by Helen Burko
“Yes, I know. I hate the trains. But when we get to America, if you still want to take me with you, our life will be different, and then you’ll see how faithful I will be.” She smiled.
Her words sounded false even to her own ears, and she became more serious. “What happened, happened. I must wash all these scratches before they become infected.”
Jacob stood by the window and finished his cigarette. His throat was dry. His mind churned. How should he act toward her now? What should he do? He looked at her with pity. What had the war done to her? She looked so miserable.
“Come sit by my side,” she requested again. He went over and sat beside her. He could see in her eyes that she was grateful.
“You’re such a good man,” she whispered. “I was so sure you’d throw me out.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why wouldn’t any man lose his temper if his love allowed herself to act like this? If you had only cursed me or hit me like Yagorov and Yasayev used to do. How enraged they became when they saw me talking to another man.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Nothing…just talking.”
“Who are Yagorov and Yasayev?”
“Two men who loved me to distraction.”
He didn’t continue to question her about them. Her words proved to him again that she was to be pitied. He would have to be Freud to understand her. He remembered how happy he had been when they told him at the consulate they would arrange everything soon and he and Rachel would be able to go to America in the near future. He wasn’t so happy now.
But he couldn’t leave her; he loved her, and he would be lonely and his life would be empty without her. He blamed everything on the war, and in his heart, he forgave her.
“You didn’t even ask what happened in Warsaw,” he said in a complaining tone as though nothing had happened since then.
“What does it matter to me now?”
“It doesn’t matter to you?”
“No!”
“Aren’t you going with me?”
“Do you still want to take me?”
“If you want me to.”
“Of course I want to go with you. What would I do here?”
“Maybe you’ll stay with your Russian officer.”
“Don’t remind me of him. Tell me what you arranged in Warsaw.”
“The consulate promised to arrange everything in a few days.”
“And I’ll be able to go with you?”
“You’ll have to marry me.”
“I’m ready, liebling!” She kissed him. “Aren’t I your wife already?”
He looked at her. Her laughter angered and hurt him. Without knowing why, he loved her and hated her at the same time. He felt as though a prostitute were sitting next to him, but he loved her. He wanted children, but he wasn’t sure she was able to give birth. His hatred toward himself, the world, and her was soon overcome by his love for her. He embraced her and held her tight.
“My poor darling.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A few days passed, and it seemed that from now on everything would be fine. Jacob sent a few more letters to friends in America and also to Doris’s parents because he wanted to prepare them for the story of what had happened to Doris and Lillian.
Evelin Levine, Doris’s mother, answered Jacob, and her letter was full of the grief and sorrow for her only child and her only granddaughter. She and Oscar, her husband, were very modern, and therefore they had only one child, but Lillian was like another daughter to them. They would visit her every day, and they never came with empty hands.
Jacob had met Doris—a beautiful, blond, blue-eyed girl, tall and elegant, fearless and full of life—at a party. They had danced together all evening and become very friendly. In time, Doris discovered that Jacob wasn’t only a good companion, but also a very honest and sincere individual. He told her about his other affairs, but she learned that he never went beyond a certain point with them, mostly because he hated to hurt women and see them cry.
“The men are always the ones who vanquish the women,” he would state in a way that was very convincing. “But the term ‘woman’ doesn’t include a ‘devilish woman.’ You have to differentiate between a rose and a thorn, a fish and a snake.”
Jacob was twenty-eight when he met Doris, and his parents were worried he would remain a bachelor. His father, Samuel, was a man who looked more like a lawyer than the businessman he was. He was tall and handsome with graying sideburns. His voice was soft but forceful, and he could convince a person even when he wasn’t right. He and his wife were happy when Jacob wanted to marry Doris, who was twenty and from a good home.
Jacob resembled his mother, Marie, who was the daughter of a professor at the University in Lvov, Poland, and Marie wanted her only son to be a doctor—a psychiatrist—like her brother Irwin, who lived in Florida.
Marie and Samuel were married in Poland, where they lived, and when Jacob was fifteen, against their parents’ wishes, they immigrated to America because of Marie’s brother’s enthusiastic letters from Florida.
They settled in Brooklyn and opened an automobile parts store, which was a very successful business.
Marie’s father objected to them living in America and felt that life in a small town, in a smaller country, would be more fulfilling and healthy. Her mother, Clara, also objected to America but visited them from time to time. Sam’s parents were more accepting of their son living in America because they had two other sons and a daughter.
Now, all of them—Marie’s parents, Professor Brod and Clara Gotheim; Yoel and his second wife after Adele, Sam’s mother; their two sons and their daughter—were lost in the Holocaust. The same one that had swallowed Doris and Lillian too. In the early days of their stay in Otvotsk, Jacob received a letter from his parents.
“Dear Son, you can’t imagine our joy when we heard you had survived, but you can also imagine our sorrow when we heard Doris and Lillian are no longer among the living. A miracle has occurred, and you were rescued from the hell. If only Doris and Lillian had survived also, our happiness would have been complete.”
