PSALM 44 (2 page)

At a very young age, Ki
š
understood the nature of willful forgetfulness and the role it plays in the history as narrated by the powers that be. He saw literature as capable of forestalling oblivion, of telling the history experienced by individual human beings. Everyone who has ever suffered had a name, a set of parents, a life comprised of a multitude of irreplaceable details; the death of each one of us is an irreparable loss to all of humanity. That seems like an easy kind of knowledge to acquire, but many
—
writers, artists, politicians, killers, historians
—
have failed to fully comprehend the infinite weight of a single human life and the enormous price we pay in oblivion for each one extinguished.
“
Because that
’
s what death is,
To forget everything
,
”
Marija, Ki
š
’
s hero, realizes in
Psalm 44
. The only way to remember what must be remembered is to tell the stories of lives that have been erased by the megalo-maniacal callousness of history. Such stories might be difficult to construct and read, but they are ethically and aesthetically necessary. Without them we will be forgotten. Without them we are nothing on our way to nothing.

Aleksandar Hemon, 2012

“
And the angel of the LORD said unto her, Behold, thou art with child, and shalt bear a son, and shalt call his name Ishmael; because the LORD hath heard thy affliction.
”

—
THE FIRST BOOK OF MOSES

“
Thou makest us a byword among the heathen . . .
”

—
PSALM 44

For several days already, people had been whispering the news that she was going to attempt an escape before the camp was evacuated. Especially once (and this had happened five or six nights earlier) the thundering of artillery had first become audible in the distance. But then the whispering had died down somewhat
—
at least it seemed that way to her
—
since those three other women had been killed on the wire. One of them was Er
ž
ika Kon, who
’
d shared the same barracks.

That
’
s why all she could do now was listen intently to the cannon and wait for something to happen. She felt every bit as capable of doing something (if only she knew what it was
—
like, for example those lightbulbs that they knocked down with a stick last night as if they were pears dangling from the arbor in their garden, though it was only thanks to
Ž
ana that she was able to do that, thanks to being led by her, because it never would have occurred to her personally to smash lightbulbs and to think of it as anything other than an unnecessary risk, as suicide) as Polja probably felt, Polja who was now lying delirious next to her in the straw. Marija could only wait for
Ž
ana to tell her
now
(in the same way she had until now been saying
“
not yet,
”
or less than that, really: only
“
we
’
ll see
”
or
“
we
’
ll do something all right
”
), and then she
’
d take her child in her arms like a piece of luggage filled with valuables that one had to spirit unseen out the rear entrance right under the noses of the agents who knew that those purloined valuables were about to be removed and probably through that very door. And whenever
Ž
ana finally told her it was time, she would take that camouflaged and deliberately inconspicuous suitcase and walk with it through the cordon of agents and police officers, desperately resolved to pass unobserved and proceeding precisely as she
’
d been told and ordered to act, conscious of her obligation to her instructions, for in this moment (if something unforeseen were to occur), if someone came up to her from behind (let
’
s say) and tapped on her shoulder to ask her to show her bag, her only defense, the only one she could think up in time, would be to shield the precious bundle, the child, with her own body, perhaps harboring the secret and irrational hope into the bargain that the ground underneath her would open up in that moment and that she would find herself down below in some shadowy courtyard where, with a nod of his head, a
deus ex machina
would introduce himself to her: that would be Maks. For Maks, invisible and omnipresent, was going to appear and intervene decisively, and the fact that he had already committed himself to the escape
—
that much had been clear to her from the first instant. Actually from the time (and that was three evenings ago) that
Ž
ana had brought hope into the barracks, the hope concealed in her eyes, and she
’
d said in a whisper that
“
all is not lost.
”
And indeed all was not lost. Though Polja was lying in her delirium for a third day on account of malaria and people kept expecting them to come take her away at any moment; it was incomprehensible that they hadn
’
t taken her away that very first evening when she came back sick and feeble. Perhaps they were showing her (Polja) a little extra consideration on account of her playing cello in the prisoners
’
orchestra, right at the entrance to the gas chamber (or so people said) for such a long time; or else
—
and this was more likely
—
because of the rapid advance of the Allies and the booming of those heavy guns, ever nearer, forcing the commanders of the camp to postpone any further executions.

