It was five o’clock. At this hour the fighters usually return from their raid; people come out of the tents, light cigarettes, and anxiously wait for them. But we were still gripped by the horrors described by Victor, and our fears for the returning men grew.
“The snow must be delaying them,” said Felix, who emerged from the kitchen and held out his hands to feel the snowflakes.
We stood and stamped our feet.
Michael, who had fallen asleep for a while, woke up and stood with everyone. We envisioned our patrol walking the way Kamil had taught us. Because of their heavy clothes, they looked short and low to the ground, and for a moment it seemed that if a shot rang out, they would not lie flat on the ground but simply sink.
Another hour went by. Victor sat in his place and didn’t come out. Felix returned to the kitchen and asked him for details about the couple and their daughter. Victor confessed that in those days he was flooded with scenes of death, always on edge, and uninterested in what went on in the village. Felix told him that Paul, a brave fighter and loving person, had gone out to rescue his kidnapped daughter and then disappeared.
Michael, who saw the tension, asked me if everything was all right.
“I assume so,” I told him. That’s the answer that Maxie, his foster father, usually gives him.
“How is this raid different from the earlier raids?” he asked, surprising me with his question. For a moment I was struck by his maturity, and I didn’t know how to reply. I decided I must not lie and said, “This time the fighters went to derail the train.”
“I know,” he said, surprising me again. “My question is, is this operation more dangerous?”
Michael has matured during the months he has been with us. His mind races and his thoughts are coherent and well formulated. It’s for good reason that Maxie says that Michael will surprise us in the future.
AS THE DAWN SKY grew pink, Felix spotted our fighters on the slope, and we immediately ran toward them. The snow that had piled up made their climb difficult, but the fighters moved quickly, helping one another, Kamil in the lead.
When they reached the summit, we instantly saw that Danzig’s arm was bandaged. It was Danzig, but it wasn’t really him: his shoulders had narrowed and he looked shorter. Salo, who had cared for him the entire way, now led Danzig to the infirmary tent. He asked me to remove his shoes, and together we laid him down on the mat of twigs.
Danzig didn’t complain, just bit his lip, and we could see he was in acute pain. Salo injected him with a painkiller and asked for bags of ice.
Because of Danzig’s injury, there was no proper welcome for the fighters. In the kitchen they were served sandwiches and cups of tea. They were hungry but also overcome by fatigue, and most of them fell asleep with the cups in their hands.
Milio was brought to Danzig. Danzig, feeling a bit less pain after the injection, opened his eyes and softly called, “Milio.”
Milio looked at him without making a sound.
“How are you, my child? Don’t you recognize me? I missed you.”
Hearing these words, Milio raised both his hands, lowered them, and uttered a few syllables.
“He’s happy I’ve come back,” Danzig said, his face brightening.
In the evening Kamil told us about the operation. “The two squads acted in exemplary fashion,” he began. “We arrived on schedule and fanned out. Salo and Danzig carried the explosives to the tracks. Everything went like clockwork: the explosives were detonated, three cars were thrown from the tracks, and the soldiers panicked. They ran around, desperately looking for cover. We fired at them and killed many. Do not rejoice in the death of your enemy, our Scripture warns us, but we couldn’t help but be happy that they had fallen. Were it not for one German soldier who shot wildly and wounded his own comrades as well as Danzig, the operation would have ended perfectly.
“This is just the beginning; from now on caution and alertness are vital. The reprisal will not be long in coming, I would guess. An army cannot tolerate such a humiliating defeat. We must prepare. From now on we’re in a state of total readiness, day and night. But we must not forget our main purpose: to derail the trains taking Jews to the camps. Let us not deceive ourselves; there will be casualties, but every Jew we save from the jaws of the beast is cause for celebration.”
Silence. No one took issue with his words. Kamil looked that night like a man with a great responsibility on his shoulders.
Then he abruptly asked us to pray for Danzig’s well-being.
“What should we say?” asked one of the fighters.
