* * *
—
ON EVERY RAID we pass an abandoned Jewish home in the countryside. These are now mostly occupied by Ruthenians who remodeled them, but sometimes the abandoned house remains in its original form. The new residents wear the clothes of the former residents, and for a moment their appearance is deceptive.
On one of the raids, Salo discovered the house of his Uncle Herzig: a big house with many lamps. This was before dawn, and we were on our way to the base. Salo, who was shaken by what he saw, asked Felix for permission to go inside to see what was left.
The new residents, startled by the raid, were ordered to sit on the ground. Felix immediately announced that we were partisans and requested that they contribute to the war effort.
“We have nothing,” said the father of the family.
“The house is full of fine furniture, expensive lamps, and you say you have nothing.”
“Take a piece of furniture if you want,” he said with a snicker.
“We do not need furniture. We are looking for necessities, warm clothes, blankets. By the way, whose house is this?”
“Mine.”
“You inherited it?”
“That’s right.”
“And if we tell you this is a Jewish house and you took it over, what would you say?”
“I would say that’s not true.”
Felix did not continue to argue. He ordered a search.
The house was full of city clothes, blankets, and down quilts, and in the dining room there were elegant utensils—candlesticks, a spice box—and a charity box from the Jewish National Fund.
It had been a long time since we’d seen clothes that Jews wore. There was still an odor of camphor in the closets.
Salo trembled. He used to come here during the Passover holiday to study for semester exams and spend time with his cousins. Those had been splendid days of heart-to-heart conversation, of hikes by the river, and of tastes and smells of Jewishness.
We filled four sacks with clothes and blankets, and we also took the candlesticks, the spice box, and the charity box from the Jewish National Fund.
“Why are you taking our clothes?” the father on the ground asked anxiously.
“They are not your clothes.”
“They are mine.”
“If you keep lying we will punish you. Do not forget. We are partisans fighting for our lives, and anyone who opposes us risks his life. And where are the books?” said Felix.
“I have no books.”
“If you don’t show us right now where you threw the books, we’ll burn down the house.”
“Have mercy on me and my children.”
“We’ll have mercy if you show us where you threw the books. There were many books here.”
“I burned them.”
“Why did you burn them?”
“I didn’t know what to do with them.”
“Where did you burn them?”
“Behind the stable.”
“Damn you. Show us where you burned them,” Felix persisted.
“Don’t kill me. I have five children.”
Two fighters went with him behind the barn. In the pile of ashes a few unburned pages remained. Salo took a half-burned page with the words of the morning prayer Modeh Ani: I give thanks to God for restoring my soul.
We retreated according to standard procedure, and it was good that we were cautious. We were no more than two or three hundred feet from the house when the farmer and his older sons came out of the house and, joined by neighbors, began to shoot at us. Felix ordered us to put down our supplies and attack them. Which is what we did. Within minutes the shooting stopped. This was not enough for Felix. He ordered us to set the house on fire. And that is what we did.
7
We went on our way loaded with books and supplies. We hadn’t touched a book for a long time. Our inching across the hills and the exhausting search for food had distanced us from ourselves. Among the books we carried off was Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, reminding me that I did not complete my matriculation exams and would have to be tested when the war was over. Oddly, this familiar book did not move me. Life in the unit, the training, the raids fill me to the brim. At night I drop to the ground and sleep without dreams.
Kamil was emotional and said, “A great treasure has fallen into our hands. Let us try to be worthy of it. Life without books is a crippled life. Now we will replace what is missing.”
That same night we drank the wine we took in the raid and sang our hearts out. No wonder the guards didn’t get up on time for duty. Kamil complained but did not get angry.
That same week we were introduced to the religious teachings of the Ba’al Shem Tov in the book edited by Martin Buber. Kamil told us that the Besht, as he was known, the founder of Hasidism, walked these very hills, where he meditated and conceived his teachings. “What a privilege for us,” he said.
Even this excitement did not escape criticism. Every word out of Kamil’s mouth is examined under a magnifying glass: Why is he using the word “privilege”?
Kamil, like most of us, is not an expert in Jewish texts, but his curiosity about all things Jewish makes him a man filled with wonder. On one evening, one of our rationalists said, not without sorrow, that Judaism was beyond our reach. It’s an ancient, complex culture, and if one is not exposed to it from childhood, its iron gates refuse to open. You read one book and another book, and you understand how far you are from understanding.
Kamil disagreed. Martin Buber, he argued, is the guide for the perplexed of our generation. His books I and Thou and Tales of the Hasidim, which we brought from that wondrous house, can illuminate the soul. There were those among us who argued that Buber beautified Judaism, put cosmetics on its face in order to find favor with German Jews, but let’s put that aside for now.
* * *
—
SHORTLY THEREAFTER we were discovered by a patrol of Ukrainian collaborators who opened fire on us. Two of our comrades were wounded. Luckily, one of our own patrols was coming back at the same time and quickly joined us, and we returned fire. The hostile patrol was forced to retreat, leaving behind one dead and an automatic rifle.
The enemy does not relent: the next day we again encountered a hostile patrol, but we were ready for it and fought back. So it was, every few days. The Germans are stubborn and fight us fiercely. With good reason, Kamil decided that we had to leave the hills and advance into the wetlands.
But now it’s different: we have books. Hermann Cohen, a short man with a sunny disposition, is in charge of equipment and lends each comrade a book. A thorough survey indicated that most of the books have to do with Judaism. Apparently the owner of that library was a man of broad horizons who chose his books carefully. It’s hard to know if he was religiously observant. I imagine him to be a tall, good-natured man who stands in the doorway of his home as evening falls and looks at the trees and their falling leaves. The big leaves, red and yellow, refuse to wilt, their colors growing stronger by the hour. This pleases him, and he decides to go into his big house and turn on the lights.