Stalemate

by Icchokas Meras

  The underground committee had met for five hours with its leader, Hirsch, and had decided that he had to give himself up.

  Hirsch walked to the gates of the ghetto and surrendered.

  He was tortured to death in the Gestapo prison.

  “Antanas, why do I remember only our mistakes?”

  “We don’t want our mistakes to be repeated,” he sighed.

  “No one has the right to make such mistakes, Antanas.”

  “We re inexperienced.”

  “Yes…of course….”

  Riva moaned.

  He looked at Riva. Her arm was bloody.

  “Sit down,” she said. “It’s only a scratch from before. That’s not why I….”

  He sat down again.

  He thought: If we gave ourselves up, there might be a chance that we could escape. It’s not important that both of us escape. It’s important only that there might be such a chance. She has to run away…. She has to stay alive. She will escape…. Perhaps it’s a mistake to remain here, too?

  Riva looked at Antanas’s gloomy eyes and shook her head.

  She thought: There are too many of them. We won’t escape. We can’t think about that now. We’ll fight them for a long time, for as long as we can. Right, Antanas? We’re able to rest now; we’re all right. You should listen now. I see my father. He’s like an old unbendable tree. He stands with his roots pressed firmly into the ground. My sisters and my brother—Ina, Rachel, Basia, and Kasriel—do not exist. But he still stands. Now I won’t exist…. No, that’s not important. The tree will stand. It will just have one less branch. You see, Antanas. He’s old, and we are young. It’s harder for him. We’re able to rest now and talk to each other. It’s not that bad. And you think about things you shouldn’t, about which you shouldn’t at all….

  Antanas smiled. “I don’t know your father,” he said.

  “He’s no longer young. His beard is like yours, only large and gray.”

  After that they were silent once more.

  He now thought he should ask Riva if she had managed to tell Gita about that new German machine gun they had buried near the banks of the river, after wrapping its firing mechanism in a rag and hiding it in the hollow of the old linden tree. He had to ask, but he was afraid to remind her. If she hadn’t managed, then there was nothing they could do now, so it was better not to bring it up.

  Her face was bright.

  Perhaps she had told Gita after all?

  At least someone knows what her thoughts are now….

  Antanas was silent. It was enough for him that her face was bright.

  A bullet drilled through his window, buzzed like a bee, and scattered Riva with gray dust, but she paid no attention to it.

  She thought: You don’t understand why I’m content. I can see you don’t understand. I think about you, and I’m happy that I have known you for such a long time, for an entire month, thirty days. That you, then, the first time we laid eyes on each other, opened the gate, let me into the yard of the power station, then walked with me, went with me, and stood with me on Three Cross Hill to watch how the power station exploded, how the fires flamed, the first fires the ghetto people had set, and you said, “For Hirsch Mitenberg….”

  And you took off your hat.

  And I grabbed your hand and kissed it.

  Then we went somewhere far away—through the back ways you led me, and we came to this tiny house near the shallow brook that rustles day and night as the waters flow and flow; you can hear it even now as we sit like this and look at one another.

  Antanas turned toward the window.

  It’s a good thing, Riva, that you don’t know exactly who I am. You don’t know that not far from here, right here in our town, lives another person with the same surname as mine, my brother. You don’t know that he serves the Germans and shoots people at Paneriai. I’m glad that you don’t know. But I hate the fact that as we sit here facing each other, surrounded by Germans, I’ll never see how you, your brother, and I kill my brother, the one with the same surname as me, with our bare hands. I know that you can’t read my thoughts right now, Riva, and I’m glad, but it pains me that you will never see what I’m dreaming about.

  Antanas was still facing away from her.

  Riva thought: Why is he so sad again? I have to say something to him…. What can I say to make him happy? My God, I have to think of something…something….

  She remembered and smiled.

  “Antanas, do you hear me, Antanas?” she said. “Yesterday I heard that some of the younger men got the better of two policemen and of the Master of the Whip. They were roaming through the ghetto at night, waking up people and demanding money. They were dropped down a well. I even know their last names: Barkus, Jankauskas, and Feler. Isn’t that terrific?”

  He gave a start and turned toward her. Now his face was bright.

  You see, Riva thought, I found something to tell you, and now you’re happy. So what if one of those guards was Jankauskas? Was he a relative of yours? It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t matter at all. Feler could have been a relative of mine. Does it matter now, after we have lived together for an entire month, thirty days, here, on the bank of the shallow brook, where we can hear all the time how the water rustles and snorts without beginning or end?

  He turned toward the window again, wanting to hide his bearded face, but he immediately crouched down and grabbed his machine gun, and Riva understood that the Germans were returning and that this time they would not pull back.

  She jumped to her window and saw that the Germans were hunched over again, hurrying.

  They let the Germans draw near and again started shooting together. The Germans dropped down. The two in the tiny house waited until the Germans got up, but the Germans did not rise together. They got up and ran one by one and Riva and Antanas still had to shoot, though they didn’t have many bullets left and in a short time would have only the revolvers.

