The Forgotten

  The children were afraid to answer.

  “Jews?”

  Panic-stricken, they looked for ways to flee.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Itzik said. “We’re all Jews.”

  The children exchanged incredulous glances.

  “You speak Yiddish? We do. Listen.” Itzik and Elhanan conversed briefly in Yiddish.

  Relieved, the children grimaced. “Yes. We’re Jews.”

  “What did the Germans do to you?”

  The Germans had locked them into a barn. Without food. Several days, a week. Some had gone mad, others had died of thirst.

  “Who liberated you?”

  “A peasant.”

  “No, it was a logger.”

  “No, it was a robber.”

  “It was the prophet Elijah.”

  As they devoured their bread they went on squabbling. Poor kids, Itzik murmured. He stared at them for a few moments and then seemed to reach a decision. “Come on, kids. Follow me.”

  He led them to a cabin at the edge of the village where six German prisoners were being held. He turned to one of the boys, handed over his submachine gun and said gently, almost tenderly, “Fire, boy. Fire at the whole lot!”

  The boy trembled. He looked at the weapon, examined his own hand, seemed to hold a debate with an invisible presence and finally said, “I don’t know how.”

  “Don’t worry,” Itzik said. “I’ll show you.”

  The boy lowered his eyes and said, “No.”

  Itzik turned to another. The same answer. A third. Still the same answer.

  Itzik clapped them all on the shoulder and said, “All right, all right, I understand. Later on you’ll know how.”

  God of Israel, Elhanan thought, watch these Your children and be proud.

  Somewhere in Polish Galicia one night the otriad sheltered a Soviet paratrooper. He was carrying a radio and passed along an order from headquarters to David: stop a convoy of German armored cars. Moscow considered this operation of the highest priority. The partisans prepared feverishly. David brought his lieutenants together to organize the attack. The convoy was to pass through the village of Turek early in the afternoon three days later.

  Elhanan and Vitka, disguised as peasants, bundled up from head to toe, trudged to the village to reconnoiter. How many Germans were on hand? How many police collaborators? It went well. Vitka and Elhanan brought back accurate and useful intelligence: so many soldiers, so many police. All in all, the village was thinly populated, almost a ghost town. There were many cottages without smoke.

  “You’re sure of that?” David was insistent.

  “As sure as anyone can be,” Elhanan said.

  “Are you ready to go in again tomorrow?”

  “Why not?”

  “We have to know where to set up our machine guns. Find two or three empty huts along the roadside, near a bend if possible.”

  Vitka and Elhanan went back to Turek. They inspected several huts, prowled outside three or four wooden houses, and broke into the wrong one. Elhanan was taken prisoner. Vitka got away.

  “Come here,” said a shrewd and surly Polish policeman. Elhanan obeyed.

  The policeman punched him in the face. “That’s just to get acquainted,” he explained politely. Another blow, and a third. “Now, while I rest, you’re going to tell us who you are, what you’re looking for and who sent you.”

  Elhanan understood Polish but spoke it badly. In any case he would have held his tongue; once you started answering, you ended up telling all.

  “Hey, men,” said the Polish policeman, “we got us a tough guy. Come look at this.”

  Three smiling torturers set about beating Elhanan. His head, his chest, his stomach. He felt as if he were floating on air and falling down a well. Blood gushed from his nose. He was suffocating. He passed out.

  He woke with a heavy, aching body, on a farm the Polish police had requisitioned to interrogate chicken thieves, black marketeers and drunks, far from German surveillance. From time to time they brought in Jews with false documents who were trying to pass for Aryans. “Now, my little kike, no more aggravation, all right?” The same policeman was kicking him, not to hurt him, only in fun. “What’s your name? Avrom? You’re a kike, we know that, we took down your pants. So we know what you are but not who you are. Who’s been sheltering you?”

  Elhanan wondered, How long have I been here? Through the slit of his swollen eyelid he saw an oil lamp on a large kitchen table. What time is it? Nighttime yet? He pictured Vitka: let her be free and safe, O Lord.

