For as long as I can remember, I have spent the last week of Elul going with Papa to the synagogue before first light. There, the shofar would call the faithful of Israel to repentance. After chanting Psalm 27, we would pray the selichot, the prayers of forgiveness, and recite the thirteen attributes of God, as a reminder that, regardless of what we have done, He will forgive those who seek His face.
Papa took teshuvah, the return to God, very seriously, so the new year was always a solemn, pious occasion at our house. The joy of Rosh Hashanah, Papa said, was in knowing that we were starting again with a clean slate and that God had written us down for a good year – a promise that would be sealed at Yom Kippur ten days later.
This morning, I try to focus on the meaning of the words as I say Psalm 27. I make it as far as “Hide not Thy face far from me; put not Thy servant away in anger; Thou hast been my help; cast me not off, neither forsake me, O God of my salvation.” Suddenly, tears stream down my face. The tears of mourning I couldn’t shed when Papa died. The tears of anger I was forced to hold back when I saw the baby being tossed about like a ball. Tears for the unforgivable acts I have witnessed without protest. Tears of self-disgust that I feel every moment I wear this uniform. Tears for the man I once was. Tears at the realization that I have lost myself in this war.
Wiping away the wetness, I continue my preparations for the new year, reciting the attributes of God: “Merciful God, merciful God, powerful God, compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, and abundant in kindness and truth, preserver of kindness for thousands of generations, forgiver of iniquity, willful sin and error, and Who cleanses.”
Just as I finish, the sun breaks the horizon, painting the sky in pink and violet. I look out over the stillness of the veld, thinking back on the past few months. If this was my testing in the wilderness, I have failed miserably. A deep sadness settles over me as I resign myself, like my forefathers, to wandering aimlessly in the desert. There can be no teshuvah for me, at least not this year. God may be merciful, but I cannot ask for that mercy if I can find no forgiveness within myself.
Having made all of our rounds and with my medical supplies spent, we join a provision train loaded with food and ammunition. Rosh Hashanah begins tomorrow at sunset. But of course, I’m the only one who recognizes today as the eve of the beginning of a new year, so there are no celebrations as we continue our wanderings in the wilderness.
It’s a relief to have some decent food for a change, and the heavily guarded train offers us some protection, as well as companionship. Not that I have much to offer these days in the way of conversation. But listening to other people keeps my mind off my inner turmoil.
I wake up well before dawn the next day and slip away for a bit of solitude in preparation for the new year. As a child, I once asked Papa why we prayed before the sun woke up. He tousled my hair and said, “It’s at this time that we can come the closest to God.”
I look up at the graying sky, longing for that closeness I felt all those years ago. But there is nothing. I feel as if Heaven has turned its back on me. Nevertheless, I knock at the gates with my prayers. Facing east, I recite what I can remember of Psalm 145, ending with:
“The Lord upholdeth all that fall, and raiseth up all those that are bowed down. The eyes of all wait for Thee, and Thou givest them their food in due season. Thou openest Thy hand, and satisfiest every living thing with favour. The Lord is righteous in all His ways, and gracious in all His works. The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth. He will fulfill the desire of them that fear Him; He also will hear their cry, and will save them. The Lord preserveth all them that love Him; but all the wicked will He destroy.”
I stop short at the “wicked will He destroy.” I have mouthed those words all my life as part of the ritual of teshuvah. The few times I reflected on what I was saying, I thought of the wicked as the enemies of God’s people. Until now, I had never considered that I might be counted among the wicked. Without finishing the Psalm, I say the chatanu: “We have sinned, our Rock, forgive us, our Creator.” But the words cannot undo my deeds.
As we ride along today, I amuse myself by watching the antics of the children of one of the native drivers. After all the dead Herero children I’ve seen, it’s refreshing to hear youngsters laughing and playing. When we’re moving, the driver walks beside his oxen, his whip over his shoulder. His wife keeps pace behind him, carrying a chubby toddler in a shawl tied to her back. The other three children walk, single file, behind their mother in descending order.
