Laish

by Aharon Appelfeld

  The wagon drivers treat him well enough, because despite his strength he will never take anything by force. He has often said to me, “Laish, don’t you follow in my footsteps; you must learn from the old men.”

  Ephraim’s wounds haven’t healed. I heard him say that it was not the belt that injured him, but the buckle. His very pleasantness scares me. Someone with such deep welts as these should be shouting and not trying to please. I feel my hand tighten into a fist. The old men behave differently. The prayer group gathers alongside Ephraim’s wagon three times a day, and after prayers the men drink shot glasses of liquor and then study the Torah.

  My teacher, Old Avraham, recently praised me and promised that if I stick with my Torah studies, not only would I be saved from the malicious imps, but my thoughts would be purified and I would be a kosher Jew. If only that were so. But what can I do—my thoughts are still caught up in Czernowitz. The precarious life that the dealers lead still fires my imagination. They have suffered grave losses and now they’re melancholy and downcast, and I sense that many will abandon us. Don’t leave us, I plead in my heart, you are our only hope. Only you can make a large fortune out of nothing. Only you can fill our pockets with money, bring us to big cities, and help us sprout wings. They can’t abandon us in this wilderness.

  The old men can discern even the slightest movement and can sense every restless soul. When they feel that someone is about to abandon us, they climb down from the wagons and stand silently in a circle. Some dealers have already admitted that were it not for the old men, they would have gone back to their towns.

  At night on my pallet, I see Maya before my eyes. As always, she is thin, scrawny, with her disheveled hair and her bleak expression. The tumult of feelings she has stirred within me gives me no rest. The feelings are pleasant, to be sure, and they have clung to me from that first evening, when she took off my shirt and called me her cub. These feelings become stronger every time I think of her.

  It’s now hard for me to see her in my mind apart from the steps on which she sat, or the two green bottles placed next to her, or the frayed collar of her threadbare coat. I see her sitting on the steps, and I’m sorry that she didn’t join the convoy. I turn to her. Maya, why don’t you come to us? Our situation may not seem so bright now, but we haven’t lost hope. Soon we’ll reach a city and everything will change. In the city we become energized. We deal in whatever comes to hand, and our pockets become filled with money. You mustn’t worry. We’ll welcome you with open arms. Maya doesn’t look at me, and yet I fancy that she’s heard what I said. Sometimes I take comfort in the thought that if she does want to join us, it won’t be hard for her to find us. People who left years ago have found us. There was a woman named Bronscha who had been left behind at one of our stopovers because she suffered from bad dreams and would curse throughout the night. We didn’t hear from her for a whole year. Eventually, on one of our encampments alongside the Prut, she found us. The story she told was chilling. After she had been abandoned, she was raped by a Ukrainian peasant who made her his slave. She lived like this for an entire year. One day, when he noticed that her belly was swollen, he drove her from his house. She spent days wandering about in the marshes near the Prut because her heart told her that she would find us along its banks. And she did find us eventually. When she appeared, no one could believe his eyes: it was Bronscha, and yet it was not her. She told us what had happened to her with a cool matter-of-factness that shocked us all. A month after her arrival she gave birth to a son. On the eighth day he was circumcised and they named him Avraham Yitzhak. Since the birth of her son, Bronscha’s face had become more youthful looking, and she began to prepare hot meals for the old men and the bedridden, who did not have the strength to cook for themselves. The committee has given her a weekly wage. I picture Maya’s arrival at our camp like Bronscha’s return. Everyone will be surprised—everyone but me. Because I feel that she is already making her way toward us.

  24

  While the convoy was meandering, going in no particular direction, people began to escape. At this time of year there were always people who escaped. There were also those who would threaten to do so but never carried out their threats. Last year at this time, four dealers, two women, and an old man left. It was as if they had all planned it together. The void that they have left will not easily be filled, and people will always say, Why did they abandon us? Of those who have fled, a few returned, but everyone who has been with us is planted in our memory and not forgotten. Occasionally we speak of them as if they were still lying about in their usual places. Sometimes you might hear, People will soon be starting to escape, as a kind of warning and alarm. When the threat draws near, the prayers at the evening service become hushed and the men gather in corners, as if, perish the thought, after a funeral. This time the deserters were three dealers and a woman whose pain we knew nothing about. She was a quiet woman who helped the old men and made her living selling trinkets and notions. Her suffering had etched deep lines into her face, but she did not speak of it. Suddenly, without any warning, she joined those who fled.

  “What was her name?” someone asked.

  “Gusta, don’t you remember?”

  “I’d forgotten.”

  In the past, we would have gone after those who had fled and tried to coax them back. Now we have ceased doing this. After we discover who has gone, we sit on the ground and say, So-and-so has fled or So-and-so has also fled. We sit in a frozen silence. Some years ago, Sruel succeeded in bringing back one of the dealers. For a few days he remained guiltily among us, but in the end he escaped again and no one knows where he is.

  The truth must be told: the dealers’ situation is now worse than ever. They wander through the villages trying to sell used clothes. When they return in the evening, they look humbled and depressed. Were it not for all the fish that Sruel and I pull from the Prut, we would have nothing to eat. In the evening we grill the fish, and this little happiness puts some light into everyone’s eyes.

