they reached the area of town where they lived, on the outskirts of the village, they were shocked. It was as if the whole place had been burned down. The walls of the buildings were smeared with soot. My grandfather asked the coachman to hurry, even as he started to feel scared of what he might find when he got home.
The windows were broken, and a thick smell of smoke and tragedy struck them as soon as they stepped down from the coach.
“Shall I wait for you?” the coachman asked.
“No, go away,” Isaac replied.
A few of their neighbors came out to greet them. Their solemn faces gave warning of the news that was to come.
“Isaac, my friend . . .” One of their neighbors, Moses, leaned on a walking stick and grabbed hold of Isaac’s arm, trying to stop him from going into what had once been his house.
“What has happened? Where is my wife? And my children? And my mother? What happened to my house?”
“It was horrible . . . horrible,” a woman murmured, covered in a cape from head to toe.
“What happened?” my grandfather insisted.
“Your wife and your children . . . are dead . . . They were killed. Your mother as well. They weren’t the only ones, the crowd showed no one any mercy. I’m sorry . . . ,” his neighbor explained, still trying to stop him from entering the house.
Isaac pulled himself away from the man who was holding him back.
“Come to my house, I’ll tell you what happened, you can have a rest. My wife will make you something to eat.”
But Isaac and Samuel ran toward the house. They didn’t want to hear what they were being told. They pushed the door open, wanting to see their family. To see Esther opening her arms to them in welcome, Anna asking if they had brought her back any gifts from Paris, little Friede jumping around them, Sofia standing in the kitchen, preparing something for them to eat. But the house was silent. It was an ominous silence, broken only by the meowing of a distant cat and the crunch of broken crockery under their feet. Someone had torn the doors off the store cupboard, and the chair on which Isaac liked to sit and smoke after a hard day’s work was slit open, showing its springs. His books, the books he had inherited from his father and his grandfather, the books that he himself had bought on every one of his journeys, had been grabbed from the shelves and torn and trampled, their pages spread out all over the room.
The room he had shared for so long with Esther, the room where his children had been born, looked like a battleground where the enemy had mercilessly attacked the furniture and the fittings.
Samuel entered the little room he shared with Friede and saw that everything had been destroyed. “Where is the wooden horse?” the child thought, suddenly missing the toy that his grandfather had made for them with his own hands, and that he had seen Friede ride upon so often.
Isaac put his hand on his son’s shoulder and pulled him close, trying to alleviate the despair he saw in his son’s face.
The room that little Anna shared with her grandmot
her had not been spared in the savage attack. Some of the child’s clothes seemed to have been trampled on the floor, others had disappeared.
Their neighbor had followed them in and stood in silence as they gave free rein to their grief.
“I suppose you heard about the tsar’s assassination. A terrorist group killed him, and one of the members of this group was a Jewish woman. Apparently she did not have much to do with the plot, but she knew the terrorists. You know that the newspapers have been saying for months now that the Jews are a danger. The assassination just confirmed it,” the man said in a choked voice.
“But what does my family have to do with any of this? Where are they?” Isaac asked, his voice racked with pain.
“The newspaper said that the Jews had participated in the murder of the tsar. Novoye Vremya said that we were responsible. People were fired up, and there were attacks in many cities. At first the events were isolated, the odd Jew attacked here and there. Then . . . They burned lots of houses, they attacked our businesses, they beat up Jews wherever they found them. The authorities said these were actions undertaken by good citizens who gave free rein to their emotions after the death of the tsar. In fact, the police did nothing in the face of these attacks against our houses and our people. They were merciless, cruel. Many of us were killed. We have all suffered losses.”
“And my mother . . .? Where are my brothers and my grandmother Sofia?” little Samuel asked, begging for an answer.
“The day the troubles started, your mother and your brother and sister went to the market. My wife and some of the other neighbors went with them. A group of women, hand in hand with their children . . . Who would have thought that anything would happen . . .”
“What happened?” Isaac begged him to continue.
“When they got to the market other women started to insult them. They called them murderers, because of the tsar. They started with shouts and insults, which turned into aggression. A woman threw a potato at your daughter Anna’s face . . . Then others imitated her and started to throw rubbish and rotten vegetables . . . Anna couldn’t bear the humiliation, she picked up the potatoes and started to throw them back at the group that was insulting them. Your wife Esther grabbed Anna by the arm and begged her not to respond to the provocation. All our women took fright and hurried back to their houses, pursued by the crowd. The children fell over, it was hard for them to keep up, and the women held the smallest ones in their arms to protect them from the blows and insults of their attackers. Some of them fell to the floor and were trampled, some managed to get back here, but it was all in vain. I don’t know where they came from, but some of the attackers had sticks, which they used to beat everyone who stood in their way. They started to throw stones at the windows of our houses, to break the doors down and pull out everyone who was hiding there and beat them until they lost consciousness. They broke my wife’s arm and beat her on the head until she lost consciousness. She’s constantly dizzy now and her vision is blurry. And as for me, they broke my leg, as you can see, which I why I need the stick to walk now; I was lucky, because besides the leg, they only broke six ribs. It’s difficult for me to get around, but at least I am alive. The crowd started to ransack our houses, and to destroy what they didn’t steal. They weren’t people, it was as if they were a plague of vermin without any humanity. They weren’t affected by the children’s shouts of terror or the mothers’ pleas for mercy. The police came and stood by, but they didn’t intervene. The more we asked for help, the more they just watched what was happening.”
Shoot Me, I'm Already Dead Page 2
