Because Krol Rudy was almost always drunk or sick, power had fallen to several kniezes, especially Kulak, who led the woyaks loyal to their krol. Kulak had charge of the armed woyaks who watched Krol Rudy’s hut day and night, changing guard every so often. He also had charge of all the arms, although he had seldom fought with weapons. If he needed to kill, he used his bare fists. Or else he threw his massive weight at his victim, crushing or suffocating him.
Another kniez, Czapek (or Piesek, as he was nicknamed in the camp, because he resembled a bulldog), was the overseer of the fields, only one step below Krol Rudy. Before he joined Krol Rudy’s woyaks he had served a pan in a region near the river Wieprz, where he was in charge of fields, granaries, horses, and children. Kniez Czapek was as round as a barrel. He had a broad face with wide-set eyes, and a flat nose with large nostrils. He wobbled rather than walked on his short legs. He was the oldest of the kniezes and he called the younger ones “brats.” Czapek had the old Lesnik men and the women build a barn for him, and there he kept the last bit of grain remaining from the harvest. He himself often sat at the door to guard the wheat from the hungry Lesniks and the barley from drunken woyaks who wanted to brew more beer. It was rumored that Czapek had even stood up to Krol Rudy when the latter ordered that grain be used to satisfy the woyaks’ craving for drink. As small and clumsy as Czapek was, he was known to be an extremely capable fighter. In wars he slashed heads with both his swords, one in his left hand and one in his right. It was also he, Czapek, who insisted that during the winter Lesnik women cut down trees and prepare the earth for new fields.
Kniez Nosek was in charge of all matters which required mental skill, such as proficiency with numbers or the ability to plan ahead. He had built a sundial, which told him the time of day by the shadows it cast over the markings on its face. Nosek’s talents for measuring, weighing, allotting provisions or pelts so that everyone had the proper share were widely known. He also became the camp’s judge. People often said that Nosek was able to keep a cool head because he had no interest in women, and because there were no young men in the camp who appealed to him.
Kniez Cybula shared some of Nosek’s burdensome duties and acted as intermediary between Krol Rudy and the Lesniks. It was Cybula who spoke for the Lesniks and brought their grievances to Krol Rudy’s attention. Cybula was no longer the sole hunter in the camp. In order to survive until the sowing in spring and the harvest in late summer, the camp needed meat. What little was caught in the traps that the women and old men had set up would not suffice to feed them.
The gods were merciful that winter. The snows and frosts were not as severe as during the winter before. Often the days were sunny and mild. The animals in the woods multiplied rapidly. A day did not go by when Cybula did not shoot at least one stag or doe, and most days he shot several. Even the woyaks, who were inept hunters, were able to kill some animals with their spears. The number of Lesniks who remained in the mountains steadily dropped, until they became merely a handful. The fear that they might descend on the camp and begin killing anew now seemed remote, at least until the summer, since most of their women had died of cold and hunger or in childbirth.
The many stories that Cybula told about Miasto seemed to have awakened the Lesniks from a deep sleep. Renewed hope prevailed in the camp. They saw the horses with their fine saddles, bridles, and reins that Nosek and Cybula had brought back, as well as the copper coins, tin knives and spoons, hammers, saws, and other implements. In Czapek’s barn they could see wooden plows, scythes, sickles, hoes, spades, and even a plow with an iron blade. Nosek told them that when the winter was over, the ice melted and the mud dry, a britska, or large carriage, built in Miasto, would arrive, filled with tools for building tables, benches, stools, and other furniture. He told them about the spindles for spinning flax and the looms for weaving cloth from wool or flax. Merely to hear about the town gladdened their hearts. If it could spring up so near, without their knowledge, why not here?
Even though Cybula described the hardships of life in Miasto—the crowded streets, the dirt and filth, the noise and smells—his words could not dampen their desire to see it all for themselves. Every day they made Czapek open the barn doors and display the treasures the kniezes had brought back.