Doris’s parents wrote to him also.
“Dear Jacob, our sorrow and grief are so deep. If only you hadn’t gone to Poland to visit, because then we would still have Doris and Lillian with us.”
The letter was full of regrets and curses on those who had brought such a tragedy to the world.
When Jacob received the letters, he became very sad and felt guilty that his wife and daughter had died. He didn’t hide his sorrow from Rachel. “What can I do? How can I justify myself before Doris’s parents?”
Rachel saw that Jacob was in need of comforting, and so she said, “I don’t see any reason for you to blame yourself. Did you know what was about to happen, that a war would break out? You understand that Doris and Lillian could have been killed in America in a car accident while you were on vacation, and fate could have left only you alive, right?”
“That’s not the same. After an accident, you don’t feel hatred toward someone.”
“Just the opposite! In the event of an accident, you know who to blame. But war is war!”
“Yes, war is war… There is no one to blame,” repeated Jacob to himself even though he thought otherwise. He was in no mood to argue about it and tired of the same arguments, one of which was “war knows no pity.” Would Doris’s parents understand and accept that? Would they understand that in his great loneliness and hunger for love, he had taken another woman? He decided not to live with Rachel in the same apartment where he had lived with Doris, but to stay in a hotel suite for a while. His mother had written that his apartment and office remained as he left them and were locked up.
He had written to Doris’s parents all that happened to him in the war and ended with a slogan he had adopted: “The living shall live even against the will of those who wanted to drag the world down into chaos!”
All this happened in the first weeks of t
heir stay in Otvotsk, and it left a mark on him. Now he felt again like a boat that had lost its anchor and was out in a stormy sea.
Rachel expressed regret for what had happened, and he forgave her because he came to the conclusion that, although she looked healthy in body, she was crippled emotionally.
Marta was more reserved than before. She didn’t want to interfere in their lives. She hoped the police wouldn’t return, as she feared them greatly. As before, she left the house early and came home late, and they never knew where she went.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was twilight following a beautiful summer day. The sunset seemed more gorgeous than it had ever been. The earth was soft after the rain, and the pine trees gave out a stronger scent than usual. Every part of nature seemed to encourage and call out to life.
Rachel was wearing a starched white dress that Jacob brought her from Warsaw two days ago, and they were both preparing to go there and be married. The consulate had requested proof that Rachel was his wife, so he had no choice but to marry her before they left for America.
“So, my dear, today we’re really getting married,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“Pani Rachel looks charming,” commented Marta, although their getting married had surprised her. They had introduced themselves as husband and wife, and now, suddenly, they were marrying.
“An event like this calls for a toast!” she said, bringing out a bottle that held a little vodka and filling the glasses.
“To a good life, children, to a good life—better late than never—a world full of sin, the Lord our Savior redeemeth.”
“Yes, redeemeth,” Rachel smiled. “To love!”
“To our love!” corrected Jacob. “Cheers!”
“To our many children!” Rachel laughed and Jacob joined her.
Rachel was in a good mood and she teased Jacob and Marta.
“Tell me the truth—am I an ugly bride? Aren’t I beautiful? Don’t I look like a movie star?”
“You really look like an actress,” joked Jacob, “but I don’t know what role you’re playing.”
Rachel paid no attention to his words but ran around like a butterfly. She preened before the mirror and before Marta, danced with Jacob, petted the cat, and suddenly began to sing a love song in a sweet soprano. “Oh, night of love, come back to me.”
“Yes, night of love,” Jacob repeated. Rachel looked so lovely that he forgave her everything. “That’s how she is!”
In another hour, the car would come to take them to Warsaw, and they were both impatient to begin a life that looked so promising.
It wasn’t easy to convince the rabbi to marry them. He demanded documents or witnesses to prove that Jacob didn’t have another wife and that Rachel was unmarried too.
“Where can I find witnesses?” Jacob made a helpless gesture. “Now, after this terrible war, can you prove it? Do you have to prove that the wife or husband was killed?”
“But our law demands it!”
“I’m sorry, but the witnesses were also killed!”
“But you must realize this war brought many terrible surprises. I was present when a woman who had married a second time discovered her husband was still alive.”
“In any case, there is no doubt my wife and daughter didn’t survive. I was taken away from Lvov while she lay ill there.”
“Have you been back to Lvov since then, after the war?”
“Yes, on my way here from Russia.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Jacob then returned in a sad mood to Otvotsk and told Rachel what had happened.
“So we won’t get married.” She laughed.
“So how will you come with me?”
“So I won’t come with you!”
“That’s another story!”
“No, no, darling,” she hurriedly amended, “I know how much you love me. No, I won’t part from you! We’ll go together! I hope you’ll convince the rabbi. You’re a lawyer; you’ll convince him!”
