by Malka Adler
I wanted the traitorous guests with their traitorous children to leave quickly. I wanted them to leave me alone. But first I wanted to see them axed in their chairs. Each one with a fine thin cut in his chair. Half the body sitting, half the body oozing onto the floor.
In the evenings I went walking alone in the village.
A wind whistled in the chimneys. I met young people from school, we’d studied in the same class. We said a few polite words and I walked on. I got to the main road as if I had a purpose. As if people were waiting for me at the end of the road. I was in the village where I was born and I felt alone.
To this day, I’ve never been near my home again.
Israel, 2001
The 14:18 interurban train from Nahariya to the center.
I want to get as far away as possible.
The sea appears in the window. Brief waves attack the shore. They make a nervous sound and I can guess the nervousness by the motions on the shore. The flamingo stands out on one slender foot, maybe two, and looks into the distance. The flamingo has a steady, peaceful stance, long neck, majestic head. The battle between the sand and the waves makes no difference to her. She is alone, and I think, what’s happened to that bird, standing there alone, and where did they all go in the light, any minute now the sun will fall into the sea, and what will a bird do alone in the dark, die?
If Yitzhak was beside me he’d say, it’s not a sign of anything, and then Dov would ask, what’s not a sign? And Yitzhak would say, it’s not a sign that the flamingo will die, death has no signs. And then Dov would say, death has signs, I’ve seen a few. Yitzhak would get angry and Dov would respond to me, I like being alone, don’t feel comfortable if people want answers from me about everything and I have no answers. And then Yitzhak would say, they can ask me a thousand questions, what do I care, but remaining on a large beach without the flock, that’s dangerous, Dov, an eagle with claws could devour her. I don’t agree, Dov would say, she has healthy wings, she could easily get away.
Nu, so what, and Yitzhak would get up, she’d fly for an hour or two, in the end she’d get tired, and then she’d have to put her head down, how would she know where to land? And maybe four more eagles waiting for her in the skies, no easy matter, is it? And then Dov would say, she could always dive into the water, she’ll manage.
I might say that the bird is happy. Why happy – they’d both say, because she’s beautiful. A beautiful bird has less to worry about in life.
Chapter 38
Dov
The soldiers at the monastery in Indersdorf looked for an occupation for me.
It was after I’d had pneumonia and returned from the hospital. They sent me to the garage of a German without an eye to learn how to fix agricultural machines. At the garage worked a disabled man who had no stick, he had one high shoulder and one short leg. The German laborer was glad the Germans had lost the war because they disliked the disabled of their race. The laborer and I became friends. One day I said to him, I’m dying to learn how to drive.
The garage owner had a car without tires in the yard.
The German laborer said: Get hold of some petrol, we’ll fix up that old jalopy and I’ll teach you to drive. I barely managed to finish my work-day. I ran to the inn and waited outside. Just then it began to rain and I ran to the tree nearest the inn and watched the door. The strong smell of wet earth tickled my nose and made me shiver. I put my hands in my pockets and ran on the spot. In the meantime I heard my teeth chattering in my mouth. I said, you’ll get pneumonia for the second time. I took my hands out of my pockets and held my nose. With my other hand I pressed my backside. A few minutes later I shifted to my ears, stuck my fingers in my ears, closed my mouth and returned to my nose and backside, my ears and mouth. I thought, I won’t let infectious germs enter my body, no, no, I’m not going back to the hospital, that’s for sure.
After about an hour, an American jeep arrived at the inn. A soldier got out of the jeep. Holding on to his hat, he ran to the door. I got to the door after him and tugged at his sleeve.
He turned and asked, what are you doing out in the rain?
I said, I’m from the monastery, please, could you give me some petrol, I must have some petrol.
What for?
For the jalopy at the garage, I’m learning mechanics and want to hear the sound of a working engine, it has no wheels, it’s just an engine and a steering wheel.