I’m amazed that the children, even the smallest, keep pace without any complaint. Perhaps the secret is in the family pipe. From time to time, the father draws on his tobacco pipe and then passes it back to his wife. Without missing a step, the wife takes a draw and hands it back to the oldest child, who in turns hands it off to the next in line. Finally, the youngest one gets his turn and then runs it back up to his father. I smile, for the first time in months, at this ritual that binds the young family together.
On the second day after Rosh Hashanah, we come to a broad river bed beside a waterhole. As the others water up, I walk along the sandy river looking for some sign of flowing water. But all I can find is a ribbon of wet sand. It will have to do. I pick up a handful of stones and toss them, one by one, into the dampness. It’s a far cry from the annual tashlikh Papa and I did together on the banks of the Pegnitz, casting smooth pebbles into the river to symbolize the casting off of our sins as we prepared for Yom Kippur. As I stand there throwing rocks at the darkened sand, I feel foolish. My guilt is too heavy to be lightly cast aside.
A few days later, Arnold complains of chills and numbness – the first signs of typhus. I can’t say I’m surprised, given the dirty water we’ve been drinking and all the typhus cases we’ve treated over the past several weeks. With my medical supplies gone, our only option is to get back to the main division as quickly as possible. I don’t need Arnold’s death on my conscience, too. This circuit ride was supposed to be my atonement, not his punishment. “How long will it take for us to reach the camp?” I ask our Bastard guide.
“About four days, sir,” he replies.
“Is there no shortcut?” I enquire hopefully.
“There’s one up ahead, sir. We should reach it tomorrow. If we take it, we could cut a day from our journey. But there may not be any water.”
I shrug. “We haven’t had much water along this trail anyway. We have to get Arnold back to camp before he’s too sick to ride.”
I explain the situation to the major in charge of the supply train. He gives us some provisions and what water he can spare, before wishing us godspeed.
The sun is high above us when our guide veers off the track, heading out across the veld. Arnold and I listlessly follow. Racing against the onslaught of the fever, we make few stops throughout the day. And the breaks we do take are brief.
It’s well after sunset when we come to an old campsite. The guide insists that we give the horses a rest. I start to protest, but then I glance over at Arnold, who is almost doubled over in his saddle.
I dismount and help Arnold from his horse. “Please start a fire while I tend to him,” I tell the guide. I lower Arnold to the ground, pillowing his head on his saddle. He’s burning with fever. Feeling responsible for his condition, I bundle both our blankets around him and give him the last of my water. Too cold to sleep, I huddle close to the fire, turning to check on my patient every time he moans. He finally settles into a deep sleep, leaving me to my thoughts.
Staring into the flames, I do some mental calculations. It’s Erev Yom Kippur, the eve of the holiest of holy days. If I were home, I’d spend tomorrow requesting forgiveness, doing charitable acts, and feasting in preparation for the day of fast. Still unable to sleep, I write another quick note to Hanna by the light of the fire. Again, I beg for her forgiveness – even though I feel unworthy of it.
As soon as the sky lightens, I say my prayers and wake the guide. “
We’ve got to get moving,” I tell him.
He grumbles but gets up and saddles the horses. He and I half carry Arnold to his horse and help him mount. As we ride along, Arnold occasionally dozes off, leaning precariously from his saddle. I reach over, supporting him until he shakes himself awake enough to ride on without help. Taking care of him helps me keep my mind off my burning throat. I try not to swallow. But sometimes without thinking, I give in to the urge and then groan in pain.
Hearing the sound of hooves coming up behind us, the guide and I look over our shoulders. “There are three men, sir,” the guide calls to me.
Instantly alert, I shake Arnold, trying to raise him from his deepening stupor. It would be pointless to try to outrun anyone, given Arnold’s condition and the weariness of our mounts. I turn my horse around to face the newcomers and reach for my gun. It’s hard to tell if the men riding toward us are friend or foe. They’re wearing German uniforms, but that doesn’t mean anything as the Herero often wear uniforms they have taken from dead soldiers.