That evening
Ž
ana returned to the barracks a little late. It was a wet November night, ice cold, and the grim wind carried the worn and ill-tuned sounds of the prisoners
’
orchestra playing Beethoven
’
s
Eroica
as well as the camp tune
“
The Girl I Adore.
”
Polja was still babbling unintelligibly. In Russian. Dying. No one dared light a lamp and
Ž
ana made her way, groping, over to her bunk (she oriented herself by Polja
’
s death rattle). Marija feared that Polja, however, was beyond hearing. Then she freed her child from the straw and rags in which it was sleeping: a little wax doll. Marija didn
’
t dare get too close to Polja. She feared for her child. And for herself. His mother.

The sound of
Ž
ana
’
s steps reached her ears: this liberated her from thoughts of Polja. And then all at once it dawned on her with great conviction that something must have happened. Whatever it was that had held
Ž
ana up this long. A message from Jakob. Or from Maks. (
“
That Maks
”
was undoubtedly up to something. Present but invisible.) But
Ž
ana said nothing. Marija only heard her light, conspiratorial footsteps. (Suddenly this seemed extremely odd to her:
Ž
ana had still not taken off her boots.) Then the rustling of straw, the dull thud of her heavy boots shed, the rusty sound of the tin can of water, and once more the rustling of straw, this time over by Polja, and then: the slight clinking of Polja
’
s teeth against the can. Marija wanted, in vain, to give some sort of signal, to say something about Polja, not only to express her doubt that she could accompany them on their journey but also to say at last what both she and
Ž
ana had known since the first day Polja came back sick, the thing that hovered between them unstated but certain:
Polja is going to die
. But
Ž
ana emancipated Marija from that responsibility and she heard her give a whisper that was eerily like listening to another person give voice to your own newborn thought:

“
Elle va mourir
à
l
’
aube!
”
Ž
ana said.

Marija merely sighed in response. She felt her throat constricting. As if she were only now becoming aware
—
just now when
Ž
ana said it
—
of what she herself had already accepted since the day Polja had come back ill: she was going to die. Now Polja
’
s discordant rambling seemed more audible than the distant song of the big guns. That
’
s the reason Marija had wanted to start up a conversation with
Ž
ana and have her talk about the cannons, about Jakob, about the escape, ultimately about anything, just so that it would set her free from this nightmare and so that she wouldn
’
t hear Polja
’
s death rattle, so that she wouldn
’
t think about how even after she was dead nothing was going to happen, not now not afterward not in two or in two hundred twenty-two days
—
just as nothing had happened up to this point; no running away, no Jakob, no Maks, not even any cannons, nothing was going to happen except that same thing which was happening here and now to Polja: she was fading slowly, spluttering, as a candle gutters and goes out.

The rhythmic beaming of the floodlights that entered through a crack in the wall tore again and again, clawlike, at the darkness of the barracks, and Marija caught sight of
Ž
ana as she stood between a beam of light and the wall; she stepped into it as if to join the illumination and then disappeared again into the darkness. From there, out of that momentarily illuminated darkness, she could hear her voice, her whisper, which like a focused beam of light cut the silence:

“
Jan . . . How is Jan?
”

