The Testament (5 page)

Please don’t tell me that is natural; don’t tell me Jews like to suffer. We are not so stupid. If I feel tenderness for an old man who once used to hurt me, it is surely not because I love pain but because I love knowledge. I would even say that, at the time, I hated Reb Gamliel, the man and all he stood for—education by fear, forced study, stifling prisons where words were suffused with hostility, a hostility that scarred our minds.

Every evening I came home in tears. But I let myself go only in front of my mother. Since my father often stayed late in the store—he sold piece goods—I had an hour or
two to wipe away the traces of my torment. To calm me down my mother would sing sad lullabies: A Jewish child goes to sleep with a goat under his cradle and receives the tears of a sweet, lovely widow called Zion.… And my mother would tell me, “Learn these words that make you dream today; tomorrow you’ll make them sing.”

Little by little I grew accustomed to the rhythm of that life: I would cry during the day, and smile in the evening. That lasted two years, two years of pain and repressed anger. The twenty-two letters of the alphabet mocked me; they fought me and I had to tame them.

When I left Reb Gamliel for a more learned teacher, I realized I was not to be free of fear; it clung to my body, to my life. And I understood I was not the only one to endure it; my parents too were marked by it, and their friends, and all the other Jews in our town; all were victims of fear. All were afraid, not of Reb Gamliel, of course, but of the world surrounding us, the world whose dark threat made Reb Gamliel himself tremble.

A recollection: Christmas Eve. Sent home in the early afternoon, before prayers, I ask my mother why. This night, and until the following morning, she explains, it is forbidden to study our holy texts. Why? She does not know. Taking my courage in both hands, I ask my father, who knows everything:

“This is the night,” he answers, “when a curse passes over us; it’s better not to expose our secret treasures.”

Later I learned that on Christmas Eve, throughout Christendom, the enemies of the Jews would chase them in the streets to punish them in the name of their Lord, in the name of His love; it was more prudent not to go to school or to the Houses of Study and prayer; prudence obliged Jews to stay at home.

I was growing up, maturing, understanding better: being a Jew in a Christian world meant to know and become
accustomed to fear. Fear of heaven as well as fear of man. Fear of death and fear of life—fear of everything that breathed outside, of everything being plotted on the other side. An obscure threat hung over each and every one of us. Now it was becoming more precise, taking shape. I was going to witness my first pogrom, I was going to live through it, survive it. My age? I don’t recall, I remember only that it was before the First World War.

I especially remember the day, shortly before Passover, when my father, looking distraught, appeared unexpectedly in my class and took the teacher aside. It was clear he was giving him bad news, because the teacher decided once more to close the
heder
for the day. He sighed: “Oh God, Oh God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, have pity on their children and on yours, have pity.”

Bewildered, we gazed at him. All those hours of freedom, what a gift! We had already begun rejoicing when my father brought us back to reality.

“Go home,” he said, “run fast; God willing, you’ll come back tomorrow.”

I took his hand and followed him quickly. I had never seen him walk so fast. My mother was in the courtyard, holding a broom; she was beginning to make preparations for Passover. She saw us, and with her free hand covered her mouth to suppress a cry: she had understood everything.

“Where are the girls?” my father asked.

“Inside.”

“Let them stay there. We shut down the school,” he added.

“And the shop?”

“Also shut. Everything must be shut.”

My mother did not look surprised; for her it was not the first time.

It was around noon. A splendid April day. Trees in bloom; a feast of fragrance and color. Blue sky flecked
with white; a golden sun, full of promise. Far off, the parks in all their freshness. And the river, serene and luminous. And in the midst of it all, a small, brutal and barbarous word—pogrom—ringing out like the scream of a mangled woman heralding visions of disemboweled bodies and smashed skulls. Yes, Citizen Magistrate, it must have been noon on one of those spring days when man feels in harmony with Creation. And Barassy was beautiful. Never shall I forget the beauty of Barassy, the serenity of Krasnograd on that day.

Nothing about that day shall I ever forget.

My father called my older sister, Masha: “Would you run an errand for me?”

“Of course, Father.”

“You’re not afraid?”

“No, Father. Anyway, it’s less dangerous for a woman. Where would you like me to go?”

