The skies thundered. At first we thought the thunder meant new snow, but among the survivors were veterans of the Great War who knew at once that this was artillery fire.
It became clearer by the hour that artillery was indeed hammering the horizon. Kamil ignored the obvious omen. He continues to claim that we will soon be attacked and that we must be ready. Felix agrees with him.
This makes no sense, people argue. While the Red Army attacks and advances and the Germans are in retreat, it’s hard to imagine they’ll keep on killing Jews.
“You’re wrong, dear boy,” Kamil told one of his persistent challengers. “For Hitler, killing Jews is a sacred calling. Yes, it contradicts military logic, but their war against the Jews comes from their evil core, and we will never fathom their motives.”
The more opponents Kamil has, the stronger and sharper he gets. He’s at his best in battles of the few against the many. He sparkles with cleverness when fighting over dreams and ideas.
At night the radio reports on the locations of the German retreat. It’s clear as day that the Red Army is beating them and getting closer to us. Felix has calculated that they are about 150 miles away. This news doesn’t affect our readiness: squads are training while other squads patrol. The daily raids continue. Victor never stops reminding us: “Killing Jews is their ultimate desire. Their fanaticism knows no limits; don’t look for rational explanations.”
The snow is about three feet deep now. Going up and down the mountain is a huge effort. Even the fittest fighters return exhausted from the raids. But what can we do? The raids are a necessity. We have to feed dozens of people.
I GOT A NIGHT OFF and fell into a deep sleep. In my dream I am on my way home. The anxiety and emotion slow my steps. I can see that in the neighborhood everything is as it was. The two poplar trees by the house stand naked. The rustling, silvery leaves I loved to look at had fallen off while I was far away. Smoke billows from the chimneys of the Ukrainian neighbors’ homes. I know this serenity. When I came home from school, I would stop here and absorb it. We are neighbors, though different; in our yard there are no cows or fowl. Our yard is carpeted with grass and rows of flowers. In late afternoon we sit on the veranda or in the yard. It’s an hour of silence and grace, the light streaming through the acacias and blending with the shadows.
I stop near my house. The gate to the yard is closed but not locked. I open it and stand still: the grass has gone brown at the edges, the acacias are bare, and Nicky’s doghouse is empty, a sign that he’s lying down in the living room. I sense that a big surprise is in store, but what kind I don’t know.
Many months have passed since we left the house in a rush. I hesitate, afraid to enter. In the yard, at least, nothing has changed. Is Nadia looking after the house? I assume so. She is very devoted to Mama. She took care of her when she was sick, and unlike other housekeepers, she stayed on the job even when working for Jews was forbidden.
I knock on the door. There is no reply. I knock again and inadvertently open it. The foyer is the same as ever. Our three coats hang on the hooks. My visor cap and Papa’s are beside them; perhaps the house was not abandoned, and Papa and Mama have come back and are resting now.
I proceed cautiously. In the living room, something has changed. Instead of the drawings by the famous artist Rosenberg, three icons are hanging. This surprise, for some reason, does not frighten me. Other things are in their regular places, including the record player. An icon is hanging in my parents’ bedroom, but the bed and its cover and pillows are as usual. There’s no icon in my room; everything is in order, the schoolbag at the foot of the desk.
“Mama!” I call out, my voice cracking. I go back to the living room and sit in my favorite chair. All is in place, I again tell myself. But in my heart I know that the quiet is not the quiet we left behind.
And the truth is quickly revealed: In the doorway to the kitchen stands Nadia. She looks younger, and wears Mama’s apron.
“Nadia!” I gasp.
“Who are you?” She recoils in shock.
“Edmund,” I say softly. “Don’t you recognize me?”
She squints at me, takes a closer look, and finally says, “It’s you but not you.”
“I’m Edmund, nobody else,” I say, startled by my own words.
“They said the Jews would never come back,” Nadia says in her familiar voice.
“Who said?”
“Everyone.”
“And you believed it?” I say indignantly.
“Till now not even one Jew has returned.”
“So you won’t let me into my house?”
“No,” she says flatly. “This is my house now. I worked here more than twenty years, and I am the rightful heir. The municipality recognized my rights.”
“And I?”
“You belong elsewhere; your place here has been revoked. May I remind you: At the time of the ghetto you were busy with Anastasia. You couldn’t spare even fifteen minutes to sit by your sick mother and share her pain.”
“And you won’t let my parents enter the house?”
“How do you know they’ll return?”
“I assume they will.”
“Leave! And, anyway, you have no rights here. A son who kept distant from his sick mother has no right to inherit her house. That’s obvious. Moreover, all your parents’ property now belongs to the municipality. I advise you and also your parents, if they come back, not to be stubborn about this. Fate has decided who will live and who will die.”
“I’m alive,” I say and cock my rifle.
“Don’t shoot me!” Nadia screeches, waking me from my sleep.