The cold grows more intense. We insulate the bunkers with mats and sheepskins. First we will shelter the older people, the women, and the children, and then, if there’s room, the fighters.
We’ve lately gotten hold of a large quantity of weapons and ammunition. Kamil decided to build a weapons depot beside the bunkers. A few fighters wanted to have a party to celebrate the bounty. Kamil asked them to postpone the celebration until the first refugees arrive.
Kamil’s faith is unwavering and has a solid basis: The Russian radio station broadcasts optimistic news, and not only from Stalingrad. The German station is not as belligerent as before. It reports victories in the East and West but does not promise a rout.
In the last raid Kamil interrogated one of the farmers about the war situation. The man disclosed that the occupier is not concerned with local affairs but is busy conscripting people for work in the factories. Trains filled with soldiers are rushing to the front and returning with the sick and wounded.
Everyone here reads the map of the battles differently. Kamil’s opinion has not changed in any fundamental way: we must train our hearts to be fighters and to be Jews. There is no contradiction.
ONE OF OUR FIGHTERS has suddenly plunged into depression. He sits in his regular spot, but the light has gone out of his eyes. Only last night he enjoyed the delicious corn porridge that Tsila made. He, perhaps more than others, appreciates her cooking and often thanks her; now he sits listlessly, filled with doubt and despair.
“Where does this lead?” he asks.
“To ourselves,” Kamil answers him, “and from there to victory and light.”
“We are few and they are many, and they are determined to destroy us.”
“We were always few, but we did not despair. Despair is not a quality worth having.”
The fighter’s empty gaze does not change. Yesterday he sat listening to the radio, figuring out the distances and calculating the odds with us, and his forecast was no different from that of the optimists; now he had fallen, for no apparent reason, into a black hole.
Kamil is called to the command post, and Salo takes his place.
“What are you afraid of?” Salo asks the man gently.
“Of the tremendous German Army, of their incredible discipline, their network of trains, their terrifying air force. There has never been such a power in the world.” He clearly has more to say but shuts his mouth.
“This is why we climbed to the summit. From the summit we can not only defend ourselves but also fight back,” says Salo, aware that his words are a weak reply to the gloomy fighter.
“But there are so many of them, and they’re so well trained,” the fighter responds softly, as if he had not been understood.
“Not everything is measured by power. Sometimes justice and the determination of the few triumph over great power. The Hasmoneans were also few in number,” says Salo, emphasizing every word.
“Excuse my ignorance, but who were the Hasmoneans?” asks the fighter.
“Jewish fighters.”
“I haven’t heard of them.”
“They were few and fought against the Greek empire.”
“And they succeeded?”
“Very much so.”
Hearing these words, the fighter gestures with his head as if to say, It sounds like a myth. We see clearly that the faith we’ve been cultivating for months has faded within him. Salo wants to speak to him from the heart but can’t find the way. Finally, he says, “One must not despair,” and immediately regrets his superficial words.
Then he tries another approach. “Look at our success,” he says. “We’re almost finished building the bunkers. We have plenty of guns and ammunition. If the refugees reach us, and they will, we can stop the trains, attack military camps, and ambush them at every turn. We have enough fury inside us to strike them hard. I agree with you: logic often leads to despair, but there is something higher than logic.”
“What is that higher thing?” The fighter looks Salo in the eye.
“Faith,” says Salo, pronouncing the word cautiously.
“I am empty of faith,” the fighter replies blankly.
You must overcome this mental block, Salo wants to tell him but decides not to.
“I have no faith,” he continues. “I wonder about people who talk about faith as something to be taken for granted. I don’t know what they’re talking about,” he declares.
“You doubt the justice of our cause?” Salo tries another approach, blunter this time.
“I don’t doubt our justice. I doubt our chances of escape from the jaws of the enemy. The enemy is huge and monstrous. The monster’s thundering hooves grow louder every day. All people surrender to it and do its bidding. Anyone who saw the railroad cars sucking up thousands like a gigantic vacuum cleaner knows its massive power. The world has never seen such a monster.”
As the moments pass, the fighter is consumed by this horrific image that threatens to devour him entirely. Salo puts a hand on his shoulder, takes him to the infirmary tent, asks him to sit on a crate, and says, “I’ll give you something good; you’ll feel better right away.”
The fighter does not refuse. He opens his mouth and drinks the liquid like a pacified child.
Salo keeps talking to him in a soothing, rhythmic voice, as if telling him a fairy tale. The fighter closes his eyes and falls asleep while seated. Soon, with Danzig’s help, Salo will move him to the pallet of twigs.
MICHAEL COPIED OUT a song that Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev used to sing to himself. At night, after distributing the pages to the study group, he was asked to read it. Michael was self-conscious, but Maxie, who stood beside him, encouraged him, and he read:
Wherever I go—you.
Wherever I stand—you.
Only you, again you, always you.
If I feel good—you.
If I feel bad—you.
Only you, again you, always you.
Sky—you,
Earth—you,
Up—you,
Down—you.
I look thus, I see this.
Only you, again you, always you.
You, you, you.
Coming from Michael’s lips, the poem sounded as if it were written for him. The sharper minds among us who were about to pounce and dissect it fell silent at once, and all were filled with wonder and emotion. With every passing minute it became harder to hold back our tears.