by Nava Semel
The little girl is trembling, and the basin shakes. Some of the water spills. I swaddle her sore-covered body with a black cloth, the way they once shrouded the lepers.
23 September 1943
In a back closet I found some novice’s outfits. They are too big. I sit in the dark and alter them. My movements are clumsy, and I prick my fingers with the needle. I can feel the blood running, but don’t bother to wipe it up. If asked, I will explain to the villagers that I have taken in a relative whose mother was killed in the bombings and whose father is a soldier who has been missing for two years.
A few short days that she’s been here with me, and already everything is different. I am a stranger to myself. A child in a house which never saw any. I have not known a woman, and have not begotten children. My loins are dry. Years ago I took the vow of celibacy. Who will teach me how to take care of her? Even Adam learned how to be a son before becoming a father, and Christ was never a father, but he was a son, and I, who have been neither son nor father, how will I know?
During my studies at the seminary I had a dream, night after night: I am a white-haired old man, sitting in a well-lit room. Before me is my small grandson, holding a notebook on his lap, and writing something. In my dream I know that the words he is writing do not come from me, since I am silent. And even when I want to speak to him, to utter some words of affection, I am struck dumb. My heart pours out to the child, but I’m a captive of my silence. Even my arms, which long to embrace him, are paralyzed. When I woke, overcome by guilt, I hurried to the father confessor. The urge to beget a child cannot be undone overnight, he used to tell me.
It took many confessions to erase that dream...
24 September 1943
She shies away from the light. Even the faintest disturbs her. I’ve drawn the curtains, so that not even the moonlight can shine through. I’ve blown out all the candles – but even in the darkness she cringes when I come close to her. My questions go unanswered. I asked her for her name. I begged. Her stubborn refusal was an encouraging sign. Maybe she has not lost the spark of rebelliousness, and a tiny flame of life continues to flicker. Could it be that she has forgotten who she is? Or maybe she has been rendered speechless? In our village, children are forbidden to look in the mirror, lest they be struck dumb as adults. But this child did not see her reflection in the pit. Rather, the body of evil beat against her. I am not the evil one, I promise her over and over. I know she can hear me.
How can I rake off the black filth that has clung to her spirit? No prayer will do.
In my helplessness, perhaps being foolish, I tell her about my own childhood, lending her some memories of my own for the time being. This is my bed, and there are the quilts, filled with goose down. So soft. Embroidered with lace. I thread my fingers through the fine lacework, afraid to tear it. Those are my slippers, always laid out on the rug. Don’t walk barefoot, Stanislaw, or you’ll catch cold. I didn’t have a birthday cake. Another child blows out the candles one by one, instead of blowing them out all at once. Someone laughs. Maybe it’s my grandmother. A rocking-horse is what the little boy received as a present, and for me an illuminated copy of the Old Testament. Moses climbing down the Mount with the tablets in his hands. His expression is stern but compassionate. That must be what my father looked like ... Him I never saw.
I stick to the good memories, and bury the rest. My mother ambles through them, but I dare not mention her.
Mother – a painful memory. Mustn’t even think of it. Sleep evades me. So long as the child is awake, I am destined to stay awake too. All night long I sit at her feet and write. My body disappears. Even my hands are engulfed. Only the whiteness of my diary pages would shine in the darkness.
25 September 1943
Today she took a few bites of food. Slowly I fed her some oatmeal, and she did not throw up. I asked my congregation for a chicken and some eggs, and they stared at me. Never before had I requested an offering of food. I said, it’s because of the War. You would not want a minister who is hungry and weak. Eventually, Zosha the innkeeper brought me a drumstick and an egg. In return, I blessed her and her family for seven generations to come.
The child’s sores are beginning to heal. I remove the bandages and struggle to give hope. Soon you will stand on your own. Soon you will play, the way children do. But the promise rings false, even to me.
It is only because of her that I have come to think back to that distant province called childhood. Naively, I thought that the infant years were the same for everyone. Boundless tenderness and warmth are lavished on the small child. Why then does everything come undone?
When does the sweet, rosy-cheeked child turn into a predator?
Like the Stefan.
26 September 1943
What remains of her childhood? I do not know what is stored in the tiny memory sprawled out beside me. Who will help me plant the seeds of innocence within her? The soft blanket with which I cover her, the flame forming a shadow on the wall, the food I bring to her mouth – where does the comfort of fragmented memory begin? Is there any spike left to latch on to, any echo of the little joys in her distant past? Of a father’s embrace? A mother holding out her arms? A cookie with a glass of milk, or a doll, or a birthday cake? Where are the goodnight kiss and the lullaby hidden? I try to retrieve them from my own memory. All I need to do is to tug the thread of a single memory, and others follow. A second one, and a third, and the entire skein of memories unwinds, allowing me to take hold of things without which I would not be what I am. The sordid memories I cast aside, because they too threaten to cross the threshold. Like the Angel Gabriel, I weigh the good fragments against the bad ones and look at the scales to see whether they have been tipped.