The dark-skinned shoemaker, Ben Dosa, aroused the camp’s interest as much as the treasures. He had lived in faraway places and seen towns even bigger than Miasto. They questioned him constantly. Where did he come from? Who were his parents? How did he learn the strange language of the Niemcies, the people on the seashore? Ben Dosa answered them all willingly. His parents were Jews, whose God had given them the Torah on Mount Sinai, and then exiled them for their sins. He was always prepared to let them return if they repented, to send his Messiah to them, to bring them back to Jerusalem, to rebuild his temple. Though Ben Dosa uttered such strange words, it was nevertheless a pleasure to listen to him. He patted the children on their heads, wished their mothers happiness and health. Again and again he insisted there was only one God, who created the world in five days: the sun and the moon and the stars, the mountains, rivers, fish, the flies and worms. Then God created man on the sixth day and gave him the greatest gift of all—the freedom to choose between good and evil. Ben Dosa worked and spoke at the same time. One could hear him day and night. His fingers moved nimbly and swiftly. From his lips—half hidden behind a black mustache—words poured out which astounded and comforted, fired the imagination, awakened the mind.
Even persons of rank like Cybula, Nosek, and Czapek came to order shoes and to chat with the shoemaker, who was full of so much wisdom. Cybula brought Laska, his daughter, his wife Yagoda, and her mother Kora to see Ben Dosa, who now worked in a small hut. One day Krol Rudy ordered him to come to his house and sew boots for himself and his wives. While Ben Dosa took measurements, Krol Rudy questioned him about his country, his family, his God. He asked, “Are you a man or a god?”
“A man, my krol—flesh and blood. There is only one God, and all men are his children.”
“Where are the other gods?” Krol Rudy asked.
“There are no other gods,” Ben Dosa said.
“What about Baba Yaga?”
“There is no Baba Yaga.”
“Did you fly as high as the mountains and see this for yourself?”
“No, this is what our prophets taught us.”
“Where are the prophets?”
“They are no longer alive. Our generation is not worthy of having prophets.”
“Where did you hear all these things?”
“From the Torah.”
“What is that?”
“The words of God written down on parchment.”
“What is parchment?”
“It is made of animal skins.”
“You are telling lies, you made up these stories yourself. But if you make me a good pair of boots, I’ll give you some bread.”
“Thank you, krol.”
“You can also find yourself a wife here.”
“Thank you, krol, but I already have a wife.”
“In Babylon, in the town of Sura.”
“Where is Babylon?”
“Far away, in the East, across the sea.”
“And your reach goes so far that you can possess a woman across the sea?” Krol Rudy winked and broke into uproarious laughter.
Ben Dosa obtained permission from Nosek and Cybula to teach the camp children to read and to write. He opened a cheder in his own hut. Using wooden beams, he constructed several long tables, then attached narrow benches to them. The children came to him willingly. Their mothers also came along whenever they were not needed in the forests. Cybula and Nosek both wanted to learn the art of reading and writing, and they, too, became Ben Dosa’s pupils. First he taught the children to say a prayer in the holy tongue: “I thank thee, living and eternal God, for returning my soul to me in your mercy and your great faith.” Ben Dosa instructed the children to go outside and rub their little hands in the snow. Then he pronounced the unfamiliar words slowly, in a clear voice, and the children repeated after him. Then he translated them into the Polish tongue of the Lesniks. He translated the word “soul” as ducha, a small ghost or spirit. They asked, Where does the soul reside? In the nose? Head? Stomach? What does it look like? Ben Dosa explained that the soul could not be seen, it had no form or color, but it was the power which gave man life. Even when the soul departed, when man slept, it left behind it something called nefesh, and this nefesh existed not only in man but in animals also.
A while later Ben Dosa carried out a board on which he had written the letters of the alphabet. Ben Dosa touched each letter with a pointer and called it by its name: aleph, beth, gimel, daleth, he, waw, zayin … and so on, until taw. He hung the board on a nail on the wall and asked both adults and children to name the letters and identify them. Cybula tried to remember each letter, but they all looked the same to him. I will never be able to tell them apart, he thought, even if I see them a thousand times. And he saw with amazement how several children named and identified all the letters correctly. Cybula felt proud that it was he who had brought this man to the camp, but he was disheartened to see children absorbing the man’s lessons faster than he. “Ah, their heads are still fresh,” Cybula consoled himself. A child was like fresh fruit just picked off the tree, or a radish recently dug out of the ground. Later the head filled up with thoughts, worries, cravings. It was strange: Nosek was not a young man, but he could easily identify the letters and name them all correctly. Cybula glanced at him with admiration. Nosek smiled, nodded his head, and winked. Ben Dosa held a sliver of chalk between his fingers and with rapid strokes drew letters on a sheet of oak bark. He placed the letters in such a way that they formed words, in his own language and also in the language of the Poles and the Lesniks. He wrote from right to left the names of Krol Rudy, Cybula, Nosek, Kora, Yagoda, and he added his own name.
