Katerina

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “So what?”

  “You mustn’t wear the clothing of tortured people.”

  “Jews don’t scare me.”

  My hands shook. I was alarmed by the tremor, because I felt that it was a violent one, that I didn’t have the power to subdue it. Sigi apparently felt that she’d gone too far and said, “Why get angry for nothing?” Later, she said, as though by the way, “I see you still love Jews.”

  “I don’t understand.” I feigned innocence.

  “I have a strong aversion to the Jews. The Jews, to tell the truth, never cheated me or bothered me, but I still feel no pity for them. Once, I even had a Jewish lover, unquestionably a sweet young man. We used to go out on walks, to the movies, and cafés. I knew I’d never again know love like that, but I still wasn’t at ease. The Jews make my heart restless. I feel guilty. Maybe you can explain that to me. The Jews drive me out of my mind.”

  I looked at her and I saw she was telling the truth. Anyway, there was no malice, just a desire to solve a difficult riddle. “Strange,” she said. “At night I’m not angry either at myself or at my mother, not even at my husband, who abused me. I get angry at the Jews. They drive me out of my mind. Do you understand?”

  “But they didn’t hit you.”

  “Correct, you’re absolutely right. But what can I do? It’s a fact: Everybody hates them.”

  To be at peace with myself, I told Sigi, “Don’t speak ill of the Jews. That kind of talk drives me mad. It’s hard for me to control myself.”

  “Would you hit me?” She was alarmed.

  “Not I,” I said as though to myself, “but my hands.”

  “Ignore me.”

  “The poplin blouse you’re wearing makes me crazy.”

  “For your sake, I won’t wear it.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  The days raked us into their flow like beasts. We worked. With our last strength we dislodged beets from the frozen soil. The head jailer used to beat the weak women mercilessly. The screams would shatter our ears, but our hearts knew no pity. From month to month my heart grew harder. My life was nothing but movements, and at night I would sink down on my cot like all the rest and fall asleep. Fatigue was so powerful that it conquered me completely. My contact with other worlds was limited and rare. Only occasionally would I clench my fists and sense my strength, but very quickly they relaxed.

  In my heart I secretly envied all the women who sat and chatted at night, quarreling and cursing. I had no words, as though they had withered within me. Even the simple numbers scrawled on the wall made me dizzy. Were it not for the work, were it not for that curse, I would have been buried in sleep.

  One evening, after the lineup, Sigi approached me and said, “Katerina, permit me to say a word to you. Don’t get angry at me and don’t hit me.”

  “Don’t say it to me.” I turned down her request.

  “I can’t keep it in. It’s weighing on my heart like a stone.”

  “But why do you have to irritate me?” I said, and my hands clenched.

  “I have to.”

  “You don’t have to. You can control your mouth.”

  Hearing my words, she lowered her head and burst into tears. “Do what you want. Hit me as much as you want to. Your attitude toward the Jews frightens me more than the prison, more than the jailer, more than solitary confinement.”

  “Shut up!” I cried to her.

  But she didn’t keep quiet, and it was clear to me that she was prepared to die beneath my fists. Yet she would not conceal her truth from me. Her weeping rose, and as it rose, my hands weakened.

  26

  I READ THE PSALMS and prayed to God not to lead me into temptation. Aside from the Old and New testaments, books were forbidden. Only there, in that darkness, did I learn to pray. I am not sure whether it was conventional prayer, but I felt devotion to the words and that devotion sometimes drew me out of the darkness in which I was lying.

  But the sights one sees are stronger than the soul’s yearnings. The women’s wing was flooded with blouses, sweaters, pillows, and candlesticks. That loot blinded me. Everyone received gifts, even the women who hadn’t received anything at first. Lipsticks, bottles of cologne, and a few packets of soap also made their way in here.

  The chief jailer averted her eyes from several infractions, and it was clear that a new regime had arisen. The face of things outside had changed. All the women were awaiting a tall, strong man who would come and break down the iron doors and free them. A kind of dark joy enveloped the women by their bedsides. They laughed wantonly and flounced about in the Jewish clothes.

