Trail of Miracles

by Smadar Herzfeld

  The village squares with churches and those with mosques began to blend together as I walked. Sometimes, processions went by headed by priests carrying a cross, and sometimes, the sounds of Muslim prayer echoed in the air and the men fell to their knees and brought their foreheads to the sand.

  And I was like a black ant amid a sea of color. I was like a fleshless shadow among the merchants and the vagabonds, amid the drunks and thieves. I slept in rooms for simple folk, as quiet as a mute. And perhaps my eyes also burned like the eyes of the insane, but I could not see them to know.

  The vapor of Your breath, God, is what carried me along the rivers, past towns whose names I did not know. It is what drove me forward until, one morning, on a wagon full of goats—they were crouching around me, bleating, and I kept clicking my tongue to hush them—I saw far ahead, far beyond the fur hat of the goat merchant, towers and domes of gold. The merchant said, “Istanbul,” and the goats clung close to my knees, fixing me with their watery eyes and bleating.

  They were drawing closer to their death, while I was drawing closer to the largest city I would ever see.

  Istanbul was a beehive with swarms that flowed toward her with a mighty buzzing. In Istanbul, I found synagogues and Jewish homes, and sat facing a Sephardic rabbi, reciting prayers in Hebrew so that he would know—despite my nomadic appearance and my black headdress, in spite of the rancid smell of goats—that I was still a Jewish woman.

  I told him in Yiddish that my husband had died and I was making my way to Jerusalem, and to my surprise, he understood and took me to his wife, the rebbitzen. When I stood in front of the woman with her wise eyes and her face the hue of an olive, my knees shook because I was hungry, weary, and had been isolated from my own people for so long. My voice faltered when I said, “Have pity on me.” Then I fell silent and I left it for her to do as she pleased.

  The rebbitzen gave me her protection. She fed me and took care of me and now, for the first time in many months, I ate at a table where all the blessings were said. Around the table sat her five children, boys and girls, and the singing of the boys on the Sabbath brought tears to my eyes. I saw that she was scrutinizing me and wondering what I had been through and where I had come from, but I didn’t tell her anything. Only that my name was Gittel and that I wished to reach Jerusalem.

  When she heard the word “Jerusalem,” she said that first I had to get stronger. And that it was not a good time to sail there. It was because of the rabbi’s wife that I stayed in Istanbul for several months and became a washerwoman.

  I washed clothes in the homes of Jews and Armenians in the neighborhood. On the Sabbath, I ate at the rabbi’s home and, on religious festivals, I went to synagogue.

  Once again, I heard Jewish melodies and Jews praying.

  My benefactress found me a room in an attic. The window of my room reflected the tongue of blue water that breaks forth at the Black Sea and almost ends and yet does not at the vastness of the Great Sea that leads to the shores of the Holy Land. I was surrounded by the colors of light and sea.

  My life in Istanbul was like the calm before the storm. The quays from which the ships sailed stretched out under my feet, the dockhands loaded and unloaded freight, and sailors strung out ropes, climbed masts, and shouted at the top of their lungs like cranes. White waterfowl filled the air with their mighty cries, and it seemed as if everyone was constantly shrieking, the fowl and the people and the ships.

  And even though the water was moving, it seemed to stand still. I sat on the windowsill at sunrise and again at sunset, though in truth, I was also in motion, on my way to another place.

  One day, a small boat dropped anchor at one of the quays. It was blue, with white sails. The sunlight made its white sails look golden and its blue hull bobbed on the water’s surface like a large fish. On the side of the bow, its name glinted in letters I could not read, and next to the name was a painting of a woman with a fish’s tail. There was no one on deck. The wood planks of the deck were polished, and the ropes were coiled into barrels. When I returned to my room in the evening, the ship blushed in the light of sunset, and I imagined myself standing on the deck facing a golden shore fringed with palm trees, my feet bare and my hair fluttering in the breeze.

  And just as the boat had appeared, so it disappeared. The sun went on shining as always, there was the usual commotion of porters and birds, but where it had been moored, only water glimmered. I searched for a small blue stain slipping out between the ships, but saw nothing.

