by Malka Adler
One day I saw my neighbor, Ilona, stopping in the middle of her game of catch to look at a goy lad riding on his horse. He was holding a harmonica and playing a polka. I called out, Ilona, Ilona, catch me, nu. She wasn’t interested. She wanted to follow the tune. I felt lonely. I ran home, took the large harmonica and tried to play a cheerful polka. Don’t know why, but what came out was a sad, tuneless polka.
At the hospital in Deggendorf there were too many German soldiers.
German soldiers with half a leg, or two half legs, or without an arm and a leg, like that. They had no prostheses. They crawled on all fours to the shower and the toilet, the stump trailing after them. Sometimes the stump was bandaged, sometimes not, sometimes I couldn’t see a stump just empty pajama trousers tied with a thick knot. I looked at their faces. Some of them had strong faces with a direct, steel-like gaze. They crawled along the floor, holding onto the legs of the beds in order to advance one meter then another. I saw a wounded German dragging his short leg in the direction of the toilets. An American nurse going past held out a hand and said, get up, get up. I’ll help you. His head reached her knees. He stuck out his neck and continued crawling to the toilets.
It was the young Germans who looked different. They crawled along the floor groaning in pain. Sometimes they’d stop mid-way, hold onto the stump and shout for a nurse. Some would drop their heads to the floor, I heard them weeping.
Their weeping brought me to tears.
Friends from the monastery didn’t come to visit me. Vassily didn’t come either. I didn’t understand why. It was only when I returned to the monastery that I understood. They didn’t know which hospital I was in because I was taken there at night.
After a month I decided to run away from the hospital. One morning, I jumped out of the window and went back to the monastery.
Chapter 37
Yitzhak
I decided to go to our goy neighbor, Stanku’s house.
Stanku, who’d come to us the day we left our home and wanted to know where the Jews were going. Stanku was the neighbor who made us take fresh Easter cakes so we’d feel good during that Passover in 1944. I went into his yard. At the gate, I stopped for the first time. I took a breath from the deepest place in my body and approached the door. I stopped for the second time. I heard the sounds of a home, a chair moving, the bang of a pot on the stove, I heard Stanku, where are my slippers? I wanted to die.
I knocked on the door. Stanku stood in the doorway. He looked as I remembered. Apart from his height. He was shorter than me. He had a red, furrowed face and a large nose. He wore a blue, peaked cap, I knew the cap. Stanku muttered something, I saw his pupils darting in his eyes and then he fell upon me with hugs, calling Ichko, Ichko you’ve come back to us, I didn’t believe you’d come back, how are you, we haven’t heard anything since you left, where’s father, where’s mother, where is everyone?
I stood back.
Who is living in our home?
A family from the village, you don’t know them, he cleared his throat.
Who?
I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stop them.
When did they move in?
Not long after you left.
How long?
Stanku moved his head, his cheeks whitening under the tears. I said slowly, don’t cry, it won’t help, and the cows? Stanku whispered, everything belongs to them now. I caught hold of his shirt, saying, and my cat, where is my cat, at least the cat, you promised to look after my cat.
Stanku wept more loudly. My head fell on his shoulder. We wept together.
Stanku’s wife came to the door. A small woman with brown hair. She embraced me and said, oy, yoy-yoy, oy, yoy-yoy, they’ve come back.
I entered and immediately held onto the back of a chair. I didn’t know what to do with my nerves.
Stanku said, sit down Ichko, sit down, and pushed me into the chair. Stanku’s wife went into the kitchen and brought a pot of food to the table. I smelled meat. I pulled the chair to the table, and saw Michael, Stanku’s son, standing in the doorway. He had one leg. He had a burn mark on his temple. Leaning against the door frame, he held a stick. Stanku said, you remember Michael, he was in the Russian army, see what they did to him.
We sat down to eat.
Stanku’s wife filled my plate three times, Stanku cut bread for me, Michael didn’t stop talking about the battles he’d fought in Russia and I was silent, I hadn’t seen them for a year and a half and felt like a stranger. Stanku said, enough now, Michael, let’s hear something from Ichko, nu, tell us where you were, have you heard anything from father, mother?
