A few days ago one of the fighters approached Salo and said, “I need to go home.”
“Why?”
“I saw my father today, and he is very ill.”
“We have no home, dear fellow. This is our home.”
“Salo,” said the fighter, “you’re wrong. I saw my father very clearly, lying in bed, very ill. I can tell the difference between imagination and reality.”
When he heard this assertion, Salo lowered his head, then raised his eyes and said, “Dear fellow—I won’t keep it from you—you’ve got the wetlands delirium. We’ve all got it, to some degree. You need to tell yourself: The base is my home. These are my friends. We are fighting together for our existence and to eradicate the evil.”
“And I won’t be able to go back home?”
“After the war, all of us will.”
“And what will happen with my father?”
“The people near him will help him. We are obligated to help one another, here and there.”
The fighter smiled, as if he understood something he hadn’t grasped before. It was a different smile, the smile of someone with wetlands delirium.
After the conversation, the man lay down and fell asleep.
Salo saw him sleeping and said, “The wetlands delirium has hit him hard, but sleep, I assume, will calm him.”
Without a doubt, the water and dampness affect us powerfully. First they attack your body, and then they play tricks with your mind, show you things you cannot change. Kamil warns us not to let the delusions drive us mad; they are as lethal as drunkenness. We must fortify the heart with simple things.
When Kamil speaks of strength and a joyful heart, you get the feeling he isn’t the commander of fighters who have lost their families but a prophet training us to reach a new spiritual level.
Kamil used to say that fear is a parasitic emotion and must be erased completely. Back then his voice had a mysterious sound. But later on he became thin, his face grew hard and bony, and his eyes sank deep into their sockets. He sleeps very little. It’s amazing that he keeps on going. Another man would surely collapse, lose hope, frighten his soldiers.
Kamil is not like other people. His external appearance is sometimes deceptive. He can seem distracted or lost in thought, but those who know him know he is extremely down to earth. Yes, his pragmatism has an air of mystery, but he’s as solid as a rock.
He doesn’t deny that a long bumpy road lies before us, but if we will learn to conquer despair, to stay fixed on our goal, and to understand that being a Jew is no small matter, we will live to see the downfall of the enemy.
Where does this clear conviction come from, people ask themselves. Once, in a burst of euphoria, he exclaimed, “Our war is not merely to stay alive. If we do not come out of these forests as complete Jews, we will not have learned a thing.” It’s hard to get to the bottom of his thinking. It sometimes seems that he, too, is trapped in the wetlands delirium, yet his words sound lucid, purified by experience, and the separation of body and spirit does not apply to him.
When Kamil is excitedly delving inside and striving to uplift us, Felix is curled up, asleep. His day is clearly divided: after his activities, he rests his head on a pile of twigs and falls asleep. Kamil sometimes watches him, marveling.
A true fighter needs to sleep. It cleanses his body of accumulated rubbish. Only after sleep are the legs faithful and the mind focused. This is Felix’s credo in a nutshell, and he fulfills it in practice. He always exudes patience and quiet and a hint of indifference. Compared with him, we seem in constant panic. When he wakes up, he goes to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of tea, and sits down. Sometimes he lights a cigarette. He’s not a compulsive smoker, unlike many of us. It’s immediately apparent that sleep has renewed him.
14
A squad has raided one of the small farms about four miles from the wetlands. It was a difficult raid but without injuries. The men came back with a big haul, including several bottles of vodka, fresh bread, sugar, salt, and many other staples. We wanted to celebrate and thank them, but the fighters were exhausted and collapsed in their wet clothes.
Toward evening they finally recovered and told us that they had gotten lost on the way to the farm, got stuck in a swamp and got out with great difficulty, but once they were out, they were not far from the farm. They woke the farmers and asked them to contribute what they could out of goodwill. The farmers opened their cupboards and pantries, and it looked like they were ready to cooperate. But suddenly one of them pulled a gun from his belt and began shooting. There was no choice but to eliminate him.
Every raid is an encounter with death and with miracles, and there were raids that left us with a horror that we feel to this day. So far, I have participated in only three raids. Kamil feels that I am still young, and my place for now is with the ambushes and patrols. He’s wrong; I’ve gotten stronger in recent months, and I have subdued the fears that troubled me. Now I am trained and quick, and I can do everything my comrades in the raiding squads do, with the same effectiveness.
I’m planning to speak to Kamil soon and ask him to include me in all missions. Kamil knew my father and mother, and sometimes he mentions them. I hope this acquaintance will not prevent him from sending me on daring missions. Without actual raids, I will come out of this war in a state of depression. Kamil needs to understand that.
* * *
—
ONE OF THE RAIDERS appeared to have lost his mind—a tall, handsome guy named Sontag. At first he seemed pleased with the success of the raid, downed two glasses of vodka, and joked about the farmers who tried to outwit the squad. All that was fine, but suddenly he got up and declared, “Long live the People of Israel! No power on earth can defeat them. Moses and Aaron will lead them as they led the Children of Israel in the desert.” From then on he spoke garbled sentences in various languages, recited from memory poems by Heine and Rilke, and blamed his brothers in the ghetto for not heeding his warnings and joining him. Finally, he shouted at Kamil, “Let us avenge our spilled blood!” There was a certain grandeur to his cry, as if he had freed himself from handcuffs that bound him.
Salo got down on his knees, spoke to Sontag gently, and promised him that Kamil would do everything to lead us to victory—meanwhile putting a spoonful of sedative syrup to his lips. Sontag opened his mouth like an agreeable child and swallowed the bitter liquid. He soon lay down and fell asleep.
In the end, there are no raids without injuries. For this reason the joy is incomplete. Tsila tries to overcome the sadness; she works morning, noon, and night. The pots are on the fire, and food and drink are always available. She’s a first-rate cook who makes delicacies out of nothing. It’s no wonder that everyone is nice to her and gladly does what she asks. She gives bigger portions to fighters, and when they go out on raids, she makes them sandwiches and fills their canteens with sweetened water. For children and old people she prepares a special menu. Danzig brings Milio to her, and she makes him a puree of apple or pear.