Laish

by Aharon Appelfeld

  Fortunately for us, the wagon drivers had not yet begun drinking, and when his frightening voice was heard they were quickly summoned and they came. Seeing all the people who had gathered around him, Ploosh drew a revolver from his belt.

  “Give me my horses right now!” he said threateningly. Ploosh the murderer was back. Fire blazed in his eyes, and he stood there as tense as a predator about to spring.

  “Which horses do you want?” Shimkeh ventured to ask.

  “Mine.”

  “We’ll give them to you right away.”

  “And where’s that scum?”

  “Who?”

  “Sruel.”

  “He’s here. Should we get him?”

  “Don’t move.”

  “We won’t move.”

  “I also need money.”

  “How much?”

  “Everything.”

  “The dealers will give you some. Don’t worry; they have. Should we wake them?”

  “Stand where you are and don’t move, you thieves!” Ploosh shouted in his powerful voice.

  “The dealers have a lot of money. As much as you want,” Shimkeh said in a friendly way.

  These words slightly relaxed Ploosh, and he spat out a curse. Chiyuk took advantage of this momentary lapse of attention to leap on him. Though Ploosh managed to pull the trigger and fire a shot, Chiyuk was tougher and held on until he had strangled him.

  Fortunately for us, it was a dark and rainy night; the shot was muffled and not heard by the gendarmes. The wagon drivers remained standing for a long time beside the outstretched corpse. Ploosh lay sprawled on the ground, his mouth open, his eyes wide open. Only his motionless limbs bore witness to the fact that he was dead. What’s to be done? The question sliced into the void. Chiyuk, who had carried out the strangulation, did not participate in the conversation. He stood to one side, as if expecting someone to approach him. But everyone was preoccupied with what to do with the body and no one paid any attention to him.

  It was eventually decided to bury Ploosh in the forest. The gendarmes were always looking for things to accuse us of and for ways to extort money from us. But the old men were completely opposed to this. Even when he sins, a Jew remains a Jew, and we should give him a Jewish burial. The wagon drivers were far from happy, but they were afraid of disobeying. Early in the morning Ploosh’s body was ritually washed, and he was given a Jewish burial in an old, neglected graveyard.

  After the burial, a heavy rain fell and the entire convoy set to work fastening the tarpaulins over the wagons. Everyone worked rapidly, but the rain got into everything and soaked both provisions and clothes, and there was a strong feeling that Ploosh would not leave us alone, not even in death.

  That same rainy day, many Jews came to ask the advice of the Holy Man of Vishnitz: a typhoid epidemic had broken out in the region and everyone was gripped by panic. It was as if we had been forgotten. People swarmed around the Holy Man’s doorway like bees.

  “We had best clear out immediately,” was the opinion of many.

  The old men admonished them. “We must wait for the blessing of the Holy Man.”

  Meanwhile, we tried to dry out the clothes and to salvage our provisions from the dampness. The wagon drivers were happy that Ploosh’s death had passed unnoticed and that the Holy Man had been preoccupied with other matters.

  “We’ve been saved from the hands of the gendarmes!” someone said in a coarse voice.

  After days of waiting and hoping, the old men agreed that there was no chance of an audience with the Holy Man and that we had best slip away. We hitched up the horses and fled like thieves. Sruel, who had been tense the entire time, suddenly said in a strange voice, “He hated me. Why did he hate me?”

  “He must have thought that you wouldn’t give him back his job.”

  “What nonsense! It was his, not mine.”

  “So he was wrong. That’s all.”

  29

  Once again we make our way along the Prut. Sruel urges the horses on, brandishing his whip on them. The sated horses amble along the dusty road, and the reeds recede into the distance. The strange death of Ploosh weighs on us and gives us no rest. We live in fear of the gendarmes, of robbers, and of the strangled Ploosh. Sometimes it seems to us that he has not been strangled but has retreated to the thicket to regain his strength, and that the day will come when he’ll emerge with one of his friends, a fellow convict from jail, and take his revenge on us.