  There, too, if God willed, anything could happen. And God was good enough to will it. Vitka was free. She had rejoined her comrades and was trying to talk them into following her to the village, attacking the farm and liberating Elhanan. A few of the men objected. “Is it worth it, to kill us all for the sake of one?”

  The Soviet paratrooper made a weighty argument. “This raid may be the right thing to do, but won’t it compromise the mission general headquarters has ordered?”

  Vitka lost her temper. “I don’t see why. I take four men with me, volunteers, of course, and before you can blink we’re back with our—”

  “In saving your friend, you’ll reveal our whereabouts to the Germans.”

  Vitka was no amateur. “The Germans know very well that we’re around.”

  David made a decision. “We’ll do it. Solidarity is not an empty word.” And to the paratrooper, “Also, Elhanan knows our plans. Let’s save him before he cracks.”

  Vitka protested, “He won’t crack.”

  David threw her a stern look; she swallowed the rest of her speech.

  Elhanan was half conscious when he heard, as if in a fever, the sounds of a fight. They had broken down the door and invaded the farmhouse. The three policemen were on their feet, hands up, and they stank of fear.

  “All right, little one. It’s all over,” Vitka said. Kneeling above him, she was wiping his face. “Did they make a mess of you?” When Elhanan gave no answer, she turned to the policemen. “Which one beat him?” Silence. “Which one is the interrogator?” Silence. Staring straight ahead, the police shook their heads, no.

  “Let me do this,” Itzik said. They left him alone with the policemen. Half an hour later, he came out. “They won’t be beating any more Jews,” he growled.

  They made it back to camp without incident.

  That night Elhanan and Vitka did not separate. She bandaged his wounds and comforted him, stayed at his bedside and watched over his sleep. In the morning he woke before the rest. Vitka smiled at him. “Better?”

  “Much better.”

  She held him to her. “Sleep. It will do you good.”

  “One question, Vitka. What did Itzik do to the policemen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t say?”

  “Not a word.”

  “What do you think he did?”

  “I don’t know, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I’m sure they got what they deserved.”

  Elhanan fell back asleep.

  Next day they attacked. It went off as planned. Four machine guns in huts at the entrance and exit to the village. Mines, Molotov cocktails and grenades. Organized to be the otriad’s most ambitious operation, this would remain its biggest success. Two tanks on fire, eight vehicles destroyed, thirty-odd Germans killed. For the partisans, two dead and five wounded. Among the dead, Vitka.

  Elhanan wept in secret; the whole otriad wept openly. All but Itzik, who clenched his teeth and vowed revenge.

  Vitka and her comrade were to be buried in the forest, as was customary. Elhanan had a better idea: “I saw a Jewish cemetery nearby.”

  “Let’s go there,” David decided.

  A nighttime burial. Solemn and sorrowful. Shadows digging two graves for shadows. Murmurs instead of words, mute tears as the funeral oration. Who will say Kaddish? They all said it, in a low voice. Lianka, who was younger than Elhanan, took his arm during the p
rayer. “I know how you feel,” she whispered on the way back. She had lost her boyfriend the year before.

  The otriad moved on. Other goals and other targets awaited them. Soon Elhanan and Lianka were a couple. Had he forgotten Vitka? Of course not. It was something else altogether: because he had loved Vitka, he was capable of loving Lianka. He had loved Vitka so much that the love overflowed; there was still enough in him for Lianka and the whole otriad.

  In spring the partisans pitched camp about seventy miles from Feherfalu. Purim in the Carpathians. Passover in a remote mountain village. Being youngest, Lianka asked the four ritual questions. “Why is this night different from all other nights?” David improvised a response: “Because the Jews are fighting their enemy and we have sworn not to lay down our arms until he is defeated.” And Itzik added, “Because we know that revenge is near.” And Elhanan thought, Because I’m close to home, almost under my parents’ roof. The Seder ended with the traditional promise: “Next year in Jerusalem.”

  “I wonder how many of us will live long enough to keep that promise,” Elhanan said to Itzik.

