Felix has decided that the time has come to move the dead we had buried in the wetlands to the Jewish cemetery. Two squads equipped with digging tools, stretchers, and blankets went out early in the morning.
The wetlands at this time of year are a muddy mess. Danzig, who led the squads, knows the territory well, but we were forced to diverge from the familiar route to avoid swamps and streams, and the extended journey took four hours.
Before ascending to the summit, we lit a bonfire. Hermann Cohen had supplied us with round bread and cheese, dried fruit, and tea. We were very hungry and finished everything. For a moment I forgot the solemn mission to which we had been assigned. The days we had spent together passed before my eyes—the patrols, the ambushes, and the raids—and I was sad that this close friendship was coming apart. Soon everyone would be facing his own fate.
We did not tarry and climbed to the summit. This exalted place that we had clung to now stood naked and exposed to the winds. Several tent canvases were strewn on the ground, crumpled and abandoned. Our former bunkers bore undeniable testimony to the tough, determined lives we led here. But what can you do? Nature is always stronger than human life. In another month or two these remnants will be erased, and the summit will again be what it was—an inseparable part of the Carpathians.
Without delay we began to dig around the grave of Grandma Tsirl. Soon enough the shovels touched her sedan chair. In a group effort we lifted it up and placed it on the stretcher. Suddenly we had a vision of Grandma Tsirl coming back to life as we had known her: her gaunt face, her neck wrapped in a thin scarf, her eyes blazing as she seemed to whisper, The body is gone, but the soul is part of God above. There’s no point in doubting this pure truth. For good reason our hands trembled as we tied the sedan chair to the stretcher with ropes.
We brought the stretcher down from the summit carefully, step by step. Next we began digging around the grave of Koba, our first casualty. I didn’t know him, but Danzig, a classmate of his, knew him well and valued him greatly. Buried on either side of him were Gabriel and Mark.
The fallen were still wrapped in faded police uniforms. I remembered that Mark had been buried in his uniform; it had seemed right to me that we didn’t bury him in his tattered flak jacket. The uniform would protect his body until his soul departed from it.
We loaded the bodies on the stretchers and went on our way with a sense of urgency.
When we reached the cemetery, it was already evening. We dug graves beside the graves we had just dug for our other fallen comrades. The digging took a long time because of the soggy ground and our fatigue from the journey. Isidor recited the Kaddish and the El Maleh Rahamim prayer. What would we do without him at a time like this? Whom else could we turn to for words? He knows the words that were spoken by the forefathers and he speaks them.
Afterward, we sat down and had no strength to get up and walk. Danzig didn’t rush us, but when a group of young people passed by and shouted, “Jews, the Germans will soon be back,” we chased after them. They ran away, but we were quicker. We caught most of them. They pleaded for their lives, but we didn’t let go until they kneeled down and swore to God that they would no longer threaten or curse us.