  I see the anxiety in Sruel’s eyes. He goes about justifying himself, as if it were he and not Chiyuk who had strangled Ploosh. Chiyuk wastes no time on regrets.

  “If I hadn’t killed him, he would have killed many others. If someone comes to kill you, rise early to kill him,” he asserts unpleasantly. He has hung Ploosh’s revolver from his belt. I’ve already heard him boasting, promising that from now on he’ll defend the camp and that there is nothing to fear.

  My teacher, Old Avraham, says that Ploosh did have some sparks of righteousness, but that the murderer in him extinguished them. I recall that sometimes Old Avraham would sit and talk with Ploosh. He was among the few who became close to him. Other old men tried but gave up. From the depths of despair, they said something that they rarely say: Not even Jerusalem will cure him.

  I’m afraid of Chiyuk. He now seems like a reincarnation of Ploosh. He is not tall either, though he is stocky and swaggers around the camp like a tyrant. Since he strangled Ploosh, people keep their distance from him. For his part Chiyuk seeks out the old men, and, whenever he has the chance, he thrusts coins into their hands.

  Sleep has given Ephraim more strength. Now he speaks of the typhoid epidemic that threatens us, admonishing us to keep away from the villages and the small towns. There is a chilling certainty in his voice. But we do keep our distance from the smaller settlements and we buy only the most vital provisions: potatoes and cornmeal. In these parts of the river, fish are not plentiful; people are quick to buy them, and they grill them right away.

  Without our being aware of it, the High Holy Days have come upon us. The old men have taken their white clothes out of their bundles and washed them in tin pails. During these days a severity burns in their eyes. They spend less time studying and more time visiting the sick, helping the needy, and trying to coax the wagon drivers into forgiving their companions because it is indeed forbidden to harbor enmity, particularly at this time of year. They urge the dealers to give charity and to imagine that their dead forefathers—God-fearing Jews who kept both the easy and the most stringent commandments—are standing before them. There was a time when the dealers would argue with them, but now they nod with gloomy indifference. The old men live off their savings and worry about the future, yet they still give. One good word to them from the wagon drivers would have rejuvenated them. But the wagon drivers are too preoccupied with their own affairs, and whenever they encounter a peasant along the way, their first question is always “Where’s the tavern?”

  Meanwhile, the rain falls incessantly, and there is no shelter. This is a region of plains, without trees and without abandoned houses—only thickets and marshes—and the waters of the Prut wend their way to the sea. The tarpaulins, which are the pride of the wagon drivers, provide no cover, even when their sides are pulled tight. The smallest tear can soak you to the skin. But not to worry. When the rains cease and the sun comes out, we stop the wagons and hang the wet clothes on ropes that have been stretched out, grateful for the respite from the rain.

  —

  “Give to the needy, give to the sick,” the old men plead over and over. Not that there’s always someone to heed their voices.

  These days, anxiety dwells within Sruel’s eyes. He helps fill the pails with water, chops wood, and distributes our fish for free. The old men shower him with blessings. They don’t rebuke him now, even when he has had a drink too many.

  Last night, the wagon drivers offered me some vodka and Sruel scolded them.

  “It won’t hurt him,” said one of
the wagon drivers.

  “He needs to study Torah. Vodka dulls you.”

  “A man needs a drink at night. Without a drink you’re a limp rag,” muttered the wagon driver.

  “You should know better—a Jew doesn’t drink.” Sruel spoke in an authoritative voice.

  “I’m no longer a Jew.” The wagon driver made an odd grimace.

  “We may be Jews who’ve gone bad, but we’re still Jews.” Sruel chose to speak in the plural.

  —

  Two days before Rosh Hashanah they halted the wagons, and we made camp in a narrow enclave by the water. I watched Bronscha’s child, Avraham Yitzhak, who had been born after the rape, running around between the wagons. He must have been about three at the time, his face sunburned, his small body firm and sturdy. Every evening Bronscha would bathe Avraham Yitzhak and then bring him to the old men. The old men would envelop him in a prayer shawl and show him the large letters in the prayer book. The child would wriggle in their arms and try to get away. Eventually he would break free. Bronscha would run after him, catch him, and give him a slap on the face.

