The Glatstein Chronicles (27 page)
“Aachen!” said the German, still standing beside me, his lips pressed together. Each time a hand went up before him, he automatically raised his. Everyone in the train was startled by this sudden invasion, no one said a word. All this lifting of arms looked like a religious ritual, a kind of sign of the cross to bid one another “Good morning.” The German stationed himself between me and the Hitler Youth as if he wanted to shield me from the joy of the victors.
My first reaction wasn’t rage but childish surprise, that what I had only read or heard about I was seeing with my own eyes. I thought of New York, where giant rallies were being held, protesting these very salutes, and here I had spanned the magical distance and come face to face with the actuality. In New York everything that I was now seeing was remote, imagined; here, it was palpably real. A foolish thought insinuated itself: So must China, Japan, and India also be real. The only wondrous thing about them is their distance. One need only travel to get to everything that one has taken on faith.
It occurred to me that I had experienced something similar when I once sat in the courtroom at a sensational murder trial and saw for myself the two defendants, who had been so deeply in love that, together, they did away with someone who had stood in their path. Until that time, I had been one of the many thousands who had only seen newspaper photos of the “beautiful” murderess. Now, in the courtroom, I saw the real face and heard the two lovers speaking in drowsy voices. The man of the pair was a short, hunched figure, with cheeks so ruddy that he looked as if he had been made up for the role. His partner in love and crime sat nearby, her face flushed, her hair disheveled. The “beautiful” murderess was well into middle age. Who would kill even a cat for her? During a recess, as she was led out of the courtroom, I noticed her tiny, dainty feet and wide hips. Only later, after leaving the courtroom, did I realize that I had seen two living corpses.
With the same realization, I now regarded the young, blond youths and their outstretched arms. At first, it was hard for me to see past the childish theatrics and to connect them to the passionate anger of the New York rallies. But I soon understood that along with everything else I had heard about, it must also be true that these young men had dragged men and women from their homes with the same theatrical joy to God knows where, tortured them, and kicked them in the face. I was now in the land of hell. I still felt no hatred, but my face began to burn, out of helplessness. Should I get up and make a speech, an impassioned speech? Shouldn’t I at least interrupt the celebration and cry out: “I am a Jew”? No great courage required for that from a Jew with an American passport in his pocket! The army of swastika-decorated youth grew noisier and merrier. I sought protection in the shelter of my German, but just then I caught him with an upraised arm, responding to a “Heil.”
While the train was standing in the next station, I got off in search of further instances of Nazi reality, but there were none to be seen. The small-town station looked no different from any other of its kind—porters pushing carts piled high with baggage over rattling cobblestones; conductors sitting on train steps, sunning themselves; small groups of people, talking among themselves. I searched for a Jewish face. A proud, good-looking girl, with serious eyes, so serious that they seemed almost angry and unfriendly, was walking back and forth on the platform. She appeared to be about sixteen or seventeen, yet a world of sorrows showed on her face. She walked proudly, head high, a rare blend of youth and seriousness. It was impossible to look at her with the same sheepish stare one usually casts at a young girl. She would probably return it with a disdainful sneer at your frivolity, out of eyes that looked older than yours. Yet it would be some accomplishment if you could ignite a spark of joy in those sad and clever eyes. A tall, older woman, dressed all in black, came over and took the young girl by the arm. The two walked silently back and forth. Were they Jewish?
My German was also pacing the platform. He now looked much shorter, as if he had shrunk. He was somewhat ashamed to look me in the face and followed me like a shadow. Several times he caught up with me and looked up at me with sorrowful, cowlike eyes. He wanted to see whether he and I could still talk. He shrugged his shoulders, gave a helpless wave of the hand, and furrowed his brow, as if to say, “What can a person do?” When the train started moving again, we sat together at a small table in the dining car. The train rocked. A fat, uniformed German walked up and down, carrying a huge, metal platter heaped with hot food, which he portioned out to each diner. He didn’t look at all like a man, but rather like a heavyset woman; even his creased face resembled that of an old, faithful female cook. After serving everybody, he passed by again, giving out second helpings with womanly solicitude. My German and I sat across from each other. He ordered a bottle of wine and poured me some, too. I was heavy-hearted and didn’t touch it.