  Our mood is somber, but the troupe plays late into the night. The wagon drivers have taken control of them. They give them food and drink and force them to play. Every night the flutist threatens to flee, but it must be beyond his strength. After midnight he unleashes his wrath on his fellow musicians, cursing his life, Jews, and the convoy.

  “Jews have no backbone; instead of working in the fields like everyone else, they wander about in wagons, bringing upon themselves the wrath of all who labor away. No wonder that they are hated, even I hate them. Let them disappear!”

  The old men try to calm him down, but their words do little good; they seem only to stoke his anger. Eventually he stands there, shouting, “The Jews are accursed! Their lives are accursed!”

  And while the nights were still cold and clear, the plain as flat as after a harvest, wide and without any threatening signs, we were attacked by a gang of robbers. Fortunately for us, the wagon drivers were awake that night and not drunk. They immediately split up: some went to defend the old men and others to do battle. The struggle was short and violent, both sides using daggers. Some wagon drivers were injured and Bronscha and her son were beaten, but there were injuries on the other side, too. Two robbers were left sprawled on the ground, pleading for their lives.

  “We’ll never so much as touch a Jew again,” muttered one of them.

  “And who’ll vouch for that?” asked Shimkeh in the voice of a dealer.

  “We swear on the life of Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

  “Is this a real oath?”

  “May Jesus take revenge on us if we break our oath.”

  “We’ll yet see,” said Shimkeh in a chilling voice.

  I learned long ago that our wagon drivers are not afraid of death. Their years in prison—the beatings and the backbreaking work—turned them into fearless creatures. The dealers would also sometimes place themselves in danger. I had seen them as they crossed dark forests and crime-ridden neighborhoods; they knew how to give people the slip
but not how to fight. Only the wagon drivers would have dared launch into a bloody struggle.

  Sometimes it seems to me that the old men are the strongest of us all. Their battle with the Angel of Death is long and courageous, and whenever the Destroyer draws nigh the camp, they gather strength and join together in silent prayer. The way they pray is like a declaration of war. On a few occasions they have abandoned the wagons and turned in the direction of the river to forestall the Destroyer. Although it’s true that the Angel of Death is wily and strong, that he sneaks up on the camp to snatch whomever he can, our old men, his main prey, will not go quietly and they do not despair; instead, they stand ready to endanger their own lives to snatch anyone they have the chance of saving from his talons.

  But this time it was the wagon drivers’ celebration. They were drunk with victory and boasting.

  “I grew up among goyim, and I know them well,” bragged one of them. “They’re no stronger than the Jews.” On his own, he recalled other heroic deeds: robbers had once managed to capture two horses and an old woman. After exhaustive searches and some detective work, the dealers went to the captors to negotiate. The bartering went on for days; eventually there was no choice but to give them what they demanded. The woman who had been captured was unhappy with the deal; she argued that her life was not worth a huge amount of money. It would have been better to give the money to those in need and not to waste it on her. In any event, she argued, her days on earth were numbered.

  Another time, the Holy Ark with its Torah scrolls was stolen. The old men stood alongside the wagons like soldiers who had failed in their duty, blaming themselves. Beating their breasts, they cried out, “We have sinned! We have committed crimes!” At night the wagon drivers fanned out over the suspected village and grabbed two peasants, who led them to the house where the ark was hidden. When the ark was returned, the old men went forth to greet it with singing, dancing, and drinking. They kept embracing and blessing the wagon drivers, who were as bashful as overgrown children.

  Later, they interrogated the wounded robbers, who had, by the way, been bandaged immediately, along with the rest of the injured. It turned out that this gang had been waiting to ambush the convoy ever since it had left Czernowitz, but hadn’t dared to attack us because of their fear of the wagon drivers. In the villages, our wagon drivers command respect; they are known as “the strong Jews.” This time the robbers had been confident that the wagon drivers had dozed off on their watch, but of course they were mistaken.

  Shimkeh turned to the prisoners. “Do you promise never again to do anything bad to the Jews?”

  “We swear.”

  “Who’ll vouch for that?”

  “God in heaven sees everything and hears everything.”

  “Remember your oath, and you’re free to go,” Shimkeh said and freed them from the handcuffs.

  Now the wagon drivers swaggered about the camp like landed gentry, baring their muscles, showing off their captured booty, and repeating some well-worn sayings: A Jew has to be strong and not fearful. Weak Jews bring out the murderer that’s in the goy. Strong Jews are good for themselves and good for the goyim. Their boasts frightened me. Even Sruel, who is not a boaster, was arrogant that evening. He took swigs from his bottle and shouted, “We Jews must be strong; we must eat a lot and drink a lot and give back as good as we get.”

  25

  The convoy veered off the road and then crossed a bridge, delivering itself into the hands of fate. Although this had happened before, this time despair seemed to wash over us. Had we come across a graveyard we would have stopped, prostrated ourselves on the gravestones, and implored the dead to intercede for mercy on our behalf. How strange that only a few days earlier there had been happiness and high spirits, when we had triumphed over the robbers. But immediately after, many sank into gloom and dread. It was as if the light in the sky had been extinguished.