  Sophia, who slept in the neighboring bed, got a long silk dress from her sister, a necklace, and two jackets. Her lust for new clothing calmed her fears. Now she strutted about with her neck outstretched like a peacock’s. “Don’t wear those clothes,” I asked her, but she ignored my request.

  The long dress imbued her with courage. She spoke like a peasant woman about to marry her daughter off in the city, as though her fears were forgotten. My hands shook, but I restrained myself. Finally, I couldn’t contain myself and I said, “At thy enemies’ fall shalt thou not rejoice.”

  “So it’s forbidden to dress up?” she said impudently.

  “It’s permitted to dress up, but it’s forbidden to rejoice.”

  “I hate sanctimonious people.”

  “I’m a simple woman, not sanctimonious. I’ve never been sanctimonious in my life. I didn’t preserve my body for myself, but I won’t wear the clothes of persecuted people. It’s forbidden to wear the victims’ clothes. Torments are holy.”

  “Why do you always defend the Jews?”

  “I was talking about taking malicious pleasure.”

  “I can’t live on proverbs. With me, feeling comes before everything.”

  My arms were already charged with power, but I, for some reason, still checked myself. But she went on, saying, “We’re talking openly. Let’s not hide our hatred.” I couldn’t bear it any longer. I lifted my arms and knocked her down. No one came to her assistance, and I knew no one would. I stood there and beat her resoundingly with my fists. She was bleeding when the chief jailer rescued her.

  They don’t put true murderesses in solitary confinement but in a special room with a bunk and sink. Before long the chief jailer motioned to pack up my things and move them to the special room. I did so, saying nothing.

  “Why did you beat her?” the chief jailer asked me without raising her voice.

  “She drove me crazy.”

  “You have to restrain yourself.” She spoke like a woman who knew people’s weaknesses.

  “I wanted to hit her for a long time.”

  “Now you’ll have to live in total isolation.”

  “I’m already used to not talking.”

  “A person still needs a little company, isn’t that so?”

  “I can be by myself.”

  “I’ll come and visit you,” said the chief jailer, and locked the door.

  A new life opened before me. Indeed the room was very narrow, but when I stood on my bed I could fill my gaze with fields and meadows. Moreover, the room wasn’t entirely isolated. In the evening I caught the prisoners’ voices, and from their voices I learned that the Jews had already been driven out of their homes and the looting was continuing. People celebrated with malicious joy until late at night.

  Only after midnight was I with myself and my dear ones. The gates of the land opened before me, and Benjamin came toward me, crawling under the table. I saw the shadows of his hands, and the room filled with his laughter. He had not grown since he was taken from me. Now his look is like that of a little Jesus, clasped in his mother’s arms, just like the wooden relief carved by an artist in the chapel. I bent my knee and called to him, “Benjamin, my dear.” But I was immediately alarmed by the words my dear, because I never called him my dear. “Benjamin,”I say. “Your mother is talking. Why are you hiding?” I stepped back a little, waiting for him to appear,
but he didn’t come out from under the table. I gathered my strength and took a few steps on my knees, saying, “Benjamin, I’m your mother. Don’t you remember my voice?”

  “I’m here.” I heard his voice, familiar to the marrow of my bones.

  “I want to see you.”

  “I’m right at your side.” I heard his laugh.

  I tried to lift my knees, but my knees wouldn’t come away from the floor.

  When I woke up the next day, I felt his body in my arms.

  That morning they placed us, Sophia and me, in the same row. There were still some black-and-blue marks on her face from the blows I had showered upon her. She begged and pleaded not to be put next to me. A few of the prisoners felt sorry for her and were willing to trade places, but the jailer stubbornly refused. Finally, she had no choice but to take the spade in her hand and force it into the hard earth. She worked at my side in dread, without lifting her head and without uttering a sound.

  “Why aren’t you talking?” I addressed her.

  She was alarmed. She raised her head and said, “I’m afraid. They put you in solitary confinement because of me.”

  “I won’t hit you again.”

  “But I’m afraid.”