If she had the memories of someone else, then...
27 September 1943
I covered her in the clothing of a novice, and pulled the hood over her head. There was no need to instruct her to hide from strangers. Her senses have grown sharp. Her silence is complete. When I hang the cross from her neck, she swings it wildly. It’s if she is trying to remove a noose. It will protect you, I explain, for now.
I ask: what shall I call you? Tell me. I swear I will keep your name to myself.
As soon as I asked her what name her mother had used, she turned her back.
I dropped it.
29 September 1943
Day of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel and Raphael
I almost succeeded in wiping out the memory of myself crying. Even when my grandmother...
I was not there with her when she died.
The little girl doesn’t cry.
Even animals cry.
4 October 1943
Day of St Francis of Assisi
Slowly she feels her way. First, she ventures out of the niche. Then she starts walking gingerly through my quarters. Suddenly I am made to realize how bare the walls are, apart from the crucifix over my bed. A bleak little room. Asceticism can be unsettling. I hurry to remove the icons from the dusty shelves in the sacristy, and scatter them in the corners. A child needs pretty things to look at, I rationalize for my own sake and for the painted saints, the only humans I trust.
From time to time, she steals a glance at the icons, but leans tightly against the wall of her niche, so as to leave it free.
At night I discover that she is riveted by the painting of the nativity in Bethlehem. She traces the ox and the donkey, then carefully places the icon on the wooden floor, and arches her back.
You should have put her in a nunnery. If only I had a womb...
7 October 1943
Day of Our Lady of the Rosary
I gave the little girl the crucifix hanging over my bed. I turned it over, flung it in the air and caught it, but she refuses to play with it. The painting of Mother and Child she relinquished at once. With great effort I managed to push a rosary in-between her fingers. I let roll the words of St Francis for her. Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow
love. Where there is injury – pardon. Where there is doubt – faith. Where there is despair – hope. Where there is darkness – light. And where there is sadness – joy.
I pause. Repeat after me, little girl. If we recite these words again and again, we may come to believe in them. Together, we may struggle to believe, for alone there is no faith.
An echo returns, mocking and garbled. Though her body has started moving again, her mouth is still sealed. When it is time to sleep, she clings to the wall of the niche. As if her very presence, here or anywhere, is in doubt.
15 October 1943
Though she remains silent, she moves about in the church. Even the fringes of her garment flutter voicelessly. She has blended in, as if she has been here forever. Even when I am performing my duties in the front part of the church, I can feel her presence in the back. This morning she polished the wooden floor, and put fresh water in the flower vases. Then she dusted the large crucifix in front of the altar. She could not reach as high as His nailed hands. Maybe she was avoiding them.
When a member of the congregation is about to enter, she can tell in time, and vanishes as if the earth has swallowed her. The region is infested with informers, and I know that my habit will not guarantee my immunity. If the child is found out, I will pay with my life. And what would become of her then?
And yet, I am more afraid of life than of death.
The world around us is asleep. Not a cock crows, not a dog barks, and even the night predators have stopped preying. I place her on my mattress, but she slips back into the niche. Her eyes are burning. What does she see in the dark? If only I knew how to excise the malignant memory from within her.
Memory. The most painful member of the body. Almost as painful as the event that caused it.
How can I know the feelings of a person whose memories have been wrenched away? My mother jabbed a pin in her body. She swallowed a concoction of gunpowder, vodka and ashes, to rid her body of me. And who was my father?
I jump off my mattress and rush outside to vomit.
1 November 1943
All Saints’ Day
I toss and turn. Every part of my body is aching for sleep, but as soon as I dare shut my eyes, I am overcome by memories of the future, of events that are liable to happen any moment. The murderers will break into the church. They will kick in the door, shatter the holy vessels and drown her in the baptismal font. “Now instead, you ought to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.” I leap up, thrust my kneecaps onto the wooden floor, and frantically repeat the words of St Paul in his epistle to the Corinthians. What else do I have but the prayers I have recited my whole life? For lack of anything better, I latch onto them, trying to persuade myself that they were written by humans like myself – pathetic creatures surrendering their spirit and their body to despair.
2 November 1943
All Souls’ Day
When will she speak? I am afraid she will never make a sound. That is why I cannot give up, but the healing memories do not come easily, and I am forced to pursue them in every recess of myself. My grandmother did not buy me toys. She could not afford them. To console me she would say: Whoever laughs too much will cry later on. I would pull the cushion over my head to dispel the vague suspicion I could not help feeling. There will be nobody there with me in moments of anguish. At the time, I was not able to give it a name. Even at the seminary, I would secretly hold on to the blanket, pretending to be clinging to the chair of the Holy Mother. I buried my face in the wall, so they would not hear me weeping. I would do anything for you, Mother, if only you would allow me to be close to you. I am so frightened, but not allowed to admit it. I want to go home.
Now all the memories come back to haunt me. Tonight is the night when the dead return to earth, and visit their former homes. As for me, if I were to return to my childhood village, perhaps my grandmother would appear again.