The soldier pinched my cheek and said, but be careful now, and ran to his jeep, gave me a can with two liters of petrol. Holding the can I ran to the garage. The disabled laborer was waiting for me. He poured the petrol into the engine of the jalopy, connected some wires, tttrrr. Tttrrr. Tttrrr, the motor was working. Wow. I jumped on the laborer and gave him a kiss. He was pleased and said, come and sit down, we’ll begin our first lesson. He pressed the clutch and hop, put it in first gear. Left it. Pressed the clutch and hop, second gear. Left it, now you, slowly, Bernard, slowly, the gear mustn’t screech.
Afterwards we went on to the brakes. I pressed, pressed, until he said enough and then we went on to the steering wheel. He taught me to turn right, left, straight, straight and again left, right, stop. I was overjoyed.
At the end of the second lesson the German laborer said to me, that’s it. You’re ready now. From now on you can drive a regular car, you have my word. I kissed him twice and looked for a regular car.
One day I was waiting at the square.
Between the monastery and the inn was a square. American soldiers would park their automobiles there. In the middle of the square stood a statue of the Holy Mary. Around the statue was a fence. I stood in the square and waited for an opportunity.
There was no rain the day an American soldier arrived at the inn. He parked his command car in the middle of the square and went inside for a drink. I jumped into the seat of the command car and did what the German laborer had taught me. I started the engine, pressed the clutch, put it into first gear, and accelerated, the command car choked. My heart started to beat fast, I said, from the beginning, and be careful with the clutch, it’s sensitive. I rubbed my hands and started the engine again, oy, oy, oy, the command car began to move. I turned the steering wheel to the left and proceeded slowly, not daring to shift into second gear because of the square, I needed to turn left all the time. The command car traveled around the Holy Mary and I yelled, Icho, listen, I’m driving alone, I have a steering wheel in my hands and I’m driving around the Holy Mary. After a few turns I managed to take one hand off the steering wheel. I waved to Mary, yelled aloud, look at me, I’m a Jew, do you see me? I felt strong, especially in front of Mary.
I only had one problem. The German at the garage hadn’t taught me how to stop. Nu, I’ve been driving around for about twenty minutes, and have no idea how to stop a traveling command car. I began to sweat. Yelled, save me, save me, I don’t know how to stop, save me.
The soldier at the inn heard me. He ran out to me, jumped into the command car, turned off the engine and said, hey, what do you think you’re doing, who are you?
I began to stammer. My face was burning, I whispered, sorry, I’m from the monastery, you won’t tell the Germans, will you?
He began to laugh and finally said, get out of here boy, nu, be off with you.
I ran happily to the monastery. My whole body felt warm, I called out, I love American soldiers and I want to be a soldier like them because they don’t shout or hit or say dirty Jew.
The rumor that I’d driven a command car spread quickly through the monastery.
I became known as a car expert. I felt as if I’d grown twenty centimeters taller. As a matter of fact, I began to give Vassily driving lessons. He’d wait for me at the garage in the evening. I taught him to drive the jalopy, and also gave him lessons on car mechanics. From that day on, we waited together in Maria’s Square.
One day we saw a heavy tractor approaching the square.
A German farmer was sitting on it. He had an enormous face and a broad
neck. He left the tractor with its motor running next to a burned wall and went into the inn. I said to Vassily, I’m going first, you’re next. We got up onto the tractor. I said to Vassily, push here, push there, we shifted gears and the tractor began to move. Oho, my heart sank into my underwear. Vassily was the first to jump, I jumped after him. The tractor went into the wall and stopped. The wheels didn’t stop. They continued to turn and made a huge hole in the wall, but we’d already fled from there, only Jews from the camps know how to run when they’re in danger, and that’s very-very fast. I don’t know how come the heavy tractor didn’t knock down the wall or go into the houses standing there.
For a whole day we hid from the German farmer at the monastery. I was sure he’d take us to a German camp and they’d put us in a closed vehicle with a pipe connected to the engine and we’d die and my brother Yitzhak would go mad.