  “For my part, I won’t hit you. I swear by my departed parents that I won’t hit you. Solitary confinement isn’t so bad. And how are things in the sheds?” I tried to continue the conversation.

  “Everything’s fine. The mood is good. The Germans are doing great things on the front, driving the Jews out of the villages. There’s lots of booty. Everybody’s getting something out of it.” For a moment she was swept away by that enthusiasm, but she immediately noticed her error, took her head in both hands, and shouted, “I made a mistake again! I sinned again!”

  “What’s the matter?” I tried to calm her down.

  “I always annoy you.”

  “Today you’re not annoying me anymore. You can talk as much as you please.”

  “I won’t talk. I’m afraid to talk.”

  “I’m a Ruthenian daughter of Ruthenians, and nothing Ruthenian is alien to me. When I die, they’ll lay me next to my mother and father. You mustn’t be afraid.”

  “I’m afraid. What can I do? It’s hard to stop fear.” She was relieved, apparently, and she wept. For a moment I was about to put my hands on her shoulders, but in my heart I knew that would frighten her very much. She wept for a long time and finally immersed herself in her work, not speaking to me again until the evening.

  27

  DURING THE DREADFUL NINETEEN FORTIES I almost didn’t write, and what I did write, I destroyed with my own hand. I worked without fatigue, as if the beet field were my own farm. The trains, which would pass before us, were crammed with Jews. All the women were happy that we would be rid of them once and for all.

  They would fight among themselves over every piece of cake, blouse, or ointment. The cells in solitary confinement were full, and shouts were heard day and night. The jailers used to spray water into the cells to silence the women. During the nineteen forties, darkness descended upon me. All my bonds with my dear ones were severed. I knocked on the doors at night in vain. No sign, or any word, came from them, only darkness upon darkness and a great abyss.

  At that time a skin disease spread over my body. The disease ravaged my face and made it hideous. “The monster,” the prisoners used to whisper. My face was covered with red and pink spots, and my hands swelled. I was like an uninhabited cave, with no sights and no thoughts. True, they still didn’t dare offend me and they didn’t abuse me. Mainly, I worked alone, and if they attached a prisoner to me, she refrained from talking to me. Sometimes the chief jailer would come into my room and exchange a few words. Once she asked me if I wanted to return to the shed. “I’m better off here,” I said, and she didn’t bother me about that anymore.

  Sweet and sourish smells wafted in from every side. I didn’t know that was the smell of death. Everybody else knew, and they said it, that it was the smell of the Jews’ death, but I refused to listen. I was certain they were wicked hallucinations.

  In the early morning, while I was still pulling beets out of the earth, long freight trains would pass by. The prisoners used to greet the trains with shouts of joy, “Death to the merchants, death to the Jews.” They knew everything. Their senses were lively. They sat in prison, but they knew everything that was going on around them—how many Jews had been sent and how many were going to be sent. Each train aroused a wave of joy, and at night they would sing:

  “Finally they’re burning

  Our Lord’s killers and opposers,

  The smell of those fires

  is sweet perfume to our noses.”

  That was a mighty song that reverberated until late. The jailers ignored standing orders and let them sing. They sang enthusiastically, the way they sang Christmas carols, and they tapped their feet and bellowed.

  And I, almighty God, I took care of myself. I was certain that pink, virulent sickness would do away with me. That concern filled my whole being. Now, when I think about my blindness and selfishness, shame devours me. Let me quickly add that it was then that I once again found a path to the Psalms. I clung to the holy words, and I used to pray for long hours. The verses would calm my fears. Forgive me, God, for that selfish prayer as well.

  Day after day the trains rolled by. There was no longer any doubt that death was not far away. In the courtyard, wagons heaped with clothes stood abandoned. No one wanted them. Moisture ruined them, and within a matter of days they lost their shape. On visiting days, people no longer brought clothes but gold jewels.

  At lunch, Sigi approached me and said, “It’s hard for me to bear your silence, Katerina. Not many years ago we were friends. Why are you pushing me away? I have no one in this world.”

  “I’m not angry at you.”

