We rose early and ate breakfast together. It was strange; there wasn’t much emotion. After the meal, I lit a cigarette and sat down.
At exactly 7:00 a.m. Felix announced that the stretchers were ready and that everyone should go to the stretcher to which he had been assigned.
We stood by the stretchers, and Isidor was asked to read “The Lord is my shepherd,” the psalm Kamil had loved. Felix handed over the command to Danzig.
We lifted the bodies onto the stretchers. Kamil’s stretcher was carried first, and after it came the one bearing Karl. Isidor and I carried Miriam, and on the last stretcher was Werner.
We knew there were rules and customs for funerals, but no one among us knew them. Werner, a man of broad education and intuition, lay on the stretcher, gone from us.
Felix, suffering from his sprained ankle, had changed overnight, appearing restless and apologetic. “I know little about rituals and prayers,” he said, “but I ask of you, look after yourselves and be careful. The German Army may have retreated, but gangs of Ukrainians are surely swarming in their hideaways.”
He stood in place and kept an eye on us for a good while. We felt his presence even in the distance.
It was a sunny day; the snow glittered and the water trickled in brooks. There was a first whiff of early spring, when the double windows would soon be dismantled, with Mama standing in the living room and saying, Spring is almost here.
Men and women were clearing the piles of snow that had accumulated beside their homes and on the sidewalks. Everyone spoke in new voices: Finally, the cold and dark have passed, soon the doors and windows will be opened; children and old people will stand in the gardens.
As we carried the stretchers, careful not to trip, we heard shots. Danzig ordered us to take our positions. We lay in readiness beside our dead. Kamil and Karl, fighters of great stature, always seemed to keep death at a distance. Now they lay on stretchers, covered by blankets, deathly silent.
After an hour of listening for gunfire, we continued on our way. We kept apart from one another and walked in a crouch. The thought that Kamil would not be with us and that we would have to live without him had actually sunk in only now. And for a moment it seemed we were escorting not only Miriam to her eternal home but also her father and mother, her husband and children. They lived with her the entire time she was with us, and now, when she is not mending clothes and not serving soup, they accompany her to the next world. I wanted to share this thought with Isidor, but I couldn’t find the right words. I was wary of being misunderstood and said nothing.
WE ARRIVED at the railroad station. It was filled with people, including some survivors. There was no fear, just restlessness. We made our way to the cemetery by means of a sketch Felix had given Danzig, and within half an hour we stood at its ruined gate.
Some of the tombstones had been broken and vandalized, and many were uprooted, leaving empty cavities. We looked for a plot to bury our dead and didn’t find one. Finally, we found a corner at the foot of an old poplar and started to dig; fortunately, we had spades and hoes and baskets made of rope. Danzig, who had not recovered from his wounds, apologized that he couldn’t take part in the digging. Immersed in the work, we temporarily forgot our sorrows. We didn’t think about what our hands were doing.
Before we put them in the ground, Danzig spoke. “Kamil, my esteemed commander. We never imagined that at the moment of victory you would not be with us. You were a father and brother to us; you trained us step by step and turned us from ordinary people into fighters. We walked scores of miles together, and with every mile you taught us the duty of a Jew at this time. Forgive us; we didn’t always understand what you meant, and forgive those who argued with you. You had a vision and you wanted to guide us by its light. I assume that more than once you were sick of us. You withdrew to your tent, and what you went through in your despair we will never know. You knew what each one of us needed. We, for our part, didn’t always make the effort to understand your best intentions. We loved you: the way you stood and spoke, the way you taught us what matters. Now you are leaving us. Where are you going, dear man?” The last words choked him up, and he became pale.
Our spirits plummeted. We stood beside the bodies and the graves, exposed in every direction. Manfred, Karl’s friend and ideological ally, did not hesitate and spoke directly to him: “You were like your famous namesake, loyal to your comrades and to all mankind. You did not discriminate between people. You left us a great legacy: love. Your love is planted in every one of us. Long live world communism, long live true communism.”
The last blunt words spoken by the fighter roused us from our stupor. Next Isidor spoke up. “We didn’t know anything about Miriam,” he said. “Do we know anything about the lives of angels? They appear at the hour that we need them. Everything you served us, Miriam, everything your hands made for us, was steeped in your love. Rest now, my dear one; you deserve perfect peace.” Then he fell silent.
One of the fighters who carried Werner on the stretcher lowered his head and said, “I didn’t know you, dearest Werner, and I didn’t know your life story, but every word and sentence that came from your mouth was pure. You are taking this purity with you to heaven. All those who met you in this world got from you more than they deserved—I did in my case, anyway.”
We delayed no longer. We buried them one after another. I had grown weaker in recent days, and it showed: I trembled, and my hands could barely hold the spade. Isidor worked his wonders yet again. He said Kaddish in a quivering voice beside every grave.
We stood a long time by the filled graves. We knew the friends we buried deserved greater praise and glory, but our sorrow produced no words. We stood bereft of all we once had and walked with bent heads through the broken gate of the cemetery.