From that day onward, I didn’t dare practice driving.
In Indersdorf, I got acquainted with a man who rang the church bells.
He let me ring the enormous bells. I hung on the rope, a carefree bird, singing loudly, ding, dong, ding, dong. Sometimes my throat closed up. Din … cach. Din … cach. Dong … mmm. I saw myself swiftly climbing a tree in the forest near my village and shouting to the skies yoohoo, yoohoo, and afterwards eating nuts with green peels. The nuts made my tongue rough as sandpaper. Ding … don … cach. I saw myself chasing my friend Ilona around the house, deliberately not catching her, because we loved to run and laugh, making sounds of great pleasure. I missed the laughter of children, not for any particular reason, I missed the laughter that rolled out of the throat just when Mama and Papa were in the vicinity. I missed being a boy in a family, agreeing to my big brother smacking my behind and running away from him to my room, hiding under the bed and hearing Avrum say, where is he, and my mother’s voice saying, leave him alone Avrum, he’s a little boy, now go and take a shower. I wanted my mother.
I often think about Indersdorf.
Chapter 39
Yitzhak
After three days in Tur’i Remety, a young goy ran up to me like the wind.
I knew him. He was my sister Sarah’s school friend. He was holding a letter in his hand and shouting, I got a letter from Sarah, your sister Sarah is alive. I opened the letter with trembling hands. The letter fell to the floor. I bent down to the floor and said, you read it. Sarah wrote she was now in Sweden. She’d gone to Sweden at the end of the war and wants to know if anyone from her family has returned to the village and if there’s any news. She asked her friend to write back to her and wrote the address in large letters.
I hugged the letter and wiped my face on my sleeve. My sister’s friend put his arm around my shoulders and laughed. I said to him, the Germans didn’t manage to kill Sarah, she survived and, in the meantime, I have half a family. And I’ll write to Sarah, when I have an address in Israel.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I saw Sarah. She was twenty when we left the house. She was small, thin, weighing maybe forty-fifty kilos before the Germans, I didn’t understand how a girl with that weight had managed to survive winter in a labor camp. I understood from stories I heard in Humenne that women’s conditions in the camps were like ours. Thoughts of Sarah made a wound in my mind and brought on a bad dream. I saw her standing barefoot in the snow in pajamas without stripes. She was holding a tin pot and crying, Icho, I’m hungry, Icho, help me, but I continued to walk, and then I got to a station and boarded a train. I stood at the window and saw Sarah. She continued to cry, Icho, help me, and I left. I woke wet with perspiration. Couldn’t talk for three hours. Finally I said to my Godfather, I must go to Dov, I want to tell him about Sarah. My Godfather said, a few more days, Icho, stay with me for a few more days.
One day I heard a loud drumming from the direction of the path.
The village drummer stood near my Godfather’s house. He was wearing a black coat with metal buttons. He held thin sticks and beat a drum hanging from straps over his belly. Poom – pooroom, poom, poom pooroom, poom-poom. Drumming in the street meant there was mail and I went out to him. He gave me a note, on the note was a message for me:
You must report immediately to the NKVD at the police station.
I handed the note to my Godfather. Said, what’s the NKVD? I don’t know the place.
My Godfather read the note and paled. He turned it over, sat down on a chair and said, sit down Icho, sit. The NKVD is the Russian secret police. They came to the village at the end of the war. They’re located in the large building near the synagogue.
My heart sank.
I said, what does the Russian police want with me and how do they know I came to the village, I haven’t made any problems, or asked for anything, tell me, what do they want from me now? My Godfather didn’t know what the Russians wanted from me and then, stunned, I cried out, the goys informed on me, yes. They’re used to handing over Jews, true or not? My Godfather said, I don’t think so, Icho, everyone knows you’re leaving the village. And what about the farmer who took our home, could he have informed on me? Maybe he thought I’d stay, understand, he’s afraid of losing the house. I began to itch. My Godfather brought me a glass of water. I said, do you have any sugar, I need three, even five teaspoons of sugar.
