In the Land of Armadillos

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  “Zosha, Zosha,” it whispered.

  At the sight of the wound in her throat, tears collected in the pale wolfish eyes. The creature worked to free her from the tangle of her friends’ and neighbors’ bodies. Gathering her close to its tufted breast, it sprang out of the pit with as much effort as it would have taken to skip over a crack in the sidewalk.

  The wolf laid her down on the dead and yellowed savannah grass, her nightdress billowing like a parachute in the November wind. With remarkable gentleness, it put its arm under her shoulders and pulled her against its chest.

  The clearing in the forest had become a battlefield filled with fairy-tale beasts, the stuff of nightmares. A gargoyle with the gleaming feathered head of a falcon held one of the Gestapo men in its talons, its beak buried deep in his guts. A leviathan of a fish, armored with metallic scales and bristling with fangs, was attempting to swallow a struggling lieutenant whole. The earth shook as an ogre with the massive head of a bull pursued one of Hitler’s elite guard into the woods, wearing a bloodied butcher’s apron and wielding a meat cleaver in its fist. A mammoth red stag used a gargantuan rack of antlers to pinion a brace of SS men against a tree. A hideous, humpbacked behemoth with the bullet-shaped head of a wild boar hurtled through the clearing, an officer impaled on each tusk like a grisly ornament.

  The wolf that used to be Zev Heller rested his silky cheek against her forehead. She could feel the warmth of his tears on her face, her throat.

  “Baer,” the wolf called in an anguished cry, “Baer . . .”

  A colossal brown bear was lifting a thrashing storm trooper high into the air. At the sound of its commanding officer’s voice, the bear swung around, snuffling in fury. It dropped the storm trooper, snapping his spine over a hairy knee. In a blur of motion, it began to shrink, and suddenly, an officer of the Russian army was running toward them through the carnage, carrying a doctor’s black case.

  With practiced fingers Baer examined her, probed her wound. She felt light-headed now, the pain was receding. She wasn’t even cold anymore. He muttered something to Zev in a low voice, and the wolf nodded, made a choking sound, bowed his head.

  She didn’t see how it happened, but the man called Baer was growing higher again, as high as the trees, resuming the form of the towering monstrous ursine she had seen before.

  “You rest now,” the bear said kindly, laying the leathery palm of a giant paw on the side of her face. With a roar of rage, he wheeled around and bounded away.

  The wolf who was Zev threw back his head and howled. His men joined him, a victorious cacophony of shrieks, roars, bleats, and grunts that filled the clearing and made the air ring around her.

  “Shimmy,” she said. Her voice was raspy, guttural, but it worked. “We were running . . . I was holding his hand . . . ”

  The wolf bent closer to hear her words, his whiskers tickling her nose. “He’s fine,” he said hastily. “One of my men will lead him over the river to the Soviet side. Life is hard there, but he’ll be safe.”

  The battle was done. Creatures shoveled spadefuls of dirt over the poor souls they had been too late to save, muttering the prayer for the dead over and over.

  Zev caressed the hair from her forehead with fingers that were like claws, told her that his unit was expected near Wyryki at dawn. When she reached forward to touch his chest, his muscles twitched, and he sucked air between his sharp teeth with a hiss.

  Eyes wide open, she took in the wild beauty of his face, the tilted gray eyes she had always loved, the steep curve of his chest, the silvery pelt that covered his body, lightening across the belly.

  The fur fell between her fingertips in furrows, soft and thick. When she told him she wanted to stay with him forever, the wolfish eyes were calm and grateful and grieving all at the same time.

  “Of course, Zoshaleh,” he murmured, taking her hand. “Of course.”

  * * *

  Nowadays, the drab and dreary apartment blocks extend all the way down Wirka Street into the forest. Built in the years of Soviet occupation, the buildings are testimonies to corruption, grim and decrepit.

  Among them lies a clearing, green and open to the sky, where no dog ever roams and no child ever plays. No plaque informs tourists of the atrocities that were committed here, no monument graces this quiet square.

  It is common knowledge that nothing will grow on this spot except for grass; it is a neat and constant ten centimeters high, despite the fact that no one has ever been known to water or mow it.

