People ate the afternoon meal that preceded the holiday quickly, near the trees. Bronscha served the old men vegetable soup and chunks of corn pie. Avraham Yitzhak ran wild between the wagons, completely disregarding her threats.
The old men ate without speaking. On Sabbath eve and even more so on the eve of holy days such as Rosh Hashanah, they would speak very little, their gestures sparing, and neither accept other people’s help nor ask for anything for themselves. If someone approached them and asked something, they would respond with only a word or two or with pursed lips. Among the old men there are some who will occasionally undertake a fast of the spoken word. Once, Old Yerachmiel vowed not to let a single word pass his lips until we reached Jerusalem. His life in the camp was a mute one. Were it not for his prayers, mainly whispered, his existence would have been even more restricted. His prayers connected him to the world and to the Creator of the World. No one knew what transpired in his soul or what he was thinking. Sometimes it seemed to me that there was a cloud about his neck. He would be the first to arrive at morning prayers. On the Sabbath and on holy days, he would sometimes lead the prayers.
On the eve of the holiday the old men put on their white clothes. They encircled the table on which the Torah lay and then sat in the first row. The dealers sat behind them, and the wagon drivers stood. Truth be told, that was how it was every year. But this time, they brought Ephraim on his pallet, wrapped in a yellowed prayer shawl, and they placed him next to the table. One of the old men handed him a holiday prayer book. Ephraim took the prayer book in his hands and kissed it. Old Yerachmiel led the prayers quietly, in a restrained manner. But in the midst of the prayers there unexpectedly crept into his voice a tone that was not so much one of reciting prayers but of reckoning sums, as if he were not a leader of prayers but a keeper of accounts. Alarmed, I closed my eyes.
After the prayers, my teacher, Old Avraham, delivered the sermon. He spoke of the hard days that lay ahead of us and immediately added that we, thank God, were well protected and had nothing to fear because the God of Israel would lead us triumphantly into our land and our city, and that every tribulation that befell us had a purpose. If we could overcome our carelessness and false illusions, no harm would befall us because God was watching over our convoy, just as He had in the desert watched over those who had departed from Egypt.
This time Old Avraham didn’t reproach us or stir us up, and he didn’t quote accusatory biblical verses. He treated us as if we were sick people who needed to be wrapped in soft blankets, and not a herd of sinners. After he finished speaking, Ephraim was taken back to his place in the wagon, and the clearing suddenly emptied out. One of the old men, one of those you hardly noticed, lifted his head out of his prayer shawl, looked around him, and said, “We’ve passed through the corridor, and now it’s time to prepare for the living room.” His gaze was full of wonder at how swiftly life had gone by.
Later, a brawl broke out among the wagon drivers. Shimkeh and Chiyuk had not taken part in the prayers and were drunk. In their drunkenness, they had for some reason blessed those returning with new year’s greetings. On hearing their blessing, one of the wagon drivers upbraided them and called them “filthy.” His words ignited Chiyuk’s ire, and the flames spread, engulfing everyone. The old men hurried over to put them out. When their pleas had no effect, they wedged themselves between the opponents to separate them.
The holidays are sometimes disrupted in this way, but this time it was a bitter brawl. Many faces were scratched, and neither requests nor entreaties were of any help. Even after the brawl, curses continued to fly.
“Almighty God!” cried out one of the old men. “What is happening to us? Why are we Jews desecrating this holy day? We have just one Rosh Hashanah; it is unique among all other days. How can seeing eyes be so blind?”
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Between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur heavy rains fell, and everyone was busy stretching out the tarpaulins and repairing the tears. The tent that the wagon drivers had put up collapsed upon itself. People crammed into the covered wagons and dared not venture out. This had happened before, but this year there was a feeling that the pursuers who were always pushing us into dire straits were actually getting nearer. The old men prayed, studied sacred texts, and recited penitential prayers, while everyone else played cards or reminisced. Sruel told me about his elderly mother and father, who had made a great effort to keep visiting him in jail. The visits were held behind bars and were wordless because of his mother’s weeping. During their first few visits his father had been angry, but eventually he grew indifferent to his wife’s crying and sat beside her in silence.
“Don’t come,” Sruel would implore, but they wouldn’t listen to his pleas and kept coming back. Their visits pained him more than the beatings. Finally they stopped coming, but they continued to send him clothes and dried fruit.
“Do you remember them clearly?” I asked for some reason.
“No. At one time I did, but now they seem like shadows to me. I can’t even remember a word they said. It’s my fault. I should have been able to keep them in memory.”
Years later, his elder brother, a tall and sickly man, came to visit him. Sruel was brought before him. The brother immediately informed him that it was their parents’ idea for him to come, not his. As is customary, Sruel said, “May God bless you.” His brother rebuked him for this blessing and called him a scoundrel. Sruel became enraged and shouted at him. The jailers quickly took Sruel back to his cell, and so ended that brief, strange visit.
Sometime later Sruel learned that his brother had lost his mind and had been sent to an asylum on the outskirts of the city. Sruel learned of his death by chance. One of the jailers, who had worked as a guard at the asylum, told Sruel that his brother, in deep despair, had hung himself in the latrines.