  “You and I will be there. But between now and then, a flood of German blood will flow. That, too, I promise.”

  “All you can think of is revenge.”

  “And what do you think about?”

  “My parents. Where are they? How are they doing? Who are they celebrating this Seder with?”

  He had not noticed Lianka coming closer. She took his hand as if to say, I know and I understand.

  Over the following days Elhanan tried to persuade David to send him into Feherfalu.

  “Are you crazy? There’s the whole front between us and the town.”

  “I know every inch of it.”

  David would not be persuaded. “Patience, Elhanan. You’ll show me your town before too long. You’ll introduce me to your parents. Be patient.”

  Nervous, worrying, Elhanan hardly slept nights. He pictured his homecoming. His mother and father. Had they changed, had they aged? He’d introduce Lianka to them. He was sure they’d like her.

  Unfortunately, the front stabilized. The Russian offensive pausing for rest? Stiffer resistance from the German army? Battles raged, but if they advanced a few miles one day, it was only to withdraw the next. April passed, and then May. In June the offensive picked up speed again. Now the Red Army was operating in full liaison with the partisans. David’s group was attached to the divisional staff, just as divisional officers were assigned to the partisans.

  Elhanan struck up a friendship with a one-armed captain. He had a mustache and was called Podriatchik. He was from Borisov and had been in the lines since the German invasion. Elhanan loved hearing his stories. The Russian’s voice was a solemn, melodious bass, and he chanted as he spoke. He sensed Elhanan’s curiosity. “You want to know how I lost my arm? I got careless because I was impatient. I wanted to take out a tank with grenades. But I pulled the pin too soon. The grenade went off and my arm with it. A partisan should have known better.”

  Elhanan’s impatience increased when he heard that the unit was to infiltrate Stanislav and blow up a military restaurant. Of course he volunteered. David hesitated. “You’re not up to it. You’re running a risk—emotion may take over. One precipitous move, one careless gesture, and the operation fails.”

  More stubborn than ever, Elhanan argued that, on the contrary, his presence would be an asset. “Two men know this territory,” he said. “Itzik and I. We’ve been in Stanislav. All right, I’ve never lived there, but I know my way around. I bet the military restaurant is on the main square. It may even be in the house where I spent my first night away from my family.” He argued with logic and passion, took care not to let himself get carried away, be overcome by the enthusiasm, the exaltation that flooded his heart. “Listen, David, you need somebody like me. Why are you holding me back?”

  “You’re not yourself these days. I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  He won Itzik’s support, and David gave way to their combined pressure. He was still worried, but he gave his consent.

  The plan: Lianka and Elhanan would go down to Stanislav as scouts, reconnoitering and evaluating. Itzik and his group of ten—including two peasant girls, Lisa and Dora—would infiltrate alone or in pairs from different directions and converge on the square at six in the evening. With grenades, pistols and Molotov cocktails, they’d wait for Itzik’s signal to launch the attack. Problems: how to approach the target without attracting attention; how to make sure the restaurant wasn’t empty; how to coordinate the attack for maximum efficiency. Elhanan had an idea. “I remember a movie on the square—am I right, Itzik?”

  “Right. I remember it too.”

  “If we all stood in line for tickets?”

  “A good idea—if the movie’s open.”

  “If it’s closed we can stand in line at one of the stores.”

  “How will we know?”

  “Lianka and I are going in first. We’ll find a way to tell you.”

  David approved the plan. Itzik and Elhanan shook hands, in perfect complicity.