I said, I’m tired Stanku, we’ll talk tomorrow.
Stanku’s wife jumped up, I’ll make up a bed for you right now, you’re like one of our own. Come, come.
I couldn’t sleep. I thought about the sounds coming from Stanku’s cowshed, perhaps our cowshed.
Early in the morning, before sunrise, I went out into the yard. Geese wanted food, a farmer spoke to his horse. I approached our house. Pressed fists against my trousers, saw Stanku standing next to me. A dog barked behind the house. The door opened and a man and a woman stood in the doorway. Behind them peeped two small children in pajamas. The man looked about thirty, my height, his face unshaven. He wore a sweater with patches at the elbows and leggings to the knee. The woman was pretty and wore an apron. The man and the woman looked at me. The man shouted at the dog, quiet, quiet, approached me, scratching under his chin.
Who are you?
I am Yitzhak, son of Israel and Leah, and this is our house.
You are a Jew.
Yes, and this is our house.
No.
Yes.
But on the radio they said there are no more Jews. They said no Jews were left. They also said there’d be no more Jews, ever. Because they killed your babies.
Your radio is mistaken. We’re alive.
We saw pictures in the newspapers. Lots of dead Jews in heaps. Didn’t you see the newspaper?
I did, but many Jews were left who weren’t photographed in the newspaper, and this is our house.
I saw in the newspaper that none were left, Stanku saw it in the newspaper, didn’t you, Stanku? Our whole village saw it in the newspaper. That’s why we’re living in Jews’ houses.
Not because of the newspaper, because you didn’t have a home and it was easier to take everything from the Jews.
Not one Jew has returned to his home, right Stanku?
I’ve returned.
Wait a minute, where is father?
Don’t know. I am Israel’s son and this is our home. I know every room in the house, I know where the closets are, the beds, the kitchen sink.
The farmer stuck his finger in his nose, scratched something and shook his finger, like a nu, nu, nu, to a naughty child. And then he winked at Stanku and said, but the mayor of Perechyn said there are no more Jews in Hungary, right Stanku? He said there are no more Jews in Europe, he said there is no such thing as Jews. The mayor’s wife also said so. Everyone knows it, right Stanku?
Stanku stuck his fists in his pockets and didn’t answer.
There is no such thing as Jews, ah, I felt my jaw closing like a steel door. I wanted to leap on him and take out his eye, I wanted to choke him until his white tongue dropped and rolled on the path. I walked hurriedly behind the house. The dog was frantic, it was a large wolf hound. I wanted to leap on the dog and rip its mouth open, Stanku and the farmer arrived at a run. The farmer cursed and kicked the dog. The dog crawled into its kennel, whining like a cat. I pointed at the yard, saying in a choked voice, that is a Jewish cowshed, understand? And that is a Jewish storeroom, and over there was a Jewish butcher shop and I am wholly a Jew, and there are many more Jews at the monastery, and your mayor is a great fool, so what are you talking about, huh?
The farmer looked down and began to cough as if he had tuberculosis. His wife hurried up, followed by the two children in their pajamas. The farmer saw his wife and children and wa
ved them away. The woman disappeared with the children. Stanku stood between me and the farmer and chewed his hat.
The farmer put one hand on his chest and approached me. Stanku tried to stop him. I said to Stanku, don’t interfere. The farmer stood a step away from me. He had spit on his chin and smelled strongly of tobacco.
He said, listen, Jew, it’s not good that you’re here. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not good for you. In this village there are no more Jews, understand? We’re done with Jews, and on the radio they also said the Jews in Hungary are kaput, d’you want to be alone here? He bent down and whispered, go to a place for Jews. It’s better for you, understand? I took a step back from his smell.
The farmer spread his hand above his eyes as if I was a blinding sun, saying, now what do you want?
Nothing.
What do you mean nothing?
Nothing means nothing.
He cleared his throat and said, are you staying in the village?
No. I came to visit.
A visit, and when are you leaving?
We’ll see.
Not coming back?
No.
Stanku said: He’s going back to Germany. From there to Palestine.
Where is Palestine?
As far away as possible.
Stanku said, it’s a place for Jews.
