(4)
Cybula was still the reluctant krol and he knew Kora was gaining the upper hand. She had done so much for him that he felt he had to yield to all her wishes. The truth was that her requests would serve his own needs as well. What did she want but to give him pleasure, to increase the camp’s love for him? It was as if her soul had merged with his. His masculine needs became her feminine ones. Sometimes she spoke as if she were half man and half woman, like the spirits, babuks, bloodsuckers, about whom old women told tales by the light of the moon. In former times, when the camp could boast of many men, Cybula arranged a hunt for large animals every spring. The men went out to the forest with their bows and arrows and their spears, and they returned carrying a bear, a wild boar, a deer. A fire was built and the animals were skinned and roasted in the fire. A festive meal would follow: meat was eaten, mead drunk, men and women danced until midnight and even longer. Although Lesnik family life was firmly governed by laws, on the night of the big hunt men and women mixed with each other freely, sang together, danced together, and often couples went off into the forests to do what their hearts desired. The gods and goddesses were supposed to be benevolent during the time of the big hunt and they forgave the Lesniks what follies they committed in the darkness, under the light of the stars. Moreover, the Lesniks were all related to one another, knotted and bound by countless marriages and births, and it was not so heinous a sin when they sometimes mixed bloods.
Kora now argued that the big hunt should not be abandoned because of the shortage of men. Cybula had his bow, as did many of the older men. Bows and arrows had been left behind by Lesniks who had been killed and by woyaks who tried to hunt during the winter’s great famine. Speaking in a kind of frenzy, Kora persuaded the women to try their hands at hunting. One need not be strong to hunt, she said. All that was needed was good eyesight and a bit of skill. Kora herself had shot some animals.
At first Cybula argued that hunting was for men, not women, since it required courage, vigor, the ability to run and jump. But Kora refused to be discouraged. A sudden attack from woyaks might force the women to put up resistance. She had heard stories of other camps where the men were slaughtered and the women had to take over the fighting, defending themselves with swords and spears. Hadn’t Ben Dosa told them of a prophetess who ruled over the people of Israel and later led them to war, and of another woman who killed their enemies’ leader and thrust a hook into his forehead while he lay at her feet? In the end, Cybula agreed.
When Kora announced that a big hunt with both sexes would be led by Cybula and Nosek, the camp erupted with joy. All the women wanted to learn to shoot arrows. Even the older children began to prepare themselves for the big day. A large target figure was constructed from sticks and the people aimed their arrows and spears at it. Ben Dosa, when told about the big hunt, immediately declared it sinful. The Bible recorded the story of the mighty hunter Nimrod, whose name suggested that he came of those who were rebellious against God. Ben Dosa cautioned the children against shooting their arrows at the figure, because doing so would encourage the human urge to cruelty. But Cybula spoke harshly to Ben Dosa, reminding him that he, Cybula, was krol and only his commands would be obeyed. The camp would not take its orders from some god who dwelled in Jerusalem.
When the big hunt took place several days later, Cybula marveled at the skill shown by the women. More animals were killed in one day than the camp could eat in an entire month. Even the children’s arrows hit their marks with ease. With pride, the women carried the dead animals on their backs. Children dragged behind them the small corpses of rabbits, hares, and even a fox who was not wise enough to flee from his lair. Under Cybula’s direction the women pierced a large bear, as well as a wild boar, with their knives and spears. The camp was so amply provided with meat that some women wanted to make a gift of their catch to Kosoka. But Kosoka refused, saying she was now a Jewish girl and could not eat the flesh of a bear or a pig. She told the women that it was close to the time of Shevuoth, the festival which celebrated the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. The women shrugged their shoulders. “When does he teach you these things—at night, in bed?”
“No. He does not touch me.”
“Why not? Because your eyes are slanted?”
“Because I am not completely Jewish.”
“When will you be Jewish?”
“When his God wills it.”
“Ben Dosa speaks with the gods?” the women asked.
“There is only one God.”
The women shook their heads. “If you don’t eat, you will die from hunger.”