  Meanwhile, winter came and the colors changed. The tongue of water grew grayer and strong winds whipped up froth from the turbid waters. The white birds disappeared; the ships were shrouded in black cloth and huddled close to the quays. The alleys looked narrow, as if they had suddenly shrunk, and in the nearby shops, wood was sold for heating.

  At the festival of Hanukkah, I lit a menorah on the window ledge; water seeped into the attic and gusts of wind made the flames of the candles dance. A young man arrived at the rabbi’s house from Poland. He was a goldsmith and seeking a bride. The rabbi’s wife with her olive complexion rolled her eyes heavenward and said, “Mysterious are the ways of God. Perhaps He has sent this fine man because he does not wish you to reach the Holy Land.”

  I remembered how my husband had visited me in dreams after his death and asked me not to marry anyone; how angry he was when my younger son wanted to make a match between me and his teacher, Rabbi Nachum; how Avraham came to my son in a vision at night and shouted, “Who dares to enter my antechamber!” And now, my husband was back again, appearing in my dreams, all in white, almost transparent, gazing at me silently and shaking his head.

  With my attic room so cold and damp, I spent many hours at the rabbi’s house. My limbs grew plumper and rounded out; the goldsmith caressed me with his eyes and sang Hanukkah songs in his deep voice. And yet I could not shake off the injunction of my dead husband, and I could not cease to think of Jerusalem. Istanbul was like a lighted room, with soft Ottoman chairs, and the good Jews walked about and whispered softly in my ear. I lived in the Jewish quarter, in an attic surrounded by the sea and sky, and something rose from inside me, opaque as dust.

  Sometimes, at night by the window, caught in a flash of lightning, my skin was reflected back in the glass, gleaming. The solitude was immense, but it was not everything. There was something else in my heart: there was pain that pierced my flesh from the inside, and my reflection in the glass shone with that pain.

  The pain was love. In Istanbul, a painful love bloomed in me, faintly luminous. I no longer had a choice, but had to resume my journey, to follow Him.

  Toward You, after You, in the radiance of the morning rays of light and in the sadness of sunset. Toward You, after You, Lord of the East.

  Winter was drawing to a close.

  The first birds passed on their way north, homeward, and the quays slowly returned to life. Men swathed in hoods rubbed golden oil onto the ropes and the sides of the ships. Barrels were loaded into the fishing skiffs and nets mended. And in the splendid parks around the homes of the merchants, plants spilled out of the curling arabesques of golden railings. In the shaded stores, there was cleaning and polishing in preparation for the festival of Passover and, in the house of the rabbi, on the night of the Seder, all the branches of his crystal candelabra were lit and their light spilled over my face.

  And one morning, with warm sunshine on my face, I boarded a ship bound for Jaffa. The rabbi’s wife stood on the quay and waved her white handkerchief. I looked up and saw the attic window where I had lived, and above it, the tower that reared up over the Jewish houses. An expanse of blue, growing ever larger, separated me from them. The tower pushed out over the water like a solitary finger, erect against the sky, and when it faded into the distance, the last thread that linked me to that land was severed.

  I stood on a moldy deck, reeking of fish, and a special feeling, like before a wedding, washed over me and grasped at my throat.

  “Blessed art T
hou, O Lord, for plucking me from the shore and bringing me onto a ship. Blessed art Thou, for Yours are the seas, and the delicate shards of froth that are sprayed on me are from Your robe. You are my only Lord, enclose me within the palm of Your hand like a ship within a ship, look down from on high and see me sailing in Your hand, sailing toward You.”

  And all my longing and all the beauty of a new country were reflected back to me from the waters around the ship. An Ishmaelite stood by the ship’s wheel, his huge belly before him. His fleshy, mustachioed, pockmarked face was chewing, chewing and spitting out a kind of sticky dough like the Turks’ sweet locum paste.

