38

I tried to cleave to the Hebrew letters, and the effort cost me deeply. It was hard for me to make them part of my thoughts, and without that close connection, everything was chaotic, falling into the depths of darkness. I felt that the Bible was calling on me to get to know its sentences, but I didn’t dare. Everything there was crowned with ancient splendor. I read, understood the words, but this was the thin air of high altitudes, and those who dwell there are far above us.

I remembered the teacher Slobotsky, and I was flooded with longing for Misgav Yitzhak. Slobotsky tried to connect us to the Hebrew sentence, but I wasn’t ready for it then. Now, I was far from my friends and from Slobotsky’s voice.

In my childhood Mother loved to read to me. Her way of reading was quiet, with no mimicry. When I got older and read by myself, Mother’s voice would accompany my reading, and I would read at her pace. By the age of ten, I was already addicted to books. Sometimes Mother would pull me out of the fervor that swept me away and serve me a cup of cocoa. She understood my spirit and didn’t rebuke me, even when I read until late at night.

“What are you reading?” Father would sometimes surprise me. I would tell him the name of the book. If it pleased him, he would say “Fine,” and smile. Father was sparing with speech, not to mention explanations. I didn’t understand his inner struggles or his moods. But it was impossible not to love him.

Once, I entered his room and saw a card on the table. “We are returning the manuscript, ‘Wild Roses,’ which you sent to us,” it read. “The book is interesting, but it does not suit our publishing program.” At that time, I of course couldn’t know what damage that card had done. Mother had to muster her entire soul to calm the tremor in Father’s fingers.

“You don’t write for the masses,” she said. That was the sentence she kept repeating.

Suddenly, an image of our house rose up before me. It wasn’t a big house, but it was covered with carpets and embroidery and full of good smells. Mother made sure that pleasant-looking curtains hung at my window and at Father’s. She believed that pretty accessories enlarged a person’s vision.

—

One of the patients, a quiet one, approached my table.

“Where were you during the war?” he asked cautiously. I was alarmed, as though he had pulled off the thick blanket in which I’d been wrapped for a long time and exposed my shame.

I didn’t know how to answer, so I just said, “Like everyone.”

“But you, what place were you in?”

“In a cellar.”

“In what cellar, where?” He wouldn’t leave me alone.

It was strange: outwardly, the man didn’t look too pedantic or insistent, but his questions left no room for doubt. He wouldn’t let me off easily.

“I committed no crime,” I protested.

“I wasn’t talking about a crime—perish the thought—but I wish to know.”

I hadn’t spoken about those dark years, neither to myself nor with my friends. Nor did my friends tell me anything. Once, I asked Mark where he was during the war. He pierced through me with his gaze and silenced me completely. From then on, I knew the boundaries of conversation between us.

Now this strange patient was standing next to me, demanding to know my secret.

I looked at him again. He didn’t seem like someone who was plotting to harm me. But his face didn’t display any softness or a desire to compromise.

“In Vaska’s cellar,” I said

He smiled at my words, as though he understood that I didn’t intend to reveal any more.

I remembered Vaska from my earliest childhood. He frequented our house. We would buy from him fruit and vegetables, which he would deliver to us in his wide wagon and store in our basement. Father liked peasants, their way of thinking and their way of life. He would pour a drink for Vaska and himself and sink into conversation with him. Vaska was among those he was fond of.

A few days before we were driven out of the ghetto, Father brought me to Vaska. He agreed to take me in, and Father paid him, on the spot, with gold and silver coins. Vaska laid his hand on his heart and swore that he would watch over me like the apple of his eye.

“How long were you with Vaska?” the patient asked me with a smile. He understood that I wouldn’t reveal what had really happened to me. War stories, even simple ones, don’t emerge from hiding easily.

At Vaska’s, I learned very quickly what imprisonment was and what darkness was. Images and thoughts tormented me day and night, but I didn’t open my mouth and I never asked for anything. Twice a day, Vaska would bring me a cup of milk and a piece of bread, and at night—not before tying my hands—he would take me to use the latrine. Sometimes he would forget me for a day or two, and I would be tortured with hunger until I could hardly breathe.

After two months of imprisonment, it occurred to Vaska that his wife could teach me to knit socks and gloves. I knitted for most of the day. If I didn’t fill my quota, Vaska would threaten to hand me over to the police, and if he was in a foul mood, he would beat me.

I plotted to run away and die. Vaska, who always feared I would flee, secured the cellar with two locks. That’s how I lived for almost two years.

Once, about a year before the end of the war, Vaska forgot to lock the door, and I ran away to the forest. Long after the war ended, my fingers moved by themselves to the rhythm of knitting. Even when I lay in bed, my fingers would tense up, anxious to fill the quota.

—

The patient wouldn’t let me alone. He stared at me intently, following my thoughts. Finally, he said, “In any event, I expected you to tell me.”

I didn’t know what to answer.

“There are things one mustn’t talk about,” I said.

The patient bowed his head and didn’t bother me anymore. He returned to his room.