Odessa, Odessa

by Barbara Artson

  In my journey from Odessa to foreign ports, which I’ll tell you about, I read many things—whatever I could get my hands or eyes on. Histories, books on law, a few novels, newspapers, and even, you may be surprised to learn, the Bible. Even the Qur’an, which, by the way, I found of great interest. I read Rumi, a Persian philosopher-poet who was born in 1207. Whatever came my way and in whatever language (not to brag but I know five because I had to survive and had to understand what people were saying), be it something I found or something that was given me by a comrade or stranger or, I’m sorry to admit, something I may have stolen, for example, Rumi. Be aware that I didn’t read the Hebrew Bible for religious reasons (although I was drawn to it more than to other religious tracts)—oh no—but because I liked the stories. They are tales about mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, sisters and brothers, daughters, fathers and sons, betrayals, wars, pestilence, plagues, and morals, both good and not so good. Some very bad. Evil. And a little sex thrown in for spice. I applied these stories to my own life. I tried to learn and live from them. Was I successful? No, but they served as road signs.

  What I didn’t like? I did not like, for example, the portrait of a wrathful God—one who destroyed villages, like in the account of Sodom and Gomorrah, or one who annihilated a people to teach a lesson, like in the story of Noah and his Ark. Imagine a God who drowns everyone in a flood and warns his favorite to build an Ark. That kind of God is neither a God I respect nor would pray to even if I believed. And what kind of a God tests one of his beloved children by commanding him to sacrifice his son? And what kind of a son goes along submitting to a father who would order such a sacrifice—asking no questions about what’s in store for him? That story about Abraham and Isaac, I shall never understand, and I reject it because it takes me back to my father’s sacrifice of me. Yes, he too sacrificed me by choosing his God over me. But, unlike Isaac, I did not go along. Neither did the God of my father restrain his hand to spare me, the way he did with Abraham.

  But, as I said, I learned from those myths, just as I learned from the Greek or Roman myths. I learned and took solace from the way some of the characters acted, especially those who resisted oppression and authority and operated upon some inner principle, or who disobeyed society’s standards when they were wrong. Take the story of Yael, the wife of Heber, who, with spike in hand, stole into the tent of General Sisera, the sworn enemy of the Jews, and after he fell into a deep sleep because of the milk she’d fed him, she drove the spike deep into his temple and killed him. She said no to the rule of the host protecting a guest and yes to some deep internal principle she had to obey. And there was Judith, who killed Holofernes and saved the Jewish people. No sweet little flower, she. And Ruth, who followed her mother-in-law after her husband died. Such bravery and loyalty from women.

  The Bible talks of courageous women—women of valor—which brings to mind my Miriam, who, at fourteen, proved herself to be just such a woman, because when the Cossacks arrived one day, she ran from her home to distract the vermin away from her parents’ home and away from her baby brother. She was raped by the bastards and then killed. She died to save her family’s lives. That is valor! How lucky she was not to live to know that the disgrace she endured was in vain. How thankful I am that we “knew” each other before she was ravaged so, at least, she could know true love and devotion. I would gladly have given my life to save her. She was the only woman I truly, wholly loved. Thinking of her now brings tears to my aged eyes and rage to my wilting heart.

  Oh, I had so much rage in my heart because of that and for many other reasons: because of Miriam, as I said, because of my father’s denunciation of me, for the way we Jews were treated worse than rodents—denied education, moved from big cities to the Pale, unless we were useful to the landowners—for the moneyed classes who fomented the peasants to violent acts against the Jews—all as a cover for their own greed and debauchery. Yes, they used the serfs as pawns, drawing their attention to the Jews and away from the poverty of their existence and the bondage under which they were held. I suppose there were some semi-decent rulers, like Czar Alexander, who tried to reform his father’s restrictive and tyrannical rule that protected the big shots—God forbid they should have to till their own soil or give up a small parcel of their land or the fruit of their peasants’ labor so that others could live a decent life—but that’s the serfs’ story; they never stood up for the Jews. There were thousands and thousands of serfs starving and unemployed, and the powers that be used the Jews as scapegoats. So what else is new, I ask?

