To Yagoda Cybula bared all his secrets, his plans for the camp, his opinions of every woman and man. At other times he spoke to her about gods. Had there really been a time when nothing existed—no sky, no earth, no mountains, no streams? Would everything one day come to an end? He repeated to her Ben Dosa’s words about the Jews who existed somewhere in the East. For them there was but one god, who had chosen them; they built a golden temple for him. But later, when they sinned against him, he destroyed it and sent them into exile.
“What did they do?” Yagoda asked.
“They stole, killed, lay with their mothers and daughters.”
“Is this bad?”
“So he says.”
“Whatever you do is good.”
“He believes that our gods are deaf and blind and that only his god can see and speak,” Cybula said.
“Is this true?”
“How can it be true? There are no gods.” Yet Yagoda also knew the gods as though they did exist. Sometimes he said the world was an evil place and death the greatest gift, yet he also promised to take Yagoda over the mountains and live there with her in a house surrounded with fields, gardens, lakes, and streams. He would tell her a story, confessing later that he made it up, about a krol as tall as a pine, with a beard that reached to his navel, with the horns of a deer, and with one eye in his forehead. This krol could fly like a bird, speak with trees, rocks, pigs, dogs, oxen. He flew up to heaven and married a goddess, also named Yagoda, who bore him thousands and thousands of children, who turned into stars.
Once when he told her a story about a god, Yagoda asked him, “What is a god?” And Cybula answered, “Wszystko—everything.”
“Everything?”
“The oak, Krol Rudy, Nosek, Ben Dosa, I, you, your hair, your breasts, your thoughts, your dreams at night.”
“How can this be?” Yagoda asked.
“This is how it is.”
Suddenly Cybula began to sing a song Yagoda had never heard before. He half sang, half spoke the words. What he said aroused both laughter and fear in her. He said that Everything was a man and Always was a woman. Everything and Always were man and wife.
“Have they any children?”
“Yes, we are their children.”
“Oh, this frightens me,” Yagoda said.
“Why should it frighten you?”
“Is Kora not my mother?”
“Yes, she is your mother.”
“And who was Kostek?”
“Your father.”
“Where is he now?”
“Everything swallowed him up.”
“Is Everything an animal?”
“Everything is everything.”
“Who told you this—Ben Dosa?”
“No, I thought of it myself. Sometimes when I lie awake at night, strange thoughts come to me. Where did everything come from? What was there before I was born? And what will there be after I’m gone? It occurred to me that Everything is Always, and that they are like man and wife.”
“Like us?”
“Yes, like us.”
“Cybula, I wish that it was always night and that you were always with me,” Yagoda said.
Kosoka was among those who came to hear Ben Dosa’s morning lesson. After Krol Rudy had thrown her out, for reasons she did not understand, no one in the camp would take her in and she wandered about aimlessly. She lived in an abandoned, half-burned hut, and made a bed from the straw left in the fields. She lit a fire on the ground between two branches and roasted her daily catch in it. This day Ben Dosa’s lesson was about the sacrifices that were offered at the temple in Jerusalem. He said there were burnt offerings that were completely consumed on the altar, after the priests had taken the meat for themselves. There were also offerings of thanks, in the form of the finest crops or a pair of turtledoves. One boy named Wilk asked, “Why don’t we have any of those things here?”
Ben Dosa’s black eyes sparkled. “My child, everything can be had, if only we will it. Here we have a camp where men live almost like beasts, going barefoot. But some weeks’ travel from here a town has been bunt, with houses, shops, and workshops where craftsmen can practice their crafts. If we all wish it, we, too, can build such a town in our camp. We have all that we need: trees, fruit, fertile soil. We can build houses, streets, shops, and spin flax, weave cloth, tan leather. If we will it, we can raise herds of sheep, shear their wool, make woolen garments.”