The dining car looked like a homey country restaurant, with its simple food and fat waiter. My table companion was urging me to eat and drink and, as if answering my thoughts, carried on a running commentary on the timeless things in life, which “will remain forever”—the friendly atmosphere of restaurants, the human warmth that will triumph, vanquishing all the sorrows, which will disappear. “Eat some more,” he said. “Have another drink.” But I felt a constriction in my throat, as if somebody had his hands around my neck, not quite choking me, but about to do so. I still felt the same way later, when my German was leaving the train and gave me a warm farewell, again declaring that everything will yet be all right. I wanted to ask how that could be if one and all were raising their arms in the Nazi salute, but I felt sorry for him. He kept repeating: “
Danke schön, danke schön
. Thank you.”
That was how I felt the whole time the train was puffing its way across German soil, as did the few other Jewish passengers, who sat playing cards, not even looking out the windows. Berlin, however, aroused some curiosity. When the train stopped there, we got off to look around, treading with cautious steps, as if we had no right of residence and we were there illegally.
Toward evening, the fat, rich, cultivated fields began to disappear, giving way to lean, neglected patches of ground, their green less green, their soil’s blackness less black, their rows less orderly, their plantings scattered helter-skelter. Two thin deer, paralyzed by fear, stood gazing at the train. Only when it rushed past them did they spring away, with remarkable gracefulness, dancing on their forelegs, their hind legs seemingly suspended in air. By now night had blackened the train’s windows completely, and when several slightly built, narrow-shouldered conductors put in an appearance and the first words of Polish were heard, my heart lightened. The hand that had been squeezing my throat vanished, and the strange conductors, who somehow managed to look like Shabbes-goyim, those Gentiles hired to perform tasks forbidden to Jews on the Sabbath, made me feel closer to home. Incomprehensible!
A middle-aged woman, festooned with diamond earrings and bracelets, who had let me know that she was a wealthy widow on a visit to pay respects to family graves, squeezed into the seat beside me. With the appearance of night, her burning eyes looked half-crazed. She pressed one passionate leg against mine, and I could only thank God that there were other people in the compartment. Otherwise, who knows what might have happened to me with that insistent widow, there, on the border between Germany and Poland. “I’m a free spirit,” she said to me, winking like a man. “When it comes to love, I don’t think about the hereafter.” The other passengers were now stretched out on the hard benches. I was afraid to fall asleep, because it was clear that my neighbor was lying in wait, with half-open eyes. I lay curled up in a ball, not daring to move. It took a while, but the widow finally succumbed to sleep, crashing like an old building that had strained to stay erect beyond its capacity to do so. Once down, she let herself go altogether. She began to moan and groan in old-lady fashion, then, abandoning all restraint, broke into snores, like a full orchestra. After that rousing performance, she lapsed into silent sleep, as still as a lamb. It was hard to believe that this serene old creature was the same woman who, not long before, had breathed fire and seduction.
It seems that I must have fallen asleep as well, because when I next opened my eyes, I heard the conductor calling out: “Zgersz! Zgersz!” I stood up with a start. Zgersz! For me that meant only one thing, the home of my brother Binyomin and my brother Marcus. Zgersz … Binyomin … Marcus. I ran over to the window; maybe I’d catch a glimpse of their familiar faces. The train didn’t stop. I dropped back into my seat and fell under the rubber wheels of a dream that drove relentlessly over my aching bones. In my phantasmagoria, I had fallen into a deep well and lay at the bottom, drowning. I was certain that I would be saved—but who knew when? It must have been several hours before I opened my eyes.
The train raced past tumbledown huts. Peasants followed our progress with sad, sleepy eyes. Barefoot peasant women stood like madonnas, with babes in their arms, holding them up to us, as if pleading: “Here, take our children, lighten our burden.” The babes in their mothers’ arms had the same sad eyes as the old peasants. The wheels rolled ever faster, accompanied by the entreating looks of the peasants—“Bread!” The clacking wheels were condemned to repeat the plaintive request—“Bread-bread-bread.”
Blackened chimneys … smoke … soot … and then the conductor’s incredible call, “Warsaw!”
The coachman pulled on the reins, and the scraggy little horse pranced off with the shaking carriage in tow. The Warsaw streets were still half-asleep. It was already hot, unusual for so early in the day. Exhausted from my day and a half on the train, I curled up next to my bundles. The streets rolled by with uncommon strangeness. My head felt heavy and I kept lifting it up in an effort to stay awake. It seemed as if I had worn myself out these past twenty years waiting for this moment, and now that the moment had finally arrived, I was too spent to greet it properly.
