by Steven Uhly
“We got back to Lübeck very late, it was quite chilly. Tomorrow’s Saturday and I ought to be going to school, but Grandma said she’ll let me have the day off. That’s why I can keep writing now even though I’m very tired. Grandma’s in the sitting room with Auntie Maria, I can hear their voices, but can’t make out what they’re saying as they’re talking really softly. I wonder what they’re talking about? I’m sure they’ve got so much to say to each other. But I’m also sure that they’re talking a lot about me. One day I’ll find out everything.
“It’s nice to lie in bed and hear voices in the sitting room, it feels like a family. A family just of women! Maybe it’s better that way. Good night, dear Diary! See you tomorrow!”
28
Mrs. Abramowicz ate nothing. She said nothing. She sat in the narrow room at the back, which she shared with nineteen other people, staring into the distance. Her two remaining children, Ariel and Marja, did not want to leave her alone. They sat with their mother, they stuck to her, they cried or shouted at her, but their mother did not react. Anna and Ruth wanted to take the children outside, but the little ones resisted as if they were being abducted.
Even the old man, who Ruth continued to care for as if he were her father, began to talk when he saw the state Mrs. Abramowicz was in. One morning, when the others had left the house to sample a taste of freedom, or to get somehow from the Soviet sector into the American one, he sat himself with difficulty next to Mrs. Abramowicz and softly stroked her hair with his wrinkled hand. Then he took her by the shoulders and started rocking, slowly and rhythmically, pulling her along. As if he had intended to sing the following words, but had held back at the last moment, he said:
“May
the great name,
whose insatiable desire for life and death
gave birth to the universe
reverberate throughout His creation.
Now! May
this great presence guide your life and your day
and all life in our world. And say: Yes and amen.
Blessed
Blessed be this great name
now and forever and forever and now
so we bless and praise Your name
glorify and exalt it
and we forgive You
when You take away our life
and the life of those we love
and the life of our people
Your name? Holy one, Blessed one.
You go far beyond our praise
our hymns
our consolation,
leaving all the words
with which we help ourselves,
from which we suffer
far behind you. And say yes
and say amen.
Let God’s name
bring forth great peace
and great life
for us and for all. And say yes and say amen.
May He who has given us a universe of conflict
give us peace, all of us, that is: Israel.
That is: Israel!
That is: Israel!
And say yes
Amen.”
Anna was a few meters away, lying on her camp bed which was roomier now that Ruth had gone outside. She was amazed listening to the old man speak like that, for each time he deviated from the traditional text she winced inside, making her realize how well she knew the Kaddish, But where from? she wondered, Those few visits to the synagogue? She declined to go any further down this path, this path was forbidden, it did not belong in her special archive of important memories, this path led to the meadow where there was no longer a happy little girl. And beyond the meadow lay a village, and in this village lived people who had left. Anna’s hand made an involuntary movement, as if she had to brush away a spider’s web to move on.
Instead she thought of Josef Ranzner, of dead Sturmbannführer Treitz, who Ranzner believed would return. But once lost, was everything not gone forever? She felt a sorrow fermenting inside, which was curiously impersonal and yet definitely belonged to her. Was her entire life not lost? Was not everything that had already passed dead because it would never return? Had not her former light-heartedness given way to an excess of weighty destiny? Anna felt as if she were bent over like a little old woman, her shoulders seemed to pull forward with such intensity, she felt as if they would meet in front of her breasts. She felt as if Dana had to die so that her own child could live. She thought that the guilt she felt had been locked away somewhere inside her, and had now found a key to break out and be heard. She felt guilty for her pregnancy, she thought she had got off lightly in comparison to those who had been in concentration camp, she thought that she and Ruth ought to have kept a more watchful eye on Dana, she wondered, Am I actually fit to be a mother? Peretz was the only one who believed in her unconditionally and unconsciously, she needed him now.
Peretz came that evening. He looked happy, they sat on the outdoor steps next to where Dana had died. The moon shone down on the rubble, people laden with their possessions walked by, from time to time a Soviet patrol vehicle drove past, It’s curfew time soon, Anna said, just to say something. Peretz nodded and said, “We’ve been given some money by the military rabbi, the American Jews are making generous donations that eventually end up in our hands. We can get rid of the drivers and buy our own lorries, which is a good thing.” He nodded, he appeared fulfilled by his mission, it was what he wanted, it was what she should believe, it was what she wanted to believe, but there was something else she wanted too.
“Peretz, I’m pregnant.”
“What?” He would have been brought back down to earth with a bump had he understood what was happening to him. Brought back down to earth from a flight of refugees that provided him with the security of habit. A poor attempt, for he had not come here to disclose his tactics to Anna, least of all Anna, Look, I’m involved in something huge, how can you object to that? Had he not come back to turn the tables, so that it would be her chasing after him, allowing him to reassume his former roles?
Peretz, I’m pregnant, what a trump card Anna had whipped out from her belly, what could be bigger than this? Nothing, nothing at all, and Peretz realized it at once, forgotten were the lorries, forgotten the mission, Israel forgotten. Anna was pregnant and Peretz just stood there, eyes like saucers, unsure of what to say. His mouth was agape.
“Don’t worry, you’re not the father,” Anna said.
What am I doing? she thought. She felt as if she had lured Peretz into a trap in which he was now stuck, she sensed her behavior had been methodical. But she had no control over it. Later she would think, I needed a father for this child, and that would have been adequate justification. But it failed to explain what in her mind had made her choose this moment, this evening, one week after Dana’s death.
Peretz cleared his throat. His mouth was dry. He felt as if a delicious schnitzel had been waved under his nose and then served up to someone else. But a child is not a schnitzel, a child is far more alluring bait for a man who for weeks has been searching in vain for a rope with which to bind this woman to him. Then out of the blue comes a child, but before he can feel delight it is another’s child, and now his role has changed conclusively. Now it goes: If you wish to have this woman you must make a sacrifice, as large as another’s child. It goes: Now you can prove what you’re made of, now is your opportunity! Grab it, grab the hand she’s offered you before she takes it away. Peretz does not deliberate for long.
“I don’t care.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Yes, I don’t care. I . . .” Peretz hesitates, Peretz suspects that right at the back, where his thoughts are speaking so softly that they can barely be heard, the trap is springing and he will never get out again. Right at the back a voice asks about the child’s father. But further forward Peretz is afraid of the truth, because it might force him to listen to the thoughts, for Anna is like a fish in his hands, one false movement and she will slip through his fingers back into the murky
water, where he might never find her again. And right at the front, where the mouth begins and thinking ends, Peretz says, “I love you.”
Anna embraces him, it feels like a reward, Good boy, you’ve got everything right, somewhere at the very back a voice is complaining, screaming out loud, Peretz! Are you mad? What do you think you’re doing? This is a stitch-up, don’t get involved, don’t be tempted! But Anna’s embrace is stronger, she takes possession of Peretz with a gentleness, a lack of resistance in her entire body, which seems to be saying, I’m yours. Peretz does not listen, he wants to enjoy the feeling of finally being the man at Anna’s side, finally being able to say to the whole world, She is my wife.
And the child?
“If you like we can say that the child is mine,” Peretz whispers into Anna’s ear, and now Anna hugs him even more tightly, that must mean, Yes, yes to the common cause, yes to sealing the only door that connects us to the world, the truth about ourselves. And what is better, more solid, more compelling than a shared secret?
Anna thinks of Josef Ranzner and his four adjutants, who may all be dead, she thinks of Abba, who she sometimes misses still. Ad Lo-Or. Now thoughts of him seem like a little girl’s dream. Here is the man who is making a sacrifice for you, forget all others, take him and try to love him.
Anna nodded and said, “Yes.”
29
12th December, 1944
near Pulawy
My dearest lovely wife, what I would give to be with you now!
But not here. Your Farmer Kramer was taken to the east with a whole bunch of other farmers from the Wartheland. On horse-drawn carts. The lorries couldn’t get anywhere in the deep snow. We’re no longer farmers vital to the war effort, we’re just soldiers now. We were taken to the west bank of the Weichsel. There the river makes a big curve from north to south. The Russians have a bridgehead right in the middle. We’ve been shooting at them for days, but the bridgehead just keeps getting bigger. Do you remember the two cows on our farm? When we arrived, their udders were full to bursting and they were bellowing. I’m sure you remember. This bridgehead is like an udder nobody’s milking. It’s growing and growing. But the cow is the whole of Russia. Russia’s got a lot of milk.
I’m just a farmer with a rifle. I don’t know if I’ve shot anyone yet. We can’t see the Ruskies. And the Ruskies can’t see us. We shoot our weapons in a high arc. We shoot day and night. You can barely sleep on account of the noise. Each morning the trench is full of snow and we have to shovel it out. My dear wife! I hope your Farmer Kramer was a good husband. Before we left our homeland my father gave me a piece of advice. He said, “A smart man listens to his wife.” That was good advice. I was always a simple man, but there was an event in my life which showed me that even a simple man has his thoughts. Even a simple man like your Farmer Kramer, who can’t for the life of him remember why he wanted to leave his homeland and why he ever doubted your decisions, especially the decision to help other people. Now that this farmer doesn’t know whether he’ll ever return to you, he knows that you did everything right. Maybe we ought not to have sold the clock. Maybe it was right.
30th December, 1944
near Pulawy
Three weeks have passed. Our front line has been pushed back. We’re not on the run yet. But the Russians have crossed the Weichsel. There are rumors that they’re going to attempt a pincer movement. From the south. We’re not quite as many farmers from the Wartheland as we were at the beginning. Half are dead. Do you remember the Popko family? There were two of us and so many of them that they couldn’t all fit in one compartment. How many children did they have? Now they don’t have a father anymore. I saw him with my own eyes. It wasn’t the Russians that got him. It was the winter. When he died we stripped him of his clothes and now Popko’s trousers are going around with new legs, but without the coat, his coat is keeping another soldier warm, and without the boots, his boots are in the next trench but one, his hat is keeping my head warm. But what horror stories is Farmer Kramer telling in his letter? He’s always about to send it, but then he hesitates. Maybe he’s finding new words to describe what he wants to say. Farmer Kramer’s ears are missing the song that comes from your mouth. He can still hear it in his head, but it’s not the same. I hope you’re well, I hope the cow and Margarita’s child are well.