  They dashed now from one side of the windows to the other and shot short bursts of bullets so it would seem there were not only two in the house, but many.

  Then he collapsed.

  She heard a rattling and believed she had heard a bee’s buzzing—the bullet that knocked Antanas down. That’s how it seemed to her, and she couldn’t shake that thought though there were many bullets that buzzed and drilled, that had completely knocked off both shutters, shutters that now looked like torn and broken beehives. And Antanas had been knocked down not by a single bullet but by many slivers of lead that had pierced his chest.

  Riva turned toward him, but with the greatest effort of will he knit his brows, and she fired off Antanas’s last clip through his window.

  She wanted to kneel next to him again, but he pointed to the other side, and she crawled over to her window and there finished her seventh and last clip.

  Then it didn’t matter.

  Because it didn’t matter, she knelt in the middle of the room and fired Antanas’s revolver through his window and then her revolver through her window.

  When Antanas’s revolver was empty she firmly grasped the knobby handle of her gun and thought the same, always the same thought: I can’t fire all the bullets; I have to leave one for myself.

  And the time came when there was only one bullet.

  Then she leaned down near Antanas.

  The corners of his lips curled into a smile. During all that time, as she was shooting by herself, he had strained his strengths, all the power of his will, and had waited until she leaned over him and looked into his eyes.

  He moved his lips. He felt that they moved, and then he said: “I love you, Riva…. I loved you.”

  “I know.”

  Then his strength left him, and Riva pressed his eyes closed.

  The Germans were very near, and she didn’t know: Now, already, or should I wait? She
didn’t know what she should wait for, but the words swirled and swirled in her thoughts: “Now? Already? Or should I wait?”

  Then she saw the German, right there, outside her window. He raised his head, then hid, again rose and again hid. Riva pulled back, held her breath, and waited. She could not leave that German alive. She couldn’t stand how he raised his head near the window and then hid, showed himself and then hid. Her entire life would be worthless, worth nothing, if she let that German live, because after a time he would again find on the banks of a river the same sort of tiny house, and he would again shoot, shoot, and shoot, and then poke his head through a window whose shutters looked like a torn and broken beehive.

  She pulled back and tried to calm herself so her hand would not tremble. When only one bullet remains, the hand doesn’t have the right to tremble. It has to be made of steel, of hard stone. The hand has to be hammered from granite, and it must wait.

  Riva waited, and the head again bobbed up outside the window. Then she squeezed the trigger coldly, her hand was granite, and not one of her stone muscles trembled or moved.

  Then Riva jumped up, grabbed the machine gun, pushed out the remaining fragments of the window, jumped up onto the windowsill, and pointed and swept the machine gun back and forth, though it was empty, without bullets. It seemed to her that it was loaded, and she swept the machine gun back and forth, aiming it at all those green uniforms until they responded with a dozen volleys.

  Then it was all right.

  Riva fell backward into the room and was amazed at how quiet it was. She could again hear how the waters of the brook burbled beyond the wall, and she saw that it was night.

  Riva clasped Antanas’s cooling hand and said to herself, You know, Antanas…I loved Hirsch Mitenberg. I loved him very much.

  And again the water beyond the wall burbled—without beginning or end, rapid, impetuous, and clear.

  The Fortieth Move

  • 1 •

  • 2 •

  I lie now in a ditch by the side of the road. It’s hard for me to get up, so I guess I’ll lie here for a while and gather my strength. I lie in a ditch, and no one bothers me here.

  That’s right; it’s me, Janek.

  I am the Pole Janek, and not Yankel, but to my chest and back are sewn the yellow stars, and I speak Yiddish the way children say their prayers, the way my friend Meika spoke Polish. Meika is buried in the ghetto, but I continue my search and know that I will find him. If they had locked the Poles into ghettos and if I did not exist, Meika, too, would have gone with the rest and searched for Janek.

  I’m Janek.

  I lie in a ditch by the side of the road. No one bothers me here, and no one stops me from staring at the sky.

  * * *

  —

  Everything happened so quickly today.

  Two trucks rolled into the ghetto. Soldiers jumped out and began to round up the men, all those who fell into their hands. They pushed me into the truck too. Both trucks filled up quickly and darted through the gates of the ghetto into the street.

  I remember everything clearly, right down to the last detail. I stare at the blue sky and in it see everything, like in the movies, unfolding from beginning to end.

  * * *

  —

  We’re in the trucks.

  Our truck is second and continuously tries to keep up with the first. In the back are many men, pressed against one another, mostly old people who work in the ghetto and who don’t go out to the work camps each day. They’re packed together like sardines in a can, and along the sides of the truck, on fold-down benches, sit soldiers.

  I sit in the front of the truck. Someone has pinned my legs, but that’s not important at all. I see how the road stretches behind me and that it’s narrow and dusty. I understand that it’s all over now. He lived, Janek lived, the way all people live, but now his hour has come.