The past few sleepy, rackety early morning hours on Polish soil had left me troubled and confused. My brain was awash with the sort of dream you have when, after first waking up, you fall back asleep, and return to what you were dreaming before you awakened. This time I strove, consciously, to re-create the details of the dream in all its illogical import. My brain being in the weakened state that it was, everything that had been part of the dream now, willy-nilly, assumed an unwelcome order, its bits and pieces taking on the completed aspect of a full-fledged composition. It proved too difficult to translate the hieroglyphics of the dream into understandable language, but everything that in the dream was misty and formless now, in my drowsy condition, became tangible, solid shapes with hard edges. The original dream was as lively as an anthill, but in its repeat performance, I brushed the anthill aside, and incidents from various corners of my past life came rushing in.
The undercurrent of the dream was a vague fear of impending destruction. Church bells were tolling, deep-toned Russian booms, lighter Polish chimings, as someone with a twisted stick, like a branch, raced through the main street of the Jewish quarter, banging on all the shops to warn against desecrating the Sabbath. Businesses shut down in sleepy obedience and a fearful silence descended on the closed stores and the empty, shadowy street. In the midst of all the grand Russian Orthodox cathedrals and their less imposing Catholic neighbors stood the half-fallen Jewish prayer-study house. The street leading to this holy place was dark, and from inside its walls emerged the spirited refrains of the Friday-night hymn—“Come, my beloved, to meet the Sabbath bride.” “Come … come” … the invitations scurried over the little synagogue’s threshold, like frisky kittens. A tall water carrier approached with slow, heavy steps in the company of a shorter Jew. Clearly, this was the Hasidic rebbe, renowned as “the steel head” for his acuity, yet it was he who looked up reverentially at the taller man. “Rebbe,” he said to the water carrier, “you know how to stop evil. Are you going to allow this punishment—allow the destroyer to obliterate this entire community of Jews?”
“Don’t call me ‘rebbe,’” snapped the stoop-shouldered water carrier, ordinarily a submissive soul. “Berish the water carrier will never let anybody put a rebbe’s fur hat on his head. Don’t try to pass your authority onto me. I won’t allow it.” But it was the smaller man’s turn to rage. He spoke in a taut whisper. “If you play at modesty you leave ordinary Jews without a shepherd, with no one to turn to for counsel. The Destroyer is at the gates, and you amuse yourself with humility?” The water carrier’s shoulders sagged, as if they had just assumed the heaviest burden of the day. He doubled up in pain and leaned against the smoking lamp post, sobbing quietly.
The lively Sabbath greetings kept issuing from the prayer house, little black and gray kittens that rolled down the darkened street. “Come, my beloved, to meet the Sabbath bride … come … come.” The church bells tolled piously, and the town clock sounded the midnight hour. Then two pairs of heavy boots appeared on the muddy road leading into town. They stopped at the far side of the cemetery, just before the city gate. A sickly sun provided the watery sky with some semblance of daylight. The two were now certain that they had reached the outskirts of town and allowed themselves the pleasure of resting. The taller of the pair, a man with a flaming red beard and tiny, green eyes, sighed deeply and began tugging at his torn wadded coat. The shorter man, who reached only to his companion’s belt, had a gray, strawlike beard and red cheeks, like frozen apples. He wouldn’t let go of the tall man’s hand, despite the latter’s efforts to free himself. The tall man let out a roar, and the little one pinched his hand so hard that the giant began to bellow, until his nose ran. When I heard the wailing, I recognized who it was—Crazy Abush.
It wasn’t yet fully day, but already the mischief makers were out in force, splashing barefoot in the puddles. When they caught sight of the two men leaning against the city gate, they whooped, “Crazy Abush is here,” their merry shouts resounding down the length of the road. Meanwhile, a little boy with pious cheeks was on his way to heder to begin his studies for the day. He carried a warm roll spread with melted butter, a bag of sour cherries, and, in his pocket, a two-kopek coin for an after-school treat. The boy was so familiar I wanted to cry. He stopped when he saw Abush, broke off a bit of roll, and extended his hand. When Abush tried to grab hold of the offering, the boy prompted him quietly with the opening words of the High Holiday recitation: “
Ve-khoyl ma’aminim
—And all believe … ” Abush’s green eyes lit up. He began to sway to and fro, in proper prayer fashion, and through clenched lips intoned the liturgy, mixing Hebrew and Yiddish:
