When his turn finally arrived, he tore the ladle from the man’s hand and uncontrollably swallowed it all in a single gulp. He pushed the ladle back to have it refilled and just as ravenously swilled the second. The man took back the metal spoon.
“I’ll bring more,” he said dully, turned, and shuffled sturdily away. At his side in his large hand the bucket looked ridiculously small and toylike. It also seemed very rigid and unbending; the large man’s head seemed somewhat flaccid by comparison, lolling slightly to one side as if he were some unfinished sort of Nazi automaton. Waiting for the bucket’s return, he wondered what they had done to make the giant that way. In spite of his dull looseness, he kept moving at a workmanlike pace that added to the impression that he was some kind of robot manqué.
In a few moments he reappeared, rounding the corner of one of the nearby buildings, water sloshing from the full pail. He stepped into the floodlit area and approached the group of survivors. The giant’s face seemed to possess hardly any more tension than the water. Although his body contained great strength and even awkward lumbering grace, his face was slack and witless. His mouth hung open, accenting the lack of control. He was balding, light puffs of blond hair clustered about his head. Unshaven blond hairs covered his face, but these, too, poked out like limp strands of hay. The spotlight found no expression to highlight in his dull eyes. It seemed as if the Nazis had even appropriated the Jewish golem for their diabolical purposes. As the retarded giant neared him, there seemed something achingly familiar in that blond imperfection.
Rising slightly from the log in amazement, the thirsting man rasped aloud in confounded disbelief, “Itzik Dribble?!”
In their hometown of Krimsk, this retarded giant had been both the hapless butt of a generation of malicious children and an essential participant in the most inspiring spiritual moment the community had ever witnessed. Cruelty to such an unfortunate child came as no surprise to anyone but the constant victim; heroic spirituality—that was a surprise, and it had occurred almost forty years ago.
After five years of complete and unexplained absence from the life of his hasidic town, the Krimsker Rebbe had casually strolled into his beis midrash one day as if he had never been gone for more than a few minutes. The hasidim gazed in astonished silence. In response to the childish gossip about the squat Krimsker Rebbe’s resemblance to a frog, Itzik had been led to believe that the rebbe was a frog. As the community stood in amazement, Itzik dashed forward and asked if it was true that the rebbe was a frog, and the Krimsker Rebbe calmly responded that indeed it was true. Poor Itzik then wanted to know if it was also true that the rebbe prayed by jumping like a frog. When the rebbe responded, How else would a frog pray? Itzik pleaded in expectant delight for the rebbe to show him.
To demonstrate, the saintly, reclusive Krimsker Rebbe took the dull-witted boy’s hand, and together, before the entire congregation, they climbed onto the reading table and leaped together in prayer. Then the rebbe told the poor child an inspired tale of a wondrous magical frog who helped a slow-learning but well-meaning child become a great success and perfect son. All who saw such a thing treasured those moments forever. You could forget your name in the Nazi hell, but you could never forget such righteous beauty.
And he had just now called him “Itzik Dribble.”
CHAPTER TWENTY - NINE
AS SOON AS THE WORDS HAD ESCAPED HIS LIPS, HE regretted having used the derisive nickname from the alleyways of Krimsk. Itzik, however, was not at all offended, which made it all the more shameful. At the sound of his boyhood name, Itzik was so taken aback that he literally stopped in his tracks. The bucket continued its momentum, splashing almost half its contents before the handle in Itzik’s hand reined it in, but Itzik took no notice. His dull, simple face had been seized by an expression of childish joy usually reserved for red balloons or pony rides. Even then something vacuous remained around his eyes and mouth, for he was no child. The giant looked down at the man who had addressed him. Not recognizing him, Itzik became confused. A pained sadness reflecting years of abuse flashed across his brow; if he didn’t recognize the man, how could he have heard his name? He slowly stepped forward.
“Hello, Itzik,” he repeated very slowly and very warmly, reassuring the poor soul that he did indeed know him and that he had addressed him by his childhood nickname.
