Guards stand near the gates.
We cannot.
* * *
—
“Isia,” Esther asks, “Will it always be like this?”
She knows already but asks anyway, wanting me to tell her.
“No,” I reply. “People cannot be fenced in. Each night, when it is silent all around, I think I hear the rumble of cannons. From East and West, from South and North. The Germans will be beaten and the ghetto gates opened.”
Esther is silent.
“Soon?” she asks after a while.
I don’t know, but I answer the way I want it to be: “Soon.”
That’s how we always talk.
But Janek is not satisfied.
I see that he wants to talk to me alone.
He wants to, but there is never an opportunity. I don’t know if I want to. But if I must, then I can talk to him.
Today he waited for me.
Now we walk alone, but Janek is silent. We think about something, he and I.
“Are you the same Lipman who plays chess?”
“The same.”
“With Schoger?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so,” Janek says. “Why do you play with him?”
“He orders me to.”
“Only for that reason?”
“No. I force him to concede.”
“He’s never won?”
“No.”
“And there’s never been a stalemate?”
“No.”
“I know you’re a brave lad, Isia.”
“Me?”
“You. But we have to talk nonetheless.”
“I don’t like to talk about chess. I can shut myself away and play with myself,” I say to Janek. “I still manage to make Schoger concede, though each day it’s more and more difficult. It was easy before. And now, each time, I’m afraid of losing. But I still don’t like to play chess.”
Janek looks me in the eye. “No, not about chess. We still have to talk.”
* * *
—
“What will we talk about, Janek?”
“About me.” He lowers his head. “Not completely about me. Only a little bit.”
I don’t know if I want to do that. But I say, “Talk, Janek.”
“You see…” he says.
And having stopped, he kicks a stone. That stone was round, rubbed down. We really could pretend that it was a ball and play soccer. I would stand between the goal posts, and Janek would try to score. Or he would hunch over between the posts, waiting.
“You see…” Janek says again, and I understand what he’s going to talk about.
Perhaps he’ll talk about himself. I don’t know.
Perhaps he’ll talk about the others.
Perhaps he’ll talk about things I know nothing about.
But he will still talk about Esther.
I don’t know if I want that, and I say to him, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“You see…” he says.
This is the third time Janek has uttered those words.
* * *
—
“Her brother,” Janek says, “whose name is Meyer, though we always called him Meika, was my best friend. We were the same age and grew up in the same yard. He knew Polish as well as any Pole, and my Yiddish was no worse than his. You can see it for yourself, right? We were the best of friends. I won’t explain it to you—you have to understand it yourself.”
“Don’t explain it,” I say to him. “Everyone would understand such a thing.”
“I thought so,” he says. And falls silent.
“Do you remember that day when everybody was herded into the ghetto?” Janek asks.
He asks and stands silent and then asks again—with his eyes.
I remember that day. I’d like to forget it, but I remember. That day stands before me like the wrecked bridge. That bridge is that day. Even now I can see the toppled pilings. I see the holes in the bridge’s floor. The bridge is packed with people. And beneath it, near the water, his head bowed, stands a German. And above, leaning against a metal girder, sits a man, as if he were alive.
I remember that day well. It stands before me like the wrecked bridge.
“I remember the bridge that day,” I say to Janek. “Do you?”
“I can still see the narrow street,” Janek says. “And that street is as flooded as the bridge, to the very railings.”
“Janek, did people wear the yellow patches then?”
“Yes. How can one forget such things?”
I bow my head.
* * *
—
“That day,” Janek says.
He speaks plainly, it seems, but his cheeks sink, his forehead turns gray, and he grinds his teeth. It seems to me that Janek bites each of his words, and that’s why it’s so hard for him to speak.
His parents already did not exist. That’s what Janek said. They went to Warsaw in ’39, to visit friends, and never returned. He lived with his uncle but spent all his time with Meika and Esther.
They all knew about the ghetto. They were all prepared.
“Do you know that it’s forbidden to talk to Jews? They’ll grab you and ship you off to Germany.”
That’s what Janek’s uncle said to him.
Janek was very sad. Janek walked everywhere with his head bowed, because Meika and Esther had stars and he had nothing. Then Janek found some yellow cloth and sewed yellow patches onto his clothes. It was on the morning of that day.
“That day,” Janek said again. “I did not believe that there would be a ghetto and that we would be separated from Meika and Esther.”
“That day…”
That’s what Janek talks about. It seems he speaks plainly, but his forehead is gray, and he grinds his teeth.
* * *
—
That day a German entered the yard. There, in the yard, he saw Esther. He walked toward her. He smiled and beckoned her with his finger. She stepped backward, backward, and wanted to run away. Then the German shouted, and she stopped.
“Komm hier, Komm hier, Kleine Jüdin,” the German said.
He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the woodshed.