Ben Dosa addressed his remarks to Wilk, but he glanced at Cybula and Nosek as he continued: “The women here complain bitterly: We do not have enough men! But the Book of Proverbs, which King Solomon wrote—he was the wisest of all men—tells us that the woman of valor spun and wove flax and wool and was dressed in fine garments. Her husband sat with the elders at the city gates while she traded with merchants or sewed rugs. She even had time to learn new things and help the poor. It is said she was so diligent that she did not extinguish the light in her house all night long.”
“Teach us what we must do!” a woman called out. She looked like a young girl, but she was already pregnant.
“You will first have to undergo the pains of childbirth. Then you will look after your child and nourish it, both its body and its spirit. It is said that the greatest virtue the woman of valor possessed was her fear of God. When a man ceases to fear God, he becomes lower than the beast, which has no free will.”
An elderly woman called to Ben Dosa, “Where is she, this woman of valor? Let her come here and teach us!”
Ben Dosa smiled. “She has not been among the living for a long time. Her body has turned to dust, but her soul is with the righteous women in paradise.”
“Where is that, in Miasto?”
“In heaven.”
The people assembled in Ben Dosa’s hut were silent. Cybula whispered in Nosek’s ear and Nosek shook his head. Cybula said, “Ben Dosa, after you teach us the letters today, come to my hut. Nosek and I want to speak with you.”
“Yes, Kniez Cybula.”
Ben Dosa took out his chalk and began teaching the letters again. The brightest pupil among them was Wilk, twelve years old, who could recite the alphabet and write his name. His father had been killed during the mutiny, and the woyak had raped his mother, Basha, and also blinded her in her left eye. Wilk had blue eyes and golden hair, and when he smiled, dimples appeared in his cheeks. The other boys teased him and gave him girls’ names. The women, however, had a special liking for this half-orphan and showered him with kisses. Wilk was a skillful hunter and often went out with his bow and arrows. Once he caught a young deer. He climbed up trees in search of beehives, and when he found them, he brought honey to his mother and to others in the camp. During Ben Dosa’s lesson, Cybula noticed that Nosek often looked at the boy, often followed his movements with his eyes. When Ben Dosa praised Wilk, Nosek smiled. Cybula could not recall ever having seen Nosek smile.
When the lessons were over and the pupils had gone, Ben Dosa’s door opened and Kosoka stood before him, barefoot, half naked, with only a pelt to cover her hips and breasts.
“Welcome, Kosoka,” he said.
Kosoka held a basket made of braided twine and approached the bench on which Ben Dosa sat. “I brought something for you.” She lifted the small hide which covered her basket and Ben Dosa saw a dead rabbit. He stood up.
“Kosoka, I cannot eat this. It is not permitted, it is unclean.”
Kosoka then asked, “What shall I do with it?”
“Whatever you like. You can eat it yourself.”
“You said God forbids it.”
“It is forbidden only to Jews. You are not a Jew and therefore you may eat it.”
Kosoka said, “I want to be what you are, a Jew.”
“You a Jew? Why?”
“I want to go to heaven when I die.” And Kosoka pointed upward with her finger.
Ben Dosa smiled. “You will not die so soon. You are still young.”
“The young also die. Before long I will be dead.”
/> “Is that why you want to become a Jew?”
“Yes.”
“How did you come to this belief?” Ben Dosa asked.
“It is what you taught us.”
“A Jew must truly believe in God, not in what some man teaches. Today I teach you one thing, tomorrow another may teach you something different. You must think these things out for yourself and begin to believe that the one true God is the God who created the heavens and the earth, not some idol made of stone. Do you believe in one God?”
“Yes.”
“Our kniez Cybula told me that he does not want me to teach this belief to the camp. He wants to remain an idol worshipper, and he wants the others left as they are. If he should hear that you want to become a Jew, he may punish us both. This is the first thing you must know. The second is that since our temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, we have been dispersed among the nations, disgraced, threatened, and made to live like lambs among the wolves. Whoever becomes a Jew takes a heavy burden upon himself. We have two hundred and forty-eight commandments which we must observe, and three hundred and sixty-five transgressions which we must avoid. Are you willing to assume such a burden?”