The farmer said, you’re going away to a place for Jews, very good, so maybe you’ll come in and have something to drink? I said, have you seen a black and white cat, I had a cat before we left, a large cat, have you seen it?
The farmer laughed, no cats here, just my dog, maybe it went to the neighbors, Stanku, have you seen his cat? Stanku said, no, I know Ichko’s cat. The farmer held out his hand, please, come inside, have something to drink.
I stayed where I was. Stanku said, Ichko, he’s inviting you into the house. Let’s go in together.
I wanted mother and father and I went into the house.
My family’s dining table stood in the entrance. I pressed my fingers to my throat, gave a platch to my trousers and came to a decision in my heart: I, Icho son of Israel and Leah, stand upright in this house and draw down a steel screen, yes. I’m a stranger, and this house is not mine, it belongs to goys, yes. I don’t belong to this village, and I have no connection with this house, ah, I came in by chance and don’t recognize anything, and if I feel like it I can kill everyone with an ax, trach. I can cut this bastard peasant in two, trach-trach. See half a body fall to one side, and half a body to the other side, trach-trach.
I approached Dov’s and my room. There was a buzzing in my head like a bothersome fly. I said to myself, there are flies in this house and I don’t care, may the house burn down, may the cowshed burn down, may they cry until tomorrow and even longer.
Nonetheless, I peeped into the room. Under the window were two small beds close together and covered with a wool blanket. On the closet I saw a scratch I’d made long ago with a nail, I whispered, don’t recognize it, no, no. I went to the other room, I fell upon the curtains mother had sewn for Sarah’s room. The flies in my head grew louder, I shouted in a whisper, don’t recognize, don’t recognize.
The farmer’s wife stood beside me. She held a glass of water and a saucer with a teaspoon of white jam. She smiled at me and said, please, taste the jam. The farmer said, please sit down, pointing at an armchair.
I stayed where I was. I looked for a place to look at, every place I looked at, burned, oy, the armchair, and the little carpet at the door, and the large pot on the stove, oy, I want, what, what, what, not a thing, I don’t need anything. I went back to the farmer.
I wanted to sit on his neck and shout into his ear, the Germans killed us, and you killed us too, and your death is more painful, go to hell, we were neighbors, we brought you gifts on holidays, helped you cut the corn, mother knitted a coat and hat for your babies, how can you say there is no such thing as Jews, you bastards. The children held hands and watched me.
I wanted to find family pictures.
I knew that without pictures I’d forget grandmother and grandfather’s faces. I wanted at least one of grandmother and grandfather with Dov during the years he lived with them. Those were years they wanted to help mother, I thought, grandmother and grandfather were good people and we mustn’t forget the faces of people like that. I wanted pictures of mother and father and Sarah and Avrum, I wanted to take pictures with me to Palestine, and we had an album, where is our album. I remembered the first page in the album. There was a picture there of the whole family. Sarah and Avrum standing next to father. Dov and I sitting on chairs next to mother. We were four and five years old. Dov held a bell in his hand. Years later, I asked mother why Dov was holding a bell in his hand, mother said, so he’d agree to be photographed. He didn’t want to sit on the chair next to you and the photographer said, bring a bell, it helped. I remembered the photographer who came every summer to our village. He had a camera on long legs with a covering of black fabric. On the day we were photographed, he took kitchen chairs outside and positioned us all in the yard. He asked mother ten times to raise her head, to smile. Don’t know why she didn’t listen to him.
I pulled my hair and said to the farmer in a clear voice, in my mother and father’s room, in the bottom drawer was an album of family photographs. I want the album, where is it, and in my heart I said, if he doesn’t give me the photographs I will stand his children one after the other and trach-trach. Cut them in half. Yes, I have to leave here with at least family photographs to remember them by.
The farmer said, we didn’t see any photographs. The gendarmes came into the house before we did, right, Stanku? Slowly I approached the back of the armchair. I took a penknife out of my pocket that the aunts had given me and opened it under my battledress. I pressed the penknife into the back of the armchair and made a hole. I returned the penknife to my pocket. Stanku said, it’s true, Ichko, the gendarmes were the first to enter the house. They took a lot of things.
Took where?
Took them away. They also burned some.