Esther screamed for help.
Janek searched for something, but there was nothing at hand. Then he jumped into the kitchen and grabbed an ax. But Meika had already run to the woodshed. He ran with nothing, with bare hands and clenched fists. He wanted to choke the German. He did not know what he wanted to do.
When Janek ran out with the ax, he heard three shots. The German pushed the dead Meika out of the woodshed.
Janek was more careful.
He went around.
He walked carefully, on his tiptoes, and the German did not see him.
The German pushed Esther down right near the door, just over the threshold, and was ripping off her clothes. With one hand he covered her mouth, and with the other he tore her clothes. He was sitting on Esther’s legs and hunched over.
The German was quite conveniently hunched over. Janek reared up and with all of his strength brought the ax down on the back of the German’s head.
I say nothing.
What can I say?
I want to cry out, “Esther, my Buzia!” But I can’t talk now. Now I have to keep silent.
“That day…” Janek says.
* * *
—
We walk on, Janek and I. The small round stone is no longer in front of us. And that’s good. It’s not a ball, and we are not soccer players. I’m not standing between the goal posts, and neither is Janek. He doesn’t try to score on me, and I don’t try to score on him. There is no goal.
“That day you came to the ghetto with the rest of us
,” I say to Janek.
“Yes,” he says. “I came. I couldn’t leave Esther alone. I couldn’t leave her mother and father. And I couldn’t leave Meika. We wrapped him in a sheet, and I carried him into the ghetto. I couldn’t leave him. I wanted him to be where the rest of his people were. I wanted Meika to be with me always. You see what happened that day.”
His forehead is still gray, and his cheeks are sunken.
I don’t want his forehead to be gray and his teeth to grind.
“You’re a great man, Janek,” I finally utter.
But he doesn’t even smile.
Then I think that Janek does not have to live in the ghetto. He could be free. He could walk all the streets of the city, even on the sidewalks, and could get papers in his own name. He could leave the city and go to the forest. He could go to the fields, to the large wide meadow. He could sit in that meadow on the soft grass, pick flowers, and then, stretched out on his back, stare at the sky. The sky would be blue, quite blue, spattered with small white clouds—ships. And all around, the grass would be so fragrant, everything would be so fragrant.
I’m not conscious of touching the star on Janek’s chest. All the corners are firmly fastened, according to instructions. The cloth’s quite simple and common—but the color is yellow. From such cloth a scarf could be made, or a shirt, or some other piece of clothing.
Janek looks at me with his deep eyes. He looks wise, like an old man.
“You’re a strange lad.”
That’s what Janek says.
“You’re a great chess player.”
That’s what Janek says after a while.
“But there’s still a great deal you don’t know,” he says, and smiles.
I listen and do not lower my eyes from Janek’s face.
“You think that only the ghetto is a ghetto,” Janek says to me. “You’re wrong, Isia. There, outside—that, too, is a ghetto. The only difference is that our ghetto is fenced and that one has no fence.”
Again I want to say, “You’re a great man, Janek,” but I keep quiet.
We both keep quiet.
* * *
—
We walk on and on.
I don’t know where myself.
Now Janek is the first to speak.
“We have to talk, Isia,” he says.
Now I don’t understand anything.
“We’ve already talked,” I say. “What else do you want to say?”
“I haven’t said anything yet, Isia. You see…”
Again—you see. How many times has it been this evening?
“You see,” Janek says, and lowers his eyes, “I want to tell you…I want to ask you…you won’t harm Esther? Meika no longer exists, and now I’m her brother.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve lost my voice.
“I can give up my life for her,” Janek says. “Don’t harm her, Isia. She’s a pure, pure girl.”
What is he saying? What is Janek saying here now? I could tell him that I’m Shimek and that Esther is Buzia. Together we are Shimek and Buzia. Could Shimek ever harm Buzia?
I could tell him that, but I say something completely different.
“I could get angry, Janek,” I say to him. “I could even fight you if you weren’t her brother, Janek. How could you think of such a thing? Aren’t you ashamed, Janek?”
He lowers his eyes even more and bows his head.
Janek smiles widely, childishly.
Then Janek raises his head. He doesn’t look at me, but I can see how his eyelashes quiver—his eyes blink, as if he is guilty and is now apologizing.
“Of course,” says Janek. “I’ve known for a long time that you are a good friend and that you would never harm her. But I still had to talk to you—right, Isia? We had to talk, huh?”
“We had to talk,” I agree.
“You see…”
That’s what Janek says.
I don’t know how many times he’s said those words this evening.
“All right,” I say to Janek. “I have to run now. I really have to hurry.”
“Hurry,” he says.
“I really have to hurry.”
“Hurry, hurry.”
“We’ll see each other again tomorrow.”
“All right, tomorrow. Hurry, hurry. She’s been waiting for you for a long time and can barely stand it. I know. Hurry, hurry.”