The men remove their hats and call to us in German. As they ride closer, I recognize Peter. He’s much thinner, and his face is almost black from all the weeks of being in the desert sun. He offers me his water-sack, which I gratefully accept. His companions help Arnold from his horse so he can get some water. After a brief rest, they lift him back into the saddle and secure him. Together, we ride on.
I call for a break shortly before sunset. Peter looks at me quizzically as I pull my surgeon’s coat from my pack and put it on. “Please look after Arnold,” I tell him. “I’ll be back shortly.”
I walk up over a rise until I’m out of sight of the others. I cover my head and wrap my prayer shawl about my shoulders. Recalling the Kol Nidre prayers that bridged Erev Yom Kippur with the holy day itself, I face north and recite, “We have sinned, our Rock, forgive us, our Creator…. May all the people of Israel be forgiven, including all the strangers who live in their midst, for all the people are in fault.”
I modify it slightly and recite it two more times, “May all the people of Israel and Germany be forgiven, including all the strangers who live in their midst, for all the people are at fault.”
I sigh as I finish my prayers. By this time tomorrow, my fate will be sealed for the year. I remove the prayer shawl and yarmulke. Still wearing my once-white coat, I head back to the others and mount my horse for the final leg of our journey.
It’s late when we reach our division, which is camped alongside some dried-up waterholes. A bitter cold wind picks up, chilling me to the bone. I’m settling Arnold in the field hospital when Alexander comes in. “I heard you had returned,” he says. He takes a hard look at me and orders one of the other surgeons to tend to Arnold.
Drawing me to the fire, Alexander notices my surgical coat and smiles. “Not quite a kittel,” he says, “but it works.” He looks down at my feet and nods approvingly. “At least you kept your boots on.”
I give a semblance of a smile. “I can go without food, water, and marital relations for Yom Kippur, but this year I’ll have to break the bans on working and wearing leather shoes.”
He wraps a blanket around me, whispering the new year greeting “Shana tovah” in my ear. He brings me a bit of half-cooked rice and sits down next to me. I push the rice away.
“I know it’s the fast, but you’ve got to eat,” he says, placing the food next to me. “God will understand. Besides, you’ve been nearly fasting for the past few months.”
I give in and eat. When I’m finished, Alexander looks at me intently. “Are you trying to kill yourself, Kov?” he asks. “Because if you are, it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job of it. At this rate, you’ll not live to see another year.”
I’m too tired to argue. “Ketiva ve-chatima tovah,” I mumble, wishing him a good year. I curl up in a tight little ball beside the fire and sleep.
TO THE LIMITS
The cannons boom, shaking the ground with their thunder. I shiver in the cold and put my hands to my ears in a futile effort to block out the noise. I scream, and someone shakes me.
“Kov! Wake up!”
It takes me a minute to recognize Alexander, who’s kneeling above me in the darkness. Then I hear the cannon again. “Are we under attack?” I ask.
Alexander shakes his head. “It’s only thunder. But we’ve got to get to higher ground in case it floods.”
“What day is it?” I ask as I stumble to a stand. The sky is black with clouds that roll over each other in the fury of the coming storm. The wind begins to pick up, howling about us in an unearthly voice.
“The fast is over. Now hurry,” Alexander calls to me. “Leave your things. The orderlies will move them.”
I stand numbly as the wind pushes against me. The gates of prayer have closed. I look up at the black sky, feeling as if God has turned his back on me. The rain begins to fall, the huge drops splattering against my face.
Alexander grabs me and hustles me up the hill to where the rest of the camp is moving. Lightning lashes across the heavens, illuminating the gray rain against the blackness of the sky. We barely have time to set up a bit of a canvas shelter before the rain pours down in sheets, flooding the area around the waterholes. “At least we should have water again,” Alexander says with a wry smile. “Whether it will be safe to drink is another question.”
Fighting the wind, he struggles to start a fire and coaxes me to sit close to it. But even with the heat of the flames, my teeth chatter in the cold dampness. I huddle in my blanket, trying to get warm. What I wouldn’t do for a hot bath right now.
Seeing one of the orderlies darting into the field hospital, I think of Arnold. I should have checked on him. But instead, I’ve been worrying about my own comfort. I shrug the blanket off and start to stand.
