This change improved our mood. The fighters and the children sat around the stove and sang happily, and though the house was a ruin, it reminded us of the city and of the homes we left behind.
Usually we sing softly, almost in a whisper, to be on the safe side. This time our voices were stronger, and the songs were drenched in nostalgia. Grandma Tsirl told us about her childhood in the village, when heaven and earth were connected and God could be felt in every bush and tree, when a Jew stood in the midst of the field and prayed before God as a child stands before his father.
“When did the children grow distant from their father in heaven?” one of the fighters asked Grandma Tsirl.
“They didn’t grow distant, my dear; they serve him in a different way. It is possible to serve God in different ways. Each generation has its own way. We must pray that God will plant thoughts in us that awaken the heart and bring us close to other people.”
That same night Kamil spoke to us candidly and said, “The soldiers and gendarmes are showing no signs of fatigue, and we can assume they will keep trying to surprise us, but we will calculate our every move. We conquered the wetlands on foot, and now we know every hiding place. If they dare to come near us, we’ll demolish them.”
There is a quiet certainty in Kamil’s voice. He gives us faith that the protectors of widows and children are superior in every way to those who seek to eliminate us. We may be few in number, but we are ready to sacrifice our lives. One’s life is dear and important and must be preserved but not at any price. If women are being assaulted, one should be prepared to give up his life and not stand idly by; so, too, if the elderly are being abused. And one should sacrifice himself to prevent the murder of children. The world is enveloped in deep darkness, and we will do whatever we can to minimize that darkness.
This way of thinking is not shared by all. There are pessimists among us who see no way out. “They will not give up on killing us. The death of the Jews is their credo; they will not stop until the last Jew has disappeared.”
Even though he is an introverted man who suppresses dark thoughts, Kamil does not hide from us that the enemy is determined and monstrous. But there’s a good chance that we will survive, on one condition: that we know how to triumph over dark thoughts. Such thoughts must not take root in us. We have seen evil incarnate, and God has appointed us to lead the battle against it.
There are many faces to Kamil. When he speaks about evil and the war we’ve declared against it, he resembles a man who was silent for many years and suddenly awoke and understood what he must do. Recently we heard him tell a patrol, “You are going out tonight to combat evil. Know that you are messengers of the great Jewish faith, which from time immemorial has honored the good and despised evil. Evil is the enemy of humanity, and you are going out tonight to defeat it.”
With Kamil, no deed is important or unimportant. Every deed has great significance. It’s no surprise that many of us wonder where this mysterious man is leading us.
After our comrade Koba fell, there was great despair and depression among us. One of the young fighters wept and banged his head against a tree. Kamil went to him and said, “Remember what I am telling you, death is not the end.”
Every time a fighter falls, our lives are diminished. As of now, three comrades have fallen. We laid them to rest, and they are buried not far from here. Only we know where. The graves are marked on Kamil’s field map, and whenever we happen by the burial place, we leave wildflowers on the graves. In this silent moment we again see their young faces.
* * *
—
THE WETLANDS HAVE many dangers, among them forgetfulness. To overcome this, each Saturday night we hold a memorial for one fighter, or for his parents or grandparents. At first we remembered the hundreds who were taken from the ghetto and ordered to dig burial pits for themselves. Then one comrade remarked that we must not lump so many people together. Better for us to reflect on the memory of a single fighter—talk about what he did in his life or, more correctly, what he managed to accomplish—and to bond with him and his parents. Since then, every Saturday night we bond with our city and one fighter, and with his father and mother. If we forget one or two details, Grandma Tsirl helps us. Nothing escapes her memory.
Most days, and sometimes even on Saturday nights, we stick firmly to our schedule: patrols, ambushes, and raids. A raid that passes without injuries is a victory and holiday.
Usually we raid one of the outlying houses of a village. More than once, we’ve found armed robbers holed up in these houses, or gendarmes waiting in ambush. Having been stung in the past, we now post a lookout and collect information. Without information, we won’t raid even a storeroom.
I don’t want to mislead: Yes, our lives hang by a thread, but we aren’t miserable. Even a small success makes us happy. Yes, there are days of setbacks, overwhelming problems, blinding despair. These have taken a heavy toll but do not undermine our will to overcome the enemy. We focus fully on our foe. In order to defeat him we are ready to grit our teeth, conquer our pain, and steel our souls for peril.
There are also miracles. Once, while on our way to raid one of the small farms, we came upon a midsize building about a mile from the farm. We broke in, and before our eyes was a breathtaking sight: sacks filled with potatoes, cabbage, and onions, and beside them sacks filled with apples, pears, prunes, and sunflower seeds.
We didn’t know where to begin, how to transport this load to the base, and it was good that quiet, restrained Felix was leading the operation. He immediately ordered us to move the sacks in stages; some of us would stand guard and some would do the moving. That way, taking turns, we would take out as many sacks as possible and move them to the base.
Every return to the base is a celebration, a joyful relief. Kamil stood at the entrance and hugged every one of us. For the first time we filled Hermann Cohen’s storage room to the brim with fresh produce. There were of course a few complainers who did not fail to remind us that we were engaging in theft and looting and not warfare, and that the time had come to fight those who persecute us. Yes, they say, we need supplies in order to exist, but we must not confuse existence with duty. Our duty is to fight. Every day that we don’t fight is submission and acceptance. And worse: we are enabling the murders to continue. Kamil does not dismiss these claims, but he believes that for now we should patiently accumulate weapons and ammunition, entrench ourselves, and bring in more people. We must prepare for war but not commit suicide.
13
We are in the middle of the wetlands and the middle of autumn. The sky is dark even during the day. Every few feet there is a stream or bog, and a lake not far away. The ruin we’d hoped would shelter us turned out to be dangerous, and we went back to living in tents.
It’s strange how this much water and the smells of the damp forest can affect you. At first you don’t feel a thing; only after a few weeks do you feel the heaviness. You lean on a tree or lie down on a mat of twigs. Before long, the head grows dizzy. This isn’t the dizziness of hunger or weakness: it’s the start of the wetlands delirium.