The wagon drivers went to fetch a medic from the village. The medic, a tall, elderly peasant, immediately proclaimed that the children had typhoid and had to be isolated. The terror was as cold as ice. People kept their distance from one another and immersed their dishes and pots in boiling water. Fear is loathsome, and the fear of death is many times more loathsome. When they eventually fetched a doctor, there was nothing he could do but confirm that the children’s situation was desperate and that he could do nothing to save them. One by one, the children fell silent and passed away. Among those who died was Bronscha’s son, Avraham Yitzhak. Bronscha, who had never shown him any compassion and who would beat him mercilessly, now howled like a wounded animal, tearing out her hair and blaming herself for his death. There was no graveyard in the area, so we dragged ourselves through the marshes and the forest glades until we found one. The warden at the graveyard didn’t look kindly on us and demanded a very high fee. This time, the committee didn’t haggle; they paid. The burials went on until nightfall. They were hellish. It was impossible to tear the mothers away from their dead children.
Then came the long nights of bereavement. The bonfires burned throughout the night, and people surrounded the mothers with warm drinks and words. Whispered verses from the Bible and other sacred writings were heard everywhere, but they didn’t sound like words of consolation. They sounded, instead, like restrained cries.
“If there’s a God in the heaven, He should appear immediately!” one woman shouted in her sorrow. The old men tried to calm her down, but they only fanned the flames of her despair.
Panic set in after the death of the children, and some people fled the convoy. A few made off like thieves in the night, while others announced that they did not have the strength to bear it anymore: it would be better to die in an abandoned hospice than in a damp wagon.
Most embarrassing of all was how the Gold Man left. This dealer, who in more favorable times had risen a bit above himself and had distributed his plentiful money to the needy, leaving nothing for himself except for his own scant needs; this extraordinary man, who looked like a monk and was admired by many because he had taken upon himself strict vows of silence, suddenly rose and declared that he had no intention of becoming sick here and of being buried in one of those neglected graveyards, which were a disgrace to the Jewish people. He who had once been as silent as a stone got up and, in a strange outburst, spoke about the need to disperse and about the prohibition against deluding ourselves with empty visions. His bitterness was sharp and well articulated, and his words gushed over us like boiling water. One of the drivers—one of the coarser ones—who found the Gold Man’s words particularly grating, called out in a slurred voice, “Go, already! Go!”
“There’s no need to drive me away. I’m going anyway.”
“But cut the talk!”
“You’re not going to prevent me from speaking the truth!”
“Leave! Or I’ll beat you.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Don’t provoke me.”
But the Gold Man drew back and didn’t continue speaking. He picked himself up and went on his way, as though reclaiming what he had given away.
35
From there the horses raced on, going faster and faster. It seemed to us that if we only galloped along quickly, the plague would not catch up with us. Fortunately, the skies favored us, the peasants and the gendarmes did not attack us, and those in whose power it was to give were not stingy. Where we had made camp our musicians entertained the villagers, who paid generously. There weren’t many Jews in this district, and the few who were there didn’t look like Jews. They weren’t happy to see us; they were afraid and ashamed, and shut themselves away in their homes.
But in the end, even that wild gallop could not save us. Two of the old men came down with typhoid and were snatched away, just hours apart. The dead were laid out, but we didn’t know where to bury them. We retraced our steps and searched for a graveyard. The search lasted for two days, and when we at last found a small, neglected graveyard, the warden demanded a huge sum of money for the graves. The old men’s entreaties were to no avail. The warden stood his ground and refused to open the gate. Left with no other option, two wagon drivers finally approached the warden and, without standing on ceremony, told him that if he refused to open the gate, his end would be quite bitter. The man got scared, took a few spades and hoes out of his storeroom, and opened the room where the corpses were washed.
“Do what you have to do,” he said in a frightened voice. “I’ve done my bit.”
The wagon drivers dug the graves while the old men washed and prepared the bodies, and thus we gave them a Jewish burial.
After the burial we said the afternoon prayers alongside the wagons. The warden joined the group and prayed without swaying, like a non-Jew. At the end of the prayers, one of the dealers asked him, “What’s the name of this place?”
The warden smiled mockingly and said, “This is a graveyard and that’s my hut.”
“Are there any villages around here?”
“This is marshland and ground that’s no good for anything.”
“And what became of the Jews here?”
“They were killed,” he said, and one could see that this remote tragedy no longer pained him. His face was covered with scars that bore stark witness to the fact that life itself is stronger than anything else. You could be killed seven times and still return to life.
“I also had a family once,” said the warden with a foolish smile.
“And what happened to them?” the dealer asked.
It appeared as though the warden did not understand his question.
“I’m not complaining,” he said. “I have a home, a garden, and fruit trees. When there’s a funeral, people drop a few coins into the box. A man needs nothing more.” His hands bore witness to the fact that he knew how to hold a hoe and a shovel, and if it was necessary to beat a rebellious animal, he would.
“So you’re on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land?” he asked with the cunning of a peasant.
“We are.” The dealer was terse.
“And how long have you been on the road?”
“A long time. Too long.”
“And you’re not afraid of the sea?”
“No.”
The warden asked nothing else and retired to the forecourt of the graveyard. But before he turned to go into his hut, he waved and drew two iron bars across the gates. The wooden doors momentarily buckled under the weight of the metal, then straightened themselves.
—
It was already night. We settled the wagons not far from the graveyard. People lit bonfires and prepared coffee. As after every funeral, this time, too, grief was mixed with a selfish satisfaction that we were still alive. I have noticed that the barrier between the living and the dead rises quickly. We buried the dead and immediately began to prepare coffee for the mourners. The aroma of the coffee gave us a thirst for strong liquor.
Later, two dealers scaled the fence, knocked on the door of the warden’s hut, and asked to buy cornmeal from him. At first he refused, but when he saw that there were banknotes in the dealers’ hands, he agreed. The women immediately set to preparing corn pie for the hungry crowd.
After the meal, the men rolled cigarettes and sat and smoked. Were it not for the darkness, I would have written down the names of those who had passed away. I’m scrupulous about writing down the names of the dead. Old Ya’akov, the man who left me the notebook, recently came to me in a dream and rebuked me for not immediately adding new names to the list. Since that dream, I’ve been more careful about keeping it. When I read the names of the dead, I recall their faces and the look of the places where they were buried. I feel that these years have been solidly planted within me, and that I’ll be with the convoy for the rest of my life. Sometimes, it seems to me that those who have died and those who have fled haven’t really departed from us, but are waiting somewhere down the road so that they can rejoin
us. In a dream, I once saw Mamshe and Maya chatting away like sisters. Maya told Mamshe a joke and Mamshe laughed riotously. It seems to me that even Ploosh has not relinquished his place in the convoy. The convoy is, indeed, dwindling from week to week, but anyone who has ever been a part of it will yearn for it forever.
36
After the death of the two old men, we advanced much more slowly. The rain fell incessantly, and the roads were impassable. We were forced from our path as we had to stock up on water and basic necessities. Yet we didn’t remain in one place. In prior times the old men would complain about the delays, grumbling and casting blame. Now they are resigned to the delays. The dealers, their former enemies, have changed more than any of us. Although they continued to trade, and a few of them would disappear for a day or two to change money or buy a garment, there was no zest in what they did. It was obvious that their imagination, which had previously pulled them along with enchanted rope, had dimmed. They were no longer as nimble as they had once been. Occasionally, you’d find a dealer sitting on the riverbank lost in his daydreams, like a drunk. In their favor, let it be said that they didn’t impose their suffering on the others; they didn’t behave in a miserly way. On the contrary, a heartfelt generosity, which we had never seen before, radiated from them. It was as if they had acknowledged that their days in this world were numbered and that it would be better for them if they were good and helped others. Only Salo, one of the most childlike among them, would buzz about like a sick bee. “I don’t know what’s going to be. I’m afraid of autumn.”
His childishness touched my heart. There are people among us who are wise and wily, there are vulgar and threatening creatures, but there are also a few naive ones. Salo, who all the days of his life had been a dealer and had traded wisely, remained a child. Naturally, the children loved him. He would play with them and make funny noises for them. Their death wounded him terribly; you would sometimes find him sitting alone and mumbling to himself, “They are no longer. They’re in heaven.”
“It’s forbidden to mourn to excess.” The old men reproached him.
“I loved them.”
Salo, a happy, easygoing man who was drawn to the crushed of spirit among us, became a shadow of his former self. He began to age prematurely, and his fingers shook from anxiety. The slightest noise would frighten him. He would wake up at night crying out, “Avraham Yitzhak, where are you?” He had loved Avraham Yitzhak greatly, and after his death he would call out to him at night in a voice that sounded like the howling of a jackal.
One evening he went up to one of the old men.
“I’m afraid of the journey,” he confessed.
The old man’s response was swift. “Is it only the journey that you’re afraid of?”
Salo was shocked by the old man’s answer. “What can I do?” he muttered.
“You should fear the Creator of the World, not the journey.”
“Not be afraid?”
“Why are you asking, since you already know?”
Salo stood where he was as if he had been slapped. It seemed to me that he was about to cover his face and burst into tears. Later on, without any apparent connection, he did burst into tears. From far off, Sruel noticed and went over to him.
“Why are you crying, Salo?” he asked kindly.
“I’m afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know.”
“We are nearing the sea, and from there we’ll go to the Land of Israel.”
“So we won’t die on the way?”
“What are you saying!”
“Are you sure?”
“No doubt about it.”
After Salo had calmed down, he told Sruel that from time to time he thought of returning home to say good-bye to his mother, as he had not properly taken leave of her. If the truth be told, he had not disclosed to her that he was going to the Land of Israel. But he didn’t have the courage to return, because he feared he would no longer find her alive.
“I should flog myself because I have no courage.”
“Don’t worry, in the Land of Israel everything will be set to rights.”
“I just don’t have the courage.”
“What was, was. Right now we should be worrying about the days ahead of us.” Sruel spoke to him in a practical, fatherly tone. The wagon drivers sometimes mock Salo, and a few jokes about him have gone around. But now everyone tries to distract him, promising him that everything will be different in the Land of Israel.
