Kamil and Felix prepare us for a long, arduous stay, a period that will change us. I work hard to excel in training, to get stronger and someday be a squad commander. But there are days when I feel alone, forgotten, lost in the darkness that wraps around us like a thick robe that does not keep us warm. At those times I feel that our inner journey is a process of forgetting and that soon I won’t remember anything that was once mine.
But opportunities for such thoughts are limited. Last night we went on a raid a few miles from the base. It was a big and complicated raid, and I took part. At first we were able to circumvent a dangerous swamp, but later we found ourselves trapped in thick reeds that enclosed us on all sides. Squad commander Danzig, a superb navigator, maintained his wits, and we finally found a strip of land that led us to a mountain ridge and a pair of houses on which our patrols had gathered much intelligence.
The information was this: In the big, elongated house live the parents and their younger son. In the adjacent house live the older son, his wife, and his two small children.
The raid was swift and took them by surprise. We conducted a search and took what we needed from the cupboards. The mother fainted from the shock. One of us spoke to her gently and promised her that when victory comes she will merit special consideration for supporting the freedom fighters.
The woman roused herself and cried out, “Bless you, bless you, brothers, may God protect you in all your endeavors.” The married son at first refused to cooperate, but in the end he did as he was ordered and showed us the way to the storeroom.
We stocked up on supplies: sugar, salt, dried fruit, dairy products, wheat flour, and corn flour. We returned to base observing all the rules of retreat: those who carried the goods walked first, and the others protected them on high alert. More than one mission has failed on the way back. Now we are extra careful.
We returned before dawn, exhausted and filthy, but I was proud of myself. It pains me that my parents aren’t here to take pride in me. The booty we took was very valuable. Kamil went from fighter to fighter and hugged each one.
Afterward, we were graced by sunshine that warmed me and dried my clothes somewhat. I slept till late afternoon. In my sleep I was at home, leaning over the blue ceramic stove. Through the curtain of sleep, I heard my father wanting to know what had happened to me since he’d last seen me, but Mama didn’t let him wake me up. When I woke up, the day was fading and growing cold, but the heat of the ceramic stove felt good, and I was happy that my parents, the house, and the stove were still standing.
All of a sudden, the spirit came over Kamil, and he spoke about our forefathers and the God of our forefathers, with whom we must connect. Denial had eroded our best qualities, Kamil said, and we had reached rock bottom. We couldn’t believe our ears. He didn’t seem like the commander who had led us through hostile forests and strangling swamps but like a spiritual leader flooded with faith.
The veteran fighters do not think as Kamil does. A thin trail of fog always accompanies his words. But there are people who interpret his states of mind as wings that propel his bold actions. Now he is talking more and more about denial, alienation, abandoning the wellsprings of life, international movements that eat us up inside. Without our forefathers and the God of our forefathers, our lives hang by a thread.
This tall and powerful man—who leads his soldiers in daring raids, who knows the map of this region like the palm of his hand—is transformed at night, when he is joined to words and phrases whose sounds frighten us.
Tonight Kamil spoke about the great Russian writers: Gogol, Dostoevsky, and Tolstoy, whose thinking was ahead of their time. They understood that there is no existence without faith. Their writing is an icon of Russian Orthodoxy. It is only we who have abandoned our beliefs, followed foreign creeds, and have thus forgotten who we are and what our place is in this world. Dostoevsky, Kamil said, should be read chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph, the way religious books are read.
Several fighters ran out of patience, and one shouted at him, “You want to do the impossible. The connection with the ancestral god has been broken once and for all. You can’t connect what can’t be connected. We’ve gone into the mountains not to receive new tablets but to save our lives. Protecting life is an important value, and revenge is not without value. To connect with the old beliefs that led us to the ghetto and the camps—this is an unforgivable sin. This is not a time for mystical delusions. Yes, we have been mortally wounded, and the pain is enormous, but we will not bandage the wounds with false bandages. We need iodine to disinfect the wounds, not whispered words.”
Kamil did not respond. He sat leaning on his hands, hearing the accusations as if baring his back to the whip. There was no one that night lonelier than he. For a moment it seemed as though he was about to break down, lay his weapon on the ground, and say, I can see that my faith is not to your liking. I have no desire to argue; there is no point in arguing about faith. If you lack confidence in me, it’s best I leave, go on my way and to my fate, and you do what your heart tells you to do.
Instead, he did not utter a sound.
Hermann Cohen was able to defuse the confrontation. Though he is no longer young, his mind is as quick as a young man’s. He reminded the accusers that were it not for the inspiration of Kamil, who led us step by step, from hill to hill, avoiding traps, we would not be here. “Let Kamil finish the work until victory comes,” he said.
Although Hermann Cohen spoke with old-fashioned moderation, his words were strangely effective. I’ve already learned: Strong words don’t always sway the mind. It’s often practical, logical, colorless language that works its way into the heart’s hidden recesses.
This may be the place to mention one of our men who is neither seen nor heard—Reb Hanoch by name.
Reb Hanoch has been blind since birth, and all his life made a living by knitting and basket weaving. In his youth he married a blind young woman, and they had three intelligent children. In one of the last aktions, the blind were rounded up and sent in carts to the train station. Reb Hanoch fell out of his cart and lay in a ditch till nightfall. Then he got up and, luckily, was noticed by Kamil, who was looking for fugitives and brought him to us.
Reb Hanoch is one of the founders of our base. He knits stocking caps, scarves, gloves, and socks. All the fighters are pleased and praise his handiwork. There’s nothing like a stocking cap to rescue the ears from the bitter cold. Reb Hanoch knows our needs and works day and night.
Sometimes he asks if there’s any news from home.
“Let’s hope for the best” is the answer.
“They already sent everybody off to the camps?”
“Apparently so.”
“Have any letters arrived from the camps?”
“Not yet.”
The men respect his blindness and don’t hide the truth from him.
Every few hours Reb Hanoch stops his work, stands up, and prays. His prayers have a unique melody. Kamil goes into his tent now and then and tells him that his hats and socks save people every day. Hearing his words, Reb Hanoch says with a smile, “May we all be privileged to perform the commandments.”