  “Don’t run away, you little criminal! You should be studying Torah and not running around between the wagons.”

  At first Avraham Yitzhak would try to restrain himself, but eventually he would burst into tears.

  “What’s to be done?” asked Bronscha in despair. “He’s completely wild.”

  “Go slowly.” The old men tried to persuade her.

  Around the old men, Bronscha did not beat Avraham Yitzhak. But late at night, alongside her wagon, she did not hold back. She would take all her anger out on him, slapping his face and pinching his bottom and threatening to knead his flesh until he behaved. There were two other children Avraham Yitzhak’s age in the convoy, but they were shorter and weaker than he, and whenever Avraham Yitzhak would appear, they would run to their mothers screaming in terror.

  Bronscha worked for the old men for most of the day. She cooked for them and did their laundry, and quarreled with the convoy’s committee for being stingy and not giving her the provisions she needed. But she got along well enough with those on her wagon. Whenever she had some leftover soup or vegetable pie, she would give it away willingly, but if people complained that her Avraham Yitzhak had been beating up the other children, she would go crazy. Her face would become pale, her hands would tremble, and she would pounce on him with unrestrained fury. She would not stop until her wagon mates intervened.

  “Let him be, Bronscha,” they would plead. “Enough already!”

  30

  Before Rosh Hashanah, Bronscha was busy ironing the old men’s white linen. The wagon drivers had prepared an ironing table for her well in advance, and they spread a heavy blanket on it. Bronscha would rise early, along with those who prayed, and stand by the table until dark. The smell of coal and starch wafted throughout the camp, bringing to mind Rosh Hashanahs from long ago. Quite a few people have passed away over the years, and quite a few abandoned the convoy. I remembered my first employer, Fingerhut, who left this world seething with anger, and I felt my heart tighten. The memory of him is all but gone, but occasionally you will hear, Give charity! Don’t be wicked like Fingerhut!

  People never called Fingerhut by his first name, not even those who accorded him a little kindness. Here, at least, people do not think fondly of him. Over time he turned into an example and a warning. But I felt sorry for him because he was in such pain. The old men slip out of this world differently, furtively, like the morning mist. When one of them is recalled, people say, May his memory be for a blessing, and his image immediately appears before you and you know that there is purity in the world.

  —

  The Days of Awe were upon us. Everyone gathered around the old men, and they seemed to grow in stature until they resembled the ancient priests as they rose to bless the nation. But things were not now as they once were. We were haunted by the murder of Ploosh. People didn’t speak of it, but there was a feeling that the typhoid epidemic was being carried on the wings of Ploosh’s furious spirit and that it was about to attack us. This terror has been mounting from day to day. Ephraim’s visions reveal it clearly, with explicit descriptions. And it’s not only him: a few of the dealers have complained of nightmares. Who knows who will live and who will die? Who knows if in a month’s time we will be walking in the land of the living?

  The Prut is already chilly at this time of year but people bathe in it every day. They believe that its waters will purify their body and drive away the plague. It’s a belief that has gained much ground in the past few days, but of course there are those of little faith who stand to the side and don’t trouble to go down to immerse themselves. They prefer a large pail. “Better a little warm water in a pail than waves of ice water,” they say as they take cover in the thicket.

  The old men ritually immerse themselves in the river as usual, once a day, without talking much about it. They are absorbed in their preparations for the holiday. They whisper their prayers, visit the sick, and ask forgiveness of all who cross their path. There is nervousness in their every step; it’s as if they are standing before the gates of judgment, which are about to open with a great clamor.

  Ephraim is very embarrassed. Everyone comes to ask for his forgiveness.

  “I forgive you with all my heart,” he says, “but you also have to forgive me.”

  There’s not a trace of anger in his voice. Shimkeh and Chiyuk haven’t gone over to him. The old men have not stopped begging them to do so, but they keep refusing.