37
And then the inevitable came to pass. The skies changed, and low clouds approaching from the south darkened the light of day all at once. We were in the very heart of the plain, and we tried to escape from this open trap. The wagon drivers lashed the horses mercilessly, and the horses reared as if fire gripped them in its talons. Furious rain showers scourged and suffocated us as we cowered under the tarpaulins. It was clear that this was only the beginning of our calamities and that what was to come would be many times worse. But we deluded ourselves into believing that salvation was at hand. Ephraim had implanted this delusion within us. He had seen visions of a warm Jewish village that would happily and hospitably provide us with shelter and would give us not only hot food but dry clothes, too.
This illusion swept through us the following day as well, although the horses no longer galloped. They could hardly pull the wagons out of the mud. Almighty God, give us some place of refuge, the old men prayed aloud, and everyone joined in their prayers.
Meanwhile, the waters rose all over. The Prut overflowed its banks, and we plodded on, lost in the wet darkness. The wagon drivers did what they could: they beat the horses cruelly, and the wagons shook with recurring jolts. Finally, they threw up their hands and said, “It’s no longer in our control.”
After days of lurching and jostling, we reached an abandoned flour mill. It was built of bricks, but the roof covered only the sides. The wagon drivers removed the tarpaulins, but no one moved. It was as if everyone had been struck dumb, including me.
What took place during the following days was unlike anything I had ever seen. Vistas of red filled my head and shook my temples. I was crawling inside a narrow tunnel, choking with heat and thirst, struck with blindness.
In this conflagration I saw my mother and father as I had never seen them before: they were walking hand in hand inside an illuminated tunnel, but not in my direction. I tried to shout, but my voice became choked. I also saw Mamshe. Her face was clear, as if the madness had fallen from her eyes and only a pale strip of grief still flickered on her brow. She contemplated me with an unpleasant stare and said, “What are you doing here?”
Amid the shooting flames, I saw the holy books that I had studied with my teacher—The Path of the Just, Duties of the Heart, and The Guiding Lamp. My teacher was sitting cross-legged, his coat burning, but his face showed no sign of panic; it was as if he were raised aloft, living detached from us.
How many days I burned with fever, I will never know. When I opened my eyes, I saw Sruel, the falcon on his shoulder, and I immediately understood that the deluge had subsided. Sruel was as happy to see me as if I had returned to him from the dead. During the days that I hadn’t seen him, Sruel had changed greatly. His beard had grown wild, and he looked like a wretched peasant whose herd had been ravaged by foot-and-mouth disease. He immediately told me that only he, Shimkeh, and Chiyuk were still on their feet; all the others lay prostrate in the wagons, burning up with fever.
When I opened my eyes the following day, I saw the three of them standing over me. Sruel wet my mouth with some liquid. The liquid touched my lips and seeped into me. Now Sruel looked like one of the dealers, not especially strong, perhaps because he was wearing faded and patched overalls. Shimkeh and Chiyuk stood at his side like two tired and submissive beadles.
“How do you feel?” Sruel asked.
“Red,” I said, and I immediately understood that I hadn’t used the right word.
Later, I fel
t as if I were floating, and black water was pulling me down into a whirlpool. I knew that I must not close my eyes, and I didn’t close them. Unexpected groans and shards of words came out of the wagons. From my corner I could see pale arms, outstretched, pleading for water.
“What happened?” I asked Sruel.
“You’re better now.”
Then I apparently asked something that I should not have, because the three of them came closer and glared at me. I wanted to apologize, but the words vanished from my mouth. The men knelt at my side, and Sruel spoke to me using complicated words that I didn’t understand. I couldn’t overcome my weakness, and I closed my eyes.
Within me now burned a fevered mixture of the banks of the Prut, the cornfields where I had been put to work like a slave, and the dark streets. It was suddenly clear to me that I would have to give a reckoning for all my actions. I wanted to get up and go over to Blind Menachem and ask for his forgiveness, but my body was as heavy as lead and it stuck to the ground.
The following day, the pains in my body subsided and I felt a slight relief, as if I had been tossed up from churning waters. Sruel sat beside me and fed me some watery gruel. His eyes were red, and it was obvious that he was greatly weakened. I didn’t dare ask who was alive and who had abandoned us. Shimkeh and Chiyuk never stirred from the wagons. With trembling hands they brought liquids to the mouths of those who were sick. Now I saw that the horses had been released from their harnesses and were grazing in a ditch. Ephraim’s head hovered over me from his wagon, as if it had been detached from his body.
Sruel brought me gruel in the evening, too. I was hungry and I gulped down the warm liquid. For some reason I asked why the falcon was late in returning, and Sruel replied that it would alight any minute. And so it did. I remembered how once, one of the old men had warned Sruel that it was forbidden for him, a Jew, to form such close ties with winged creatures. To prove it, he cited two verses from the Bible. Sruel, who hadn’t understood the verses, said, “What can I do? I didn’t go to him, he came to me.”
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