Maxie, Michael’s mentor, served as a demolition expert in the previous world war. He knows all about the use of explosives and is being attached to the squads that will go deep into enemy territory.
This time the preparations were a bit different. Perhaps this was because a few fighters wrote letters and left them with friends at our base camp, perhaps because of the thick layer of snow that covered wide areas, or perhaps because of the heightened anticipation for this unprecedented mission.
Kamil spread out the map and pointed to the route and the obstacles. In recent days the squads practiced fighting under heavy fire and in populated areas, and of course the setting of explosives. Clearly, this action would prepare us for others to follow. Later, we would derail only trains carrying Jews.
Michael did not leave Maxie’s side. He didn’t pester him with questions; he just studied his movements and the loads he was going to carry on his back. Earlier, Michael had promised Maxie that he would complete all the geometry exercises Maxie had assigned to him, and if he had time left over, he would help Tsila in the kitchen. Danzig, who entrusted Milio to Tsila, couldn’t hold back and kept murmuring, “Milio has made great progress in recent weeks. If he asks about me, tell him I’ll be back soon.”
Kamil announced that the password for this mission would be simcha, joy. “The Ba’al Shem Tov, in whose land we now live, asked his people to rejoice in everything they did—even in days of despair—because joy expands the heart and the mind. Happiness is the opposite of sadness, which degrades us. We must cling to happiness, which brings us close to other people and to God. And so our password today, do not forget, is simcha.”
Grandma Tsirl blessed the fighters in a whisper. Kamil read the psalm “The Lord is my shepherd” in a subdued voice, handed the Bible over to his deputy Felix, and took his place at the head of the squad. I was sorry that I was left behind to guard the base. I stood and watched them as they grew distant, and part of me went with the fighters.
That night Isidor chanted prayers of the High Holidays. Grandma Tsirl could hear Isidor’s pure voice and praised him: “Itche Meir carries within him the melodies of the Vizhnitz Hasidim.”
There was a sense of Yom Kippur, our Day of Judgment.
I remembered. In our house Yom Kippur was gloomy because we shuttered the windows. Papa and Mama fasted but didn’t go to the synagogue. They read books they had selected in advance. Last Yom Kippur they read Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. Mama read me a few passages, and I was enchanted by the melodious prose, the serenity of household objects, the soft, melancholy light of summer. I felt a connection to Mama’s voice and to the words of Proust. Papa was completely immersed in reading and wasn’t ready to share his impressions. Only when the holiday was over did he open up and enthuse about a sentence of Proust, marveling at its magic.
WHEN ISIDOR’S PRAYERS fell silent, it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. We knew the squads were still an hour away from the target. At two o’clock, according to our information, the train was supposed to pass by, and if the explosives went off as expected, the locomotive and carriages would be derailed, the guards would run away in all directions, and our squads would open fire and pursue the fleeing soldiers.
We stood at the entrance to the bunkers, listening for the sound of the explosion, but it was delayed. At 2:05 a huge blast was heard, and we knew that Kamil’s meticulous preparations had been accurate, as always.
We remained silent. We were familiar with raids and skirmishes, but we had never before undertaken a military operation. Twelve fighters are too few for a mission like this, even if they are well trained. I could see Maxie and Danzig, with the explosives on their backs, and the other fighters swallowed up into the darkness. I was distressed as I envisioned them going down into the abyss; I felt that we had abandoned them.
Isidor asked if the operation was dangerous. I didn’t know what to tell him, so I said, “The fighters are well trained.”
Isidor walks among us like an enigma. He prays, but we have not heard such prayer before; it is Isidor’s alone. He seems bound to it on many levels. Outwardly he resembles us; were it not for his nightly praying, we wouldn’t have believed him capable of it.
For a moment, I wanted to ask him if he practices for the nighttime prayers, but I quickly realized this was a foolish question. Isidor sensed what I was about to ask and said, “The minute I close my eyes and open my mouth, prayer rises within me. Grandpa taught me the letters and the words, but the melodies filled me up without my knowing they were inside me.”
“What is prayer, my friend?” I wasn’t sure why I asked him in quite that way.
“Desire,” he said, and a little smile crossed his lips.