“Hurry over to the House of Study; tell the out-of-town students, those who have no place to go, to come here.”

Masha left and brought back three young men, one of whom—a whim of fate—was to become her husband.

Standing in the bedroom—where, I remember, an old painting of the Western Wall hung above the two beds separated by a night table—my father revealed his plan:

“We have five or six hours—let’s put them to good use. The main thing is to remain cool. God willing, we shall get through the ordeal safe and sound.”

“What will you do, Reb Gershon?” asked Masha’s future husband. “Put up barricades? Do you really think, Reb Gershon, that bolted doors will stop the murderers?”

“Let’s prepare to die like good Jews,” cried his friend Senderl, a thin, intense-looking adolescent. “Let’s be worthy of our ancestors!”

“Have you a plan?” asked the third student. “A plan to stop the murderers?”

My father listened patiently, stroking his beard, which
he wore trimmed short, and thought for a long moment before answering:

“My friends, God alone can and will stop the murderers. Or disarm them. Or strike them with blindness and deafness. As in Egypt long ago. Who are we to give Him advice? He knows what to do. As for us, listen. With God’s help, here’s what we’re going to do.…”

We opened all the drawers, all the closets; we scattered dishes, silver and clothing all over the floor in order to give the impression that we had taken to our heels in the grip of panic. Having thus set the stage, we went out into the courtyard surreptitiously and one by one filed into the barn. My father lifted a floorboard and made us descend a narrow ladder. After joining us, he carefully put the board back in place. In the semi-darkness I saw spiderwebbed beams and old furniture. Perspiring, my father pushed everything together to block the opening; we helped as best we could. He wiped his face.

“God willing, the enemy won’t find us; we must have faith.”

The enemy, the enemy. I tried to visualize him. Egyptians in the time of Pharaoh. Looters in the time of Haman. Crusaders in the shadow of icons, their faces twisted by hate. The enemy never changes. Nor does the Jew. Nor does God Himself, thank God.

A few sunbeams made their way into our shelter. Instinctively we drew away: if the sun could get to us, so too might the enemy. If only we could make ourselves invisible …

God willing, everything is possible—God willing. Those were the only words my father had on his lips. He had faith; he was convinced that the Divine Will would prevail. But how determine what God wants or doesn’t want? If the enemy were to discover us, would that mean God wanted him to? Endless questions swarmed in my childish
head, but I had no right to ask them. I had to keep quiet, breathe without a sound, enveloped by silence, my senses on the alert. At that time I still didn’t know, Citizen Magistrate, that silence too could turn into torture. I thought of that in this very place a few weeks, or a few months, or a few eternities ago, when you deemed it useful and profitable to lock me up in the “isolator.” Silence as a source and harborer of hostility and danger: the density of silence, its pressure, its violence—all seemed familiar to me. Except that in that dusty hideaway in Barassy, now Krasnograd, I was not alone, and that the enemy back there was an enemy of long standing.

I remember the silence towering like a wall, separating the two sides. I remember the silence going beyond its own limits and becoming omnipresent, becoming God.

Desolate streets. Closed shutters. Drawn curtains. Night in full daylight. Here and there a cat walked lazily about, followed by a thousand invisible eyes. A horse whinnied, and a thousand ears listened. A board creaked, and a thousand throats went dry. As did mine.

The hours went by, slowly, heavily, unnerving. Waiting for danger, anticipating disaster—do you know what that is like, Citizen Magistrate? Do you know what it is to wait for the massacre, you who never wait?

My mother distributed some small rolls she had managed to prepare, I don’t know when. The three students ate heartily. My father didn’t. Nor did I or my sisters.

Later, when the sun disappeared, my father whispered, “Time for
minha.
”

The men recited the prayer in voices so low I could hear nothing. The darkness became total and I touched my mother’s arm to make sure she had not abandoned me.

“Paltiel! Say the
Shema Yisrael!”
my father commanded under his breath. “You’re not to leave God just because the enemy is close.”

I obeyed. I knew that prayer by heart—I still do—having recited it every morning and evening. Reb Gamliel claimed it chased demons away—we would see, soon enough.