  “Why won’t you come back to us in the shed? It’s easier together than alone. Isolation makes you sick.”

  “I need to be by myself. To sit quietly and heal my wounds.”

  “Come to us. We need you very much.”

  “Thanks, Sigi.”

  “We women are all responsible for each other, aren’t we?”

  “True.” I said what I had to.

  Sigi had grown old in the past two years. Her full face, which had known both lust and faith, had sagged. When the day came and she was set free, she wouldn’t know what to do with her freedom. Her face had put on a prison mask, the same pallor and the same neglect. Now she still sang at night, but on the outside she wouldn’t know how to open her mouth. No wonder all her relatives had abandoned her and her children had not even visited once.

  “You’re thinking about the Jews.” She surprised me.

  “True. How do you know?”

  “You mustn’t think about them. That’s their fate. That’s God’s will.”

  “I understand.”

  “We mustn’t ask about what’s above us and what’s below us. Do you understand?”

  28

  AGAIN, THE DAYS WERE BRIGHT and hot and I worked harvesting corn. The skin disease continued to spread over my face in a thick rash, and everyone avoided me. The chief jailer assigned me a corner of the field so I wouldn’t have contact with anyone. After a day’s work, I would return alone, and behind me, at a good distance, followed the jailer. If I hadn’t been a murderess, they certainly would have freed me. They free afflicted people, but they are strict with murderesses.

  Only the other Katerina, from my village, dared to approach me. I told her that it didn’t hurt much and that I could bear it. It was a discomfort you could overcome. I was glad to have found the correct words. Katerina lowered her head, as though I had recited a verse from Scripture.

  Poor Sophia, the woman I had beaten, called from a distance, “Katerina, for my part I forgive you for everything. If only we could see you healthy among us.” She wore a broad peasant kerchief on her head, and she looked like a miserable servant.

  The nights were ho
t and close, with no air to breathe. Like black snakes, the trains twisted through the valley. Prisoners no longer stood by the bars and shouted, “Death to the merchants, death to the Jews.” Now there was no doubt that after the Jews were all dead, they would free all of us. We had to await their death patiently. Not many were left, and those few were being transported in trains. Through cracks in the wall I caught the whispers. It wasn’t malice but tense expectation.

  How correctly they had guessed only became known to me later. Even during that accursed summer I was cut off from all my dear ones. My isolation and illness surrounded me like a tight band. The fire was trapped in my bones, wiping out every part of me. My soul dried out from day to day in my swollen body.

  And at night, strong flames would penetrate my sleep and lick my flesh. I was very close to death, but each time an escape opened before me. After all, prison isn’t a sealed freight car. More than once during that long summer I wanted to loose the shackles from my hands, to grasp one of the prisoners and shake her powerfully. They used to grovel before the jailers like slaves, all for a bit of drink or some powder or cologne. One mustn’t grovel, and one mustn’t wish for other people’s death. Death isn’t the end. There are heights upon heights, cried all my limbs. My mother used to come back to my body and fill me with courage. My arms were ready for the struggle, but there was no strength in them. The prisoners knew that, and they didn’t fear me anymore.

  There was one very old woman in the sheds, a woman of about ninety, who had completed her prison term years earlier but refused to be set free and asked to stay. Her wish was granted, and she remained not only with the women of her generation but also those of the two following generations. She was the prison’s memory. She recalled all the practices of earlier years—who was freed and when, who was sick and who was healed, who had a bitter fate and who was fortunate. But, mainly, she taught the prisoners patience. Patience is a holy virtue. When a person acquires that virtue, no harm can come.

  Years earlier, her glance had encountered me, and she hated me. She immediately declared that my expression—though it was indeed a Ruthenian one, and you could see I had grown up in a good Christian home—something had become muddied there, irreparably. Poor Katerina tried to defend me, but the old woman stuck to her opinion: “The Jews have destroyed her soul, and she can never be redeemed.” Since I had fallen sick, I became an example that she constantly cited. “You can see with your own eyes what the Jews did to her. Hell is roasting her in this world.”