“Very simple, ‘God, heal our beloved Danzig.’ That’s all,” he said with a chuckle, as if he’d overcome a mental block.
THE PATROLS AND AMBUSHES continued to go out. The guards of the base took their positions, and the rest of us gathered in the big tent with a sense of togetherness. Differences of opinion that had sometimes wrecked our evenings seemed to vanish. The thought that in upcoming actions we would save our brethren trapped in the boxcars lifted our spirits.
I closed my eyes and recalled the summer vacation with my parents in Dismora: the park and forests that surrounded the small family hotel.
I am almost eight years old and enveloped in love. The hotel owner enjoys chatting with Papa about politics and society and playing chess with him. The headwaiter makes sure that our meals are varied and delicious and served with perfection.
The days go by slowly; we hike in the woods and around the lake and finally arrive at the river. The River Prut is calm at this time of year. Its water is clear, and small fish swim close to the bottom. Papa and Mama swim. My strokes in the water are improving, and I can float.
Suddenly, in the midst of this happiness, I am shaken by a fear that darkens the sunny day. I think that a creature in human form is staring at us. And he’s not alone—there are others hiding in the trees, lying in wait for us. There is no sound anywhere, just the quiet flow of the Prut and the whisper of the wind. Papa and Mama are focused on their swimming, and when they come out of the river, there are droplets of water on their faces and necks. They look so pleased that I hate to puncture their happiness, and I tell them nothing. And wonder of wonders, I look around again, and the ambushers have vanished. I’m glad I didn’t alarm my parents. But what can I do; such fears pounce on me sometimes—when we walk in the woods or in the park, or when we sit in the pretty garden of the hotel.
These are illusions, I tell myself, happy to have thought of that word, and I say nothing to Mama. But Mama is sensitive. “What are you daydreaming about, Edmund?” she asks me.
“Will we always be together?” I ask, immediately regretting my question.
“I would think so,” she replies. “Why do you ask, my darling?”
“I was thinking that one day someone will separate us.”
“Who would dare to do that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Of course,” Mama says, “you’ll grow up, graduate from the gymnasium, study at the university, get married, and have children of your own. But we’ll always be together, and we’ll love your wife and your children the way we love you.”
“I apologize,” I say.
When we return from a day of sun and water, a lavish meal awaits us. The summer days are long, and we sit by the window and watch the slow sunset as it changes colors. Nighttime is still far off.
Dinner is elegantly served; this time it’s fish from the river, new potatoes, and fragrant peas. The food here is tastier than the food at home, perhaps because of our appetite and our overall feeling of contentment.
After dinner, we sit in the park and inhale the evening fragrance. The fear that gripped me in the morning, by the water, has returned, but now it’s for real: a local drunk, his knees wobbling, pukes and curses. “The Jews should be thrown out of this holy land; they defile it,” he growls.
When we hear this curse, we get up and return to the hotel.
I think for a moment that Papa will lodge a complaint that this evil man has disturbed our peace. But Papa doesn’t say anything. We sit in the lobby. Papa and Mama are served tea and strawberry cakes with cream, and I get a cup of cocoa and chocolate cake. The pleasant, delicate lighting erases the fear and the face of the drunkard for me but not for Mama. “There seem to be devils everywhere,” she says, “even in peaceful Dismora.” Papa reacts differently. He lights a cigarette and says, “You call them devils?”
“What would you call them?”
“In high school, ‘devils’ and ‘evil spirits’ were considered epithets that shouldn’t be used.”
“I consider them to be accurate.”
“I assume you’re right, as always.”
“Again you’re teasing me; I forgive you,” Mama says with a smile.
THOSE WERE the last words I understood on that long, light-filled evening. We went up to our room and sat on the balcony, but I didn’t comprehend anything that was said or left unsaid.
Papa moved me to my bed and I dozed off, with my mother’s hands stroking my forehead; within minutes I was sailing in the depths of sleep.