We will not forget the night Kamil spoke about the tribe and the God of the tribe. His words echo to this day. It’s hard to escape the thought that the man leading us in this dangerous territory is motivated by ideas that make us uneasy, even scare us.
People still remember that at the beginning of the journey Kamil was like anyone else, without highs and lows. His moods appear to have changed during the journey. His face, in any case, has changed; more and more he resembles a Christian monk.
If doubts remained, it is now clear: Kamil wants to instill in us the feeling that it is impossible to fight a determined enemy without love of the tribe, its God, and its beliefs. These three concepts, separately and together, drive people crazy.
“Commander,” one bold fighter shouted on that night, “take pity on yourself and us and get these delusions out of your head.”
After that, Kamil secluded himself in his tent and handed the command to his deputy. His absence was hard for us. I sometimes feel that our opposition demoralizes him and that he prefers to be alone and see no one.
Following a few days of isolation Kamil returned to the children and the elderly and Grandma Tsirl.
DANZIG HAS INFORMED Kamil that Milio’s progress in recent weeks has been surprising. “He looks at me attentively and asks me with his eyes to sing him the lullaby of the little goat.”
Milio is no longer frightened when a fighter wants to hold him in his arms, and when Kamil asked to hold him, Milio smiled and agreed.
“What else does he do?” asked Kamil with curiosity.
“He watches. He can sit for hours and look at things.”
That same night Kamil led a patrol to the lake to catch some fish for dinner. His determined expression was back. He checked the fighters’ weapons and ordered two men to switch their heavy coats for lighter ones. Every outing with him has a fateful air but also a sense of confidence that Kamil has the power to strike fear in our enemies.
They returned with a big haul. Tsila and her friend Miriam quickly set about preparing the fish for dinner, and Hermann Cohen built two fires to roast them. We sang till late at night, and there was a feeling of togetherness, that we should not speak ill of others and must honor a commander of the caliber of Kamil, even if we do not agree with his opinions.
ON SATURDAY NIGHT we didn’t go out on a mission. We sat around the campfire, and our comrade Sontag felt moved to tell us about his grandparents’ village: about the long pastures that reach to the horizon, and his grandfather and grandmother sitting at dusk on the veranda, watching the light change colors. They don’t speak, and their silence is uncomfortable, as if this evening was not similar to the previous evening but, instead, something they had never experienced before. They love this stretch of land in the foothills, which changes its face with every season.
“I would come there twice a year,” Sontag said, “at Passover and on summer vacation. Sometimes in the winter, too, at Hanukkah. The passage from city to country, from tumult to quiet, from explicit to implicit, left me speechless. During my first years of gymnasium, the village seemed remote and primitive—a word we often used, not always fairly. I didn’t understand their way of life. I thought their lives lacked consciousness—another word we relied on now and then.
“Only in my last year of gymnasium did I suddenly discover the interior and exterior rhythm of their lives, the way they merged completely with the seasons, their capacity for wonder but more than that—their capacity for gratitude. They always spoke softly, their heads lowered, eyes downcast. And suddenly my ideas and those of my friends seemed shallow. We were creatures of the intellect, without simplicity and genuine vitality.
“Once my grandma asked me if I prayed. I couldn’t lie to her, and I said no. She didn’t respond or ask anything more. I didn’t know what else to say and foolishly added, ‘In the city they don’t pray.’ She didn’t respond to that, either.
“That was my last conversation with her. Who knows where my grandparents are now? Last night I dreamed about them and asked their forgiveness. They were surprised by my request, and Grandpa said, ‘What do you mean? You always brought us joy. We couldn’t wait to see you. We would look at you and ask ourselves which of our relatives you looked like, and both of us, Grandma and I, decided you looked like Uncle Efraim—the same features and facial expression.’
“I started to say to him, ‘Grandpa, I’m from the city, and the turmoil of the city is in my bones,’ but Grandpa ignored me and repeated, ‘You look like Uncle Efraim.’
“Uncle Efraim lived in a small village, ran a small general store, and was regarded as an expert in herbal remedies. Everyone trusted his medicines and concoctions. The farm wives would bring produce to barter, but most people came and received his advice and medicines without paying a penny. Uncle Efraim never complained. Whenever he heard that the advice or medicine was effective, his eyes filled with joy and gratitude. In his village it was said of a good man that he had a soul like Efraim’s. I don’t know what resemblance my grandparents saw between me and Uncle Efraim. Uncle Efraim was a simple man who worshipped God with awe and happiness.
“I don’t know why I told you this,” said Sontag, lowering his head, close to tears.
THE NEXT DAY we left the swampy hillside and began the climb toward the summit. The climb is winding and slow, half a mile each day, sometimes less. According to the plan, if there are no storms we’ll reach the top in two weeks’ time.
If at the start of the journey we didn’t know where Kamil would lead us, there is now a feeling that we’re fighting not only for our lives but also for the others who will join us. This feeling, inspired by Kamil, gives us hope that we will witness the collapse of the kingdom of evil.
Ever since we left the swamps, Grandma Tsirl seems to speak through a veil. A few days ago she said to one of the fighters, who complained of nightmares, “You deserve innocent sleep. I assume your holy ancestors will protect you and your sleep.”
Every utterance is cloaked in words that belong only to her. Her ancestors are embedded in her frail body, and they speak from her throat. More than once I’ve heard her say, “Indeed, they will speak; they will say it better than I do.” When her ancestors speak through her, her face lights up and a subtle smile plays upon her lips.
One time she surprised me and said, “I don’t know what to tell you. I will ask the forefathers and they will tell me.”
Grandma Tsirl does not speak every day. Most days she is enclosed within herself and seems to be drowsing. This is merely on the surface: she is actually on the alert, and whenever she senses danger nearby or someone from the World to Come wishing to speak to her, she wakes up.
IN EARLY EVENING we reach one of the highest peaks—a stop on the way to the summit. We unload the sacks and packs, and a magnificent vista appears before us: forests upon forests and magical, silvery bodies of water. And we have the feeling that at last we have freed ourselves from the sticky mud and the prying eyes of our enemies. From now on we will control a big territory, and if they dare to come close, they’ll be struck by our fire.
Kamil reminds us that here, too, we will have to live with our wits about us. The enemy does not relax, and all indications are that they take a long view. They calculate our every move. Our enemy is not like other enemies. Their great war does not let them neglect even one of us. Look at the effort they expend to catch us. How important we must be to them.
There are fighters who love the daytime Kamil: the one of training and fiery talk of the future, when more fugitives will come to join us, when the shared pain will forge a magnificent force. And there are people who love the Kamil of the night: when he is bent over a text, speaking of nuances, seeking the music, examining a sentence or a word. It seems then that it’s not a military man sitting before us but a man who possesses the word, the sound of the word, in his soul. At night, even if we’re exhausted, Kamil manages to arouse in us the ancient hunger for the text. At night Kamil has epiphanies that he will not voice in the light of day.
It sometimes seems that Kamil draws on Jewish sources passed down to him by Martin Buber and Franz Rosenzweig. And sometimes he seems connected with Russian literature, with Dostoevsky as his spiritual mentor.
One of the fighters approached him and said, “I apologize for what happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The debate we got into.”
“As long as I am commander, soulful speaking is free.”
We were puzzled by the expression “soulful speaking,” but no one asked what he meant.
I got a stocking cap from Reb Hanoch. He placed his hands on my head and blessed me. I left his tent, put on the cap, and felt the power of his blessing.