I remembered Dov’s story about the Russian soldier who aimed a Kalashnikov at him because of a sandwich. The aunts in Humenne also said that Russian soldiers kidnap people who are on their own and send them to labor camps in Siberia. I got up from my chair and said, I’ll run away and that’s that. I don’t want anything to do with Russian soldiers, I had enough with the Hungarians and more than enough with the Germans. My Godfather said, it’s not worth it, Icho, they have soldiers everywhere, they’ll catch you and you won’t be able to escape, I’m sure there’s some mistake, you should go over there.
I went to the window and asked, this NKVD building, does it have bars, or not? My Godfather said, no bars, just glass. I said, excellent, I’ll go to this secret police, and if they arrest me I’ll escape at night through the window.
I washed my face and changed my shirt. Made a decision: No one will send me to Russia or load me onto a truck, and no one will put me on a cattle train, yes, no one in the world will make me dig pits in the snow or insulate pipes.
I went to the police station. At the entrance stood a soldier with a rifle. I showed him the note. He put me in a small room, pointed to a chair and left. I sat back in the chair as if I had time, patience and good thoughts. My mind was exploding: The Russians know I’m alone. The Russians know that if they make me disappear, there isn’t anyone to weep for me. Aha. They’ve heard I traveled by train without paying for a ticket. No, no, it has to do with our home. The farmer told them some story so they’d arrest me. I got up from the chair and thrust my hand into my pocket. My UNRWA papers are fine. I approached the window. I measured the distance from the window to the gate. Tried to open the handle on the window. The handle opened. I could breathe. I returned to my chair and saw a soldier standing at the door.
He had a closed face and a mustache straight as a ruler. He wanted me to go with him. We went along a narrow passage and reached a large room. In the room was a wide table with six chairs. A Russian officer stood at the window. He looked about twenty-five or seven. He had stars on his shoulders. He wore an ironed uniform with a stripe down his trousers and sleeves, and high boots. A peaked cap sat on the table. A good sign. The officer asked the soldier to leave the room. He approached me and I saw blue eyes, neither good nor bad, light colored hair, a small nose and high forehead. A scar the size of a key ran from the end of his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek.
He examined me and asked in Russian, what’s your name, young man?
Icho.
Sit down, Icho, sit down.
I sat down. He pulled up a chair and approached me. I pressed my back against the chair and he said, tell me the names of your family please, and where they all are.
I didn’t know what to say after Dov
and Sarah. I said they’re there, I mean, they were there, and maybe they aren’t there anymore, I don’t know.
The officer leaned back. He said, Avrum is young, he might come back, how old were you when you left your home?
Fifteen.
Fifteen and you remained alive. Children didn’t survive the camps, how did you manage?
I didn’t know what to say.
The officer leaned forward and said quietly, Icho, I want you to tell me what you’ve been through. It’s important to me to hear everything, and start from the day you all left your home, but first a cup of tea and cookies. At the door stood a soldier with a tray. He put the tray on the table and left. The officer gave me a cup of tea and sweet cookies and I was sure I was dreaming, yes. And in the dream there’s a Russian officer with bars on his shoulders, and he’s giving me tea to drink and cookies to eat, and he’s taking an interest in my Jewish family, that’s it. I put a hand under my leg and pinched it, my leg hurt. I realized I wasn’t dreaming.
We finished drinking the tea, I maintained eye contact with the wall opposite and began to speak.
I spoke slowly about the ramp at Auschwitz. The officer wanted me to give him a precise picture, where were the Germans standing, and where were the dogs, and where were the prisoners with the pajamas standing, and then he said, one moment. He opened a drawer and took out paper and pencil and gave them to me, can you draw it for me, Icho?