“
He went to sleep,
”
Marija answered.
“
He
’
s sleeping.
”
But that wasn
’
t what she
’
d thought she was going to hear from
Ž
ana, she
’
d expected something different, something completely different than the question
Jan . . . How is Jan?
and she was even certain that
Ž
ana had something else to say and it even seemed to her that when
Ž
ana greeted her in a whisper, and even before that point, when
Ž
ana had still only been thinking of speaking (and it had seemed to the listener that she knew exactly the instant when
Ž
ana would start to talk and shatter the silence), that she was going to say something else, for she had to say something completely different, something that (nevertheless) would not be unrelated to this issue; it even struck her now, suddenly (more from the pounding of her pulse than from an actual understanding), that the question
Jan . . . How is Jan?
didn
’
t differ in essence from the question that
Ž
ana really needed to ask. Thus
—
wondering whether it
’
s possible to give a whisper even a tiny measure of nuanced differentiation, but wanting nonetheless to make clear that she
’
s grasped the fact that
Ž
ana has something else to say, and that this answer of Marija
’
s is also nothing more than a preliminary
—
she gave
Ž
ana a status report:

“
I washed his diapers. Now I
’
m drying them. I stretched them out down there, and he
’
s lying on top of me, here,
”
as if
Ž
ana could see the slight signal from her hand with which she wanted to say: up here, on my chest.
“
That
’
s why I wasn
’
t in a position to do anything about Polja,
”
but she immediately regretted saying that, not because it wasn
’
t the truth, but because it seemed to her that doing so had sliced the thread and diverted
Ž
ana
’
s thoughts from what was important; or at least that doing so had postponed by a moment or so
Ž
ana
’
s saying what she still needed to say.

“
Poor Polja,
”
Ž
ana said; but it could just as well have been (at least so it seemed to her)
“
Poor Marija
”
or
“
Poor Jan
”
; and Marija became completely engrossed in the following thought: was it all the same whether
Ž
ana said
Poor Jan
or
Poor Marija
? For if that too were a matter of indifference, it would mean that nothing had happened and that nothing was happening.
Polja can
’
t go with us
: she pretended that she was thinking this for the first time and that she was only now grasping the gravity of the whole situation, but all she said was:

“
She didn
’
t regain consciousness the whole day.
”

Then
Ž
ana said:
“
It
’
s better for her . . . Understand?
”
Her opinion once more in four words of black crystal; and then immediately:
“
I
’
d like it to happen as soon as possible. Understand? As soon as possible.
”

Finally something had been said that retied the sliced thread into a knot and Marija sensed that this once again meant something, something different and something more than the bitter and straightforward truth
Polja is going to die
or
Polja will not be able to come with us
, for it also meant
We are going to go
or at least we will
attempt
it. And she rebelled against the slow birth of a truth already obvious and it seemed to her even a little bit hypocritical that not one of them would admit to herself that they had reconciled themselves to this truth
—
the fact that they would attempt an escape without Polja
—
and that this had already been decided and determined not by their wills or by common agreement but simply, terrifyingly and simply,
decided
and nothing else now remained for them to do beyond acquiescing (or not acquiescing, it was all the same) with this fact.

“
She won
’
t be able to come with us,
”
Marija said, attempting
—
even if she wasn
’
t conscious of it
—
to condense every part of the nightmare into this single sentence that she could get out in one breath the same way that one tries to choke down a bitter pill or poison with one swallow. So she said it hoping to help
Ž
ana say once and for all what she needed to say or to do what she had planned or was considering doing, but
Ž
ana watched doggedly through the crack in the plank, until she said, as if giving out a slightly altered echo of her own words:

“
That
’
s why I want it to happen as soon as possible. You understand: it
’
ll be easier,
”
but then she (Marija) wanted to completely unburden her conscience of these accusations that weighed heavier and heavier upon her and now upon
Ž
ana too and she thought,
Perhaps
Ž
ana is thinking something out right now and perhaps nothing has happened
but really things only gave her that impression because she wanted them to be that way, just as she likewise wanted something to happen because she knew that it wasn
’
t possible to wait any longer
—
the cannons were slowly demolishing the concrete parapet of passive anticipation and resignation to fate. But then
—
as soon as she heard
Ž
ana
’
s voice, to try to calm herself down, for she knew that she wouldn
’
t be able to get to sleep tonight, at least not until
Ž
ana said what she was thinking
—
she said: