Then the sun sank down and cast shadows under the wagons. Tzilla sat where she was, mending clothes. There was a quiet in her hands. I was glad that my mother’s friend was near me and that I could gaze at the movements of her hands. Suddenly it seemed to me that my mother, too, was standing alongside her and looking at her handiwork, and for a moment I sank into this sweet reverie.
In the midst of this, the mourning drew to a close. The old men returned to their wagons, and all around me people were chopping firewood to set up the bonfires. There was a feeling that the night would be quiet, the dealers would not pursue their dangerous business, the wagon drivers would not quarrel over drink, and the musicians would sit quietly, sipping tea. It seemed to me that without their instruments, the musicians had a defect. During their free time they sit silently, as if all their words have been stripped away.
In the calm of the night after the fast, as people nursed their drinks in their cups and took their first sips of fresh coffee, while everything seemed usual and familiar and without any ominous portent, Mamshe jumped up from her place and fled toward the reeds. Everyone saw her flee but not one person tried to stop her. It was like being in nightmare, with the same feeling of frozenness, of being chained, the same feeling of astonishment that what was happening was beyond our control and who knew what else awaited us.
Though weakened by the fast and casting longing looks at their hot meals, people got up, lit lanterns, and went out to the reeds.
“Mamshe! Where are you?” they called out, waving their lanterns. “Come back to us! We won’t put you back in the cage. Don’t be afraid!” This time they did not make their way deep into the reeds and did not go along the banks of the river. Their cries hung in the air and slowly grew fainter.
Afterward, people stood silently, as if they expected thunder to pierce the air, but nothing happened. One of the dealers, a man who was sick but very brave, rolled up his trousers and waded into the reeds. Before long, he returned empty-handed.
“She’s gone,” said someone in a hollow voice, and that was how the search for her ended.
Later that night a woman brought her sick daughter to the old men and asked for a blessing. One of them, a blind one, laid his trembling hands on the girl’s head. The girl was frightened and would have run away, but the mother, aware of her fear, held her firmly and would not let go until the old man had finished blessing her.
19
The days passed swiftly. Pleadings and warnings were of no avail, and the old men declared a fast. It was just a few days after the Ninth of Av. The memory of Mamshe’s return and her subsequent disappearance still lingered in the air. One of the old men, who had been known as an honest dealer in his youth, took a plank of wood and wrote on it, Man does not live by bread alone. He hung it on his body.
Two years earlier, when the old men had declared a fast, detectives and gendarmes had suddenly appeared; they took up positions around the wagons and confiscated goods of considerable value. Since then, people took care not to push the old men beyond their limits. But this time the dealers had been so caught up in their successes, they did not notice the gathering storm. And when they did, it was already too late: detectives and gendarmes pounced on them from every corner.
The struggle between the dealers and the old men, and between the dealers and the gendarmes, had gone on since the convoy first set out. It’s true that when the Holy Man was alive, the dealers did not so much as raise their heads; they would pray and study Torah. Although they also traded then, they didn’t do it openly, or with such fervor. The Holy Man, who knew them inside out, would rebuke them. But since his death, commerce is all they care about. As the saying goes: They are enslaved to this passion with heart and soul. They deal in imported goods, in sugar and spices, in anything at all. They buy and sell from their shabby wagons, and they send out messengers throughout the region. It’s true that due to our wanderings and the distances traveled, they would sometimes err in judgment and incur a loss, but it did not discourage them. From year to year they grew more addicted to this drug. You could no longer change them; they were like alcoholics, but it was risk and gambling that flowed in their blood. Now the gendarmes ordered the wagons to be evacuated immediately. Two rounds in the air sufficed to instill fear. In an instant, everyone gathered in the clearing. This time coaxing and bribery were useless. The gendarmes stood their ground: there must be a search.
And it was a thorough one. They knew where to search. They did not touch the old men’s and women’s belongings, but everything in the possession of the businessmen and dealers was turned inside out. Before long the clearing was piled high with fabrics and clothes, bags of sugar and salt, dried fruit and eiderdown quilts. The gendarmes did not content themselves with this, but carried out body searches as well. Here, too, they did not emerge empty-handed: they cut open coat linings and pulled out gold and jewelry. There was no longer any doubt: the informers had given precise directions to the hiding places.
At noon, the commander arrived to supervise the search in person. Some dealers were arrested and others were beaten. One of the dealers who couldn’t take the torture of the interrogation admitted that he had another hiding place not far from the wagons. But even this revelation did not spare him, for the gendarmes had information about still another hiding place, and they went on beating him.
Toward evening three wagons arrived, and with their very own hands the dealers were forced to load the confiscated goods onto them. The pain was intense, but the humiliation was even worse. The dealers, who only the previous day had moved freely from place to place, now stood humiliated and dispossessed.
“It’s because of the old men, it’s all on account of their wickedness,” one of the dealers could not restrain himself from saying.
As always after a robbery, there were the questions: What should we do, and where should we go? The old men stood alongside their wagons as if rebuked; they appeared much older than usual. They prayed in a whisper, and later they shuffled back over to their wagons.
Sruel polished off an entire bottle that night. A clear light illuminated his face, and he served strong coffee and little cakes. People drank and asked for more. It was like after a funeral; there was no fault-finding and blaming, but, instead, a slow submerging into wells of sorrow.
Much later, as a fire burned in Sruel’s eyes, he spoke of the holy lights that would shine on us in Jerusalem and of life without gendarmes and without suffering. He spoke simply and in his own voice, but for some reason his words were strained, as if he had rehearsed them. The dealers did not respond and did not argue. They were drowning in their disaster, and his consolations gave them no comfort.
20
The following day, when the dealers awoke from their troubled sleep, they understood that what had happened was not the fault of the old men. Had it not been for some unknown snitches, snakes nestling in our midst, the gendarmes would never have discovered anything. Indeed, some of the dealers in the convoy kept a low profile; they traded in anything, however trifling, and you would always find them, with innocent expressions, where you least expected to see them. In truth, they were spying.
Ever since the convoy had set out, we had been plagued by these men. A year ago, a snitch had been caught on his way to the gendarmes. The wagon drivers followed him, grabbed him, and brought him back to the camp, where he was made to stand before the committee and admit his crime. That night he was beaten up and thrown out of the camp. But all in all, he was just a stinking little fish. A real snitch had yet to be caught. These subversives, or whatever you choose to call them, had wormed their way into our midst. Among them were those who rose early for morning prayers and those who would give alms to the needy; sometimes you’d even find them among those who did volunteer work. But you had to be on your guard: they would eavesdrop on the sly, casually befriending you but all the while piecing together snippets; when the time came, they would snitch. Like thieves, the snitches plied their trade with a multitude of ski
lls; even if you tracked them for months, you’d never be able to follow them. They were as slithery as fish, but their furtive work took its toll on all our lives. Once a year, and sometimes every few months, gendarmes would deploy around our wagons, conduct searches, beat people, and accumulate huge amounts of loot.
And as we did after every disaster, we hitched up the wagons and went on our way in the dead of night. Once again we traveled alongside the Prut. The river was quiet, and the tall reeds along its banks were reflected in the waters. We traveled south. The dismal cloud that had hovered above us since we had arrived in Czernowitz had not dispersed. The quarrels that took place in the wagons were few but fierce. One of the dealers brandished a knife, and another cursed one of the old men with a foul curse.
Eventually, it was decided that the snitch must be found, brought to justice, and taught a lesson; he must be beaten and thrown out of the camp. This would fulfill what was said in our daily prayers, “And for snitches there shall be no hope.” The lot fell upon a dealer named Ephraim. It was hard to know why. There were several snitches in our midst, but all eyes somehow seemed fixed on him, as if there was no longer any doubt that he alone was capable of something so unspeakable. The dealers and the wagon drivers all felt the same way; even the old men, who were never quick to pass judgment, did not oppose them.
Ephraim did not look like a dealer. He was short and thin, and he appeared younger than his age. Since his childhood he had been haunted by bad dreams, but it was during his adolescence that they completely possessed him and drove him to distraction. Because of his nightmares, Ephraim left the town where he had been born and wandered around the region, scraping by on odd jobs. He did not marry. He reached the Holy Man in Lemberg, who drew him close and told him that he should read a chapter from The Guiding Lamp every day. The Holy Man promised Ephraim that reading it would ease his sleep, but that only in Jerusalem would he be completely healed. Meanwhile, the Holy Man advised him not to divulge his distress or misery to anyone. These injunctions, to which Ephraim scrupulously adhered, helped him. Though the nightmares did not cease, his sleep was no longer ravaged. Because of this improvement, his face changed, and an involuntary smile was spread across it. This was something that made him look suspicious from the first month he joined us, and our suspicions only increased as time went on.
Had it not been for the Holy Man’s directive, Ephraim would have been cast off long ago, and it would not have been hard to get rid of him. But he was a favorite of the Holy Man, and everyone knew it. When the Holy Man instructed us before his death to look after the children of the poor and take care of them, he was referring to Ephraim, among others. And so despite our suspicions and our aversion to Ephraim’s unpleasant expression, no one dared to lay a hand on him.
In time, his smile became a notorious subject of ridicule. Ephraim must have intuited that people were suspicious of him and watching him, for he tried to be pleasant to everyone, to do what was asked of him, and to rise early for prayers. It was strange, but none of this counted in his favor. People invariably said, “He lies awake at night, eavesdropping.”
Ephraim traded in dried seeds, nuts, and dried fruit. He would stock up with a few sacks of each kind and sell off his supply in small bags to people in the convoy. During our stopovers, he also sold them to passersby. He always sold at a reasonable price and never tried to overcharge people. His business was not that successful, but he did make a living. From time to time he would give to the needy. The wagon drivers despised him, and the dealers kept their distance, as if from a stranger.
Now it was decided that Ephraim must be interrogated. At first the dealers were of the opinion that he should be handed over to the old men so that they could question him. This was rejected by a majority vote because snitches are extremely cunning and do not own up easily, and in the meantime people might begin to harbor compassion for him. So it was decided to hand him over to two wagon drivers, Shimkeh and Chiyuk, who a while back had been convicted of serious crimes, served time in prison, and had been released after they had completed their sentence.
Shimkeh and Chiyuk consented. Toward evening, they went over to Ephraim and told him that they meant to question him on the matter of the informers, but that before they began their interrogation they would conduct a full search. Ephraim was very taken aback, and with great consternation said, “Absolutely. As you please, you are not strangers. I will show you everything. There is nothing to hide.”
“That is for us to judge,” said one of them.
They tossed the meager packages out of his wagon and wasted no time in spilling out their contents. But even now, the involuntary smile that always hovered over Ephraim’s lips did not leave him. Immediately after that, they searched him. The coins they found were tied up inside a blue handkerchief, and there weren’t many.
“May I gather my things together?” asked Ephraim, as though he were a prisoner.
“No” was Shimkeh’s answer.
Then the interrogation began. It was conducted under the awning that sheltered the old people during the afternoon hours.
“Why did you snitch?” Shimkeh’s opening gambit was devoid of niceties.
“What?” exclaimed Ephraim, a crooked smile on his face.
“If you tell us, we won’t beat you.”
“I’m a Jew, I would never inform.”
“We’ve seen Jewish snitches.”
“I am not an informer.”
“Don’t smile, tell the truth.”
“I swear on my life! You’re Jewish, too.”
“Tell us the truth and don’t swear empty oaths.”
“Only apostates inform.”
“That’s what all snitches say.”
All this time, people stayed close to the wagons without uttering a sound. There was the sense that a murky secret was about to burst forth from its hiding place and would soon flood all of us with its darkness. People were afraid of the violent undertone, but were satisfied that so far the wagon drivers had shown restraint and had not beaten Ephraim.
“You say that you didn’t snitch,” Shimkeh said quietly.
“Correct, absolutely correct.”
“But everyone says that you snitched. What do you have to say to this?”
“What can I say?”
“I see that without a thrashing this will go nowhere.”
“Don’t beat me; I’m weak,” said Ephraim, and he moved aside slightly.
“When you snitched you were also weak.”
“What can you be thinking?” said Ephraim, catching his breath, immediately surprised that this sentence had come from his mouth.
“We have time,” Shimkeh changed his tone. “If you show some remorse and tell us the truth, we won’t beat you. What you’ve done, you’ve done. If you tell us the truth we’ll forgive you.”
“What can I say?” said Ephraim, and he covered his mouth with his right hand. “My father and mother, may their memory be blessed, were God-fearing people. My father wrote mezuzos and tefillin. He was a poor man but was devoted to his family. He would take me with him to the ritual bath.”
“That parents like these could produce such a snitch….”
“I learned the Torah until my bar mitzvah. After my bar mitzvah, I went out to work. I worked as a carpenter, and I helped to support my home. Were it not for the nightmares that tortured me in the dark hours, I would never have left my town. Famous rabbis helped me to sleep a bit, but it was not enough. What could I do?”
“What are you going on about?” He was cut short.
“About my life. Father and Mother were God-fearing Jews; they loved people.”
“And you?”
“I am not worth their little finger. I’m dust under their feet.”
“So you admit to some of it?”
“They were devoted Jews, heart and soul. I can’t compare to them.”
“So in that case, why did you snitch?”
“For your information,” said Ephraim in a voi
ce that for some reason sounded childish, “I don’t have the good qualities of my forebears. They were devoted, heart and soul. But I am not a thief or a gossipmonger.”
“I see that without a few lashes there’ll be nothing doing this time.” Shimkeh changed his tone yet again. “Take off your shirt.”
“If you tell me to take off my shirt, I’ll take it off. But there’s nothing on my body. I’m not hiding anything.”
“Take those tales to the old folks. If you don’t tell us the truth right away, we’ll beat you the way people get beaten in jail—there’d be fifty lashes for snitching.”
“Don’t beat me,” said Ephraim. All at once, his scrawny body seemed to shrink to the size of a child. “Take everything from me. I don’t need anything. But don’t beat me.”
“You don’t want to tell us the truth,” said Shimkeh as he quickly loosened the belt from his trousers. With no warning whatsoever, he swung it across Ephraim’s bare back. The blow must have been strong for it sent Ephraim reeling to the ground. He lay there, shaking. He tried to protect his back with his hands, but to no avail. He began to writhe and to shout.
“Mother! Mother, save me!”
Shimkeh was not satisfied with Ephraim’s reaction and gave him a few more lashes, which missed his back but must have hurt his side, because he raised himself in one quick movement, as if the ground had been split beneath him. During the lashes that followed he no longer stirred.
“Get up, you scum!” Chiyuk ordered. He had until now stayed out of the interrogation. Ephraim lay curled up, blood flowing from his exposed back.
“Get up, you scum!” he called again, but Ephraim did not move.
As they emerged from beneath the awning, Shimkeh and Chiyuk were taken aback by the stares they encountered.
“What do you want?” shouted Shimkeh. “That’s it. He won’t snitch anymore.” A wild smile, like that of Ploosh, twisted his lips.
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