“That’s how it is,” said Sruel, and he would say no more.
The rain fell incessantly. Sitting beneath the heavy tarpaulins, people recalled painful events from long ago, confessions and troubles that they had never before acknowledged. They recounted dreams and interpreted them. Ephraim, who had been in a state of deep slumber, awoke and spoke of the deserters who lie in wait for us on the road. This time he could describe them exactly: there were five, wearing the uniform of the Austrian army. Four lay in ambush and one kept lookout. When asked by one of the dealers if they were dangerous, he answered, “Yes.”
Two days before Yom Kippur, the rains ceased and clear skies appeared above us. People brought out their cooking pots, made bonfires, and hung blankets and sheets on the branches of trees. The odor of mold, which had permeated the wagons, filled the open air. The women laundered and children ran around between the wagons.
In years past, at a time like this the old men would have climbed onto crates and poured out words of rebuke and conciliation.
They would have asked for forgiveness and read Bible verses and excerpts from well-known holy books. This year they did this, too, but it was very different. No rebukes rent the air.
Itcheh Meir promised that from now on he would bind his arms with handcuffs, and as proof he displayed the handcuffs, which he had bought from one of the wagon drivers. At first, the wagon driver had refused to sell them, saying that they were as dear to him as his own hands, but Itcheh Meir offered him a fair price and the driver could not resist. In the past, at his behest, Itcheh Meir would be whipped by the old men on the eve of Yom Kippur. This time they refused.
“May the Almighty bless you from on high and may He help you.” They blessed him and would say no more.
“Something has happened to us, hasn’t it?” Sruel wondered.
“Nothing at all,” I said for some reason.
“Nothing at all, you say? The old men are no longer angry. Am I wrong?”
“The rain has worn them out.”
“From the rain, you say?”
Since Ploosh’s death, Sruel has changed greatly. At first his hands shook with a nervous trembling, but now it seems
as though he has calmed down. A frightening sort of wonderment radiates from his eyes. He rarely speaks and spends most of his time in deep contemplation. He can sit for hours on end without a sound escaping from his mouth. I do not dare to disturb his silences.
Sometimes Sruel would ask me to explain a word or a verse from the Bible. When I responded, the wonderment in his eyes became more intense. Once I read a passage from The Path of the Just to him.
“You read well,” he said.
“Like anyone else.”
“You love what’s written.”
His awe frightened me. This strong man, who once cast fear upon everyone but could just as easily be amiable and full of confidence—it was as if he had absorbed into his body all the softness and weakness of the old men.
“Don’t forget the pail,” he said. He never used to say “Don’t forget.”
Sruel was now extremely careful with the household items—two pots, two spoons, a few forks, a saltshaker, and a shopping basket—that he had inherited from the old men. After using them, he would wrap them in rags and hide them away in a chest.
—
The Prut is turbulent in these parts. It’s hard to spread the nets, and whatever we bring up is inedible. We toss crabs and eels back into the churning waters and return empty-handed to the camp. Eventually, we decided to return to a place where we had already been. To our surprise, there we found plenty of carp. Sruel was happy, but his happiness was not as it had been before. At night, he has one drink too many and curls up under one of the wagons like a man trying to escape from his pursuers.
“Laishu, I’m afraid of the rains.”
“We’ll spread out the tarpaulins.”
“The water still gets inside.”
—
On Yom Kippur, Sruel wrapped himself in a prayer shawl and would not lift his head until the prayers had ended. I sat next to him and felt his body tremble. At the end of the fast, he was served a glass of tea and a slice of cake. His face was white and his eyes shone with a bitter soulfulness. Later, I brought him a bowl of fruit compote that had been handed out in the kitchen.
He grasped the bowl with both hands, as if I had brought him a gift from heaven.
As on every evening following Yom Kippur, some people ran away. We saw them fleeing, and not a single person tried to stop them. Lame Yekutiel was among them. Over the past year he had appeared in Pinchas’s performances, and his voice had made a strong impression.
Those who ran away were nimble, and in his effort to catch up with them, Yekutiel hopped on his healthy leg. Sometimes, a man’s escape is more vividly etched in our memories than the time he spent with us. But Yekutiel will always be remembered, for he was an excellent chess player. Among the dealers there were some excellent players, but he surpassed them all. Had he invested his talents in the Talmud, he would have been an outstanding scholar. But what can one do? In his world there was room for nothing but the chessboard. Now, when I close my eyes, I can see him leaning on the board, a malicious delight flickering in his eyes, for he has grasped all his opponent’s vulnerabilities, and in a moment he will unleash the knights and the pawns onto the undefended fields. His opponent will have no choice but to throw up his hands, acknowledging defeat.
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At the end of Yom Kippur, right after the meal that broke the fast, the wagon drivers went to build the sukkah. The fast had not affected them. They worked energetically, sawing large beams and joining slender planks to them. Within an hour, the frame of a sukkah stood in the clearing. They immediately set up the benches and covered the roof with loose branches. As soon as the work was done, the women served them mugs of coffee and cookies, and they ate and drank and gazed with satisfaction at their handiwork.