  But despair is not a wagon driver’s lot in life. After the drivers had routed the robbers, they went to a tavern and got drunk. They returned as completely different people—no longer workingmen but released convicts, singing and carousing, beating our livestock and cursing. The nightly debauchery went on for an entire week, and each day it became more frightening. Attempts by the old men to influence them were in vain.

  One evening we saw two peasants approaching us. My teacher, Old Avraham, went over to them.

  “Good people, where are we?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” wondered the peasants.

  “We’ve lost our way, good people, and we’re looking for the highway.”

  “You’re not far from it, and not far from Vishnitz.”

  “Thank God,” said my teacher, and he blessed them.

  Everyone was happy, except for the wagon drivers. Too much religion scares them. In the courtyards of the holy men they are downcast and try to hide themselves. Now they also tried to slip away, but to their chagrin, as the saying goes, the skies opened, unleashing a furious rain, which left them no choice but to urge on the horses.

  When the Holy Man of Vishnitz found out that we were on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, he ordered that we be given shelter and served a hot meal. After days of hunger and being jolted on the roads, the simple refectory where we ate looked like a splendid dining hall. We were starving and devoured everything we were served.

  When the Jews heard that a convoy headed for Jerusalem had arrived, they came out of their houses and served us loaves of bread and plum jam. Our herald, Reb Pinchas, was taken aback. It had been a long time since he had appeared in public. He, too, had been sunk in heavy gloom. Now finding his voice, he called out, “Jews, give generously!” And so, once again, we rejoined the ranks of the living. The dealers roused themselves from their reveries and asked about the price of sugar and salt. The old men gathered around Ephraim’s pallet and prayed aloud. Only the wagon drivers were dejected. Bundled up in their coats, they sat at the back of the wagons, taking swig after swig from their bottles.

  That night, the Holy Man of Vishnitz spoke to us. He talked about darkness, and about the smothering materialism that keeps the light from us and turns us into slaves of body, property, and money. Our daily lives, he said, are like those led by the slaves in Egypt. But anyone who is able to summon up the courage to leave his town and go on a pilgrimage to the Land of Israel restores to the world the light from the Exodus from Egypt. And if those who were drowning in darkness and impurity could only smell the Red Sea, they would be invigorated and elevated to a meaningful life.

  There was silence after the Holy Man had finished speaking. Sruel grasped my forearm.

  “What did the Holy Man say?” he asked.

  I didn’t know how to reply. I had understood the Holy Man’s words; I just didn’t know how to explain them. But I gave it a try. Sruel slapped his forehead.

  “Why can’t I understand a word of what he said?” he asked. “I must be stupid.”

  Later, the dealers asked Reb Pinchas to enact the biblical story of Joseph. Pinchas excused himself, saying, “I’m very tired and my mouth is empty of words.”

  Entreaties were useless. But the musicians, who had been temporarily freed from the tyranny of the wagon drivers, lost no time. There was a mournful sweetness to the way they played that brought tears to people’s eyes. Even the old men, who rarely allowed themselves to open their hearts, wiped away tears.

  We felt a sense of relief, as if we had returned home. On the following day people pampered us as well, gazing at us with excitement and astonishment. My teacher, Old Avraham, did not conceal from those who stared at us with such wonder that the road was full of potholes, and that heaven only knew what trials awaited us. He didn’t speak about what had happened to Ephraim; he just repeated that there had been many hindrances and delays, both from within and without, but that with the help of God, we would be delivered.

  The wagon drivers gave their horses water and did not intervene in what was going on. They took swigs from their bottles and fel
l asleep wherever they happened to be. The musicians played on until late; their playing was slow and reflective. Each with his own instrument told of their hardships from the outset of the journey—about the humiliations and degradations, and about the wagon drivers who forced them to play with the very last ounce of their strength.

  Ephraim’s back had not healed; the blue welts had returned, and they were swollen. He kept speaking about his father and mother and the little town where he had been born, and about the nightmares he had suffered in his childhood and as a youth, which had driven him to flee from his home and wander from place to place. There was neither confusion nor anger in his words, but it sounded like a story with a bitter moral. The prayer group listened with a frightening silence to the words that welled up from inside him.

  That very night one of the dealers made his escape. Pinyah was his name. A confirmed thief, he had a particular weakness for buttons. He could pull them off with great skill and without tearing the garment. No one escaped his forays. He was not an arrogant man, and he dealt in household goods. He seemed honest enough. He would give generously to charity, and sometimes he would prepare a meal for the sick, but he was unable to overcome his weakness. On more than one occasion it was decided to banish him from the convoy, and once he was even beaten by one of the wagon drivers, who threw him and his belongings off the wagon. But in the end he was not sent away. Everyone knew that only he stole buttons, but people could not bring themselves to confront him. A rumor circulated that he had a bag full of buttons; according to another version, he didn’t keep the buttons but buried them in the ground. There were many thieves among us, even an elderly thief, but we had only one button thief, and for some reason he ran away.