‘I don’t agree,’ I objected, again doubting my own words.
‘It’s your privilege to disagree, but forgetfulness is what makes existence on this planet possible. Remembrance carries the seeds of sadness. Look at us survivors — we’re all a bunch of hopeful paupers, demanding a place under the sun. But it’s written that a pauper’s wisdom is laughed at; the stupidity of the wealthy is what’s praised.’
At dawn next morning I awoke on the bus to the awareness that we had almost arrived. Arriving and departing, coming and going, had become a way of life for displaced persons. We were forever en route, always in groups, streaming towards the next transit station, sojourning at preconceived illusions. Togetherness had begotten a camaraderie, a warmth, a homely homelessness.
There is an old folk saying: the misfortunes of many are the solace of one.
Santa Maria, situated on the western shore of the Italian heel, offered plenty of scope for dark imaginings. I’ll never forget those utterly secretive dawns, the flaming sunsets, the murmur of the heat, the smell of the night, the mystery of the full moon — nor the ceaseless tongues of the buxom women, their swinging childbearing hips, their opulent breasts, their sweaty unshaven armpits’ aroma that could rob a man of his senses. There was also the laughter of sunburnt fishermen, and sometimes, in the small hours, the slither of naked stilettos...
Not long ago this village had been reigned over by the Mafia; some of the peasants had viewed them as ‘dark knights’, sinister benefactors. But when the Fascists’ elite invaded these hazy shores, their white villas transforming the place into their private sunlit paradise, they made it quite clear to the dark benefactors that there was room here for only one regime.
Our life of mobility had made me ponder the relation between a people’s language and their feelings within a constantly changing environment. I also thought about the soul of a landscape. How did Santa Maria, this remote corner of civilization, respond to the Yiddish that had never been heard here? What was the reaction of the white church tower, the peaceful melodious chime of its Sunday bell? (In the land of my birth Jews feared the sound of churchbells tolling.) Did these hearty villagers understand that the newcomers residing in the once formidable Fascist leisure homes were veritable brothers of their God?
The moment we re-entered Santa Maria di Bagno, where camp survivors had so swiftly established their republic of hope, I persuaded the man with whom I had travelled (whose name I just cannot recall) to see our gentle doctor, Nacht, a devoted medic formerly with the Yugoslav partisans. Dr Nacht immediately dispatched my infectious new friend to a sanatorium in the north of the country — the very one to which, I later discovered, Moshe Zakhor had been sent during my absence.
As I walked back to my lodgings, I was overtaken by an autumnal sense of loss.
Theatre and Politics
‘There can be no more miracles,’ brooded our violinist, Skurecki. ‘All our attempts to create a better man have miscarried.’
He’d just joined the Santa Maria drama circle, founded by Majer Ceprow and Mendel Singer, an actor-writer I had got to know. ‘I’ve written a play,’ Skurecki told us. ‘Holes. It depicts a conflict between father and son — or if you like, between us camp survivors and the rest of the world.’
It turned out to be quite a play. Father says to son, ‘Whenever you do something wrong, I’ll drive a nail into the wall as a reminder of your misdeed.’ Before long there is no space left in the wall. ‘So where do we go from here?’ the distressed father wonders. ‘There’s only one way, son. You’ll have to improve, become a decent person.’ ‘I can’t,’ the boy answers, ‘it’s in my blood — it’s you who have begotten me. Build another wall.’ ‘That’s impossible,’ says father. ‘The way you behave, there are not enough bricks on this planet.’ At this point the Messiah arrives, father and son embrace each other — and the nails drop magically from the wall, one by one. ‘Father, father, look,’ the son cries out, ‘there are no more nails in the wall!’ ‘Yes,’ father replies, ‘no more nails. But the holes you caused will remain forever.’
Holes sparked a passionate discussion among audiences and players alike. Some saw a Christian shadow behind the conflict, accusing the playwright of calling for a reconciliation unwarranted at that time. And much as Skurecki longed for an independent Jewish state, his play did envisage a messianic resolution — an outlook which at that moment in our history was politically inexpedient. He had no option but to remove the play from our repertoire, and to let our metaphysical bickering, like most such quarrels, continue among the crevices of unspoken words.