It’s hard to sleep after the fast. The musicians took up their instruments and held them close. They played old melodies, melodies that they had picked up on the road, and a few of their own. As if by magic, these sounds evoked distant places and years past. And what prayers had not accomplished, their playing did: people burst into tears, as if they had just been told that they would never regain what they’d had and that the future would not be bright.
The old men are weak but not depressed. They look like people who have accomplished what they were given to do, and now, with a wordless gesture, they entrust their lives to the Creator of the World, to do with them as He pleases. Later, they sat and read from the Zohar. Whenever they read from the Zohar, they send me away. I once opened the book, immediately saw that its letters were unlike those in other holy books, and closed it. There are many secrets in the Torah, but I am not yet worthy of them.
The following day, a huge crowd of peasants gathered around us. They had discovered that we were on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and had come to see this marvel with their own eyes. They were short, wore long smocks, and their faces displayed an old-fashioned reverence for heaven. They had previously come across Jewish peddlers, but never Jews on their way to Jerusalem. We bought cornmeal, potatoes, and dried fruits from them. Women brought their sick children to the old men so that they could be blessed. The old men blessed them but refused to accept money.
“The Jews are good. The Jews are generous,” they said, laying fruits and vegetables at the entrance of the sukkah and repeatedly kissing the old men’s hands.
Over the course of our travels we had come across many peasants. Most attacked us, threw stones at us, or set their dogs on us. These peasants were quiet. A kind of temperateness infused their swarthy faces. They were in awe of us.
“Where are you traveling?” they asked in astonishment.
“Everything is in the hands of God,” said the old men, and this reply made them happy. Sruel spoke to them in their language, and they looked at him with admiration. As I have already noted: people are reflected in his face. Good people bring to the surface all the good that is hidden deep within him. Angry people sadden him; his face darkens and he escapes to the horses.
Now, some of the quietness and patience of these tillers of the soil clung to him. He didn’t speak to them using lofty words and he didn’t boast, as he sometimes would. Eventually, one of the peasants turned to him.
“So, what kind of Jews are you?” he asked mockingly.
“Jews.”
“Jews don’t go on pilgrimages to Jerusalem.”
“But you can see for yourselves that we’re pilgrims.”
“And how long will you stay in Jerusalem?” another peasant interrupted.
“Forever.”
“You won’t come back to us?”
“We have a saying that if someone goes to Jerusalem, he does not return.”
“But who will ensure your livelihood?”
“God in heaven looks after all His creatures. He will take care of us.”
Upon hearing Sruel’s words, the peasant crossed himself.
—
On Sukkot the skies were clear and rain fell only at night. My teacher took me to his corner and we read the weekly Bible portion. His voice was soft and pleasant, and his age was hardly noticeable. Since he had stopped testing me on what I learned, I was much less anxious, and being near him moved me. That night he told me about the city of his birth, Shedlitz. He spoke with emotion, and it was clear that he felt attached to the part of the country where both he and his ancestors had been born. He didn’t complain and didn’t claim any wrongdoing, but spoke of his impoverished ancestors who had immersed themselves in the study of Torah and had built the house of study with their own hands. When he finished speaking, he drew an envelope out of his coat pocket.
“My dear Laishu,” he said to me, “because no man knows when his time will come, I have written a short will. Do me the kindness of placing it in the lining of your coat. On the day that God gathers me to Him, open the envelope and do as I have requested within it.”
“My teacher.” The words trembled as I spoke them.
“We are commanded not to fear death. Death is nothing but an apparition. Today we are
here, and tomorrow we are there.”
He spoke quietly, as if he weren’t giving me his will but making some trivial request. The envelope remained clasped in my hands; I was afraid to put it in the lining of my coat.
“Put the envelope in your lining and forget about it,” he said, gazing at me with great compassion.
At that moment I knew that many scenes might be erased from my memory, but not this brief interchange. My teacher, I almost said, God has to bring us to Jerusalem. But I immediately understood that one does not say “has to” about God, and so I kept silent.
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After that we made our way along the Prut without losing our way and without any delays. Were it not for Ephraim, who had stirred from his silence and again began speaking about the deserters, the blessing of the Days of Awe would have lingered with us. From day to day, Ephraim’s madness seemed more alarming. When we didn’t respond to his warnings, a hint of anger crept into his voice.
“Ephraim, enough!” a dealer rebuked him.
“I can’t help it.”
“But not aloud. There are woman and children among us.”
“The deserters are ambushing us. If we don’t rout them at the right time, they will rise early and kill us first. Don’t you see them?”
“We don’t see a thing.”
“There are five of them, armed head to foot.”
“We don’t see a thing.”
“If no one else sees them, if only I can see them, that’s a sign that I must be wrong,” Ephraim said and fell silent.
Ephraim had no idea to what extent he was right, although it was not his deserters who ambushed us, but the dreadful plague that had spared us over the High Holy Days. It now caught up with us, gripping us mercilessly in its talons.
At first it pounced on the children. The warm compresses were of no use, nor were the infusions of herbs that they were given to drink. Their screams rent the heavens every night.
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