  When your hour has come, you have to reconsider your entire life. I want to do that too, but I can’t. I see the clouds of dust behind the truck, and all sorts of unnecessary thoughts come into my head: They wanted to take away all the old people, so why did they grab me? I’m the only young person in the whole truck. If they wanted to round up the young men, then why are there so many old men in our truck, and why am I the only young one?

  I’m not angry at all that those men push me around. Maybe they’re uncomfortable sitting as they do, and maybe they don’t like the fact that I, the very youngest, sprawl in the front of the truck. The truck rattles; we all bounce up and down. I find it very strange that they’re all still in their places and that I’m the only one who’s slipping somewhere. I can’t see what’s happening behind the truck now. There, now I can see a little bit of what’s going on. I can hear the rumble of the first truck and can see the thin line of the top of the forest. We’ll be among the trees soon.

  What’s in the forest? Why are we going to the forest?

  Unnecessary thoughts again come into my head, and I can’t concentrate or reconsider my life, the way every decent person must when his hour has come.

  * * *

  —

  They push me to the very back. I can feel the boards with my shoulderblades. They are the boards at the very back of the truck. A bearded man leans close to my face and winks. I remember him from the ghetto, though I don’t know who he is, though I don’t know his name.

  Why is he winking? Does he want to cheer me up? But I’m not sad.

  That man is saying something. I can’t understand. Ah! He’s speaking Polish. Of course. The soldiers won’t understand a word of Polish. He utters a few words, quiets, and then again whispers, because it’s forbidden to speak, and I catch his individual words and tie them into sentences.

  “When we pass the forest, there will be a hill. The trucks will speed up and won’t be able to stop quickly. Jump into the road then. I’ll jump after you. Don’t be afraid. Just jump carefully so you don’t kill yourself.”

  We’re silent again, and the line of the forest draws threateningly near, like a great wave that seems to be ready to engulf and drown us.

  That bearded man has overpowered me. I know I have to do what he tells me to do. I listen to that man and think of nothing else; not about my life, not about my death.

  Now?

  Not yet.

  Now?

  He jostles me.

  Now!

  I sail through the air, face turned toward the truck, and see the broad back that blocks the horizon. I hear the shots, feel the man fall alongside, and hear the shots again.

  I want to get up, but my head spins and everything swims around me in a great circle. I seem to see someone standing near us, rolling us somewhere. I fall into some sort of dark abyss. What is it? Why am I falling? Is my last hour to come in this abyss? My final eyeblink?

  * * *

  —

  I lie in a ditch by the side of the road. No one bothers me or stops me from staring at the sky.

  I’ve had enough of this lying down.

  I get up and see that bearded man who winked at me stretched out nearby, and I still do not know why he had winked, that man who had whispered to me in Polish so the soldiers could not understand.

  The blood has dried on his face and clothes.

  He’s dead, that bearded man.

  I have to get out of here, but I can’t leave him. He lies very comfortably, and his arm is twisted and bent.

  I take off my coat. The stars are yellow. Should I tear them off? Press them in my hand, hold them, and then cast them aside? They’re unnecessary now, but they don’t hinder me. I spread out my jacket, pull the bearded man onto it, and drag him carefully to the ditch. My head is still spinning, but I have to hurry.

  We crawl along the ditch to the forest. There, at the wood’s edge, I find a long, still-unfilled trench. We crawl to that trench. I lower the bearded man
into it, fold his hands on his chest. I cover his face and hands with my jacket. Now he looks as if he’s sleeping.

  I’m afraid.

  I have to bury the sleeping man.

  This is the first time in my life that I’ve been afraid.

  I gather pine branches, pluck green leaves, and throw them into the trench. I throw more and more in. The man already cannot be seen, but I’m still afraid.

  It is frightening to bury a man.

  Nearby is a hill of sand. From this same trench.

  I pour sand on him by the handful and am afraid to look down. Then I lie on my back, brace my legs against the bushes, and push the entire hill of sand into the trench.

  It is finished.

  I have buried a man.

  He winked at me not long ago, then blocked the horizon with his broad back, and I’ve dragged him into the trench, covered him with leaves and branches, and shrouded him with sand.

  I have buried a man.

  * * *

  —

  I now lie near the trench. Why am I here? When did I get there—today or yesterday?

  I don’t know.

  But I’m still alone, and I’m completely free. My yellow stars remained with my coat in the trench. I can go out onto the road and walk down it to my uncle’s. I can stop by at that hut and drink some water.

  I’m very thirsty.

  I’d get some water there, and my uncle would be very happy. He hasn’t seen me for a long time. He’d grab me into his wide embrace. He might even start crying and say through his tears, “You’ve grown, Janek, and you understand that you must first of all save your own life. Right, my child? You’re thin, but that doesn’t matter. You’ve finally come home, Janek….”

  I was happy at my uncle’s. I didn’t have to be afraid all the time for myself or for the others. I told Isia that the ghetto was not just in the ghetto but all around. That might be. But the ghetto is fences, and there’s no fence around the city.