  All the way back to ancient times when Simon bar Kokhba led a revolt against the Romans in 132 CE because Jews were exiled from Roman Palestine, and again when the Crusaders killed most of the Jews of Palestine, and again in 1903 when the Kishinev peasants were incited to rampage against Jews because the Russians lost the war with the Japanese—it was our fault? Did they ever consider, how could a tribe so abused and abject be so powerful? They used the murder of two kids to dredge up the libelous story of how Jews use Christian blood to make matzos and to blame us for the killings to inflame them.

  I had seen so much, more than any human should have to endure. I witnessed the rape and murder of women and children, not only my Miriam’s. I saw the murder and torture of old men dragged by their beards. I saw infants thrown onto pitchforks. I saw homes and synagogues burned. Books destroyed. Animals killed, with their blood spread over the Jews’ doorposts by those very same peasants, and on Easter. So I should feel sorry for them? For whatever reason, they were monsters, and I retaliated. But in the process of murdering monsters, I became one myself. I came to realize that I was enjoying the power—no, more than that, if I am honest, the very act of brutalizing another human being, I turned them into animals, into nothings, to do what I did. I found myself enjoying the smell of spilled blood. I liked watching the blood seep into the ground, making beautiful patterns in the soil. I took pleasure in watching them die in agony, gasping for breath, pleading for help, their eyes full of dread. It’s too horrible to remember, but I must face the truth about myself no matter how repulsive. But unless one lives through it, unless one is a witness to such atrocities, it’s hard to comprehend, so I beg you not to judge too harshly—I do that to myself—unless you’ve been there yourself.

  Oh, yes, I could excuse myself for aiming my righteous rage against our enemies: the bullies, the evildoers, the Cossacks, the upper classes. And I do not regret it for one moment—it had to be done. But sometimes I went too far. Sometimes I killed just because I had an urge to kill. To feel the knife go in. The hammer crack a skull. There! I said it. Woe to anyone who looked cross-eyed at me when I had that impulse. Down deep I knew it had so much to do with the stone of hate lodged in my craw—the loathing caused by my father, who had murdered my soul. You see, unlike Abraham, he didn’t open his mind to hear the voice of God or, as I would say, his own conscience. What is God if not our own sense of right and wrong—our own moral code of behavior, of justice? But we have to be available to hear it. For so long, I couldn’t hear it. Well, the stone grew with each twist of the blade, with each blow of the hammer. Each act helped assuage the hatred, but only for the moment. Like when one takes medicine to reduce a fever, soon, very soon, the medicine wears off, and the fever spikes again with the need for more, always more. For me, my medicine was more blood. More violence. More killing. There was no quelling the feverish rage or staunching the need for blood. For years, I couldn’t sleep. I would see visions, the doctors called them delusions, of the faces of those I killed or mangled intermingled with memories from the pogroms—and Miriam’s mutilated body lying bleeding and dismembered. And then when finally my sleep was restored, the dreams began—recurring nightmares with images of the brutality. It didn’t stop. I went insane. I was not fit company for anyone, and so, like Moses, I wandered in the wilderness—not in the actual desert but in the wilderness of my mind. I walked the streets for miles each day. I spent nights under the stars or in alleyway
s, unprotected. I took menial jobs wanting to soil myself—collecting garbage, sweeping streets, cleaning toilets in public places, shoveling snow, anything that would bring shame on me. It was my self-inflicted punishment. I looked like a beggar, but slowly, slowly, I began to recover.