After a while Ben Dosa dismissed the children, telling them to run home or play outside. To the adults who remained Ben Dosa said, “It is important to know these letters. With these letters God created heaven and earth.” Cybula wanted to ask, “And how did God do it—with a piece of chalk?” But he was ashamed to voice his question aloud. Nosek asked, “About which god are you speaking? The god of your country?”
“God is the God of all lands, all words,” Ben Dosa answered. “Without His word the world would return to darkness and desolation.”
“Darkness is caused by our own Baba Yaga when she is angry at us,” an old Lesnik called out.
“Baba Yaga cannot make light and she cannot make darkness,” Ben Dosa answered. “The true God is everyone’s—yours, mine. The false gods are deaf and blind. They have eyes which cannot see, ears which do not hear. They have feet, but they cannot run.”
“Can your god run?” asked another Lesnik.
Ben Dosa considered the question. “He has no need to run. He is everywhere. The whole world is full of his presence.”
When Cybula was outside again he felt dazed. His head was reeling. He felt that a new time had begun for himself and for everyone in the camp. He glanced at the children. One of them picked up a stick and carved in the snow a letter similar to those Ben Dosa had drawn with chalk. Cybula asked him, “What is this?” And the child answered, “Aleph.”
Nosek took the stick from the child’s hand and traced another letter in the snow.
“What is this?” Cybula asked. And Nosek answered, “Beth.”
“I must learn these things, even if they cost my life,” Cybula decided. He returned to Ben Dosa’s hut and asked him to recite the alphabet once more, from the beginning. The men studied the letters together, and Cybula learned to name and eventually to identify them. Only a few of the letters confused him. Nun looked to him like a gimel and daleth like a resh. Ben Dosa showed him how these pairs differed; then he said, “Letters are like faces. From a distance they may look alike, but when we take a closer look, we see that each is different.”
He gave Cybula the chalk and told him to copy the letters from the aleph—beth board. When Cybula held the chalk in his fingers, his hand began to tremble. He caught his breath, but at last copied all twenty-two letters correctly. Although it was cold in the hut, Cybula felt warm. From time to time spots whirled in front of his eyes. He felt as if the camp had become a town and he had become a learned man. He embraced Ben Dosa and kissed his forehead. He said, “If I were the krol, I would make you my closest kniez. The truth is that you should be our krol.”
“I don’t want to be a krol,” Ben Dosa answered. “A king lives his life and dies. But God lives forever and his mercy is forever. It is said, ‘God is good to his creatures, and his mercy is cast upon his creation.’ ”
Cybula thought a moment and said, “But how can this be? We kill his creatures and eat them. The wolf devours the sheep. We humans kill the wolf. God is not always good to his creatures.”
“He is good to them,” Ben Dosa said. “We humans do not always understand God’s goodness.”
“Why does your god let small children become ill and die? Why did he let the woyaks attack and slaughter our people?”
“God need not reveal all his secrets to us.”
“I must go. I’ll return tomorrow with my daughter Laska—the krolowa—my wife Yagoda, her mother Kora, and others who want to learn to read and write.”
“Yes, kniez. Come, all of you.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll send you some food. Why don’t you eat with us when we bring home our catch?”
“This, kniez, I cannot do,” Ben Dosa said after some hesitation.
“Why not? You are one of us now.”
“I am not permitted to eat the flesh of an unclean animal.”
“Which animals are unclean?”
“We may not eat pigs.”
“Why not? If you wash the pig’s flesh, it would be as clean as a sheep’s.”
Ben Dosa wanted to tell Cybula that only animals which chewed their cud and whose hooves were split were considered clean, but he could not find the words he needed in the Polish tongue. He said, “You, kniez, may. But I may not.”
“Why is that so?” Cybula asked again.
“Because I am a son of the people of Israel. God gave us the Torah on Mount Sinai and offered it to other nations as well, to the sons of Esau and Ishmael, but they did not accept it. Yet men like you, descendants of Noah, must obey seven of God’s commandments.”
“What commandments?” Cybula asked. And Ben Dosa answered, “You may not lie with your mother or sister or daughter.”
Cybula was silent.
Laska lived with her child in a room which was often crowded with Krol Rudy’s visiting women. When Cybula finally pushed through the guards surrounding the krol’s house, preparing to spend a few moments alone with his daughter, Laska cried out to him, “Father, save me. I’ve fallen into the hands of a madman!”
The room smelled of smoke, sweat, decaying food, and excrement. The skins on which Laska lay with her newborn son stank. From the adjoining room, which was Krol Rudy’s, came sounds resembling an animal’s grunts. Laska told her father that because her husband feared that his enemies might be lurking, he no longer went outside to relieve himself. Krol Rudy made Kniez Kulak sleep at his side to protect him from sudden attack.
Laska’s son, Ptashek, cried incessantly. Laska pushed her breast into his little mouth, but Cybula showed her that the boy spat out more than he swallowed. Cybula remembered how well his former wife, Yasna, had raised children. Never had he known the pain and helplessness he felt when he visited Laska, his only daughter.
Yagoda, having grown accustomed to her hiding place in the oak, refused to return to the camp. The women there mocked her, because they knew Cybula was husband both to her and to her mother. They called her a fool, a barren field, and wondered why she did not conceive when so many men pursued her as dogs pursue a bitch. Only there, in the oak’s hollow, did Yagoda find peace.
Sometimes she lay for hours, covered with pelts, thinking of nothing, listening to the wind, to the cawing of the crows, to the chirping of the birds, who for some reason did not migrate that winter. As she lay in the darkness, she imagined she could hear the oak’s roots sucking the juices which would cause leaves, buds, blossoms to sprout and grow. Brooks gurgled under the snow. In the thicket of molding leaves and moss, tiny creatures swarmed, creatures that—like Yagoda—silently, longingly awaited spring. Yagoda never grew tired of waiting for Cybula.
The hollow in the oak was narrow, even for Yagoda. But with her bare fingers, like a mole, she dug out the earth between its roots and cleared a small space for herself and her husband. She lined it with leaves, grasses, pelts. So small was the space that their bodies always touched. Cybula’s lips touched Yagoda’s ear. Cold as it was outside, together they were warm. Heat flowed from his body to hers, and from her body to his. When Cybula returned from Miasto he had confessed to Yagoda that there, in the distant town, he had lain with another. Yagoda also knew that he frequently visited her mother. But she was never resentful. First, how could she, an insignificant creature, resent a god? Second, Kora was her mother, as dear to her as her own life.
To Yagoda Cybula bared all his secrets, his plans for the camp, his opinions of every woman and man. At other times he spoke to her about gods. Had there really been a time when nothing existed—no sky, no earth, no mountains, no streams? Would everything one day come to an end? He repeated to her Ben Dosa’s words about the Jews who existed somewhere in the East. For them there was but one god, who had chosen them; they built a golden temple for him. But later, when they sinned against him, he destroyed it and sent them into exile.
“What did they do?” Yagoda asked.
“They stole, killed, lay with their mothers and daughters.”
“Is this bad?”
“So he says.”
“Whatever you do is good.”
“He believes that our gods are deaf and blind and that only his god can see and speak,” Cybula said.
“Is this true?”
“How can it be true? There are no gods.” Yet Yagoda also knew the gods as though they did exist. Sometimes he said the world was an evil place and death the greatest gift, yet he also promised to take Yagoda over the mountains and live there with her in a house surrounded with fields, gardens, lakes, and streams. He would tell her a story, confessing later that he made it up, about a krol as tall as a pine, with a beard that reached to his navel, with the horns of a deer, and with one eye in his forehead. This krol could fly like a bird, speak with trees, rocks, pigs, dogs, oxen. He flew up to heaven and married a goddess, also named Yagoda, who bore him thousands and thousands of children, who turned into stars.
Once when he told her a story about a god, Yagoda asked him, “What is a god?” And Cybula answered, “Wszystko—everything.”
“Everything?”
“The oak, Krol Rudy, Nosek, Ben Dosa, I, you, your hair, your breasts, your thoughts, your dreams at night.”
“How can this be?” Yagoda asked.
“This is how it is.”
Suddenly Cybula began to sing a song Yagoda had never heard before. He half sang, half spoke the words. What he said aroused both laughter and fear in her. He said that Everything was a man and Always was a woman. Everything and Always were man and wife.
“Have they any children?”
“Yes, we are their children.”
“Oh, this frightens me,” Yagoda said.
“Why should it frighten you?”
“Is Kora not my mother?”
“Yes, she is your mother.”
“And who was Kostek?”
“Your father.”
“Where is he now?”
“Everything swallowed him up.”
“Is Everything an animal?”
“Everything is everything.”
“Who told you this—Ben Dosa?”
“No, I thought of it myself. Sometimes when I lie awake at night, strange thoughts come to me. Where did everything come from? What was there before I was born? And what will there be after I’m gone? It occurred to me that Everything is Always, and that they are like man and wife.”
“Like us?”
“Yes, like us.”
“Cybula, I wish that it was always night and that you were always with me,” Yagoda said.
Kosoka was among those who came to hear Ben Dosa’s morning lesson. After Krol Rudy had thrown her out, for reasons she did not understand, no one in the camp would take her in and she wandered about aimlessly. She lived in an abandoned, half-burned hut, and made a bed from the straw left in the fields. She lit a fire on the ground between two branches and roasted her daily catch in it. This day Ben Dosa’s lesson was about the sacrifices that were offered at the temple in Jerusalem. He said there were burnt offerings that were completely consumed on the altar, after the priests had taken the meat for themselves. There were also offerings of thanks, in the form of the finest crops or a pair of turtledoves. One boy named Wilk asked, “Why don’t we have any of those things here?”
Ben Dosa’s black eyes sparkled. “My child, everything can be had, if only we will it. Here we have a camp where men live almost like beasts, going barefoot. But some weeks’ travel from here a town has been bunt, with houses, shops, and workshops where craftsmen can practice their crafts. If we all wish it, we, too, can build such a town in our camp. We have all that we need: trees, fruit, fertile soil. We can build houses, streets, shops, and spin flax, weave cloth, tan leather. If we will it, we can raise herds of sheep, shear their wool, make woolen garments.”
Ben Dosa addressed his remarks to Wilk, but he glanced at Cybula and Nosek as he continued: “The women here complain bitterly: We do not have enough men! But the Book of Proverbs, which King Solomon wrote—he was the wisest of all men—tells us that the woman of valor spun and wove flax and wool and was dressed in fine garments. Her husband sat with the elders at the city gates while she traded with merchants or sewed rugs. She even had time to learn new things and help the poor. It is said she was so diligent that she did not extinguish the light in her house all night long.”
“Teach us what we must do!” a woman called out. She looked like a young girl, but she was already pregnant.
“You will first have to undergo the pains of childbirth. Then you will look after your child and nourish it, both its body and its spirit. It is said that the greatest virtue the woman of valor possessed was her fear of God. When a man ceases to fear God, he becomes lower than the beast, which has no free will.”
An elderly woman called to Ben Dosa, “Where is she, this woman of valor? Let her come here and teach us!”
Ben Dosa smiled. “She has not been among the living for a long time. Her body has turned to dust, but her soul is with the righteous women in paradise.”
“Where is that, in Miasto?”
“In heaven.”
The people assembled in Ben Dosa’s hut were silent. Cybula whispered in Nosek’s ear and Nosek shook his head. Cybula said, “Ben Dosa, after you teach us the letters today, come to my hut. Nosek and I want to speak with you.”
“Yes, Kniez Cybula.”
Ben Dosa took out his chalk and began teaching the letters again. The brightest pupil among them was Wilk, twelve years old, who could recite the alphabet and write his name. His father had been killed during the mutiny, and the woyak had raped his mother, Basha, and also blinded her in her left eye. Wilk had blue eyes and golden hair, and when he smiled, dimples appeared in his cheeks. The other boys teased him and gave him girls’ names. The women, however, had a special liking for this half-orphan and showered him with kisses. Wilk was a skillful hunter and often went out with his bow and arrows. Once he caught a young deer. He climbed up trees in search of beehives, and when he found them, he brought honey to his mother and to others in the camp. During Ben Dosa’s lesson, Cybula noticed that Nosek often looked at the boy, often followed his movements with his eyes. When Ben Dosa praised Wilk, Nosek smiled. Cybula could not recall ever having seen Nosek smile.
When the lessons were over and the pupils had gone, Ben Dosa’s door opened and Kosoka stood before him, barefoot, half naked, with only a pelt to cover her hips and breasts.
“Welcome, Kosoka,” he said.
Kosoka held a basket made of braided twine and approached the bench on which Ben Dosa sat. “I brought something for you.” She lifted the small hide which covered her basket and Ben Dosa saw a dead rabbit. He stood up.
“Kosoka, I cannot eat this. It is not permitted, it is unclean.”
Kosoka then asked, “What shall I do with it?”
“Whatever you like. You can eat it yourself.”
“You said God forbids it.”
“It is forbidden only to Jews. You are not a Jew and therefore you may eat it.”
Kosoka said, “I want to be what you are, a Jew.”
“You a Jew? Why?”
“I want to go to heaven when I die.” And Kosoka pointed upward with her finger.
Ben Dosa smiled. “You will not die so soon. You are still young.”
“The young also die. Before long I will be dead.”
“Is that why you want to become a Jew?”
“Yes.”
“How did you come to this belief?” Ben Dosa asked.
“It is what you taught us.”
“A Jew must truly believe in God, not in what some man teaches. Today I teach you one thing, tomorrow another may teach you something different. You must think these things out for yourself and begin to believe that the one true God is the God who created the heavens and the earth, not some idol made of stone. Do you believe in one God?”
“Yes.”
“Our kniez Cybula told me that he does not want me to teach this belief to the camp. He wants to remain an idol worshipper, and he wants the others left as they are. If he should hear that you want to become a Jew, he may punish us both. This is the first thing you must know. The second is that since our temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, we have been dispersed among the nations, disgraced, threatened, and made to live like lambs among the wolves. Whoever becomes a Jew takes a heavy burden upon himself. We have two hundred and forty-eight commandments which we must observe, and three hundred and sixty-five transgressions which we must avoid. Are you willing to assume such a burden?”
“Yes.” A long silence followed. Then Kosoka said, “I want to be a sacrifice to your god.”
“A sacrifice? What do you mean by a sacrifice?”
“You told us about the sacrifices in the temple, the ones whose blood was sprinkled on the altar.”
“Those were animals, not human beings.”
“I want to give you my blood.”
Ben Dosa was so bewildered by her words that he remained speechless. He looked at Kosoka with astonishment. In the years since he was captured on a ship bound for Sidon, he had encountered a variety of savage men. He had witnessed fights among the sailors in which they broke each other’s bones. He had seen violence, homosexuality, idolatry, aberrations of many kinds. But what Kosoka proposed to him was entirely new. He had an urge to reproach her, but something restrained him. How could a creature come to such thoughts, he wondered. Perhaps her ancestors were a people of madness.
Ben Dosa need not have been astonished. Human sacrifices were offered by idol worshippers throughout the ages. Fathers and mothers willingly gave their children to the fires of Molech. Men delivered their daughters and wives into prostitution, as gift offerings to the priests and false prophets of Baal and Ashtoreth. It was all recorded in the Torah and in other holy books: the sins of the generation of the Flood, the evil deeds of Sodom, of those who wounded their faces and tore chunks out of their flesh when they mourned a death in their family. About the generation of the Flood it was written that even their animals had been mated with those of other species. Ben Dosa said, “My girl, the Master of the Universe does not ask for any sacrifices. Be honest and do good. Nothing more is needed.”
“What shall I do?” Kosoka asked.
“Marry a man and be a faithful wife.”
“I want to be your wife,” Kosoka said.
Ben Dosa shuddered. “I have a wife and children.”
“There in Babylon, not here.”