Janek looks at me like a wise man with his deep blue eyes. Is his face sad? No, it can’t be. It only seems that way to me. He must know that I would never harm his sister.
Buzia….
I say that to myself and run.
I hurry.
I really, really have to hurry.
The Twelfth Move
• 1 •
I have to try for a stalemate, Isaac thought.
Schoger pulled his chair closer so he could be more comfortable. He leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers.
It was not his move.
“Listen,” he said, and squinted as he had at the beginning of the game. “Aren’t you at all nervous?”
Isaac did not answer.
“I can’t imagine how someone can be so calm when he’s playing for his life.”
Isaac was silent.
“You force me to play too cautiously. Just imagine what would happen if I accidentally made a mistake, and you didn’t see it and let me checkmate you. Do you understand what would happen then?”
He’s not letting me concentrate, but I see…. If I sacrifice that pawn, move my knight to that corner, the knight will stand there like a fortress, and no one will be able to move it. I’m still playing badly…. I have to try for a stalemate.
Schoger suddenly said quietly, almost in a whisper, “What would happen if I sat in your place and you sat in mine? I’ll have to confess that I would be quite nervous. Oh! Dear god! It’s my good fortune that you can’t be. Right?”
That really cannot be, but I can’t think about that. I have to forget everything. Why can’t I forget the whole world? Because Schoger sits in his chair and thinks that the whole world is his? Is the world his? Can he do with it, with the whole world, whatever he wishes?
• 2 •
“I begat a daughter, Rachel,” said Abraham Lipman.
• 3 •
The window was open. A light wind slipped past the gauze curtains and diffused in the room. Its many-fingered hand came near the bed. One cool finger touched Rachel’s hot forehead.
It’s good that an easy wind on a stuffy summer day wafts into the ward, dissipates the smell of ether, and revives the woman who five days earlier gave birth to a son.
The baby was insatiable. He sucked one large round breast dry, but it was not enough for him. Rachel raised the second one and pushed the swollen nipple, browned and large as a piece of ripe fruit, into his mouth. The child squeezed it and closed his narrow gray eyes. He sucked quickly, chewing painfully as if he were pinching with small blunt pliers, but Rached did not moan, she did not quiver.
His face was as wrinkled as an old man’s, his nose straight and small, his hair and eyelashes white. Against his red skin, his hair looked as if he had suddenly gone gray.
Rachel closed her eyes. She wished that a month or two had already passed so her son’s hands could be unswaddled and could search for his mother’s breasts, squeeze and fondle them with their tiny red fingers.
It doesn’t matter what people say; they don’t know anything, Rachel thought.
She bent down and gently touched her lips to the child’s small wrinkled forehead. Near his temple she saw a tiny blue vein, which pulsed quickly, quivered.
My body and my blood, Rachel thought. The time will come when the war will end, we’ll remain alive, and I’ll raise a son. A son! They will not touch my son. No one will touch him.
They let me give birth, and now they will not touch him.
“David, David!” Rachel whispered. “You wanted a son, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Rachel, I wanted a son.”
“You wanted someone to remain in the world bearing your name?”
“No, Rachel.”
“You wanted a son because your parents had a son, because your parents’ parents had a son, and their parents before them?”
“No, Rachel.”
“I know, David, that every daughter is closer to her mother and every son to his father. You wanted our child to press close to you?”
Silence.
“David, then why did you want a son? Is it because they took our Moishele to Paneriai?”
Silence.
“Tell me, David. I don’t know why myself. Even though I, too, wanted a son. Tell me, David.”
“I wanted a son to be born from our love. We loved each other very much, Rachel, and that’s why a son had to be born. Don’t you understand?”
“I understand. I say the same thing, David. But why can’t you come here and take your small son into your arms?”
Silence.
“Are you angry that his nose is so small and not at all like mine or yours? That his eyes are gray? Yours are brown, mine are blue, and his are gray. Why are they gray, David?”
Silence.
The window was open. One more of the wind’s cool fingers came and touched Rachel’s burning, damp forehead. The living red lump’s eyes were closed. He was tightly swaddled. He painfully grasped the breast with his small dull pliers.
Rachel leaned back against the pillows. She wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry, tearless. It was hard to cry without tears, especially for a woman who had given birth five days earlier. Her mouth was dry; her throat was dry; her palate and nose, like her eyes, were dry.
She pressed the swaddled baby to her breast and whispered quietly, quietly, like the many-fingered wind in the gauze curtains.
“My body, my blood…. My body and my blood.”
This ghetto hospital’s ward was tiny, two steps in either direction. Here stood two beds. On the other lay Liza, an eighteen-year-old. She moaned quietly. She had had a hard birth. She had been sick before and was still sick.
Stalemate Page 3