13th January, 1945
near Radom
Today Farmer Kramer almost bought it, my dear wife. But he’s still here and now he’s writing to you. Things aren’t going well. We’re fleeing. The Russians have made their pincer movement. We’re all trying to get through the corridor to the west. With their vehicles the officers have a good chance. Your Farmer Kramer has to go on foot with the rest of his comrades. He’s the last farmer from the Wartheland. We’ve been on the march for days. Who knows how much longer my strength will last. It’s so cold.
16th January, 1945
Starachowice
They’ve taken everything from us. The only things I was allowed to keep were my letter and pencil. The officer knew German. He liked the bit about the udders and the cow which is Russia. He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. Your Farmer Kramer is one of a few thousand who didn’t make it through. Fortunately I never had an S.S. uniform. They shot plenty of those on the spot. They’re sending us to Siberia. Your farmer will finally be able to work again. Anyway, I’m still alive. I hope you got away in time.
20th January, 1945
Somewhere
We’ve been on the march for days. The Russians don’t know where to take us. Always from one place to the next. My fingers are frozen. I hope you can read this. This morning an old man, must have been sixty, collapsed and tried to get up again, but couldn’t. Shot in the back of the neck. It’s hang on in or die.
25th January, 1945
Still on the march. I’m quite stiff from the cold, Farmer Kramer has retreated inside himself. On the outside I’m as cold as my surroundings. More shots to backs of necks. How much longer are they going to have us march? Or do they want us to perish one after the other? No food. When we’re thirsty we have to eat snow. The thought of you keeps this man on his feet. Your voice when it sings, lovely wife.
2nd March, 1945
Camp 7525/7 Prokopyevsk
My dear wife! Your farmer made it to Siberia by a whisker. I don’t know how far we walked in the thick snow, and then we got to a goods station where a train was waiting. Almost half of us died along the way. Most weren’t even shot by the Russians. Just left to die. Two more died on the train. Luckily it was so cold that they didn’t smell even after three days. The rest of us huddled together, swapping who was in the middle. One of the soldiers, a young S.S. man, went mad. Kept screaming, I want to get out, I want to get out. The rest of us tried to ignore him, but couldn’t. Eventually someone knocked him to the ground. We passed through Russian villages where people looked in poorer shape than we did. Everything is very sad. You can be proud of your farmer that he made it to Siberia. It can’t get any worse now.
5th April, 1945
Camp 7525/7 Prokopyevsk
My dear wife! The coalmine is no worse than marching in the freezing cold. But it’s no better either. There’s barely anything to eat. How lucky I am to have you! That I can write to you. Even if you’re dead by now, you still do me the world of good. My pencil is getting stubbier. You waste a lot of lead when you sharpen it with a stone. That’s why I’m writing to you once a month. It gives me strength. I count the days until I can write again. Who’d have thought that your farmer would become a writer? Who’d have thought it would do him the world of good?
10th May, 1945
Camp 7525/7 Prokopyevsk
My dear, lovely wife! They told us the war is over, Germany defeated. Are you still alive? Your farmer is, but he’s not a farmer anymore. Nor a soldier. Now your farmer’s a prisoner of war. Your farmer’s tired. It’s May already and still cold. Everyone’s hungry here. You learn to walk slowly, they call it “P.O.W. pace,” your farmer d
oes it now to save his strength. After all, he’s got to be able to make it back. Not on foot, hopefully.
6th June, 1945
Camp 7525/7 Prokopyevsk
Your farmer is still here, my dear wife. Sometimes he doesn’t know anymore whether you and this letter are two separate entities. Your farmer now knows what raw frog tastes like. Spiders. Earthworms. Your farmer has to keep his strength up. In the camp are some German foremen. You have to watch them, they’re worse than the Romanians or Hungarians. If someone is unable to work they pounce on him. Please forgive me, dear wife, for telling you these things. It’s good for me to look for words.
15th July, 1945
Camp 7525/7 Prokopyevsk
My dear wife! How wonderful that I have you! They say we’re going to help rebuild the country. I’m sure you’re doing the same in Germany. It’s difficult work. Most difficult of all is underground. It’s high summer in Siberia at the moment and it’s hot and humid outside, but cold and damp down below. Many are ill. I’m lending out my pencil in return for cigarettes. With the cigarettes I buy food. When we’re underground the external work team always brings something you stuff into yourself. Now your farmer is eating animals he used to consider pests. How many animals died in our field, without one of us ever being able to eat them?