At such times, the woodcutter would pound his fist on the table, muttering into his beard in a voice made hateful by the moonshine he drank with his workmates: “I don’t want to see or hear that limb of Satan. That accursed offspring of the heartless! Shut her up, or I swear I will throw her to the swine.”
Fortunately, thought the poor woodcutter’s wife, there were no longer any wild pigs in these woods, the hunters of the heartless having long since requisitioned and eaten them. Fortunately, too, the exhausted woodcutter would soon begin to nod off and slump, with his head on the table, there to sleep the sleep of the unjust.
9
And yet there came a night when, crying more than usual, the little cargo woke the woodcutter from his doze. In his great wrath, he went so far as to raise his hand to the child. The poor woodcutter’s wife caught the calloused paw of her poor husband in midair, held it suspended for a moment, and then gently laid it on the chest racked with the sobs of her beloved little cargo. Feeling his palm brush against this skin, so soft, so pale, the woodcutter tried to pull his hand from the grip of his wife, but she held it firmly in both hands against the little girl’s rib cage, all the while whispering in the ear of her husband as he roared that he wanted nothing to do with this demon spawn, this cursed heartless creature . . . the poor woodcutter’s wife, still gripping her husband’s hand, gently whispered:
“Can you feel? Can you feel? Can you feel the tiny beating heart? Can you feel it? Can you feel it? It’s beating. It’s beating.”
“No! No!” cried the woodcutter’s cap, fluttering wildly. “No! No!” howled his bushy beard. “No! No!”
Still whispering, the poor woodcutter’s wife said: “The heartless have a heart. The heartless have a heart like you and me.”
“No! No!”
“Man or child, the heartless have a heart that beats inside their chest.”
With a jerk of his shoulder, the woodcutter suddenly wrenched away his hand. He was still shaking his head, still hissing between clenched teeth, repeating the sad slogans of these dark days: The heartless have no heart! The heartless have no heart! They are stray dogs to be driven out with an ax! The heartless toss their children from the windows of passing trains and it is left to us, poor fools, to feed them!
As he spat his blackest bile, he felt a troubling confusion, a warmth, an unfamiliar gentleness that this fleeting contact of his palm with the warm skin and pulsing heart of the little cargo had kindled in his own heart, which he now felt beating inside his chest. Yes, his heart was beating as though in time with the little heart of the little cargo, now finally calm in his wife’s arms and reaching out her tiny hands toward the woodcutter.
The man recoiled in fear. When the woodcutter’s wife held out the child to him, he recoiled again, as though struck full in the chest, all the while unthinkingly repeating that he did not want to have to look at the child, did not want to have to feed it, even as he struggled to consign to the depths of his being the urge to respond to those outstretched arms, to take the child and press her against his face, against his beard.
At length he regained his footing and, with it, his composure, and he relaunched his attack, warning his poor wife that tomorrow she would have to choose between him, an honest man and her husband, and the misbegotten abortion of a Christ-killer she was holding in her arms. And before the poor woodcutter’s wife could answer, he collapsed onto his bed and this time slept the sleep of the almost just.
10
The following day, no matter where he laid his hand, the woodcutter felt the heart of the little cargo beating against his palm. Now, in the silence of his heart now brimmed with an unfamiliar tenderness, he too called the little heartless thing his own little cargo. And when, on the rare occasion, he found himself alone with her, he would hold out a hesitant finger, which she would immediately clutch and refuse to let go of. In such moments, he felt a joyful and life-giving gentleness.
Indeed, one day, as the little girl was crawling on all fours on the floor of the hut, she grabbed the cuff of his trousers and, using both hands, pulled herself to her feet, clutching one of the patched knees. The woodcutter could not stifle a cry: “Oh, Mother! Come! Come see! Come see!” The child, now holding on with only one hand, tottered, struggling to get her balance. The woodcutter was exultant: “Look at her! Look at her!” The poor woodcutter’s wife was also delighted and clapped her hands. The little girl tried to clap too, letting go of the patched trousers, and ended up on the ground, on her backside, in peals of laughter. The woodcutter, head over heels, scooped the child from the ground and brandished her like a trophy, squealing with joy and shouting “Hallelujah!”
In the days that followed, the woodcutter and the poor woodcutter’s wife felt neither the yoke of time nor the cold, the hunger, the penury, or the wretchedness of their circumstances. The world seemed lighter and more secure despite the war, or perhaps because of it, because this war had given them the most precious of cargoes. All three shared a full bundle of happiness, decorated with a few wildflowers that the burgeoning spring offered them to brighten their home.
11
Bolstered by this joy, this happiness, the woodcutter now worked with greater zeal, with greater strength. His comrades warmed to him more, and despite his taciturn nature, they invited him more often to join their post-work libations. One of them, more enterprising than the rest, had set up a home still that produced wood alcohol. He provided the drink. I do not know the recipe for this homemade wood alcohol, and even if I did, I would not give it to you. Suffice it to say that drinking wood alcohol is not advisable and that, in large quantities, causes blindness. “What matter, we’ll just have to make the best of things, and besides it’s not as though there’s much worth seeing,” announced the amateur distiller. The comrades were brave and boozy. After the day’s labors, they raised their glasses, since at home they did not have a little cargo bequeathed them by the train and by the heavens that might lead them to cherish life, if only their own.
On certain evenings, after their labors—glug, glug, glug—the woodcutter agreed to bend the elbow with his co-workers, reluctantly deferring the pleasure of returning to his beloved little cargo. In doing so, he shared his newfound happiness with his companions in misfortune—glug, glug, glug—and they would raise a glass, and then another. To what? To whom? One suggested they drink to the imminent end of this accursed war—glug, glug, glug—and then they drank to the extermination of the heartless—glug, glug, glug. One comrade announced that the crowded train they had seen returning empty was transporting heartless creatures from the seven corners of the world. Another went further: “Here we are, slogging our guts out for starvation wages, while the heartless are being ferried around for free on special trains!”
At length, a third man clarified: The heartless killed God, they brought about this war! They did not deserve to live, and their accursed war would end only when the world was finally rid of them forever!—glug, glug, glug—To their demise!—glug, glug, glug—To the death of the heartless!—glug, glug, glug—they cheered in concert.
Not quite in concert . . .
Our poor woodcutter, husband to our poor woodcutter’s wife—since all were woodcutters and all were poor—our woodcutter drank but stayed silent. At once, the others turned to him, waiting to hear him speak. They did not have to wait long (glug, glug, glug). The woodcutter wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and then, in the silence, to his surprise, he heard himself speak: