18
From Zwiren to Upper Zwiren is only half an hour by train. But the atmosphere is entirely different. Upper Zwiren lies on an exposed plateau that rises far from neighboring settlements, and if the train didn’t pass by at its feet, it is doubtful whether anyone would remember its existence. I discovered it many years ago, and since then I never skip it. The train arrives around noon. Few passengers get on or off. The station says more about the place than anything: a derelict structure without bathrooms or supervisor, it resembles an abandoned chapel.
This time the wind was cold, as before a snowfall, but the climb wasn’t difficult. I carried my valise with vigor, and at one o’clock I was in my usual place, under a broad-limbed oak with a view of the surroundings. I took out the sandwiches and thermos that August had prepared for me. The sandwiches he makes have a homey taste, maybe because of the fresh cream cheese. His coffee is thick and warms the entire body. August himself was as a hidden presence this time. I took from my valise the kiddush cup he’d given me. It was a simple goblet, undecorated, and the letters engraved on it were crude, without polish.
Sometimes August could be amused by the quarter-Jew within him. If he said something clever, he would announce, “It wasn’t me, it was the quarter in me.” Other times he would talk about the quarter as if it were a childhood disease that had long been cured. Only when he spoke about his mother and her many years of muteness did his blue eyes fill with tears. Years ago, when I told him that I intended to travel to Jerusalem one day, he asked with the earnestness of a peasant, “Is it so you can visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre?”
“August,” I said. “I am a Jew.”
“I forgot,” he said. “I should have remembered.” Then he asked, “The Jews don’t believe in the reincarnation of Jesus?”
“No.”
“What do they believe in?”
“In the Old Testament.”
“And the Old Testament doesn’t mention Jesus?”
“No.”
“If so, what did the priest mean in his sermon on Sunday?”
August’s questions exhude the smells of the earth. His forefathers were peasants, and from them he inherited innocence and strength. When he recalls his father, who worked his farm with his own hands, no trace of the Jew is visible in him. Sometimes I love the peasant in him more than the frayed quarter. The Jewish quarter in him makes him look sad. Sadness does not suit his round face.
Before melancholy overcame me, I remembered the purpose of my arrival here. I drew the pistol from my valise and unwrapped it. That solid piece of metal always pleases me. In the end I sell the treasures and manuscripts, but it remains faithful to me. Only Max knows the secret and supplies me with a few new magazines of cartridges every time we meet.
After I fired two magazines, I heard a voice calling. The voice was clear and strong, and I bent to listen.
When the voice called again, it sounded like Bertha’s voice. Years ago I brought her here to show her the landscape and the pistol. At first she was excited, but this soon turned to dread. She murmured words I could not understand, and I was forced to return her to the station, to console her. Needless to say, I never got to show her the gun. I didn’t know then what forces lay within her. Now Bertha is sitting on the riverbank staring at the water. God only knows what thoughts she harbors.
I cleaned the gun. Every time I clean it, I feel myself fill with patience, and the fear of death diminishes. Once Max told me that the transition to the next world must be very short. When I asked him how it is done, he replied, “It takes practice.”
When I wrapped up the pistol, I saw Bertha once more, the way she had first appeared to me: a young woman immersed in her work, her expression intense, as if her gaze were fixed on some wondrous sight. Wonder gave her face the beauty of someone who heeds her own mysteries.
It was four o’clock. The sun was already setting, kissing the horizon. I returned the pistol to my valise and hurried back down. At five the last local passes through, and I did not want to miss it. Strange, after every target practice here, I see many faces. All the stations bunch together and acquaintances who live many kilometers apart, Jews, half-Jews, and enemies, mingle with each other, like relatives. That vision belongs to this place alone. This time, too, it was revealed to me. But this time, for some reason, the people were burdened with bundles and sunk into themselves, as if they knew there was no escape.