What did they burn?
Maybe they burned photographs, I don’t know.
They burned pictures.
Yes.
Did the pictures make a large fire?
Don’t remember.
And what did they do with the ashes, throw them into the Tur’i Remety river?
I went out into the yard.
The farmer’s wife followed me with the water and the jam. I heard the farmer telling her to come back. She said, I’m sorry about your cat, our dog eats cats, look in the village. I looked at her. I wanted an ax for her too. The farmer approached. Said, do you want to see the cowshed?
I said, I do, but alone. The farmer and his wife returned to the house. I took two steps and saw three chickens and two geese pecking at the dirt in the yard. And then I closed my eyes and mother was calling to the geese, piu. piu. piu. piu. piuuu. She stood near the wall of the cowshed, scattering seed from her apron, piu. piu. piu. Ahh. My throat filled up. I threw my head back and whispered, you are in a stranger’s yard and you don’t recognize the chickens or the geese, and you don’t recognize the cows in the shed, enough, nu. I swallowed and gazed at the sky. It was gray and tipped with yellow, like Auschwitz, but without the smell. Right in front of me was father’s butcher shop and it was open. I didn’t approach. I went to the cowshed. Father had said to me in the train to Auschwitz, if you go back, look on the lintels above the cowshed door, I hid several pieces of mother’s gold jewelry there, from the wedding. I said to father, why are you telling me this, we’ll go home and you’ll give the jewelry back to mother, and father said, don’t forget Icho, and I remembered his gentle voice.
I didn’t find lintels. I found a hole in the wall.
I said to Stanku, let’s go.
The farmer and his wife followed us to the road. I heard him call, Ichko, in a hoarse voice, and I didn’t stop. He ran up to me and said, is there any chance that father and mother will return? I sto
pped. Turned to him.
I gave him an evil look and said slowly, yes. They will come back. Father will come back first, then mother will come back. You took our home and father will take the house and the money you owe him. The woman dropped the saucer with the jam and began to cry. I said, you should cry and it’s good that you’re crying. Cry until my father returns.
The farmer scratched his trousers and said, your brothers, will they come?
I said to him, look at your wife and see for yourself.
I knew that none of my family would return. I knew they were dead. I wanted the farmer and his wife to toss and turn on their pillows all night until the night was over, and may their hair turn white on all the other nights. May they never forget that this house belongs to Jews.
I wanted to get away from that village forever.
I said to Stanku, I’m leaving.
Stanku said, wait a while, Ichko, you’re my guest. That evening I heard people were looking for me. My Godfather was looking for me. He’d returned from a labor camp. He was the first Jew to return to the village. He went straight back to his house and found it had remained empty. I moved in with him. He was tall, thin. His black hair had vanished, only gray stubble remained and there was a great sadness in the house. We didn’t tell each other where we’d come from. He didn’t ask about mother and father or my siblings. He didn’t ask anything and I didn’t ask about his wife or his three children. Sometimes we’d look at each other and understand on our own.
My Godfather said, Icho, you’ll rest here with me for a few days and then leave. I stayed.
People from the village came to my Godfather’s house and stood near the path.
They could see my comings and goings. Goys I knew waited half a day before daring to walk along the path and enter. If they entered, they’d greet and wait politely. They always waited for me to begin speaking. I asked about the market in Perechyn and my heart was screaming: All of hate Jews. All of you, hate, hate. I asked about the price of a calf at the market and all the time my brain would disconnect and spin like a carousel. They’d say something and I’d fall upon them with an ax. Trach. One blow for every Jew they handed over to the Hungarians for a kilo of sugar. trach-trach. I knew the truth. Goys in our village handed over Jews for one kilo of rice. For one kilo of flour. They were paid by weight for every Jew they handed over. Jews hid in the village and goys informed on them and made a living on the side. There was one family in the village whose son was in the SS. He was happy to receive information about Jews. And he received it, oh yes he did, as much as he wanted. And who informed on Dov when we were at the synagogue, who told the Hungarian soldiers that one child was missing. Who told the Hungarian soldiers that Dov had run to the forest to hide something, maybe gold, maybe money, which is why the soldiers almost beat him to death.