“Yes.” A long silence followed. Then Kosoka said, “I want to be a sacrifice to your god.”
“A sacrifice? What do you mean by a sacrifice?”
“You told us about the sacrifices in the temple, the ones whose blood was sprinkled on the altar.”
“Those were animals, not human beings.”
“I want to give you my blood.”
Ben Dosa was so bewildered by her words that he remained speechless. He looked at Kosoka with astonishment. In the years since he was captured on a ship bound for Sidon, he had encountered a variety of savage men. He had witnessed fights among the sailors in which they broke each other’s bones. He had seen violence, homosexuality, idolatry, aberrations of many kinds. But what Kosoka proposed to him was entirely new. He had an urge to reproach her, but something restrained him. How could a creature come to such thoughts, he wondered. Perhaps her ancestors were a people of madness.
Ben Dosa need not have been astonished. Human sacrifices were offered by idol worshippers throughout the ages. Fathers and mothers willingly gave their children to the fires of Molech. Men delivered their daughters and wives into prostitution, as gift offerings to the priests and false prophets of Baal and Ashtoreth. It was all recorded in the Torah and in other holy books: the sins of the generation of the Flood, the evil deeds of Sodom, of those who wounded their faces and tore chunks out of their flesh when they mourned a death in their family. About the generation of the Flood it was written that even their animals had been mated with those of other species. Ben Dosa said, “My girl, the Master of the Universe does not ask for any sacrifices. Be honest and do good. Nothing more is needed.”
“What shall I do?” Kosoka asked.
“Marry a man and be a faithful wife.”
“I want to be your wife,” Kosoka said.
Ben Dosa shuddered. “I have a wife and children.”
“There in Babylon, not here.”
7
The Power of Kora
Cybula had many worries about the camp and also about his own position. Yet there was now no danger from Krol Rudy: he no longer wanted Yagoda for himself, and he told Nosek that Cybula could live with Yagoda or whomever he pleased, no harm would come to him. The real danger came from the younger woyaks, who wanted to overthrow Krol Rudy, Kulak, and Nosek and take over themselves. Cybula knew that he, a Lesnik, was despised by these woyaks.
There was also the problem that Yagoda no longer wanted to live in the camp. Neither Kora nor Cybula could dissuade her from what she had chosen to do. She had become increasingly silent. When Cybula came to her, she kissed and fondled him, but it was difficult to make her speak. If he asked her a question, she answered in a low murmur. Her voice had become hoarse and she coughed at night. Although she still caught small animals for herself, and Cybula and Kora often shared their catch with her, Yagoda was growing thin. When Cybula held her in his arms, he could feel her bony ribs. Her body exuded a strange warmth at night, which Cybula at first believed was the heat of passion. She clung to him and covered him with kisses, but the heat of her flesh and the heat of her breath had begun to make him afraid.
In the camp he had encountered many fevers and illnesses, premature deaths, and even forms of madness. He believed that Krol Rudy was already mad. For years he had noticed that some Lesniks were able to withstand cruel adversities, afflictions, hunger, and shame, while others, oppressed by some slight quarrel or insult, fell into melancholy and soon died. There were men in the camp who, although covered with blisters, boils, ulcers, and scabs, were able to live their lives to the end, while others, because of a minor ache, were soon carried out and buried. Yes, he knew of men who had died from insults, treachery, shame, and mockery, broken hearts, unrequited love, angry words, or of longing for a lost friend or relative.
That night in Kora’s hut Cybula was suddenly awakened. Kora was sitting up, mumbling softly to herself. Cybula asked, “Why are you hissing there like a witch? Are you conjuring up demons?”
“Cybula, I can no longer bear it! While you sleep, I lie awake. That daughter of mine will bring me to an early grave!”
“What is it that you want?”
“Don’t let her die, Cybula! She is all I have left.”
Cybula put on his hide pants and a pair of sandals that Ben Dosa had made for him. Kora asked, “Where are you going? It is still dark outside.”
Cybula did not answer.
