The squads returned before dawn, loaded with supplies but in a foul mood. They had raided a house filled with women and children. The women, unfortunate and insolent, threw things at them, screamed and cursed. Threats and handcuffs only increased their screaming. The children had to be locked in another room.
It was a poor home, and yet the squads managed to score a sack of potatoes, a medium-sized sack of flour, some corn, red cabbage, apples, onions, and garlic. Asked by Felix what had happened, one of the fighters replied, “It’s very unpleasant to fight with women and children. What was unavoidable a month ago is now indefensible. The time to go down is now.”
Tsila went into the kitchen and served sandwiches and coffee to the squads. She is still not herself. Death has lodged in her face. She speaks slowly, as if fearing her own speech.
Hermann Cohen is also not the man he was yesterday. Every time the radio plays marches, he contorts his mouth. His niece wasn’t wounded in the shelling, but ever since then, she’s been shaking, saying things no one understands, and once an hour she asks her uncle to take her to the toilet.
“You’ll be cold,” begs Hermann Cohen.
Hearing his plea, she smiles and says, “What can I do?”
BUILDING THE STRETCHERS CONTINUES. Felix figures we’ll need at least forty stretchers, and they should be prepared as quickly as possible because the food is running out.
Color has returned to Emil’s face, and his sense of wonder, too. Were it not for his weakness, he would walk out of his tent and stand there looking at the spectacular view. Yesterday he emerged and stood for a few minutes. His eyes filled with tears.
Kamil would always say that as long as we’re alive it’s possible to do good. Until the last moment of his life, Kamil was full of action. But at the same time he was devoted to big ideas that governed his daily life.
Now Kamil lies in the snow, covered with a blanket. For a moment it seems that he’s about to take off the blanket, arise from his frozen state, and say, What happened to me? Why didn’t you wake me? Most nights Kamil didn’t sleep, but he would often lie down in the middle of the day and sleep for an hour or two.
Once he asked me, “What kind of career do you want?”
“It’s not clear to me yet,” I replied.
Kamil then revealed that his twin brother was the first violinist in the Brussels Philharmonic Orchestra. From the age of five, he and his family knew that he would be a violinist; even then he strove for perfection. There were days when he was happy with the sounds he made and days when he was gloomy, closed off, and angry. Their mother, who was very close to him, would try to ease his inner tension, but she rarely succeeded. It was hard for him to describe the flaw in his playing to his mother, but by age seventeen he had very nearly overcome it, and his face lit up. People loved him and would come from afar to hear him. Success smiled upon him, but he knew that a bit of that flaw still nested within him and that he had to try harder. It was a Sisyphean struggle that began in the morning and ended at night. “I saw his struggle but didn’t know how to help him,” said Kamil. “To my ears his playing was perfect. And when I told him so, he said, ‘You’re wrong.’ ”
Again I picture Emil standing by the blackboard, casually solving a problem. Everyone is amazed, envious, making jokes, interrupting, and realizing that none of them will ever reach his level. What good will his genius for math do for him?, they finally say. He’s as innocent as a child and can easily be duped.
I want to tell him, Emil, many great achievements await you. You are only at the beginning of the road. But I quickly understand that these words, spoken at this time, would only make things worse. Now he needs to lie down on a mat, close his eyes, and be one with his body.