The arduous final climb to the summit has begun. Luckily for us, the snow has ended and a big winter sun has scattered its silvery light. Everyone has been enlisted in the effort. First the gear and food are taken up and next the children and the elderly. Even at this demanding hour, security is not neglected: an emergency squad is on alert.
The summit is spread out over a broad area and includes the remnants of two forts from Turkish times.
The operation is carried out with precision. We again pitch the canvas tents. We set up the tripods for the pots. Hermann Cohen arranges wooden boards to hold the food. Tsila makes lunch. The new place, perhaps because of the sudden sunshine, seems different from all our previous encampments.
The new home gives us the feeling that they won’t surprise us easily. The bunkers, explains Kamil, will be built of two layers of wood as insulation from wetness and cold. We have blankets and an ample quantity of sheepskins to cover the walls and floor.
The view from the summit laid bare the whole area: the roads and railroad tracks, the buildings and military camps. Kamil again pointed out the river and the village of Holovka on the map. Paul is a wound that refuses to heal. More than once, I’ve heard Kamil say, “We should not have left him alone on the battlefield.” It’s been more than a month since he went off, and it’s hard to talk about him. He stands before me, alive.
Time is short. We dig and lay foundations for the bunkers. The bunkers will be connected by trenches. Hermann Cohen not only gives advice; he also saws and planes wood and prepares for construction. The vigorous activity fills me with new life in a way I can’t quite describe.
I sometimes think that our lives from now on will be more settled. I’ll be able to play chess and study for my final exams. There are educated people here; in fact, everyone here is educated. I can turn to them for help, and when the war is over, I’ll take my tests. I ask Maxie if he could help me.
“Gladly,” says Maxie with a smile. No need to worry, the war will continue for a long time. In the past we would think logically, putting two and two together. In the ghetto, we learned there’s no point in calculating, you only get confused. Reality looks different every day.
I dreamed that we were dug into our warm, lighted bunkers, playing chess. Suddenly a stiff wind lifted the cover of the bunker, and cold air blew inside. We tried to replace the cover, but the wind was fierce and stubborn. Hermann Cohen held out his hand and with the ease of a magician put it back in place.
Building the bunkers proceeds slowly but thoroughly. The patrols and ambushes and raids are also on schedule. No wonder that at the end of their shifts the fighters collapse like sacks.
EVER SINCE WE REACHED the summit, the mood has changed. The comrades have begun to discuss things they experienced and saw that till now they didn’t dare talk about. It’s strange that here of all places, where the cold is unrelenting, a person connects with his soul.
I see my father and mother standing together at the train station. Mama is very pale. She has just had an operation, and the short hospital stay hasn’t restored the color to her face. Papa, too, looks shaken. Now he is unable to do anything except stand by Mama’s side.
“Sit on the rucksack,” Papa says softly.
“I’ll stand,” says Mama. “It’s easier for me to stand. We’ll be getting into the railroad cars soon.”
They stand frozen in their long coats. Everyone else runs around as if knowing what is in store. Were it not for me, their concern that I escape, my parents would surely sit down.
“Run away, my son,” Papa urges over and over. There is a certain distance in his voice that chills me. Mama grips my hand and says, “Run away, my child, escape. There is no future here for young people.” She lets go of my hand, and I escape between the railroad cars.
IN HONOR OF REACHING the summit, Tsila and Miriam prepared a festive meal: fish roasted with mountain herbs and potatoes, and two full pots of tea fragrantly steaming on their tripods.
Kamil praised the squads that worked with care and coordination, Hermann Cohen for his work behind the scenes, and Tsila and Miriam, who make us food fit for a king. Kamil called the summit “the very heart of Besht country.” Here the Ba’al Shem Tov sought ways to come near to God. Witnesses have reported that when he walked the hills in solitude, he was of average height. When he came down, he was taller than other men.
Isidor was asked to say a prayer. Isidor doesn’t talk about feelings or faith or the prayers that he says. The prayers simply pour out of him, as if they have been inside him forever. Someone said that he is a vessel, and because he is a vessel, the prayers are unblemished, not too lofty or ornate.
How does one pray without believing the words of the prayer?, asked the know-it-alls. Isidor did not reply. His face momentarily widened with wonderment, ultimate proof that he, too, had no answer.