  “We have nothing to say to him,” said Chiyuk.

  “You owe this to yourselves.”

  “Let everyone else ask first.”

  “They’ve already asked.”

  “We didn’t notice.”

  In the end they gave in to the old men’s entreaties.

  “What should we say to him?” asked Chiyuk, who had been a party to the interrogation although he had not taken part in the beating.

  “Just say, We ask your forgiveness, Ephraim.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “And if he asks us something, what should we reply?”

  “Ephraim doesn’t ask. You have nothing to fear.”

  —

  In the afternoon Shimkeh and Chiyuk sat under a tree and took swigs from a blue bottle of vodka. Huddled in their coats, they looked heavy and unkempt. I felt sorry for them. Whenever there’s a need for brute force, people call on them. On several occasions they have saved the convoy from highway robbers, but they were never truly welcome. Never was their heroism praised in the way that people rejoice in the success of the dealers. Not that the dealers are as pure as the threads of prayer shawls, but it’s easy to forgive them. Now Chiyuk has to bear the weight of a fresh accusation: Ploosh. People keep their distance from murderers, even when they have murdered for a good cause, even if they have saved many lives. Once I heard Shimkeh say, “We have to take a double thrashing: once in this world and once in the world to come. Never mind, we’ve been given strong bodies. They can take it.”

  Toward evening Shimkeh and Chiyuk approached my teacher, Old Avraham. “We’re ready.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  My teacher began by saying, “Shimkeh and Chiyuk have come to ask your forgiveness, Ephraim.”

  “Why?” said Ephraim, the familiar involuntary smile playing about his lips.

  “That’s what they have to do. Speak, Chiyuk, speak,” my teacher prompted him.

  Chiyuk lowered his head and stood stock-still.

  “Tell Ephraim what you wanted to say. Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” said Chiyuk, and he raised his head.

  “So say it.”

  “Say what?” said Chiyuk, as if he had forgotten what they had agreed on.

  “Tell him that you ask for his forgiveness.”

  “All right.”

  The old men who stood alongside them lowered their
heads, as if they expected a clap of thunder to set the place to shaking. And the shaking-up was not long in coming.

  “If everyone will ask forgiveness, then we will, too,” said Chiyuk in a loud voice.

  “Everyone has already asked.” He was hurriedly cut short by one of the old men.

  “It’s not fair, but I’m willing. I don’t care.”

  Shimkeh, who until that moment had not uttered a word, said, “We aren’t guilty. We did what we were told to do. Those who were beaten should know this.”

  “He knows, he knows everything,” my teacher said impatiently.

  “If that’s so, then why does he need our forgiveness?” replied Chiyuk.

  “He doesn’t need anything,” said my teacher with restrained anger. “You need it.”

  “We’re lost causes, anyway,” said Chiyuk, making a gesture of dismissal with his hand. Hearing the certainty in Chiyuk’s voice, Ephraim propped himself up on his right elbow and said, “Thank God, we have enough to eat and a pallet to sleep on. We lack for nothing, and soon we’ll be able to buy some nuts and seeds, and go back to trading like before.”

  Chiyuk, who could not have understood Ephraim’s words, said, “What do you want from us? We only did what they told us to do to you. You should blame everybody else, and not just us.”

  “Enough,” said my teacher, trying to hush him.

  “We sinned, but it wasn’t just us.”

  It seemed as though Ephraim wanted to say something else, but when he saw that the crowd was dispersing, he again lay down on his right side, a movement that immediately exposed the injuries on his back.

  31

  On the eve of Rosh Hashanah, the wagon drivers prepared a table for the Torah, a lectern, and benches to sit on. We quickly set up the tent, and the clearing that had been open to the four winds unexpectedly shrank, bringing to the mind rainy Sabbaths and holy days. Sullen, Shimkeh and Chiyuk kept close to their wagons, taking no part in the work at hand. Ever since they stood face-to-face with Ephraim, the somberness had not lifted from their faces.