  The people of the town of Włodawa cross themselves when they pass this place, which is not often, and only by day. They do not speak of it, not even to the priest, but they have not forgotten what happened here in 1942 and who lies buried beneath the peaceful green surface.

  Those who have visited the site of the Włodawa massacre by night claim to have seen ghosts. The elders of the town, many of whom lived here during those long, bad years, discourage such wild tales. Let the dead bury the dead, they say wisely.

  But the children know. When the anniversary of the massacre falls on the night of a full moon, they gather on the sidewalk to bear witness. At midnight, when the moon is highest in the sky, a strange incorporeal vision can be seen flitting through the trees.

  The female wears only a thin white nightgown. Her pale hair shimmers and swims in the wind blowing down from the Russian steppes. The male has the lean upper body of a timber wolf.

  Wolves have been hunted to extinction in this southeastern part of Poland, the elders will remind you. One night a year, you can hear still hear them howl.

  THE MESSIAH

  At around two in the morning, my mother shook me awake. The Messiah was coming. There was no doubt about it, he’d been spotted ten miles outside of Włodawa. At this rate, he would be here by daybreak. Get up, get up. We had to pack.

  She left me to dress. It was a cold November night; gale-force winds rattled the roof tiles and chimney pots. Reluctant to surrender the warmth of my bed, I shut my eyes tight and snuggled down into the covers to consider this information.

  It wasn’t as if there hadn’t been signs. Strange lights in the sky, unusual weather. An actual golem saving the lives of two hundred and fifty people being led off to slaughter. A whole battalion of Deutschen wiped out by mysterious forest creatures. The news was on everyone’s lips. We were in the throes of an epic showdown between good and evil, for sure.

  Downstairs, I heard the sound of my mother’s voice, hurried, anxious. There would be time for exhilaration later. Now she had to make certain that everyone would have enough food and clothing for the long journey to Eretz Yisroel, the Promised Land.

  It was then that I heard it, a tread as light as a cat’s footfall. The rustling of cloth, the faintest of sighs. The end of my bed depressed just a bit.

  “Get off of my bed, Temma,” I said loudly. My sister liked to sneak in when she could. When I was little, I allowed her under the blankets with me, but I was twelve now, almost a man. There was no answer. Annoyed, I stuck my head out from the covers.

  A stranger was sitting there in a long white gown tied with a rope around the waist. Over it, he wore a linen robe woven with stripes. On his feet, sandals.

  “Hey, kid. Do you mind if I stay here for a minute?” he said. He had shoulder-length brown hair that he wore parted in the middle, and a small neat beard. “It’s been a long night.”

  “How do I know you’re the real Messiah?” I challenged him. “There have been a lot of imposters, you know. I’ll have to ask you a few questions.”

  His features had an incandescent beauty to them, like paintings of Jesus I’d seen in school. “Fire away,” he said, shifting his staff from one hand to the other.

  One by one, he shot down the inquiries on my list. Yes, he was descended from the house of David. Yes, we would still have to keep Shabbos and kosher, he couldn’t do anything about that. No, he couldn’t raise the dead. Neither would he fly or walk on water. To my vast disappointment, there would be no m
iracles, no thunderclaps or lightning, no Leviathan feast, heavenly shofar blasts, or voice of God, no giddy ride to the Promised Land on the wings of eagles. He had come to Włodawa on a donkey. Downstairs, I could hear my mother shouting for me.

  “I’d better get dressed,” I said. “She’s getting really mad.”

  The Messiah made a gesture with one hand. “Don’t bother,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere. I quit.”

  I stared at him, aghast. “What?” I said, confused. “Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for you? If you don’t get us out of here, the Deutschen will kill every last Jew in Europe.”

  “I know,” he said tiredly, putting his head in his hands. “Don’t you think I know? Why do you think I’m here?”

  I sat back in my bed. “But you’re the Messiah. The rabbis said you were going to rescue us.” I am ashamed to report that my voice quavered.

  “Not exactly,” he muttered.