Strange sounds, begotten and expelled by silence, were approaching the Jewish quarter. Suddenly we all froze. My heart—or was it my father’s?—was beating so loud it threatened to wake the whole city. The unknown was going to be revealed to us, the unknown was going to take hold of my imagination and never let it go. I was going to learn what men are capable of. Their madness was going to burst into our universe: black and hateful, a savage madness thirsting for blood and murder. It was approaching slowly, cunningly, with measured steps, like a pack of wild beasts encircling a victim already overcome by terror.

And then, madness broke loose. A primeval shriek slashed the silence and the shadows:
Death to the Jews!
and it was taken up by countless throats, until it echoed through the city and beyond the forests to the farthest reaches of the earth. It penetrated trees and stones, rivers and rocks, hell and paradise; groaning or sneering angels and beasts transmitted it, offering it up to the celestial throne in remembrance of an adventure that had come to an end, of a failure on the scale of Creation … 
Death to the Jews!
Suddenly these four words, among all the words used by men, meant something, something real, immediate, true. As I listened to them, endured them, felt them ravage my brain, my ears rang, my eyes burned, I ached all over. I could not control my trembling. I clung to my mother, who held me close. She too began shivering. I would have liked to feel my father’s hand on my head, but he was too far away. Just as well: I would have been ashamed to admit my weakness to him. Anyway, what good would it have done? Much better to hide. To be paralyzed, or dead. My teeth chattered and I was sure they made more noise than the pogrom outside.

It had already reached our street: the harrowing shrieks, the cries of terror and the death rattles. And the roaring of the pillagers, the murderers, the strippers of corpses. Their hatred, their joy were unfurling over our homes. Who was still living, who had ceased to live? I kept thinking of the prayers for the Day of Atonement: someone—was it God?—was reviewing his records, checking off one name here, erasing another there.

The turmoil was coming nearer and nearer; here it was in our courtyard, inside our house. Chaos—smashed windows, broken dishes, wardrobes hacked to bits with hatchets:
Death to the Jews, Death to the Jews!
The voice of an enraged drunkard: “Hey, Yids, where are you hiding? Come out, let’s look at your ugly faces. They’ve run away! Ah, the cowards! The rats!” Another voice: “They’re worse than—worse than wild animals. There must be more silver!” First voice: “That’s what they’re like, those Yids. That’s all they’re interested in—money and silver!” Another voice: “To do that to us!” Another voice: “Or maybe—” Another voice: “Maybe what?” “Maybe Ivan’s boys were here ahead of us?”

They ransacked the house and then went out bellowing like savages. They were about to leave the courtyard and take care of the next house when one of them caught sight of the barn and yelled to his followers, “Hey, boys, let’s take a look in there.” They entered, torches in hand, they peered into the dark corners, turned the wheelless cart upside down, tore apart a sack of potatoes, then a sack of dried nuts. Stubbornly, the leader climbed as far as the loft and came down again, disappointed. He flung himself down on the floor, listened, and then yelled: “Hey, you Yids, come out! Show yourselves! Don’t be cowards, show your dirty faces.…”

We could almost smell his breath. My teeth would not stop chattering, my eyes bulged, the blood throbbed in my head, and an iron fist kept pounding, pounding in my
chest, preventing me from breathing, from living. I wanted to scream in terror, in pain, in anguish.… But my father stretched his arm out toward me and put a finger on my lips with a pressure as gentle and soothing as my mother’s lullabies: You must not, you must not give in, you must not moan, you must not even blink; you must merge into the night, melt away into the silence, into oblivion. And for one interminable moment, the enemy, nose to the ground, alert to the slightest sound, seeking out the smallest crack in the floor, the enemy was the sole inhabitant of heaven and earth.

Then the pack retreated. We waited before opening our mouths. My mother, in a murmur: “Is everyone all right?”

Everyone was all right. Masha’s future husband exclaimed, “It’s a miracle! A real miracle, Reb Gershon. They were there, right there, and God made them deaf and blind.…”

… “And us He made mute,” said another student.

“… Like Egypt, long ago,” my future brother-in-law went on. “Thank you, Reb Gershon, for having brought about this miracle!”