‘Perhaps,’ said Mendel Singer, ‘we should turn our attention to our old classics. Let’s stage a play based on a Sholem Aleichem story, like The Divorce.’
‘No, we won’t have it!’ one of the actors protested. ‘We must stage plays that respond to our present national needs. We’ve had enough poverty and exile, enough Kasrilevkes.’
‘Poverty may be ugly, but ugliness is not essentially poor,’ the erudite Singer remarked quietly, fiddling nervously with three strands of hair on his balding head. ‘And foolish utterance comes with too much empty talk.’
He was not to be subdued. ‘Kasrilevke, ironically, is the core of Jewish poverty’s riches. No one can bring down a hopeful Kasril, who understands that he can survive only through laughter. Sadness is the privilege of the rich. And let us not forget for a moment,’ he continued passionately, ‘that it was Yiddish-speakers from the Kasrilevkes who not only pioneered our present settlements in Palestine, but were among the first to join in the revolutions against the Tsars — and more recently, to stand up for a free Spain!’
In order to lighten the atmosphere, and perhaps to appease those who were looking to blot out our past, Singer announced: ‘Friends, permit me to relate an anecdote. An ever-hopeful Kasril once paid a visit to our well-known Monsieur Rothschild. “Sir,” he began, “I have a scheme which will grant you eternal life.” “Let’s have it,” the magnate commanded. “Well, I am a businessman,” said the Kasril. “One hundred dollars and it’s all yours.” Rothschild handed him the money. “So, what is your scheme?” he demanded. The Kasril replied: “Sir, establish yourself in Kasrilevke. I am the notary there, so was my father before me, and my father’s father before him. I can assure you, you won’t find a single rich man in our books who ever died in Kasrilevke.”’
Singer’s story caused some merriment in our theatre group, and eased the tension. The Divorce was a huge triumph. It brought a lot of people together and was responsible for a good crop of successful marriages.
After that we staged a revue, and among the pieces performed was one I had written, titled ‘Aliyah’, in honour of the Hebrew-speaking Italian sailors who risked their lives ferrying Jews in dilapidated boats across the dangerous murky waters of the Mediterranean.
Finally, before our theatre’s curtain fell for good, Majer Ceprow directed that mysterious classic of Jewish literature, The Golem by H. Leivick, about a powerful artificial creature made by Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague through kabbalistic magic. This play was very much in theme with our postwar mood. Its central question reflected on our relation to the Gentile world, a world that had forsaken us. Ceprow, who had dreamt of playing Rabbi Loew, directed superbly but could not fulfil his desire, for fate called him to Brussels before the play opened; Rabbi Loew was played by Skurecki. Sitting in the audience, I couldn’t push the violinist’s solemn warning from my mind.
There can be no more miracles...
Wedding
Mendel Singer’s thoughts about Sholem Aleichem’s Kasrilevke found a profound echo in my heart. From our first meeting I had felt a closeness to that unassuming, learned man.
As we were walking to a wedding to which all the inhabitants of the Santa Maria camp were invited, he spoke to me about his understanding of our history. ‘You see,’ he said, pursing his lips, ‘not every Jew is necessarily Jewish. A Jew is a physical being, whereas Jewishness is a spiritual thing. Thi
s means, my friend, that an individual Jew can become an antisemite, a Fascist, even a Nazi, but Jewishness — as a living ideal of universal brotherhood — is in eternal conflict with anything life-denying. Whatever has been touched by our spirit has somehow been transformed.
‘I once heard a story,’ he went on, ‘about a black canvas that hung in a city gallery. Nobody understood this painting, until a young boy came along and pointed to a tiny white dot near the corner. “Look,” he said, “a star!” And suddenly all that blackness had a meaning.’
