The days do not pass simply. Every day brings a problem or disappointment, not to mention a disaster. Kamil is as sturdy as a stone wall. The enemy may be cruel and merciless, but we have our values. If a farmer refuses to give us food willingly, we will not beat or kill him. We will take what we need without anger. Kamil’s pronouncements always contain a word or phrase that stays in our heads for hours.
Ever since he escaped from the ghetto, the fighter Paul had wanted to go to the village of Holovka, to which his wife had fled with her Ukrainian lover. If she had fled alone, he would probably have uprooted her from his heart, but she ran off with his beloved daughter, and his life has not been worth living ever since.
Paul spoke privately with Kamil several times about this painful matter. Kamil did not reject his request to send a squad to Holovka to rescue his daughter. At a certain point he even trained a squad for this mission, but the information we had gathered about the village and its surroundings indicated a large supply of weapons; it was doubtful whether a squad, even two squads, could defeat an armed mob.
“Let’s wait and see,” Kamil said. “If conditions change and we have more fighters, I won’t hesitate to send a whole platoon. Paul, your daughter is precious to us. If we succeed in rescuing her, it will be a victory to celebrate.”
Kamil’s clear message seemed acceptable to Paul. His pale blue eyes widened, and he said, “I appreciate your readiness, Commander, and eagerly await the moment when we’ll start the mission.” There was a formality in his voice that suggested a temporarily suppressed anguish, but nobody else noticed this nuance.
Paul went out on a few daring missions and won the praise of his immediate commander—and, of course, of Kamil as well. But in the interludes between missions, he would sulk alone, chain smoking. Salo would occasionally invite him for a glass of tea, but Paul didn’t open up to him.
Everyone knew what was weighing on this impressive man, but no one knew how to help him. Salo gave him aspirin from time to time for his headaches. Kamil, seeing his distress, would also approach him now and then and say, “Paul, what you requested has not been forgotten. I’m waiting for more people to join us. The first major raid will be on the village of Holovka. Don’t torment yourself; I have a feeling we’ll be doing this soon.”
More and more, Paul withdrew into himself. It sometimes seemed that he was plotting the details of a raid on that village. But most days he was busy like the rest of us with training, raids, and work at the base. On one of the study evenings, he spoke with bitter emotion about the individual who refuses to surrender to the will of the collective. “The individual ego is a big obstacle. It is gripped by alien motives and ambitions.” It was clear that he was angry with himself for his inability to overcome his selfishness at this fateful moment.
Even as Paul’s problem festered like an open wound, the squads went out on a series of raids. The approaching cold weather compels us to stock up on food and warm clothing. Who knows what the winter will bring. It’s best to prepare in advance and be ready in time. Paul took part in all the raids.
The last one was the most successful. In the early morning the fighters returned, bearing many essentials. Everyone was happy to see them. Danzig reported on everything that had happened on their way to the target and on the way back.
After a special breakfast prepared by Tsila, they went to sleep. Paul slept deeply. When he awoke, his face was wrinkled and he looked dissatisfied. He poured himself a cup of tea, sat down, and chain smoked. Tsila offered him another sandwich, but Paul refused her with a wave of his hand.
Later he sat off to the side, lost in himself, and for a moment he seemed still fatigued from the raid and in need of sleep. That was an illusion. He approached Hermann Cohen and asked if the cheeses had arrived intact. Hermann Cohen confirmed that they had arrived well packed, were already stored in jars, and at dinner everyone would get a slice. And he quickly added, “Thank you, Paul.”
“Don’t thank me; it was a collective activity.”
“Soon I’ll go to each man and thank him,” said Hermann Cohen in a fatherly tone.
In late afternoon Salo went over to Paul. Paul reported that during the action he lost his wristwatch and that from now on he’d have to get used to living without one. Salo asked for details of the mission and Paul supplied them. He concluded by saying, “The mission was successful, only I’m not so successful.” He chuckled softly, exposing his front teeth.
When darkness fell and the soup pots were already set up in Tsila’s kitchen, Paul stood up and faced the forest. At first it seemed as if he rose to listen to the night sounds, as he sometimes did, but then he went deep into the darkness and disappeared from my view.
I felt I should call out “Paul!” And so I shouted and shouted again, but Paul did not reply.
Without delay I ran to Kamil and told him what I had seen. Kamil immediately ordered the two squads on duty to fan out and find Paul.
We stayed awake all night. The men drank soup and finished their rations of cigarettes. Paul’s sudden disappearance hit us like lightning. We had the gnawing suspicion that he might go out on his own to the village of Holovka to rescue his daughter, but everyone had hoped that a squad commander like him would overcome his painful humiliation and not endanger himself in a hopeless mission.
Rain had fallen. The fighters returned after midnight wet and empty-handed. The riddle of Paul’s disappearance grew by the hour. Kamil looked worried. This time his intuition had misled him. Paul was a superb squad commander. He introduced a new concept to our military lexicon—elegance. And, indeed, there was a quiet grandeur, barely perceptible, to his movements.
Quite often when a soldier uttered a word of army slang, Paul would grimace, as if personally offended. During raids, he was careful to take items in moderation, and never personal belongings like a watch or jewelry.
Once he told one of the farmers that we were a group of Jewish freedom fighters. The farmer was surprised and said, “You don’t look Jewish.”
“All the same, we are Jews.”
“Jews are businessmen, not fighters.”
“Wrong. They can be brave soldiers, but when it comes to the civilian population, they do not abuse them.”
“From me, you took everything,” said the farmer ironically.
“Not everything, sir. If you check you’ll see that we took in moderation, and later on, when we are well stocked, we’ll try to resupply you. This is not pillage for its own sake. We have to sustain ourselves so we’ll have the strength to fight a ruthless enemy.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” said the farmer, rejecting his apology.
“And I promise you that the Jews will not do you any harm.”
“You already looted us,” he insisted.
“You must admit, it’s considerate looting.”