Heartened by the affectionate tone, Itzik approached him and leaned all the way over, practically touching his forehead to the top of the man’s head as he unsuccessfully scrutinized him.
“Who are you?” Itzik asked quietly, fear flickering in his voice.
“I’m Yechiel Katzman from Krimsk,” he answered without the slightest hesitation, pronouncing his own name before he was aware that he had remembered it.
Yechiel was surprised and fascinated, too, that his name had reappeared so spontaneously. Any real joy or sense of triumph, however, was outweighed by his concern for poor Itzik Dribble, who seemed so pathetic and painfully vulnerable. And, Yechiel had remembered his own name only because of Itzik. Without the pitiful Itzik, Yechiel would still be going around like a . . . like an idiot, he had thought earlier. It was poor Itzik who had saved him from that cruel, self-inflicted appellation.
“Shraga’s brother?” Itzik asked, his voice rising emotionally.
“Yes. Our father Nachman Leib had a leather shop off the lane to the creek.”
“You used to help Reb Gedaliah, the children’s teacher?” Itzik blinked his eyes in triumphant recall.
“Yes, that’s right. I used to substitute for Reb Gedaliah.”
Overcome with excitement, Itzik opened his mouth and began to wheeze in hoarse, heavy breaths. Drool formed on his lowered bottom lip and dribbled down his chin. Yechiel reached forward and took Itzik’s free hand, clasping it in both of his own. “It’s all right, Itzik. It’s all right. We’re together.”
A look of incomprehensible delight in his unfocused eyes, Itzik put down the bucket and took Yechiel’s small hand in his large ones. Itzik began to rock back and forth, emitting a low moaning sound. Yechiel coaxed him to a halt by holding Itzik’s hands steady and asking, “Itzik, how are you?”
Itzik stopped rocking but continued to moan.
“Sh-sh-sh,” Yechiel quieted him. “Yes, we’re both from Krimsk.”
Itzik smiled weakly at the mention of their hometown. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came on the train from Warsaw,” Yechiel explained, as if it were the most common of journeys. “We had mechanical troubles and had to stop here. I suppose they’ll be sending us on soon.”
“No, don’t go,” Itzik said, his eyes large with fright.
Yechiel couldn’t tell whether Itzik knew where the trains were going. The engine was backing the front of the train into the station; with a jolt that echoed through the cool night, it rejoined the carriages that had been behind the burned car.
“No, no!” Itzik cried in fright.
“I wish we could stay together,” Yechiel said sadly, in complete sincerity.
Fear still in his eyes, Itzik said, “Come, come with me!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
WITHOUT WAITING FOR YECHIEL TO RESPOND, THE powerful Itzik pulled Yechiel to his feet and started across the yard. “No time. Hurry.”
When Yechiel stumbled, Itzik put his large hand under his elbow and, practically hoisting him off the ground, brought him to the remaining corpses by the track.
“Work! You must work!” Itzik said.
So saying, Itzik lifted a bearded corpse by the shoulders and motioned for Yechiel to take the feet. “Work!” he urged frantically.
Yechiel reached for the dead man’s feet, but he barely had enough energy to lift his own. He stumbled to his knees.
“Itzik, I can’t,” he gasped.
The giant lifted Yechiel with one hand and the corpse with the other.
“Hold him like you’re helping.”
Itzik released Yechiel, and Yechiel obediently clung to the cor
pse for support. With Itzik carrying both the dead man and Yechiel alongside, they staggered toward the roofed area. Once in the shadows, Itzik carefully deposited the corpse on top of a sizable, neat pile and ordered Yechiel to hide behind the stack of bodies. From the temporary safety of the shadow of death, Yechiel watched Itzik return to his grisly task. As Itzik carefully placed a body on top of the pile, Yechiel examined his townsman’s handiwork and found it impressive. Itzik had stacked the bodies crosswise like cordwood to the height of five prone corpses. Yechiel was surprised that Itzik’s meager intellect was capable of such planning. He wondered whether it was a skill the Nazis had taught him through considerable repetition.