There was a piano-accordion, wine, a little food, and of course dancing. A postwar marriage between two survivors carried an exhilarating sadness: there were so many guests, and no one to invite. The bride and groom, 23-year-old Wladka and 21-year-old Janek, stood all alone under the chuppah like two forlorn children. Everyone here was a relative, and no one was. ‘You know,’ said Singer, ‘Wladka told me she doesn’t believe in God any more, yet she felt she had to have a religious wedding. Funny, isn’t it, how people think?’
‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘Some people might reject God but can’t live without religion.’
‘Wladka was an only child,’ Singer said, taking me aside. ‘She lost her parents when she was sixteen. Her father was a doctor, mobilized at the outbreak of war; she never saw him again. Much later she was informed that he had been killed by the NKVD at Katyn. Her mother, after being pack-raped by a village mob, was sold to the Gestapo. Wladka ran away, hid in a forest, survived on mushrooms and wild berries. One night she heard footsteps so she climbed up into a tree. It was unbearably cold and windy up there, yet she held on with all her might — but she grew dizzy, her hands grew numb, she let go and fell to the ground. A man stood above her, training a gun against her face. “I am Wladka,” she managed, trembling with fright. They remained like that for an eternity. When the man finally spoke, there was warmth in his voice. “I am Janek,” he said.’
After the exchange of vows Janek made a speech. He had been a restless youth, he explained, from a township in which sixty percent of the people were Jews. His grandfather was a highly respected citizen and a friend of the priest. There was harmony between the Jews and the Gentile folk. Two days after the Germans invaded the town his grandfather was hanged, to the applause of the local populace. After that the boy’s mother told him: ‘Janek, run, and live.’ And so he did. He had not stopped running since.
Singer studied my face. ‘You know what’s remarkable about survivors’ stories?’ he whispered. ‘They are like human beings: all so different, yet all so alike.’
When the speeches were over we began to sing — heartfelt Yiddish, Polish and Russian songs. How astonishing, I thought, that a people who had suffered so much depravity could still sing.
Suddenly, without warning, Singer raised his arms for silence and pointed to me. ‘Listen, everyone,’ he cried. ‘My friend will read some of his verses for you!’ His eyes called me to the task. I was quite hesitant: public reading was something I dreaded. But there was this petite girl in the crowd whom I wanted to impress, so I made bold and took out some poems that I always carried around with me. Eyeing the small brunette, with her high cheekbones and fine bosom, I stepped forward: ‘I’ll read a short poem of mine dedicated to my hometown poet, Yitzhak Katzenelson, who, just before his brutal demise, wrote “The Song of the Murdered Jewish People”:
‘Let me sing in the simplest vein
Of all that pains my heart;
A Yiddish song that has lost its name,
The song of a murdered bard.
Let me sing in the simplest vein
Of days that had no years;
Of days that hid their face in shame
Drenched in unshed tears.
Yet let me sing in the simplest vein
Of mankind’s eternal spring;
The song that rises above the flame
Will never cease to sing.’
My short lyric received decent acclaim, but not from the one I sang for. When Singer came over to shake my hand, I asked: ‘What’s the name of that little girl in the burgundy short-sleeved dress?’
‘That’s Esther. She runs our library.’
In fact I had seen her in the library but had been too shy to make contact. Emboldened by my poetic performance, I invited her to dance. I had never been much of a dancer, however, and Esther soon excused herself and left me in the middle of the floor. I had chosen the moment unwisely, forgetting that the tango was regarded, where I came from, as the epitome of the discourse of the middle class, to which I had never belonged. Esther obviously did.
But I was not a man who gave up easily.
Marriage
I had met her as the year 1945 slid toward its end. Esther was thin as a reed, with a thick curly black mane that kept slipping over her forehead, and a shy, somewhat insecure manner. Free but still enslaved in Dachau, she had made her way quietly into her strange new world, and although it was nearly three years since she had escaped death in the Warsaw ghetto, the fires that had engulfed her home were still smouldering in her dark eyes.