  And all my longings gathered about me on the deck as I breathed in the smell of fish. And a cry like the sound of a bird leaping from its nest burst from my throat, but no one heard. The sailors were busy, and the handful of other travelers also stood on the deck and gazed at the water, deep in their own journeys.

  On the way, we stopped at ports in the Greek islands and bought bread and fish. And at every port, I fantasized about disembarking and getting lost among the sunburned people who smiled from their blue wooden boats—lost among the vines and the olive trees and the tiny white houses.

  Throughout the day, I stared at worlds drenched in sunlight, and by night, I dreamed of Istanbul. I see the large drawing room in the rabbi’s home, and the gold merchant smiling at me. All his teeth are made of gold and sparkle in the candlelight. Then I am sitting on a chair like the Prophet Elijah’s throne with a goblet of wine in my hand, and the wine spills over the rim and stains my white dress. And the rabbi’s wife shrieks like a bird, flies above me, and covers the stains with her hands. Above her head, wrapped in a sort of turban, I see the laughing face of the merchant, with his glinting teeth dropping out of his mouth like orange peels. And my ears are filled with a loud piercing sound, like the noise of fowl running wild, and it fills the room and deafens me.

  In all the dreams, there was a great commotion, and the rabbi’s wife and the gold merchant always appeared. And I tossed and turned on my bunk in the belly of the ship, while snores rose in the darkness from the other bunks. I’d wake drenched with sweat and my clothes gave off an acrid smell.

  There were lice on the ship. They leapt on me and crawled over my skin and made my life a misery. Like some mangy street dog, I kept scratching myself, and the worse the situation became, the more light there was in my dreams of the rabbi’s drawing room, the guests milling around as beautiful as angels, and the goldsmith rising up among them, his face beaming like a star.

  As I lay back down on that bunk, I wept, scratched myself and wept, and I begged the evil inclination to leave me in peace. Every night, at night’s end, I would go up on deck and collapse, as weak with fatigue as if I had just come through a lengthy battle.

  The Ishmaelite stood next to the ship’s wheel, his large body dark in the starlight, and an immense dread, blacker than black, possessed me and did not leave until the light of dawn.

  The nights rent my soul and the days patched it up. In the days, the sea was blue and all kinds of fish jumped out of it and disappeared back into its belly. And once again, I knew where I headed, and the evil spirits of the night receded. There were a handful of Jews with me on the ship, among them a Hasid, dressed in fine clothes, with his maiden daughter. He reminded me of the mystical Baal Shem-Tov, Rabbi Yisroel ben Eliezer, who set out for the Land of Israel with his daughter, Adèle, and they were attacked by bandits and endured all kinds of hardships until they were forced to return to Istanbul.

  The Hasid’s daughter was mute. She sat on deck with her legs splayed out and gazed at the sea. Sometimes, she seemed to be seized by demons and her body would shake violently, her fists drumming on the deck as she wailed.

  Her father sat next to her in a chair, reading, and when she began to wail, he would get up and stroke her head and shoulders until she was calm. They slept in their own cabin, and on the Sabbath, they came out to stroll on the deck, once in the morning, and once in the afternoon: she in a purple velvet dress and he in a silk robe and with a fur shtreimel on his head.

  Apart from the Hasid and his daughter, the Jews on our ship were poor and their clothes were worn out. They spoke the language of the Turks, sat cross-legged on the deck, chewed dry bread, and chattered in their tongue. Three times a day, they stood to pray, facing the east. The Muslim captain and his sailors prostrated themselves five times a day, also facing east.

  The east was like God, hidden and instilling dread. He was hidden in the distance beyond the blue water, far off behind the horizon, and yet He was also with us, sailing with us from sunrise to the rising of the moon.

  The east was the port to which our prayers were sent, where the birds migrating from the north flew, where the prow of the Galata, our merchant ship, was headed, named after the tower in Istanbul. And at night, when we went down into the belly of the ship, a handful of sailors would stay on deck.