The ghost of my mother too.
The beggars have gathered in two rows in front of the church, and all of the villagers have given alms. The women feed them small loaves of bread.
At midnight a great light will shine in the church. And I am waiting for the dead souls to kneel in prayer before the altar. I wait in vain. This church they will not visit. Every door and window in the village has been opened to receive them. From every direction there are cries of “Holy sainted ancestors, we beg you to fly to us and eat and drink whatever the Lord has granted us.”
Hospitality for the dead, while the living have the door slammed in their faces.
The little girl listened. I could almost hear her voice. How it is still caged inside her.
10 November 1943
For the past few nights she’s been taking apart the wooden floorboards and digging in the dirt underneath. And although I cannot fathom why she does it, I feel a strange sense of relief. Maybe she’s looking for something.
I’ve long since stopped asking You for omens, and I grope for them myself.
I look at the child moving a fistful of earth, packing it between her fingers. As a child, I used to play with mud too. My grandmother would scold me: Don’t get dirty, Stanislaw. God sees you everywhere.
The little girl kneads the earth, shaping it like clay. She tears off a piece of the bread I gave her, and stuffs it inside. The earth crumbles, and she packs it again. Her little hands are swallowed in the clump of earth. What does she create? Be careful, Stanislaw, God is in the mud too. He is following you, whatever you do. Now, not on the Last Judgment Day.
Suddenly something rises to the top. She leans over, and still does not utter a sound. Moves her lips closer to the earth. Dips her face in it, rubbing it over her bristling scalp. I am overwhelmed, but I do not know with what. Perhaps it is the sin that blinds me.
What is the thing that flickers in the vestiges of her memory? Even if I had been a witness to Creation itself, I would not have understood it.
Why did you entrust this child to an ignoramus?
11 November 1943
St Martin’s Day
Whatever few stories I still recall were told to me by my grandmother. On winter nights, she would sit in her rocking chair, patching clothes or spinning yarn and talking about the lives of the saints. I told the little girl, if St Martin comes riding on his white horse, it will be an omen that we too will be covered by snow.
She cringed in the niche that she dug in my quarters, and covered her hair with dirt. I barely managed to pull her out of there so she could breathe.
In church, I gave my sermon. Today we begin preparing for Christmas. Time for soul-searching and for readying ourselves for the Second Coming.
The farmer’s wife stiffens. The Savior has already come. Here is the proof. The Jews are all dead. And you, Father Stanislaw, have you kept your promise yet?
1 December 1943
I have dismantled all of the floorboards in my quarters, and in the niche.
I grovel in the dirt. I dig in myself. At night I rest beside her in the niche, until finally we both fall asleep. This diary too is being written in the dirt, tattered and stained. Sometimes I gnaw at the pages with my teeth. In the dark, on my stomach. The dirt works its way under my skin, tingling beneath my habit. I’ve grown accustomed to the taste. It’s part of me now. I breathe in the dirt, and do not choke.
The two of us wallow in it, and I believe she is finally beginning to recover.
Ave Maria of the dust-dwellers. Blessed is the fruit of Thy dust. Amen.
4 December 1943
Whatever it takes to erase her memory, I’ll do.
I get down on all fours.
I crawl.
I wag a tail.
I burrow.
When she taps her fingers, I thrash with my claws. I leap up.
When she motions me to move back, I keep my distance.
Who am I?
In whose image am I being created now?
It is not You but I who must search the depths.
I
am no longer in need of comforting memories from some buried past. Like the bed of nasturtiums I planted in the garden years ago, we are growing new memories now. Our own making.
6 December 1943
St Nicholas’ Day
It is getting cold. I heat the stove with logs I gathered in the forest before nightfall. When I return, I see her little face, pressed against the glass with its frosty floral sheath. I told her, the last deed of the Almighty was to send flowers to earth. But since he created too many of them, some had to go. The Holy Mother took pity on them and said, I will give the leftover flowers to the humans. They will stick to the windows on cold days, and give people a touch of happiness.
I can read the question in the little girl’s eyes.
Father, who art in Heaven, was I ever happy? Every night I talk to her and to You. I’ve grown used to the sound of my own voice. The howling of wolves reaches us from the forest. Saint Nicholas, patron of the herds, bring the keys from Paradise, and lock the jaws of the wolf.
They play Catch the Wolf in our village. Whoever catches all of the geese is the winner. This is a game I never played.
The little girl lies quietly in her niche, as if she knows the rules of the game.
25 December 1943
Christmas Day
The church bells chime at midnight. The church is packed. I carry the holy bread over to the altar. Take this, all of you and eat it. This is My body which will be given up for you. Then I raise the wine glass. Take this, all of you and drink from it: this is the cup of My blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven.
After the festive mass, the members of the congregation file past me and shake my hand. That was a fine sermon, Father Stanislaw. People from the neighboring villages came to listen too. But who will deliver the true sermon? Even the Holy See in Rome is keeping silent. And who will cry out in Your name that our churches must offer refuge?