Esther had lived through the Jewish uprising in Warsaw, but she was not what you would call a ghetto fighter. She had belonged to a group of runners and messengers stationed in a bunker on Mila 26. Squinting her eyes shut as if refusing to revisit those haunting images, she told me how, at night, as the Germans retreated to safer positions for fear of their lives, she would creep out of the bunker, amid the quarrel of shadows and scorched bodies assailed by rats and mice. And how she could still hear her mother’s last scream: ‘Estusia, save yourself! Save yourself!’ — and then her father’s shattering question on returning home from work outside the ghetto: ‘How come they took mother and you’re still here?’ He too perished soon afterwards, gassed by the Germans in the ratinfested underground sewers, trying to reach friends outside the ghetto.
Esther’s last tragic encounter with her father had left on her psyche a scar of resentment that could boil up into aggression. It troubled me. I felt a pang in my heart for her, because things like these are impossible to erase from memory. The morning after she told me the story I was horrified when, on opening the shutters, I imagined that the large rainbow trapped between the clouds was tinged with black. How symbolic, I thought, of Esther’s guilt-darkened sky.
Her story made it quite clear that the ghetto uprising was doomed to failure from the start. As in times of old, our enemies had endeavoured to ensure that no sword or spear was to be found amongst us, and sadly our neighbours, beside whom we had lived for a thousand years, remained passive in the face of our plight; some of them went out of their way to betray us.
It was difficult for Esther to describe how she had made it through the war. She was not yet ready to excavate all her experiences at once. ‘I guess it was all a matter of chance, or luck, or the caprice of fate,’ she told me, ‘and maybe also a kind of strange determination.’ She was right. One learns from any survivor’s tale that the fight to live is so much more acute when one can see, with one’s own eyes, life ebbing away daily like flotsam on the outgoing tide.
Love, loneliness and our physical need for one another soon brought us together under one roof. Survivors had no time to lose. For the moment, a religious ceremony was not on our mind, but to legitimize the union we did need a marriage licence. This we could only obtain in the town of Nardò, a good twelve kilometres from where we were living. Unable to afford the bus trip, we hired a cart. Early on the morning of 10 January 1946, a happy-go-lucky Italian neighbour, Vincenzo Caramelli, harnessed up his undernourished donkey. There were seven of us: Esther and I, our four male witnesses, and the driver. As the cart made its bumpy way along the rudimentary dust road, I was secretly savouring the euphoria of our forthcoming night. What I had forgotten was that we had no place of our own, for Esther shared a room with three other girls, and I with Singer and Ceprow.
We returned to Santa Maria late in the afternoon. Our wedding feast, held in our room, consisted of two ora
nges cut in quarters and served on empty fruit-crates. Our four witnesses were the only guests we invited; one of them brought a bouquet of wildflowers from a nearby field. We ate standing up, since we had only one chair. At nightfall Esther and I took a walk, planning to come back when my roommates were fast asleep. Like thieves in the night we sneaked in on tiptoes and slipped beneath the covers of my military American bed. The two wide-awake roommates were snoring. On the cracked windowpane hung a full moon, laughing yellow.
Homecoming
Father sat behind the table reading his newspaper. Mother stood by a dead stove, diligently stirring an empty pot with a wooden spoon. ‘I’m certain our son will come back,’ she said, not lifting her head from the solemn task she was performing.
‘Perhaps, but only for a while,’ father replied.
‘Of course only for a while, but at the right time. I’ll be serving lunch soon. I’m expecting our two daughters, and our sweet grandchildren, to grace us with their presence too. After all, it’s a great occasion. Not every mother has the privilege of seeing her children again from the other side.’
There was no roof over our house, and a thick dirty fog had replaced the glass in the window-frames. Standing invisible in a corner, I listened to mother’s voice. ‘You know,’ she was saying, ‘children don’t visit their parents very often these days. Apparently it’s an outmoded custom. So don’t be too hard on them, especially on3 Pola — she had a bitter life, so seldom at home.’
‘That’s why she was so at home in prisons,’ said father.
‘From which she emerged an intellectual,’ mother countered. ‘Remember her Esperanto?’
‘And her Soviet songs! Overnight I was replaced by Lenin; and you, my dear, by the Communist Party. Then she went and fell in love with the wrong man, that party comrade of hers. How was it that we agreed to her choice?’
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