  On our last days at sea, an easterly gale began to toss the ship. A layer of dust mingled with sand coated the deck, filling our nostrils and becoming entangled in our hair, painting the world a grayish yellow. It was as if the desert had conquered the sea, pushing our ship back.

  Get you gone! Turn back while you still can! The wind roared, wrathfully whipping off head coverings and slapping our faces with its dry hands. The Hasid gripped his book between his knees, shielding it with his hat as his beard fluttered about his face like a flame. Eventually, he closed the book and closed his eyes. An expression of suffering crept over his face and his lips moved in a whisper.

  His daughter sat at his feet, enchanted by the wind. She tipped back her head, opening her mouth wide and gulping it in. Her black hair came loose and covered her face, and she laughed as it lashed against her forehead. She shook her hair again and again as she tipped back her head with a kind of wild delight.

  The group of eastern Jews pulled their capes tight around themselves. With their turban-swathed heads, they looked like pears, and when the time came to pray, they stood and swayed, the capes billowing around them like wings. And when their prayers were finished, they folded their wings and sunk to the deck, waiting for the fury to abate.

  Restlessness assailed me and I could not sit still. Dust irritated my eyes and my entire body itched. I was thirsty, and the stagnant water that they gave us did nothing to slake my thirst. My stomach was churning and my legs wanted to walk, to run, to flee the tossing ship, the wind screeching in my ears, and the menacing sense of the east getting ever closer.

  Here it comes, my stomach shouted, it’s coming now—this thing I’ve been waiting for all my life! I paced the deck and soundlessly pleaded that this thing would be good. That it would be His will, His good will, pouring on me from above when I finally disembarked from this wooden vessel and entered my ancient-new country.

  There is no fear greater than the fear before disembarking in a land you have dreamed of. All the hardships of the journey drain into one immense fear, as sharp as an arrow. Before I alight upon it, the land is a secret that whispers in my ear, an enigma suspended above my head like a sword, and there is no escaping it, nothing to do but sail forth and face it.

  It was only once in my life that I sailed to a new shore. The mist of the hours before casting anchor, the stupor brought on my fears of what was to come—I recall them as clearly as I recall my dead and my children.

  It is with the same sharpness that I recall my first sight of the Land of Israel, one large blur separating into trees, houses, boats. And the colors—the yellow and brown, brown and gold. The houses are few, and gray; the boats gray and few. At first glance, the trees seem to have no leaves, but upon closer inspection, they are date palms with long fronds.

  Sight is the start of everything and after it come the voices, the scents . . . the touching.

  Only once in my life did I touch a new shore, on a fresh, clear day, rising up as if it had been born out of the sandstorm.

  In the morning, the sailors washed th
e deck and the passengers rose from the dark entrails of the ship, relishing the clear air and the smooth sea. The poor Jews from the east sprawled sleepily in the sun on the damp deck, their bundles spread out around them. The father and his daughter, freshly washed and dressed in their Sabbath clothes, sat down on their large iron chest. He held her hand in his, both of them looking numb.

  I paced back and forth along the railing, running my heads over the peeling paint. Leaden distress weighed on me, making my muscles twitch. Nothing had passed my lips since the sandstorm, and hunger, anguish, and anticipation for the coastline that had not yet appeared made the last hours torturous. My leather knapsack hung from my shoulders and in it was the little prayer book, the siddur from my father’s home.

  And when the land rose from the horizon and was still one lump, brown and long as bread, I thrust my hand into my bag and felt around for my prayer book. It was my home, my talisman, the only remaining evidence that I was who I was.

  The lump rose from the sea, it rose like a primordial monster, and all the prayers and the legends and the pilgrimages I had heard of encircled the land like a cloud and I could not see it the way it really looked. The tension exploded in my chest, pulling my body downward. Had I not gripped the railing, I would have fallen.

  Now of all times, when the sea voyage had come to its end, I began to drown. I drowned in the bare skies, in the furious light of summer; I drowned in the great desolation that went on and on, inland, to the hills and the desert.

  At the moment I touched this land, I knew I would never leave it. That never again would I board a ship; that I would drown in this land for all eternity.