We went on our way loaded with books and supplies. We hadn’t touched a book for a long time. Our inching across the hills and the exhausting search for food had distanced us from ourselves. Among the books we carried off was Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, reminding me that I did not complete my matriculation exams and would have to be tested when the war was over. Oddly, this familiar book did not move me. Life in the unit, the training, the raids fill me to the brim. At night I drop to the ground and sleep without dreams.
Kamil was emotional and said, “A great treasure has fallen into our hands. Let us try to be worthy of it. Life without books is a crippled life. Now we will replace what is missing.”
That same night we drank the wine we took in the raid and sang our hearts out. No wonder the guards didn’t get up on time for duty. Kamil complained but did not get angry.
That same week we were introduced to the religious teachings of the Ba’al Shem Tov in the book edited by Martin Buber. Kamil told us that the Besht, as he was known, the founder of Hasidism, walked these very hills, where he meditated and conceived his teachings. “What a privilege for us,” he said.
Even this excitement did not escape criticism. Every word out of Kamil’s mouth is examined under a magnifying glass: Why is he using the word “privilege”?
Kamil, like most of us, is not an expert in Jewish texts, but his curiosity about all things Jewish makes him a man filled with wonder. On one evening, one of our rationalists said, not without sorrow, that Judaism was beyond our reach. It’s an ancient, complex culture, and if one is not exposed to it from childhood, its iron gates refuse to open. You read one book and another book, and you understand how far you are from understanding.
Kamil disagreed. Martin Buber, he argued, is the guide for the perplexed of our generation. His books I and Thou and Tales of the Hasidim, which we brought from that wondrous house, can illuminate the soul. There were those among us who argued that Buber beautified Judaism, put cosmetics on its face in order to find favor with German Jews, but let’s put that aside for now.
SHORTLY THEREAFTER we were discovered by a patrol of Ukrainian collaborators who opened fire on us. Two of our comrades were wounded. Luckily, one of our own patrols was coming back at the same time and quickly joined us, and we returned fire. The hostile patrol was forced to retreat, leaving behind one dead and an automatic rifle.
The enemy does not relent: the next day we again encountered a hostile patrol, but we were ready for it and fought back. So it was, every few days. The Germans are stubborn and fight us fiercely. With good reason, Kamil decided that we had to leave the hills and advance into the wetlands.
But now it’s different: we have books. Hermann Cohen, a short man with a sunny disposition, is in charge of equipment and lends each comrade a book. A thorough survey indicated that most of the books have to do with Judaism. Apparently the owner of that library was a man of broad horizons who chose his books carefully. It’s hard to know if he was religiously observant. I imagine him to be a tall, good-natured man who stands in the doorway of his home as evening falls and looks at the trees and their falling leaves. The big leaves, red and yellow, refuse to wilt, their colors growing stronger by the hour. This pleases him, and he decides to go into his big house and turn on the lights.
It’s strange what a bundle of books can do. Our temporary base, every canvas tent a sign of impermanence, has suddenly changed, as if distant visions, quiet and calm, have arrived as our guests.
You pick up a book and you are at home, with your parents. The lamp is lit, and you are completely immersed in the book. Papa, a lawyer who represents the famous Singer sewing machine company among others, has just received a new catalogue and is studying it excitedly.
Mama is fixing a late afternoon snack. Dostoevsky’s book fascinates me so much that I don’t hear her voice calling me to come and taste what she’s made. When I finally pry myself away from the book, I want to say, Why did you pluck me away from these amazing scenes?, but I restrain myself so she won’t feel bad.
Salo, our chief medic, who saw his uncle’s stolen home with his own eyes, doesn’t talk about what he saw. His every gesture says, I am doing what I have to do at this time. I must not succumb to grief. One of the wounded, whose bandage Salo changed in the middle of the night, called him “a lover of mankind.” Salo quickly shrugged off that label. “I do my duty. It’s not exceptional.” Once I heard him say, “My uncle Herzig is a hearty man, just like his name, and his house was not only full of lamps but filled with inner light. Now he is a prisoner in one of the camps and who knows if I’ll see him again.”
KAMIL HAS ESTABLISHED a new routine, evenings of study. We are in the land of the Ba’al Shem Tov and his followers. Here he walked, meditated, searched for God, and through his students conveyed his Torah teachings to us, and this is a perfect moment to get to know them.
Once a week we make time for Torah. This new arrangement is not acceptable to everyone. Some have reservations or even object. “If there is a purpose to our being here,” Kamil explains, “it is to become aware of ourselves, of parents and grandparents and their faith. Hopefully we can shake free of fixed opinions and prejudices and open our eyes to see not only what we usually see but also what we are prevented from seeing.”