“Don’t go roaming in the dark. The goddess Zla waits there for you.”
“How do you know? Do you see her?”
“Listen to the barking dogs. They see her.”
“Nonsense, there is no goddess Zla.”
Cybula left the hut to go to Yagoda. A cold wind blew outside, but he could already smell the scents of approaching spring. Soon the summer wheat would have to be sown. He longed to go to the field, to gaze at it again in the moonlight. But what was there to be seen in a patch of earth still covered with snow? Although he was a kniez, he knew he carried no weight in the camp. A score of ruffians ruled it with no laws since Krol Rudy had lost his power. It was as if they held him captive. Cybula continued to walk along the path which led to Yagoda’s oak.
Suddenly he saw a man walking toward him—a woyak. By the light of the stars Cybula recognized the man as Lis. He was one of the woyaks who, although not possessing the title of kniez, ruled over the Lesniks with a strong hand. It was he, Lis, who forced the women to chop down trees in the forest. It was he who together with two other woyaks, Drevnik and Ptak, divided the camp’s lands among themselves and gave themselves the title of pan. They wanted to make the Lesniks their slaves. Cybula had heard that Lis and his accomplices were plotting to murder Krol Rudy, Kulak, Nosek, and perhaps himself, Cybula. Lis shouted, “Kto tam?”—“Who’s there?”
“It is I, Cybula.”
“Cybula, huh? And why do you creep there in the dark like a mouse?”
Some restraint in Cybula broke. “I am not your servant. I need not answer to you.”
“You are our enemy, a spy, a stinking Lesnik!”
“I am a kniez, while you are nothing but a—”
Before Cybula could finish his sentence, Lis’s fist struck him squarely in the face. Cybula threw himself at Lis, but the pan was taller, stronger, younger than he was. Lis hit Cybula with both his fists, striking him in the face and head, kicking him with his foot, until Cybula fell to the ground. Kicking him again as he lay there, Lis shouted, “If you open your swinish snout once more, I’ll squash you like a worm!”
For the first time in Cybula’s life, someone had struck him. So many Lesniks had been killed, maimed, stabbed, injured—yet he, Cybula, had always escaped unharmed. He always felt that a godly hand protected him, although he refused to believe that gods existed. But now what he had feared for many years had finally h
appened. He lay in the mud like a beaten dog. He tried to rise, but all his strength had left him. As he lay on the ground, he could feel lumps swelling on his forehead, his nose, the back of his head. “I am covered with blood,” he said to himself. He was overcome by a humiliation that could never be wiped out except by the blood of his assailant. Cybula understood now that the Lesniks in the mountains had been right: there could never be peace between the Lesniks and the Poles.
Somehow Cybula managed to stand up. He could not go to the oak where Yagoda lived. He could also not show himself to Kora without washing the blood and the mud off his wounds. He began to drag himself toward his hut. There he had his sword and his spear. He thought of waiting for Lis in Lis’s hut, attacking him and killing him, but quickly abandoned this plan. Even if he overcame Lis, who was stronger, the other woyaks, when they learned what he had done, would torture and castrate him, perhaps even behead him—as they had done to others who dared to challenge them. His revenge, when it came, would have to come as a surprise.
It was still long before daybreak, and he had managed to reach his hut. Piles of untrampled snow lay near his door, and Cybula used it to wash his face. He melted some snow in his hands and drank the water. He entered his hut and almost immediately his knees buckled under him and he fell on his bed. His head ached, and he could no longer think. He fell into a deep sleep. When he awakened, it was still nighttime. When he moved his body, he felt a sharp pain, but his sleep had apparently restored some of his strength. He heard Kora’s footsteps outside. “Cybula, where are you?” she cried. He wanted to answer, but his upper lip was swollen and his tongue refused to obey him. Kora cried, “Why didn’t you return to me? Did something happen?”
Cybula knew he could not hide the truth from her. He said, “I was attacked, I was beaten.”
Kora clapped her hands together. “Who? Where? Oh, sacred gods!”
King of the Fields Page 11