  Downstairs, I could hear my mother and sisters in the kitchen, chattering to one another like birds. His tone of voice made me uneasy. “You’re a good little yeshiva boy,” he said. “You know all the rabbinical debates. Will the Messiah come on a white donkey? Or after every Jew keeps Shabbos for one week? Will he come in an era of peace? Or will he come at a time of great upheaval, half the world at war with the other half, the Jewish people faced with extinction?”

  He spread his long delicate fingers across his forehead. I drew the covers up to my nose. Suddenly, I was seized with a panicked trembling, a shivering I could not control.

  “You know the story of Avrohom and Yitzchak,” he continued wearily. He didn’t seem to be talking to me anymore. “God commanded Avrohom to sacrifice his only son . . . and willingly, Avrohom picked up the knife. Only at the last minute did He stay Avrohom’s hand and direct him toward a ram whose horns were stuck in a thornbush.”

  The Messiah turned his gaze toward me. In my unlit room, his eyes were dark hollows. “The Jews of Europe are the ram,” he explained. “Only afterward, when all the bodies have been counted, will there be a Promised Land, the Temple rebuilt, the end of war, peace on earth.”

  “But—” My throat was dry, it was hard to swallow. “The rabbis promised—the wings of eagles—”

  “The rabbis . . . ” The Messiah made an impatient gesture, of anger, of despair. “The rabbis will be the first to die.” He slid off the bed, got to his feet. With determination, he said, “I’ve made up my mind. I won’t be a party to this anymore.”

  Then he twitched his head to one side, knotted his brows. “Did you hear that?” he demanded. I had heard, perhaps, the sound of chimes. “He says he doesn’t accept my resignation.”

  “Are—are you—talking to God?”

  “God? Nah. He’s busy running the war. Allow me to introduce you to that paskudnyak Gabriel, the so-called Angel of Redemption.”

  My heart hammered against my ribs. “Please, Mr. Messiah,” I squeaked. “Don’t make him mad.”

  He shushed me with a motion of his hand. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you!” he hollered at the air. “Where’s Melkiel, the angel of the sixth firmament, who stands on the sixth stair of the heavenly throne, responsible for delivering those attempting to escape a besieged city? He’s the man for the job.” He concentrated for a moment, his hand cupped over his ear. “Oh, you’re going to deliver the Jews of Europe? You mean the way you delivered Jerusalem into the hands of the Roman Empire? Or maybe you were thinking of the way you delivered the Jews of Spain to the Grand Inquisitor?”

  He lunged for the window, threw it open with a bang. A gust of rain sprayed his face. “No!” he shouted at the clouds. “I’ve made my decision.”

  I thought about this for a minute. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go tell my mother.”

  * * *

  Mama listened to the Messiah’s story, nodding with grim determination. “We’ll just see about that,” she said, and sent us to talk to the rabbi.

  My father was the Chief Rabbi of Włodawa. He listened to the Messiah’s complaints, stroking his beard and nodding. Occasionally, he would ask a question, holding up a soft white hand to interrupt. The Messiah recited his story with reluctance, as if he had tired of his burden, wishing only to be rid of it. At the end, my father shrugged.

  “Well, then that is our fate,” he said. “If this is our role in the redemption, then we must go to it with glad hearts.”

  “That’s what the rabbis say in every town,” said the Messiah. “Just before the soldiers turn their machine guns on them.”

  “Will you stay with us till the end?” my father asked gently, undeterred. “To bring us comfort in our last days?”

  The Messiah looked incredulous. “Did you hear anything I said?” With that, he threw his staff onto the floor and stalked furiously out of our house.

  * * *

  There remained the indisputable evidence of the donkey. We put it in the shed, where it shared a stall with the chickens. It seemed grateful for the company.

  The next time I saw the Messiah, it was two weeks later. He was leaning on a shovel and smoking a cigarette. Lucky for him, he had been assigned to dig ditches in the frozen earth with one of Chief Engineer Falkner’s crews. Lucky, because Falkner protected his Jews.

  By now he had traded in his robe for ordinary workman’s clothes. “You’re still alive?” he greeted me.

  I stopped, leveled what I hoped was a superior glare at him. “You deserted your post,” I said sternly, with all the self-righteousness a twelve-year-old boy can muster. “A good leader never deserts his men.”

