gropingly. Then he stops walking, falls into a ditch with others who have reached their limit. What’s the point of wanting to live if life is a traveling slaughterhouse?
Machine guns shoot into the night and its ghosts. Snow is a cemetery. Haskel passes out. But he doesn’t die. No bullet has entered his body. Hours go by. The day dawns on many corpses lying in a strangely peaceful landscape. Someone shakes Haskel: “Wake up if you’re still alive!” The hoarse words come to him from afar. “You’re moving, so you’re alive,” the same voice says, booming. While lying in the snow, Haskel makes a superhuman effort and opens his eyelids. It’s Leibele. They had become friends in the camp. Now he’s a fellow orphan, famished, weakened, marked for death. As they labored, they had exchanged Hasidic sayings and stories: the ones from Vizhnitz for those from Guer. What was he doing here, stepping over corpses, all awaiting burial under the heavy, huge, silvery snowflakes? “You’re alive, thank God,” says Leibele. “Pull yourself together. Get up. Let’s not stay here. The SS are gone, but they may come back; you never know. We’re the last ones, the only ones.”
Haskel, his limbs numb, gets up unsteadily, helped by his friend. Where should they go? Leibele thinks they should return to the camp. At least then they’ll know where they are. Haskel replies that it’s too far away; he doesn’t have the strength. Leibele tells him to take his arm. Remaining where they are, he thinks, is exposing themselves to death.
Two desperate young old men stagger forward, with small steps, nearly sliding, toward a more uncertain future than opaque slumber.
After wandering aimlessly for hours, Leibele spots a hut inthe distance. An old peasant woman wearing a black headscarf opens the door for them and ushers them in. The heat smacks them in the face. Dazed, they collapse on the beaten-earth floor. They think they’re in paradise.
The peasant woman crosses herself and hands them some warm milk. She talks to them in Polish. Leibele understands her. He translates in a whisper: “The Germans have left, but if they come back they’ll kill all of us, including her. But she’s not afraid … at her age. And besides, the village is expecting the Russians, who are very near.”
They stay with her. Haskel will never forget her. Nor will he ever forget his friend.
The Russians arrived a week later on a beautiful, peaceful day. Four armed soldiers suddenly appeared in front of the hut and stiffened. They looked around inquisitively and spoke among themselves for a while. Then one of them opened the door without knocking, pointing his cocked rifle in front of him. The old woman, with no trace of fear, said to him, in Polish, to come in and warm up. He paid her no heed, turning instead to the two young human skeletons and yelling, “And you, who are you? Hands up!” The old woman was about to answer, but Leibele spoke first. “We’re from over there.” With his right hand, he pointed to the rear. The soldier looked him over and then glanced at Haskel: Standing motionless, the two men smiled at him faintly and pitifully, as if to welcome him. The soldier called out to his comrades. “Look, Ilya,” he said to the eldest of the four, “you who are Jewish, take a good look at them and tellthem the Red Army is happy and proud to be bringing them liberation and life.”
Ilya said a few words to Haskel that Leibele translated. They had just seen the camp. There were still a few survivors, who were being treated by military physicians. “And you,” he said to Haskel, “where are you from?”
Haskel replied that he was from Galicia.
“But you’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Jewish.”
“You speak Yiddish?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve spoken it all my life.” Thereupon Ilya started chatting with them in the language that had almost been silenced forever by Hitler’s madness.
Ilya and one of his comrades took off
Machine guns shoot into the night and its ghosts. Snow is a cemetery. Haskel passes out. But he doesn’t die. No bullet has entered his body. Hours go by. The day dawns on many corpses lying in a strangely peaceful landscape. Someone shakes Haskel: “Wake up if you’re still alive!” The hoarse words come to him from afar. “You’re moving, so you’re alive,” the same voice says, booming. While lying in the snow, Haskel makes a superhuman effort and opens his eyelids. It’s Leibele. They had become friends in the camp. Now he’s a fellow orphan, famished, weakened, marked for death. As they labored, they had exchanged Hasidic sayings and stories: the ones from Vizhnitz for those from Guer. What was he doing here, stepping over corpses, all awaiting burial under the heavy, huge, silvery snowflakes? “You’re alive, thank God,” says Leibele. “Pull yourself together. Get up. Let’s not stay here. The SS are gone, but they may come back; you never know. We’re the last ones, the only ones.”
Haskel, his limbs numb, gets up unsteadily, helped by his friend. Where should they go? Leibele thinks they should return to the camp. At least then they’ll know where they are. Haskel replies that it’s too far away; he doesn’t have the strength. Leibele tells him to take his arm. Remaining where they are, he thinks, is exposing themselves to death.
Two desperate young old men stagger forward, with small steps, nearly sliding, toward a more uncertain future than opaque slumber.
After wandering aimlessly for hours, Leibele spots a hut inthe distance. An old peasant woman wearing a black headscarf opens the door for them and ushers them in. The heat smacks them in the face. Dazed, they collapse on the beaten-earth floor. They think they’re in paradise.
The peasant woman crosses herself and hands them some warm milk. She talks to them in Polish. Leibele understands her. He translates in a whisper: “The Germans have left, but if they come back they’ll kill all of us, including her. But she’s not afraid … at her age. And besides, the village is expecting the Russians, who are very near.”
They stay with her. Haskel will never forget her. Nor will he ever forget his friend.
The Russians arrived a week later on a beautiful, peaceful day. Four armed soldiers suddenly appeared in front of the hut and stiffened. They looked around inquisitively and spoke among themselves for a while. Then one of them opened the door without knocking, pointing his cocked rifle in front of him. The old woman, with no trace of fear, said to him, in Polish, to come in and warm up. He paid her no heed, turning instead to the two young human skeletons and yelling, “And you, who are you? Hands up!” The old woman was about to answer, but Leibele spoke first. “We’re from over there.” With his right hand, he pointed to the rear. The soldier looked him over and then glanced at Haskel: Standing motionless, the two men smiled at him faintly and pitifully, as if to welcome him. The soldier called out to his comrades. “Look, Ilya,” he said to the eldest of the four, “you who are Jewish, take a good look at them and tellthem the Red Army is happy and proud to be bringing them liberation and life.”
Ilya said a few words to Haskel that Leibele translated. They had just seen the camp. There were still a few survivors, who were being treated by military physicians. “And you,” he said to Haskel, “where are you from?”
Haskel replied that he was from Galicia.
“But you’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Jewish.”
“You speak Yiddish?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve spoken it all my life.” Thereupon Ilya started chatting with them in the language that had almost been silenced forever by Hitler’s madness.
Ilya and one of his comrades took off
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