I’m not certain of anything. Will they agree to talk to me? Come again once or twice and we’ll see. That’s how they talk on the phone.
No “we’ll see”. They must.
Right.
Will you let me tell your story?
We will. We will.
We’ll take it slowly, slowly.
Maybe quickly, in case we regret it, ha. Ha. Ha.
Separately or together?
However it works out, but I have a cow farm to deal with.
So more often with Dov.
Sure. I’m willing to talk to you whenever you want.
Only on rainy days, come when it rains.
Okay, Yitzhak.
I can’t leave the cow farm in the middle of the day.
No need.
I have to feed all the calves, and I also go away sometimes.
I’ll come when it rains.
That would be best, I’m only home when it rains.
So when it rains.
All right.
But call first, and we’ll see.
Chapter 1
I am Yitzhak: The State of Israel gave me the name Yitzhak.
The Nazis gave me the number 55484.
The goyim gave me the name Ichco.
My Jewish people gave me the name Icho.
In Yitzhak’s Living Room
The hardest thing of all was being evicted from our home.
We woke as usual. I got up first and wanted to go with father to the market.
I forgot it was a holiday. Father came back from the synagogue. He was black-haired, medium height. Even with his coat on, he looked thin. Father sat down on a chair. Called us. Leah, come here. Sarah. Avrum. Dov, call Icho as well. We gathered around father.
Father’s face was the color of tin in the sun. Sickly. Our eyes looked for mother.
Father said, we have to pack. We’re leaving the village. We jumped, what? Where are we going, where, don’t know, the Hungarians are sending us away from here. Where, father, where. They didn’t say, we have to be quick, pack some clothes and blankets, he coughed. Leah, a glass of water please, take some cutlery, a few plates, socks, don’t forget socks, father, where are they sending us, where, asked Avrum.
To die! said Dov. Enough, Dov, enough, they’re sending all the Jews in the village somewhere else, to the east, to work in the east. Why are they only sending Jews, asked Sarah. So we’ll die and they’ll finally be rid of us, get us out of their lives once and for all, don’t you understand?
Father covered his face with thick, dark, strong fingers.
I heard the sound of choked weeping. We looked for mother. Mother was tiny with brown hair and a gentle face, like a flower wary of the sun. Mother was chewing on the fingers of both hands. I told her, tell father to explain to us, I don’t understand, tell him, tell him. Mother sat down on a chair. At a distance from father. She was silent. Father rubbed his face as if wanting to peel off his skin and ordered: Enough! And then he got up, stretched, held onto the chair, his fingers white, almost bloodless. He looked at mother, saying hoarsely: Hungarian soldiers came to the synagogue with rifles. They told us to prepare for eviction from the house. They said within the hour. They said only to pack a suitcase with what we need. They said to go to the synagogue. To wait. Orders will come.
We shouted in unison, but father, the war is over, we can hear the Russian cannons in the distance, tell them the war is over. Father said faintly: They know. Avrum shouted, so why are they taking us, father, what do they want to do to us, what?
They want to burn Jews. I heard it on the radio. We’ll all die, said Sarah, almost crying.
That’s exactly what Hitler planned, said Dov, putting an apple in his pocket.
Father stamped his foot, enough. Go to your room, go on, go, we have an hour to pack. Mother said, but we don’t have any suitcases or bags, how can we pack?
Father said, put everything in sheets, or even tablecloths, we’ll make bundles and tie them with rope, Avrum, run and fetch ropes from the storeroom, help the children tie the ropes, Leah, you’re in our room, I’m in the kitchen. Mother fell silent. Motionless, she folded her arms very tightly.
Sarah wept.
She said, I have to wash the dishes left from Passover night, I have to put them away in the cupboard, father shouted, never mind the dishes, they’re not important now.
Mother rose from her chair, stood at the sink, opened the tap full force, grabbed a dirty plate and quickly began to soap it. Father beat his hands against the sides of his pants, as if drawing strength, stood next to mother, turned off the tap. Mother turned round, threw the plate on the floor, drying her hands on her apron, straightened up and said, we’ll go and pack. Sarah bent down and picked the pieces off the floor, crying harder, but the plates will smell by the time we return, they’ll have to be thrown out. Dov said, don’t worry, they’ll make us all smell. Mother lifted Sarah, hugged her, brushing her hair away from her forehead, stroking her head and said, we’re going. Mother and Sarah went into the rooms. Avrum returned with rope. Followed mother. Dov stood at the window. Father collected cutlery in the kitchen.
I put on a woolen hat and went to the door. I grabbed the handle. My legs felt weak.
Father called, Icho, where are you off to?
The cowshed, I have to feed the cows, I’ll get them ready to leave.
Father was alarmed, no, no, that’s impossible, we’re going without the cows, just clothing and blankets, put your clothes in a bundle. Father stood opposite me.
I asked, what about the cows? Who will take care of the cows?
Father gave me a long hard look, said, don’t argue.
I couldn’t leave our cows. The cows lived in our yard.
The cowshed was behind the house. I enjoyed milking cows. We’d talk sometimes, as if we spoke the same language. The calves were born into my hands. I looked at Dov. The curls on his head seemed small. He looked as if he’d just had a shower.
Dov signaled me, drop it, drop it. I said to father, and who will milk our cows, the cows will die without food. Father didn’t know anything, believed the neighbors would take care of them, maybe one of the soldiers with a rifle, he wasn’t sure of anything.
I remembered my cat. I wanted to know what to do with my cat that had caught cold on Passover night. I had a large cat with black and white fur. I went back to father. He stood with his back to me, opening cupboards and he looked like a grandfather. I begged, at least the cat.
I’ll take my cat, it won’t bother us, all right?
Father spoke from inside the cupboard, leave the cat, Icho, don’t go outside. And then he straightened up, gripping his back, went over to the window opposite the road and said, come here. Look out of the window. Do you see the soldiers? They will come in soon and throw us into the street without our bundles, now do you understand?
I felt as if a sickness was spreading through my body and taking away my life. I wanted my cat. The cat that came into my bed with its purrrr purrrring. It loved having its belly tickled and a spray of milk straight from the teat on its fur. Loved licking itself, for hours. Avrum, my older brother stood in the doorway. Avrum was tall, thin and gentle like mother.
He said, come on, I’ll help you, Dov is also waiting for you. Just a minute. I wanted to hug my sick cat. Sarah stood beside me. Took me by the hand. We heard a noise outside. Sarah rushed to the window.
Her bony body leaned out and she called father: Father, father, the neighbors are in our yard, they’re calling you. Sarah was also thin. Father didn’t turn round, said, not now Sarah. Sarah called more urgently, the neighbors are coming to the door, father, go out to them. Dov came into the room, put an apple in his other pocket and then some matzos inside his shirt. He had brown eyes and muscles like a ball in each arm. He’d tossed a sweater on his back.