I was glad they included me this time. We slowly made our way downhill, and with each step I felt Grandma Tsirl’s death alongside me. What had Grandma Tsirl hidden inside of us?, I momentarily wondered. While she was alive, we knew she was not like other people, but now her presence seemed more intense.
The night before Grandma Tsirl died, I saw her in a dream talking to my mother, and I was happy that Mama looked healthy, discussing everyday topics. I wanted to approach them but didn’t dare. They were connected to one another, like sisters who had awaited each other for a long time.
Grandma Tsirl finally noticed me and motioned for me to join her. I went over and was sure Mama would be happy to see me. Mama looked at me and asked, “Who is this young man?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” asked Grandma Tsirl with a smile.
“He looks like my son, Edmund, but it’s not him.”
“He is your son! He is your son! Be happy!” exclaimed Grandma Tsirl joyfully.
It occurred to me that this is how it is in Grandma Tsirl’s world. People who are alive and people who are gone exist together. Sometimes they don’t recognize one another, but in the end they meet, weeping with the thrill of recognition.
WE WALKED WITH ENERGY and due caution. Kamil and the men who carried the explosives were in the lead and we followed. The thought that the fighters would soon plant the dynamite on the tracks, that the train would be derailed, and that we would greet the prisoners and shout, “You are free! Run quickly after us!” made us all walk faster, and we arrived a bit ahead of time.
We dug in and waited. Isidor, lying beside me, asked in a whisper if my toes also felt frozen. I told him I had a pair of socks in my pocket for emergencies, and I would give them to him.
Isidor thanked me and said, “If I were a believer, I would say a blessing for all that has happened to me in the last few months.”
“A person who prays is a believer, isn’t that so?”
“Prayer is inside me but not faith,” he confessed to me, even at this critical hour.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I replied, knowing I had nothing to say.
“Ever since I’ve gone on missions, I’ve changed,” Isidor said. “The death I feared in the past still frightens me, but I’ve learned to conquer it before it conquers me. What do you do to overcome it?” he asked.
“I say to myself that my parents, who were sent to the camps, are surely suffering more than I am.” I was shocked by my words.
I suddenly understood that each of us carries within him not only painful experiences that could unnerve him at a dark hour but also strong words to toughen his resolve. This is the case for Kamil, for Grandma Tsirl, for Hermann Cohen, and for Karl; the rest of us try to follow their example. Now Isidor has joined us.
The appointed hour drew near. The men with the explosives walked toward the tracks, and the squads were ordered to ready their weapons. I remembered: Sometimes, in the first pink light of dawn, on the way back to the base, Kamil would halt us and say, “Look for a moment at the sky—what splendor, what purity. Nature is not sentimental; it always speaks with full strength. Thank God that we are not indifferent in the face of miracles.” That’s Kamil; it’s easy to love and follow him, even when he says things we don’t understand.
And once, in a moment of exhilaration, he said, “I love all of you equally; the world is sustained by each of you. We are not bandits or looters but protectors of God’s image in this world.”