  I first had to learn to trust, but before I could do that, I had to learn to forgive myself for becoming a fiend. I think of King Lear, who had to go mad before he could understand the suffering of others. There was no “fool” to show me the way or to protect me. I needed to take the blows that came as retribution for my bad deeds. My rage could explode, like a bomb, without warning. My misery left me feeling empty. Dead. So, as you can imagine, along the way, I made many enemies and lost many friends, including my wife, Ruchele, who, in due course, divorced me. Who could blame her? I hurt her and others who tried to love me. I could not love in return; I could only hate. How can you love anyone who loves you when you detest yourself? To love me meant that they were bad or stupid or fraudulent. But let me tell you: what saved me were my children, who loved me throughout this ordeal. And I loved them in spite of their coming from my putrid loins. How could I continue to hate myself if these prized beings loved me and forgave me? They were my saviors—the ones who repaired my damaged heart and soul, the ones who restored me to the human race. I had three boys, but one boy stood out, the one I named after my brother, Mendel—the one who became a rabbi. He would seek me out wherever I was hiding. He would clean me up, make certain I had food, and find lodgings for me. He tried to reason with me, tried to understand what I was going through without judgment. To him I owe my life.

  On the other hand, I’m thankful to say that I never got over my hatred of the ruling class. And, as far as government—any government—is concerned, as far as politicians go, to this very day, I curse them. They are all a bunch of corrupt ganefs and murderers looking out only for themselves. Unlike me, however, they get others to do their dirty work so as not to befoul their own rotten hands. But no matter; there is blood on them. Like Abraham, they sacrifice our innocent youths to fight their wars, to maintain their power, to live in their palaces, to sail on their yachts, to adorn their wives in silks and diamonds and rubies.

  But I stray from my story, as I warned you I might. Back to the question of why I chose the name Shmuel, or Samuel. I wrote in my journal a quote taken from the Bible—I think, if my memory doesn’t betray me, someone was describing Samuel: “He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth up the beggar from the dunghill, to set them among princes, and to make them inherit the throne of glory . . .”

  Now that impressed me. I believe in justice and equality and freedom for all, in sharing the earth’s bounty, in the need to care for the poor. No one should have to go without food or clothing or medicine or a roof over his or her head, nor should they have to work until their hands bleed, the way my poor mama did. People must have the opportunity to do worthwhile work, whether it is the work of the heart, the hand, or the mind. In my book, the artist is an equal to the farmer; the farmer, to those who do manual labor. I have lived my life holding to those values as best I can. Even before my father betrayed me, I felt hatred toward those who selfishly hoarded all the material possessions—the crowned heads, the landowners, and even some in the shtetl who had more than others and didn’t share. My mother, Adina, was my model; she was gentle as her name translates. Why should others die of starvation when my cupboard is full—when my land grows with an overabundance of vegetables and grapes and olives, while others’ land is barren? And why should others shiver from cold, without warmth and a cover to their name, when I have the heat of fire and two blankets?

  So, a little about Samuel—that’s English for Shmuel, my adopted namesake. He lived in the eleventh century before the Christian Messiah was born. He was a fighter, and that’s like me in my younger days before I got kicked out of my father’s house. I had organized a group of men—actually we were just boys, barely fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, some younger—to fight the Cossacks. I would sneak out of the house at night after everyone was asleep to meet my comrades (there was one girl, as well, who fought alongside us and was, in fact, caught and shot). We had collected tools over the months, some removed from those who came to beat us up—shovels, picks, rakes, and the like—and when the killers came, we would spring forth from our hiding place and thrash them. Some got away, but others, barely breathing, lay spilling their guts on the earth. And while I think back on that with mixed feelings, I am proud to say that I became the leader of our group, not only because of my strength but because I was shrewd and knew no fear. Unlike the biblical Samson, I had brains and brawn—a born leader, some said. So like Samuel, who stood up to authority by opposing Saul as king, I opposed the czar and his cronies and did what I could, in my minor way, to overthrow them.