  The drainage ditch abutted the empty army camp where, the previous winter, we watched ten thousand Russian prisoners of war slowly starve to death. He blew a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “What’s your name?”

  “Usher Zelig,” I told him.

  He rolled my name around in his mouth with the taste of the smoke, blew it into the air over his head. “Well, Usher Zelig. You’re a nice kid. I like you. Go home and tell your family to hide in the woods. There, they might have a chance.”

  “My father will never desert his congregation,” I said defensively. “Not like some people I know.”

  The Messiah grinned, pushed his cap back on his head. I could see he had cut his hair. “You know any girls?” he asked.

  “Just my sisters,” I said with distaste.

  “Any of them pretty?”

  I considered them. Eight years old, Suri was all skinny arms and legs, more irritating than any girl had a right to be. Mushka was five, chubby, not old enough to be horrible yet. At seventeen, Temma thought she was all grown up, but she still liked to get in bed with me on cold nights.

  “They’re all annoying and stupid. But Temma’s not so bad to look at.”

  “Hey!” hollered the guard. “You there, Jewish pig! I’m warning you! Stop talking to that kid before I blow both your heads off!”

  He nodded at the guard, threw his cigarette butt down on the cold earth. “Tell your mother. I’m coming for dinner Friday night.”

  * * *

  True to his word, the Messiah showed up after shul that Shabbos. Somewhere he had found a jacket. He had also shaved his beard. When he laid eyes on my big sister, Temma, his eyes widened, and his breath came a little quicker.

  “What should I call you?” she asked demurely.

  “Call him nothing,” said my mother.

  “You can call me Shua,” he said gently. I don’t know if I mentioned it before, he had beautiful eyes, wide and almond-shaped. His breath smelled of oranges and cinnamon.

  At dinner, he was polite, almost deferential. My father asked him to make the kiddush, and he did so, in a voice that rang with such sweet celestial beauty that the clocks stopped ticking so they could hear it.

  Over the challah, Temma and the Messiah exchanged a few heated glances. My father quizzed me on what I had learned in cheder that week. I recounted the story of the matriarch Rebecca, pregnant with the twins J
acob and Esau, the scholar and the hunter. I also explained the Midrash, the one where the angel tells her that she is carrying two nations within her womb, and that they would struggle against each other until the end of time. I was trying to impress the Messiah with the scope of my knowledge, but I don’t think he heard a word I said.

  “Where are you staying?” my father wanted to know.

  He named a family known to us. The husband was a gambler, the woman augmented their income with gifts from male admirers. “You know,” he said to my sister, “I’m not sure how to get there from here.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Temma offered. My mother stared at her, stupefied. So did I. But my father smiled a sad smile, scratched under his beard, and gave them a little wave of blessing. Then they left. They didn’t even wait for tea.

  Mama made a great clattering din as she attacked the dishes, scouring them clean, stacking them furiously in the cupboard. My father made a tactical retreat to the labyrinth of his studies, then to the labyrinth of dreams. At ten o’clock, when Temma wasn’t home yet, I was man of the house.

  “Find her,” my mother said evenly, but I could see that she was trying not to reveal her real fears. It was already past curfew. “But please, Usher. For Rabboyna Shel Oylam’s sake. Be careful.” I put my coat on and went out into the night.

  Pellets of dry snow assailed my ankles, nested between paving stones. I hadn’t gone very far when I spotted them. There was a grassy lane that ran between some of the streets, the houses joined by arches overhead. By daylight, it was pretty. By night, it was dark, private. They were leaning against one of the houses. I recognized Temma by her sweep of glossy hair. Quickly, I hid myself behind the nearest arch. Despite the racket being drummed up by the pounding of my heart, I resolved to spy on them.

  The Messiah was standing very close to her. I wondered why her coat would be open on a night as cold as this. The fingers of one hand curved around my sister’s waist, while with the other, he smoothed his forefinger over the bow of her upper lip. In disbelief, I watched as she turned her face up to him, like a sunflower seeking the sun. After a moment’s hesitation, he bent his head to kiss her. I had to turn away, for on his face was the purest expression of awe.