A squad has raided one of the small farms about four miles from the wetlands. It was a difficult raid but without injuries. The men came back with a big haul, including several bottles of vodka, fresh bread, sugar, salt, and many other staples. We wanted to celebrate and thank them, but the fighters were exhausted and collapsed in their wet clothes.
Toward evening they finally recovered and told us that they had gotten lost on the way to the farm, got stuck in a swamp and got out with great difficulty, but once they were out, they were not far from the farm. They woke the farmers and asked them to contribute what they could out of goodwill. The farmers opened their cupboards and pantries, and it looked like they were ready to cooperate. But suddenly one of them pulled a gun from his belt and began shooting. There was no choice but to eliminate him.
Every raid is an encounter with death and with miracles, and there were raids that left us with a horror that we feel to this day. So far, I have participated in only three raids. Kamil feels that I am still young, and my place for now is with the ambushes and patrols. He’s wrong; I’ve gotten stronger in recent months, and I have subdued the fears that troubled me. Now I am trained and quick, and I can do everything my comrades in the raiding squads do, with the same effectiveness.
I’m planning to speak to Kamil soon and ask him to include me in all missions. Kamil knew my father and mother, and sometimes he mentions them. I hope this acquaintance will not prevent him from sending me on daring missions. Without actual raids, I will come out of this war in a state of depression. Kamil needs to understand that.
ONE OF THE RAIDERS appeared to have lost his mind—a tall, handsome guy named Sontag. At first he seemed pleased with the success of the raid, downed two glasses of vodka, and joked about the farmers who tried to outwit the squad. All that was fine, but suddenly he got up and declared, “Long live the People of Israel! No power on earth can defeat them. Moses and Aaron will lead them as they led the Children of Israel in the desert.” From then on he spoke garbled sentences in various languages, recited from memory poems by Heine and Rilke, and blamed his brothers in the ghetto for not heeding his warnings and joining him. Finally, he shouted at Kamil, “Let us avenge our spilled blood!” There was a certain grandeur to his cry, as if he had freed himself from handcuffs that bound him.
Salo got down on his knees, spoke to Sontag gently, and promised him that Kamil would do everything to lead us to victory—meanwhile putting a spoonful of sedative syrup to his lips. Sontag opened his mouth like an agreeable child and swallowed the bitter liquid. He soon lay down and fell asleep.
In the end, there are no raids without injuries. For this reason the joy is incomplete. Tsila tries to overcome the sadness; she works morning, noon, and night. The pots are on the fire, and food and drink are always available. She’s a first-rate cook who makes delicacies out of nothing. It’s no wonder that everyone is nice to her and gladly does what she asks. She gives bigger portions to fighters, and when they go out on raids, she makes them sandwiches and fills their canteens with sweetened water. For children and old people she prepares a special menu. Danzig brings Milio to her, and she makes him a puree of apple or pear.
Milio has been with us for several months. His face has filled out and his eyes are alert, but his mouth is still mute. Danzig reports that now and then he utters a sound, a syllable, and sometimes even a word of sorts. Many agree with Danzig that the child seems to possess special abilities that the rest of us lack. For example, Milio is only two, but he throws and catches a ball with ease and plays jacks.
“What do you mean by ‘special abilities’?” asks one of the fighters.
Danzig is a bit embarrassed by the question but overcomes his embarrassment and says, “Look into his eyes, and you’ll see that he comprehends more than you and I do.”
“Maybe so,” says the man and falls silent.
When Danzig goes on a mission, he leaves Milio with Tsila. Hermann Cohen set up a secure cradle for him between two trees, and Tsila doesn’t take her eyes off him. When Danzig gets back, she says, “I’m returning your deposit.”
That’s how our life goes here. But there are also moments of great emotion. Last night in a waking dream I saw my father as I had not seen him for a long time: sitting at the table on the balcony, a Singer company brochure open before him. But he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at the garden.
Our garden isn’t big, but it’s full of miracles. Mama takes care of it. It has two cherry trees, an apple tree, and a pear tree. The trees are no longer young, but they blossom every year and bear fruit. The vegetables grow in two rows beside the trees: cucumbers, peas, tomatoes, onions. Every vegetable gets its own special treatment from Mama. Once she placed a basketful of cherries on the table and said, “Enjoy, children.” I was momentarily surprised that she called us both children. She sat beside us and said, in a voice I hadn’t heard before, “Shouldn’t we make a blessing over this beautiful fruit that grew in our garden?”
Our garden makes Mama into a wondrous creature. It fills her with silence and awe, and in the evening, when she serves dinner, her eyes go wide, as if seeing us in a new light.
As Papa sits alone on the balcony and looks at the garden, he concentrates fully, seeking to absorb Mama’s handiwork. The longer he sits, the more focused his gaze.
And then he suddenly pulls away, looks around, and seems to understand that Mama’s world is beyond his reach, his attempt to fathom it futile. His face slowly relaxes, and a thin smile graces his lips; he’s like a man who tried to penetrate a world not his own and came up with nothing. He stays at the table a long time. The smile grows smaller but doesn’t disappear.