“God can bring the dead back to life,” Kosoka answered.
The women looked at each other with astonishment. They had never listened to this slave before. Nosek had brought this slant-eyed monster to the camp as a gift for Krol Rudy, but Krol Rudy did not want her. A woman asked Kosoka, “Why don’t you return to the land from which you came?”
And Kosoka answered, “They are all heathens in that land. Wherever Ben Dosa is, there I want to be.”
(5)
Ben Dosa observed all the holy days in accord with his own calculations, figuring out the beginning of the month by the appearance of the new moon. Kora reproved him for neglecting his work on such days and complained that he would be idle for two days running, since immediately after Shevuoth came the Sabbath. Ben Dosa promised he would work without stopping to make up for lost time, and the next day he did not even take time out to eat. He worked from sunrise until just before sunset. Having recited the evening prayers in his workshop, he only then returned to his hut for the dishes Kosoka had prepared for him, food he was permitted to eat—vegetables, fruits, a fish roasted on coals. The woman has a sacred soul, he thought. She strove to do good deeds and wished to follow the laws of his people. He had promised her that if she remained steadfast in her desire to embrace the Jewish faith, he would make her a Jew.
Kosoka had even tried to persuade him that they should flee from the camp. “We will never be set free as long as we are here,” she argued. “We are their slaves.” She wanted to steal away at night and meet him on the road to Miasto, but he would not agree.
“I will never be able to take on the true faith,” Kosoka argued.
“As it is destined to be, so shall it be,” he replied, and she had burst out crying.
Ben Dosa now finished his eating, fell upon the bed exhausted from his work, and immediately went into a deep sleep. He had barely remembered to recite the proper benediction. His dreams often brought him more grief than his wakeful hours. He found himself aboard the Canaanite ship on which he had been kidnapped. He again lived through his captors’ savagery, as they whipped him and mocked him. Evil demons also invaded his dreams, and he awoke from these visions bathed in perspiration and sexually aroused. He felt a weight resting against his legs and touched a face, a head, hair. Ben Dosa was terrified. Was it Lilith who had possessed him in the night? Or Shibta? Naama? “Who is this?” he cried out. And he heard her answer, “It is I, Kosoka.”
Ben Dosa sprang up, and a hoarse moan broke from his throat. “What have you done?”
“I am Ruth, your servant,” she answered.
Ben Dosa shivered. Before the festival of Shevuoth he had told her the story of Boaz and Ruth. And now Kosoka had gone even further than Ruth had when she lay at the feet of Boaz, her redeemer. He stood up and the perspiration poured from his body. “Filth! Defilement!”
“Redeem me, my Boaz,” Kosoka murmured. “Forgive me for uncovering thine feet, my lord.”
He raised his fist to strike her, but then withdrew it. His body was shaking and he could hear the chattering of his teeth. This Tatar girl whom he had intended to bring into the Jewish fold had caused him to sin. He remembered the sentence in the Gemara: He who takes an Aramite will be set upon by zealots. Hot tears streamed from his eyes, scalded his cheeks. True he had erred in telling her this holy story. He shouted, “Harlot!” His throat tightened and he choked.
“You act like Orpah, not like Ruth, or like Kozbi, the daughter of Zur, who was pierced by the holy Pinchas.”
“I want to be your wife!”
“Out!” He seized her by her neck and pushed her from the hut. She fell to the ground with a thud. His foot stumbled against a rock. He bumped his forehead on the doorpost. He did not know which caused him more pain, the sin or the blow. He returned to his hut, limping. “I hope I did not kill her,” a voice inside him nagged. He had barely reached his bed when his knees buckled under him and he fell to the floor. “Father in heaven, take me …” he prayed.
Before sunrise, when Kora came out of Cybula’s hut to breathe in the cool morning air and to bathe her breasts in dew (a remedy for the withering of the skin that comes with age), she saw in the distance a figure lying on the ground near Ben Dosa’s hut. She approached cautiously. It was a woman lying face down, her arms and legs outstretched as if she was dead. Kora turned her over and recognized Kosoka, her face smeared with mud, her eyes closed. Kora lifted her, and she was limp and light, like a child. Could it be that Ben Dosa had thrown her out of his hut? Did someone in the camp rape her? Kora was reluctant to awaken Cybula, and half carried, half dragged the girl to the charred hut where she had lived with her husband, Kostek, and where she still kept a bed. She wet the palm of her hand in the dew and passed it over Kosoka’s lips.
The girl shivered and opened two slitted eyes. Kora asked, “Did someone attack you? Were you raped?” She poured a pitcher of water on Kosoka’s neck and body and rubbed her temples with the palms of her hands. The girl kept shivering. “What happened?” Kora asked. “Who did this to you?” She helped Kosoka to sit up and held her by her shoulders so that she would not slip down again. She shouted, “Who did this? Speak, answer me!”
Kosoka did not answer. Kora slapped her cheeks and pinched her nostrils, as one does to those who feel faint. A sigh and a rattle broke out of Kosoka’s throat.
“Who hit you?”
“No one.”
“Were you drunk, or what?”
“No.”
“Why were you lying near Ben Dosa’s hut?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know. Come with me.”
“Where? No, no.”
“We all know your cunning tricks,” Kora said. “Our krol Cybula and Kniez Nosek bought you in Miasto to work for us, not to frolic with Ben Dosa. Our krol married my daughter and they need someone to serve them. You will live in their hut and do what they tell you to do. The woyaks are gone and now we are the rulers. If you don’t do as you are told, we will chop you in pieces and feed you to the dogs.”
“Let me go.”
“Come with me, or you’ll die instantly,” Kora said. Gripping Kosoka by the hair, she pulled her down to the floor. “I am the krolowa’s mother and I can do with you as I please. Who threw you in the mud?”
“No one.”
“Who?”
Holding her by the hair with one hand, Kora slapped her cheeks with the other. The girl remained silent, and as she slapped Kosoka, it occurred to Kora that she would make a fitting sacrifice to the gods.
Kosoka clung to the earth with her feet, and Kora dragged her along. The evening before, Kosoka had put on a dress made of pelts, but now it had been torn off her body. It had rained during the night and the ground was muddy. Kosoka fell into a fit of moans and muffled sobs. Doors of nearby huts began to open, and half-naked, sleepy-eyed women came out and stared.
“What has Slant-eyes done?”
“Squeals like a pig in the mud,” Kora muttered.
The women looked on in disbelief and rubbed their eyes. One blurted out, “That Miasto harlot!”
“We don’t want this alien scum anymore,” Kora said. She had worked herself into a rage. It was once the custom of the camp that those who were to be sacrificed were offered the best of food, surrounded with tenderness, with love. But Kosoka’s silence evoked in Kora an eagerness to put an end to this girl who had no relatives in the camp and whom no one wanted to take in. Someone ran to awaken Cybula, and he emerged from his hut barefoot.
“What is this?”
“I’m going to kill her!” Kora screamed. “We don’t need Tatars in this camp. We are Lesniks, not Poles and not Jews.”
“Kora, let her go!”
“If you want her, you can have her!” And Kora raised her foot and kicked Kosoka in the face. More doors opened. Ben Dosa emerged from his hut, also barefoot. He stood unsteadily on his feet, shaking. “What happened?” And when he saw Kosoka, he stretched out his arms and a terrible cry broke from his lips: “Sodom and Gomorrah!”
9
The Blond Stranger
The month they now called Czerwiec was hot, but in the evening cool breezes blew in. The snow on the mountain peaks had melted. With the ice and the snow, rocks rolled down the slopes, knocking over trees, blocking trails from the valley below. There was a time long ago when the Lesniks believed that beyond the mountains lived a tribe of giant gods who had two or three heads, one eye in their foreheads, and four hands. The Lesniks knew that beyond the mountains lived the Czechs—people the same as they were, whose language even resembled their own. The Czechs worshipped other gods, and their rulers were also called krols. They had tilled the soil and eaten bread long before the Lesniks. Sometimes it happened that one of them wandered into the camp. If the stranger was not put to death, he fell ill and died. This was also the fate of Lesniks who traveled across the mountains to the Czechs: they never returned.
In the middle of summer it snowed in the mountains, sometimes it hailed, and the night air was so cold that fingers and toes froze almost instantly. Storm winds blew from the peaks. Goddesses reclined on cloud-beds and braided each other’s hair, luring men to their laps, then hurling them to the depths below. In the valley, however, the days were warm. It was plain to see that the gods had showered their blessings on the fields, the gardens, as well as on the forests: there were black berries, red berries, and all kinds of mushrooms. Swarms of bees buzzed around each flower, drawing from the open calyx the juice and the fragrance which later they would turn to honey. Various weeds grew in the fields, and it was the women’s daily task to pluck them out. Evil little babas and dziads were known to fertilize these weeds, together with wild mushrooms and berries that were poisonous. The women in the fields joked, gossiped, bared to one another their bellies, their breasts. The woyaks had left several women pregnant, and old hags predicted that monsters with teeth, claws, and tails would come from such unions.
Kora had nagged Cybula until he finally promised that Yagoda would be pregnant by spring. Now the girl’s menstrual periods had stopped and Kora began to hang charms and amulets around her neck to ensure that the child was a boy. Although she had betrayed her husband, Kostek, both with her wanton ways and with her lustful longings for Cybula, Kora was determined to name the child Kostek, seeking thereby to appease Kostek’s spirit so that harm would not come to the boy. And Kora was more determined than ever to make a sacrifice of Kosoka to Baba Yaga, to appease the gods before her grandchild was born.
(2)
A short time before the harvest, there was great tumult in the camp. A stranger suddenly appeared in their midst. He was not one of Miasto’s tradesmen carrying his wares in a sack on his back but a man dressed like a kniez, a pan, even a krol. He was tall, young, erect; he had a blond beard, a long cloak, a feathered hat, and spurs on his boots. He rode a white horse on a saddle trimmed with dangling tassels. His face was thin and pale, his eyes were blue. The entire camp came out to greet him.
Ben Dosa was asleep when the stranger arrived and the loud voices awakened him. When he saw the honored guest, a tremor seized him. Could he be the Messiah? But the Messiah would come riding an ass, not a horse, and he would be a poor man, dressed in rags, not in wealth and finery. Everyone came out to welcome the stranger, who waited until they all gathered around him. He sat on his horse, ta
ll and silent, with the patience of a king who knew that his people awaited his word.
Cybula was barefoot. Standing at the side of the horse and rider, he resembled a slave more than a krol. He asked the stranger to alight from his horse, but the man replied, “I will not dismount until you have all heard what I came to say.” He pronounced the Polish tongue differently from even the people in Miasto. His voice was deep and at the same time resonant. When Cybula introduced himself as the krol, the stranger said, “May peace be with you, krol, but I come to you in the name of the Krol of all krols. He is the king of the whole world.”
A man of God, Ben Dosa thought to himself, a messenger of God. He felt an urge to fall on his knees and bow to this great man, but he restrained himself. All praise and honor belonged to the creator, not to his messengers. After a while the visitor spoke: “Brother Poles, I have heard about you, about your trials and sufferings. I have come to bring you the message of God and of his only begotten son, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross to redeem us all from our sins and to bring us to the kingdom of heaven.”
Ben Dosa shuddered. He wanted to shout, “Liar, traitor, messenger of Satan!” but a lump formed in his throat and he could neither swallow nor talk. Master of the Universe, I am suffocating, he thought. May my death atone for my sins. His knees shook, and he could barely keep from falling. He clutched someone by the shoulder and steadied himself. Cybula waited a moment, and then he spoke: “A guest in the house is God in the house. Dismount, sir, and come partake of what our huts have in abundance.”
King of the Fields Page 14