After the cool, refreshing night air on the other side of the enclosure, he was overwhelmed by the putrid smell of vomit from the corpses. In the terror of the cattle car he hadn’t noticed. Now he realized that the vomiting must have been a reflex of asphyxiation. He couldn’t help noticing that many had frozen in the most grotesque positions. Had he been overcome by smoke while squashed against the wall, his appearance would have been no less macabre. He ran his tongue across the wounded fissure in his gums where his teeth had fallen out, and it didn’t even seem a disfigurement. Yechiel concentrated on watching Itzik go about his basic task, to and fro, to and fro.
Most of the bodies were buried under others, but he could distinguish many, and it seemed an embarrassment that they should lie so very degraded and exposed. He knew that they were dead, but it seemed cruel that they should be so debased. He didn’t want to see the rabbis’ bodies, although he had practically ridden to safety on a bearded corpse. He couldn’t even hope that a particular body was not one of the rabbis; if it weren’t, it was still someone else’s, and he couldn’t take pleasure in some other Jew’s death; not one soul of Israel! He didn’t want to see the mother’s remains; but above all he didn’t want to see the boy’s small corpse. In fact, he was so fearful of seeing the child’s body that he found himself drawn to the pile to make sure that it was not in his field of vision. God, how he wanted to mourn over the boy’s body and ignore it all at the same time! He concentrated on Itzik’s coming and going to avoid the shackles of death. After all, he thought ironically, didn’t the Nazis say, “Work liberates”?
The next moment he witnessed a lesson in liberation. A portable wooden ramp was brought alongside one of the cattle cars. To the accompaniment of the guard dogs’ barking, the door was pried open; the guards and dogs advanced several steps to make certain that no one tried to exit. Unlike the taut soldiers and straining dogs, Yechiel was not surprised that no one came dashing out of the overcrowded, sealed car. The captain had the survivors from the burned car marched from the railroad tie over to the ramp and ordered Itzik to load them into the already packed cattle car.
One by one, Itzik picked them up in a workmanlike way, lofted them above his head to a horizontal position, and tossed them into the car onto the heads of those packed vertically shoulder to shoulder. Yechiel was horrified at how Itzik picked the victims up, swung them into a prone position above his head, and with two hands casually flung them onto the shelf of heads as if he were merely loading bales of hay into a barn. What distressed him even more was that none of the straw men raised any objection. From his hiding place he couldn’t hear whether anyone inside the car complained, but he guessed not. With all the live passengers save Yechiel back on board the train from Warsaw, Itzik closed the door, the guards sealed it, they all descended the ramp, Itzik pulled it back, and with a blast of its whistle, the train slowly moved out of the lit station into the darkness of the night. It resumed its journey as routinely as any train in the world, even though this train was born in darkness and was headed toward resettlement in the East.
Itzik returned to clearing the last few victims of the Warsaw train. When he finished, breathing heavily, he fell to the ground near Yechiel.
CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE
“WHERE’S THE TRAIN GOING?” YECHIEL ASKED.
“Treblinka,” Itzik answered.
“What do they say about Treblinka?”
“They say we’re better off here.”
“Why?” Yechiel inquired gently.
“It’s not so bad here,” Itzik explained.
Yechiel realized that Itzik knew less about Treblinka than he himself did. In the ghetto rumors had abounded; now he believed them.
“You look very good, Itzik,” Yechiel said kindly.
“I have been blessed with great strength. Captain Pizer knows he can rely on me,” Itzik said proudly.
“Captain Pizer?”
“He’s the commandant. He works very hard to keep the railroad running, and I help him. It’s very important. You know there’s a war on?”
The question was not at all rhetorical, but asked in all seriousness.
“Yes, Itzik, I know.”
“Good. Some people don’t. They act like there is no war, and that gets Captain Pizer very angry. . . . But I know.”
Yechiel nodded in acknowledgment.
“Captain Pizer will be happy that you’re here. You can help him, too. You were one of the smartest people in Krimsk. I remember,” Itzik said proudly.
