The rain has stopped, and in the air there is a whiff of snow. The climb to the summit is slow—only two or three hundred feet per day. Despite all the difficulties, we draw nearer to the goal. The last stages will be complicated; we’ll need to use ropes and ladders. But Kamil and Felix are trained in engineering, and we will bring everyone to the summit with skill.
The radio is full of good news: the enemy’s front lines have been breached at Stalingrad, and trainloads of wounded soldiers are making their way to the rear. The Russian broadcaster urges citizens to join the partisans and promises that victory will not be long in coming.
There’s another cause for celebration: we recently found a big hoard of potatoes, and every night we carry up full sacks. Carrying them is hard, but each sack that arrives is greeted with cheers of joy and thanks. Hermann Cohen has his hands full. He takes inventory of the sacks and makes sure to put them on wooden pallets to protect them against wetness.
The radio is on at night and sometimes also before dawn, when we return from an operation. It is now our oracle, updating us on the present and foretelling the future. We stay close, glued to every word.
Kamil again warns us not to become addicted to far-reaching hopes but to prepare for immediate challenges. If the Red Army comes and liberates us, we will shout our thanks, but until then, drills and more drills, text study and more text study: what comes from within is doubly strong.
Organized study at night has halted for the time being. Fatigue and the dampness have subdued us. But Kamil won’t give up. Before supper, he reads out a few verses from the weekly Torah portion or a chapter from the Book of Psalms. Before we set out on an operation, he reads the psalm that begins “The Lord is my shepherd.”
“What’s the point of reading verses we don’t understand?” ask those who don’t agree with him.
“Because our ancestors depended on these verses day and night.”
“This isn’t rational, it’s hocus-pocus,” someone says.
Every statement by Kamil that touches on tribal faith remains provocative. At times he seems unable to respond. Because of the many objections, his thoughts aren’t as well phrased as they should be. More than once, the words have been stuck in his mouth, and one time, as he tried to overcome these obstacles, he began to stammer. But when Kamil goes out at night, his orders are clear-cut, and he marches like a young man. And on top of that, when one of us becomes short of breath, Kamil props him up and doesn’t leave him until he gets his wind back.
THE PERSON WHO has brought a new spirit to the base is Isidor, one of the three young men who recently joined us. Isidor has a pleasant voice, and he knows prayers and Hasidic melodies. When he was a child, his grandfather took him to a Hasidic synagogue, and there he heard the Sabbath, festival, and daily prayers.
His parents were not pleased that he went to synagogue, but Isidor loved his grandfather and the prayers. When he was small, his grandfather would wrap him in his prayer shawl and show him the words in the prayer book. When he was older, he would stand beside his grandfather and pray with him.
At night we are greatly fatigued, but when Isidor sings some prayers, his clear, pure voice enchants us and we follow it, like a magic flute.
“Do you observe the commandments?” Danzig asked him.
“No, but when I pray, I see vivid images, and my heart yearns for my parents and grandfather.”
“Do you pray every day?”
“No.”
“Did your father pray?”
“No.”
Everyone was surprised by these blunt questions, which forced Isidor to bare his soul. Danzig—who takes care not to hurt those under his authority, in particular Milio, whom he protects like a parent—he of all people was carried away by curiosity.
One evening Isidor announced, “Tonight I will not sing.”
“Why?” everyone wondered.
“The melodies ran away from me.”
“They’ll surely come back.”
“I hope so.”
Isidor looked surprised, as if he were speaking not of himself but of someone else who was confused or troubled.
I have learned: everyone here carries an inner secret, or a bitter disappointment that’s hard to speak about. It’s no wonder that our conversation is mostly restrained. Isidor, too, who had appeared to pray so fluently, turns out to have restraints of his own.
This odd reticence makes us very uneasy. Kamil senses that Isidor’s problem is no trivial matter. The few nights when he prayed had filled us with longing for parents and grandparents, and suddenly that melody was extinguished.
Ever since Isidor stopped praying, he is unable to rest. He works at odd jobs at the base and is always asking, “When will we go out on a mission?”
Grandma Tsirl tells him, “Itche Meir, you have nothing to worry about: Prayer will come back to you. Your grandfather, who lives inside of you, will open your mouth.”
“And what should I do until then?” Isidor asks cautiously.
“Nothing, it will happen by itself, when you least expect it.”
There is a calm in Grandma Tsirl’s voice that immediately relaxes him. “Did you know my grandfather personally?” he inquires.
“I knew him well; we were neighbors. And I remember you, too, little bird. On the Sabbath and on holidays you would go with your grandfather to the synagogue, always nicely dressed.”
“Why were my parents displeased that I went to synagogue?”
“Every generation goes its own way; they also meant well. Your parents bought a record player and liked to listen to classical music. They would sit for hours on the glassed-in porch and listen. While they listened to music, you sat with your grandfather in the little synagogue of the Vizhnitz Hasidim. The praying of the Vizhnitz Hasidim is very sweet. You tasted more than a little of it and it lodged inside of you.”
AT NIGHT SOME of the fighters get gloves from Reb Hanoch. Reb Hanoch dresses them in stocking caps, gloves, and vests, and although we don’t talk about him much, his presence is felt and seen. Not a day passes without his gifts. He knits day and night, and every item he makes is nice and warm. It’s too bad we don’t know how to thank him as we should.