  Very early the next morning, two young villagers joined the hundreds of peasants and workmen trooping into Stanislav. Their anxiety looked normal. What would this day bring? Lianka hardly spoke. She was like that, reticent, shy. Elhanan tried to cheer her up, but it was no use. Anyway, they had to stay alert. They spoke Polish badly. More precisely, they spoke a mixture of Russian and Ukrainian that might, in a noisy room, pass for Polish. Better to keep quiet and go unnoticed. Fortune smiled on them. There was no checkpoint at the entrance to town. The streets were crowded. There were lines forming at the municipal offices for ration cards and travel permits. Elhanan noticed the movie house. A large sign announced that it was reserved for German soldiers. Too bad; they’d have to find something else. The building next door: a hotel. Reserved for German officers. Across the street, a restaurant. The military restaurant for staff officers. On the ground floor. No guards. The Germans felt safe. From the partisans’ point of view, the unprotected target was ideal: they would only have to open a door or break a window, throw an incendiary bottle—thirty to sixty seconds and it would be all over. While the grenades blew, it would be easy to withdraw. To race out of town and head for the forest. But how to relay all this to Itzik? Lianka stopped in front of a shop and couldn’t suppress her excitement. “Look,” she said.

  A notice like so many others. Distribution of sugar and flour for A-1 and D-3 coupons, from five to seven that evening.

  “Bravo,” Elhanan said. “We’ll stand in line.”

  And how would they keep busy until then? If they loitered, they’d be spotted.

  “Shall we go to the ghetto?” Elhanan said.

  “You’re crazy. You think you can go in and out just like that?”

  “I know a secret passage.”

  They found it. Was Elhanan excited? Overexcited. He wasn’t walking, he was flying. He dragged Lianka behind him, and she had to quicken her step. They might have been rushing to meet a vanished relative. Elhanan struck a match. Another. A third. He pushed at a manhole cover: they were outside again, free and clear.

  Lianka asked, “Are you sure we’re in the ghetto?”

  “What a question …” But he was suddenly struck by doubt: was this the ghetto? Then where were its inhabitants? Why this silence, why no living soul in sight? Where were the children, hollow-eyed with hunger, the mute, blind old people, the mad-eyed mothers—what night had engulfed them?

  “I don’t understand,” he said. And then, “I’ll never understand.”

  “I do,” Lianka said, her hand on her lips.

  Immersed in his bitter, dark memories, Elhanan seemed so remote that Lianka shook him. “You look desperate, Elhanan. Let’s get out of here. If they see you they’ll know you’re a Jew; they’ll know by your face. Think about Itzik, about all the others and their fight, our fight.”

  She dragged him into a
dilapidated house. It smelled musty and seemed abandoned. Broken dishes, torn books, dirty clothes, were all that remained of one Jewish family’s treasures. Elhanan sank to the floor, and Lianka joined him. She grew older, Lianka did. Riper. Tender, infinitely tender.

  “You have to forget, Elhanan,” she said, taking his hand.

  “I can’t forget. I don’t want to forget. In my mind this ghetto was alive; now it’s dead. It’s as if I’d killed it myself.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. You know very well you had nothing to do with it. Make an effort. For now anyway you must forget. Otherwise you’ll be like Itzik: possessed. All he thinks about is revenge.”

  “Are you judging him?”

  “No. What right have I to judge him? But I’m not sure revenge is the answer.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? Why not punish murderers? Why not make their accomplices tremble?”

  “I don’t know, Elhanan. Those are good questions. Ones that matter. But can I answer them? I may be young, but I’ve learned enough to be suspicious of avengers.”

  “And justice, Lianka? Don’t you believe justice must be done?”

  “Yes, I believe it must.”

  “So? Isn’t the avenger a dispenser of justice?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that I would never be able to kill a man in cold blood.”

  “Even a murderer?”

  Shaken, Lianka pleaded, “I can’t see myself as someone who puts people to death, kills unarmed men. Don’t force me to say things I don’t mean, Elhanan. Don’t.”

  Touched, Elhanan broke off the conversation. They lay for an hour or two, or three, close together, giving each other courage. Outside it was springtime. In the distance there were trees; they could imagine the sun timidly exploring a cloud-streaked sky. Here in the ghetto there was a void, a strange void populated by ghosts. Desiccation. Dust. Ashes. Here life was extinct: what remained of a community carried off by a tempest?

  “I wonder,” Elhanan said, “I wonder what’s happening in my hometown.”

  “You’ll know soon. Don’t think about it. Think about now.”

  “You’re tougher than I thought.”