Itzik reached over and put his hand on Yechiel’s leg. Yechiel held it tenderly between his small hands. Then Itzik pulled his hand away and looked at Yechiel in fear.
“What is it, Itzik? What’s wrong?” Yechiel continued to speak as gently as he could.
Itzik looked as if he wanted to say something but was afraid.
“Itzik, what is it? You can tell me. I knew you as a little boy in Krimsk. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Itzik seemed uncertain.
“Itzik, I am very happy that we found each other. It’s not good to be afraid, and it’s not good to be alone. Now we are together.”
Yechiel reached over to stroke Itzik’s hand. The dull giant welcomed his townsman’s touch, but he frowned.
“Well, I’ll probably be going soon,” Yechiel apologized.
“No, don’t go. Please don’t go!” Itzik cried and squeezed Yechiel’s hand.
Yechiel blanched in pain.
“I thought you didn’t want me here.”
“No, don’t go! Please!”
“At least we’re together now, Itzik.”
“Were we friends in Krimsk? I don’t remember,” Itzik asked.
“I was several years older, and I don’t think you were in one of my classes, but we used to see each other. Sometimes you came to play outside the primary school and we talked. Yes, we were friends. Not best friends, but very respectful friends,” Yechiel stated definitively. “And we are friends now. Special things like friendship last a very long time.”
Itzik smiled.
“I remember,” he said proudly, “that you used to stare outside the window when you were teaching, and behind you the children threw spitballs.”
“You see, we were friends,” Yechiel announced triumphantly.
“You were nice to me. You never teased me. All those boys in the school, they called me Itzik Dribble, but you never did, did you? . . . You never did until tonight.”
Itzik delivered this not so much as a complaint as a description of things past and present.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
By way of apology he wanted to confide in Itzik that he had forgotten his own name, but knowing that would only confuse the poor soul, he said, “It won’t happen again.”
“Am I dribbling now?” Itzik asked in a petulant tone.
“No,” Yechiel answered.
“You see!”
“Yes, I see. I’m sorry.”
“Have I dribbled since you came here?” Itzik demanded.
“No, of course not,” Yechiel lied. He regretted having added the “of course not.” He was a poor liar. “Let’s not talk about it, Itzik. There are so many nice things we can remember.”
“Like what?” Itzik asked curiously.
“Close your eyes, Itzik. Go ahead,” Yechiel encouraged. �
�That’s it. You’re back in Krimsk. You can see it. You’re looking at something that makes you happy. Tell me what it is.”
With his eyes tightly closed, Itzik groped in the air in front of him as if they were playing blindman’s bluff.
“I’m running along with Uncle Barasch in the field near the factory, and we’re catching yellow butterflies.”
“Are the butterflies very pretty?”
“Oh! They’re beautiful. So beautiful that when we bring them back to the house, they make Mother cry. But they don’t make Uncle Barasch and me cry. We laugh when we catch them.”
“That sounds wonderful. You see, there are so many good things to remember.”
They sat quietly for several moments.
“Yechiel?” Itzik asked.
“Yes?”
“Can I open my eyes now?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you want a turn?” Itzik asked. “To remember,” he explained.
“All right. I would like that,” Yechiel agreed.
“Close your eyes, Yechiel. Go ahead. That’s it. You’re back in Krimsk. You can see it. You’re watching something that makes you happy. Tell me what it is, Yechiel!” Itzik begged in excitement.
With his eyes tightly shut, Yechiel saw his family sitting at the supper table. He had just come home from the study hall, and his father, brother, and sister were already eating. A kerosene lamp lit the room. It seemed to be autumn. He wasn’t wearing a heavy coat, but it was already dark. His family seemed so sweet, so hardworking, so loving, so innocent. Feeling as if he were about to cry, he closed his eyes even more tightly. His little sister seemed so close that he could reach out and touch her soft brown hair. Was that why Itzik had groped blindly with his hands? Had he been picking his way through a host of golden butterflies? Poor Itzik.
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