Jacob was also quite sure that he could convince him, but if not, he would find another way. A man who had survived all the camps, who had jumped from a moving train and arrived in Poland on the roof of another train, shouldn’t find it difficult to bring his loved one to America.
When Rachel saw he was still sad, she rained kisses on him and, in a sadistic mood, bit his lip until he cried out.
“Oh, you devil! You’re Satan’s daughter, that’s who you are! Don’t bite my lip!”
She did this often when she wanted him to forget his sad thoughts, and she wouldn’t stop until he cried out in pain. Then she would laugh wildly, run to their room, and tease him until he came after her.
At times, Jacob was convinced she had a hidden streak of sadism in her, and it appeared in all forms of her love. This is what inflamed his blood, and he enjoyed it. No woman had ever played with him like this before. Even when he was very sad, she could make him forget everything.
The next day, Jacob returned to the rabbi and was glad to hear that, after due consideration, the man agreed to marry them.
“I deliberated a long time,” said the rabbi, who hadn’t even had time to grow a beard again after his release from the concentration camp. “Yes, I studied and contemplated a long time before I gave my decision. The circumstances are indeed unusual. All of my family is gone, too.”
Jacob thanked him and hurried to Otvotsk to tell Rachel the news. The wedding ceremony would be held at ten in the evening in four more days. It would only take a few minutes. The main thing was to put the ring on her finger and say the “you are sacred to me” words.
This was the first Jewish wedding since the Holocaust and the end of the war, and the members of the Jewish committee were very happy.
All the way to Otvotsk, Jacob reflected on the wedding and on the rabbi. He had a strange kind of unpleasant feeling, but he couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was because he hadn’t told his parents anything about Rachel. He remembered the rabbi’s pale face and wondered how anyone who had seen so much pain and killing could keep his faith in God and in man.
The next day, Jacob returned to Warsaw to fill out some papers for the Jewish committee. The clerk, Fabian, received him warmly and brought out the forms. “Your name, please?”
“Jacob Barder.”
“Your age?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Your parents’ names?”
“Sam and Marie Barder.”
“The bride’s name?”
“Rachel Kimmelman.”
“Her age?”
“Twenty, I think…”
“Her parents’ names?”
“I…don’t know…”
“You don’t know the names of your wife’s parents?” the clerk asked with a smile.
“I was never interested to know, to tell you the truth. Her parents did their biological duty, and they’re of no interest here.”
“That answer is a little banal, even though according to a certain philosophy, you’re right.”
“Forgive me. The war has made people vulgar.”
“I understand—the war made people unfeeling. All the values were trampled on, but parents are our predecessors and deserve a tombstone. They deserve to be remembered at certain times. That’s what differentiates the human from the animal.”
“What I saw and what you probably saw during the war confused the issue until one doesn’t know who to describe as animal.”
“You are right. Maybe we should change the terminology.”
The clerk liked the way Jacob expressed himself and enjoyed exchanging views on subjects other than aid like with the other refugees. When Jacob told him how he came to be there during the war and his intention to return to America, the clerk said, “Don’t forget to tell them what happened here. Tell them about all the atrocities.”
“They won’t believe me,” Jacob grimaced. “If I hadn’t experienced them myself, I would have thought it was just the imagination of a horror story author.”
“Even the Germans don’t believe it. I was in Auschwitz and I survived… I don’t know how.”
“Do you really believe the German people didn’t know what was happening in the concentration camps?”
The clerk contemplated the question for a long time, his brow furrowed, and he replied, “Difficult to say. There were Germans who didn’t know what those inhuman Nazis were doing. I have to say that not all the Germans are evil, even though by saying this I may wound the feelings of those who suffered. There were Germans interned there, too—those who were against the regime. Most of the prisoners, though, became like animals and worse than the SS men. It isn’t hard to be cruel, especially when life has become chaos.”
“Worse than the Jewish, Polish, and Ukrainian Capos?”
“That’s a complicated question,” said the clerk, “and not worth worrying about. You know the parable of the hammer and the anvil. The anvil was asked why he shrieked so much when he was hit by the hammer, and he replied, ‘Because my brother, made of iron like me, is hitting me, it hurts me more.’”
“You speak very well,” marveled Jacob. “What is your profession?”
“I have no profession. I was a poet. My name is Moshe Fabiansky, but in my small town in Western Ukraine, which belongs now to the Russians, they called me Misha Fabian.”
“A poet! I understood right away I was dealing with a man who was something like that.”
“A humble poet who hasn’t published anything yet and won’t write any more poems.”
“Why not?”
“Because there isn’t anybody anymore to praise or glorify.”
“I think there is something to praise and glorify.”
“I said anybody…not anything.”
“Oh, you mean man.”
“Yes. Once I had the faith of an artist, but today I won’t touch a pen to write any more verses.”
“Maybe you should for the coming generations.”
“Nonsense! You think that the coming generations will learn a lesson from this war? Did our generation learn anything from the wars of the past?”