  But to tell the truth, the most important thing in my regard for Samuel was that he, like me, had been dumped as a child. Not by his father, no, but by his mother, Chanah. Oh, yes, you’ll say her motive was different from my father’s, more noble, and that may be true, but the fact remains, she gave him up because of her promise to God that if he filled her infertile womb, she would grant him the fruit of it. So, as the Bible says, she “loaned” Samuel to God for the rest of his life. Loaned him! She didn’t own him. What right did she have to loan him—mother or no—to God? Or to anyone? No matter what you call it, she deserted him. And what right did my father have to demand that I believe as he did and to declare me dead—to sit shiva for me—when I wouldn’t? So there it is: my kinship with Samuel and why I took his name and why I renounced my father and repudiated the name he gave me. Don’t think I don’t know that my own mother did not stand up to my father for me, but that is too painful for me to explore.

  Over the years, especially after I had my own children, I tried very hard to reflect upon it from my father’s point of view, thinking that as a father I could be more compassionate, to forgive him, so I could talk to my children about their grandfather, but I couldn’t. It would have felt like yet another betrayal but by me this time. It would have been like swallowing poison. I never talked about my parents—not even my mother or my brother Mendel. He, though, I could forgive.

  As far back as I can remember, I felt like an outsider in my family. You may ask why. I asked myself the same question. First, I was taller and bigger than my father by the time I was twelve. I could wear his boots and shirts—not his pants because I was already taller than him. I didn’t look like the rest of the family, me with my red curly hair and blue eyes and hairy arms and legs, them with their black hair and brown cow eyes and barely able to grow a beard. I was strong, like a bull, and liked to run and play games. When given a chance, I preferred to be with friends, and, yes, I liked to talk but about important things—real things like how to change the world, how to revolt against unfair conditions, how to fight the goddamned murderers, Cossacks, serfs, and landowners alike. My father and brothers always had their faces in the holy book, going along with whatever fate came their way—saying, “It is God’s will and not for us to question.” I say one makes one’s own destiny. I refused to read and study Torah. Not so Mendel. And yet, he was just a kid wanting his father’s love—just like me, only I couldn’t yield.

  My father and I had many fights. Worse than fights. They got so bad, at times I came close to striking him. My mother—I told you her name was Adina—would get in between. She was a good woman but passive, though not when it came to her children. She deferred to my father’s whims and demands because she didn’t want arguments, and I think, although it was an arranged marriage, she’d grown to love and respect him. She wanted peace. She was observant, but she was more practically so and less rigid about the rules. She prayed; she lit Shabbos candles—all that—but she’d reason, “Well, if this means such and such, then perhaps God would want us to do thus and such.” I think being a mother and in touch with life and death makes you more compassionate, more accommodating. But when it came to my father,
for her, his word was law. I don’t blame her; she was a woman of her time.

  I was the oldest son of three. Moishe, the middle son, was the first to leave the shtetl—I learned that by word of mouth after I was disowned. He was a little like me, but he did what he had to do, quietly, and didn’t have to announce it the way I did. I never learned to do that; it felt degrading. I also heard that he had two boys who became doctors, supposedly classy ones in Boston. They even have a chapel at some fancy college named after them. Imagine, from shtetl to palace.

  So there was Mendel, known as the scholar—unlike me who was labeled the firebrand, the revolutionary. But in my opinion, he was a sycophant and the bane of my existence at that time. Always the golden boy—religious and pleading to sit by my father’s side to read Torah. Because of that, as you can imagine, he was my father’s favorite, while I was my mother’s favorite. She must have known I needed her to balance the pain I experienced because of my father’s partiality for Mendel. But I was also the one to collect wood for her, carry water for her to boil, or dig up the potatoes in the little plot she kept outside of our little house. I needed her love the way a newborn needs sustenance. Beneath it all, as I now understand, much of what happened between Mendel and me had to do with rivalry for my father’s love and approval.

  It was a little like the biblical story of Abel and Cain. They too were brothers who couldn’t get along. Cain, the oldest—like me—was the farmer tilling the soil, which is what I became after moving to a kibbutz in Israel. But unlike me, Cain killed his younger brother. I shudder to think what might have happened had I stayed. Then again, maybe it was destiny that I left, to spare me that act of murder. I can’t help but feel that instead of my killing someone, I was killed, so to speak; my soul was killed.