“Where are you going?” Alexander asks.
“I’ve got to see to Arnold.”
“The others are looking after him,” he tells me. “You’ve got to take care of yourself, or you’ll be as sick as he is. And then what good would you be to anyone?”
I nod and sit back down. “I must look pretty bad the way you’re fussing over me.”
“To put it bluntly, you’re not much more than a walking skeleton.” He hands me his shaving mirror. “Here, look at yourself.”
I reluctantly look at my image. I don’t recognize the gaunt face with its sunken eyes that stare passively back at me. A dark beard emphasizes the hollows of the cheeks. Unconvinced that this is really my reflection, I attempt a smile. The face smiles back garishly. I quickly return the mirror to Alexander. As I do, I glance at my bony calloused hand. It looks more like a claw than a human hand.
Alexander, who has been watching me, arches his eyebrows.
“You’re right, Doctor,” I mumble. “I look like death.”
“You rest. I’ll get you some dinner.” He pulls his blanket around my shivering frame and makes me lie down.
When I wake, it’s early evening. The rain has stopped, but the wind bites through the woolen blanket and my threadbare uniform. “Eat.” Alexander hands me a bit of half-cooked rice and tough meat. “It’s not much, and it could be the last you’ll get for a few days. Our supplies are gone.”
As I sit there chewing the meat, I look out toward the eastern horizon where the sky is ablaze with great clouds of smoke and flames. Alexander follows the direction of my gaze. “The Herero are burning any fodder so there will be no feed for our horses and oxen,” he said.
“So we’re still pursuing them?”
“Yes. To the ends of the earth, it seems. Major von Estorff and some of the other officers have urged the general to negotiate with the Herero, but Trotha insists they must be annihilated. The major has taken some of the troops on ahead of us.” Alexander puts another piece of wood on the fire, sending sparks heavenward.
We sit quietly, lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, I break the silence. “How’s Arnold?”
Alexander stretches his legs tow
ard the fire. “He’s delirious. A few others also have the fever. They don’t have the strength to go on, so they’re being sent back to Windhük tomorrow.”
“Good.” I look wistfully toward the horizon. “We should just call it quits and all go back. We’ve done what we set out to do. We don’t need to bury the rest of the Herero, or more of our own troops, in the desert.”
In the morning, I help the medical staff settle Arnold and the other sick men into the wagons for the long trek back to civilization. We give them what water we can spare. We don’t have any food to give them, but they should meet up with the supply train that’s supposed to be heading our way.
We stay in camp a few more days, waiting for the supply wagons to catch up with us. Thanks to the rain, the waterholes are replenished so we have enough water, if we carefully ration it, to last us a little while longer. With most of the sick on their way to Windhük, the surgical staff has little to do, so Alexander forces me to do nothing but sleep and eat.
When we finally break camp, I feel like a new man – almost. But my renewed energy is quickly sapped by the rigors of the march. By the second day, what little water we were able to carry from the camp is gone. And so far, we have found no waterholes.
This morning, we ride along the dry bed of the Eiseb River. Despite the recent rain, the land is parched. We come across a few waterholes shortly before noon. But like the riverbed, they’re dirt dry. We rest as several of the soldiers dig the holes deeper in a desperate, futile hunt for water. They finally give up, flopping on the cracked, leathered earth, exhausted by their efforts. With no water, we can’t even cook our rice. The horses, more desperate for water than we are, paw at the dust. Their mouths are too dry to chew the sharp, coarse grass.
When we start up again, we walk beside the horses so as not to exhaust them. Wearily, we trudge through the deep, blowing sand as the sun beats down on us unforgivingly. Driven by hunger and thirst, we march – mirages of life. Night falls, replacing the heat with a cold that the wind drives through our thin uniforms. Numbed by the elements and the endless trek, I hardly notice when my horse trips on a rock until he nearly pulls me down on top of him. I straighten myself and try to coax him up, but I have no voice. My throat feels as if it has been glued shut. So I stroke the horse while tugging gently on his reins. Finally, he struggles to his feet, and we limp on.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 31