From the Kingdom of Memory (9 page)

After the war, Markish is never the same. The Communist in him lives in the shadow of the Jew that he is, and whose destiny he wants to fully assume to the end. He appears to be more closed, more solitary. His poetic meditations rejoin the prophetic, classic lyricism of his distant precursors. He writes a long poem, “The Man of Forty.” He spends more time with his son Simon. He takes account of what is happening
around him: his friends and companions are being arrested. Soon it will be his turn.

On the morning of January 27, 1949, they come knocking on his door.

We know nothing of what happened afterward. How did he live in prison? What did he say to his judges and torturers? What songs did he compose in
his
night? I would give much to find out. Could I have created Paltiel Kossover to share his solitude?

N
OTE:
In 1989 I asked President Mikhail Gorbachev to posthumously rehabilitate Peretz Markish and the other Jewish writers executed under Stalin. In the spirit of
glasnost,
that request was granted
.

Dialogues

Long ago, I taught you fervor
.

I remember.

And passion
.

I remember.

And song
.

I remember, Grandfather.

Then sing!

I cannot. Please understand; don’t be angry with me. My gaze is burning, but all the eyes it encounters are extinguished. I dwell in a cemetery, Grandfather. Like you, I am dead; only your voice reaches me. Tell me, if I were not dead, would I hear you?

You don’t hear me well; you misinterpret my teachings. You’re alive, therefore live!

I am incapable of it, Grandfather. I did try in the beginning; I failed. I loved you too much; now you’re gone. All those I loved, I love them still, and they are gone. I try hard to emulate them. Also to follow them.

Stop! I shall not permit this. I order you to live! In ecstasy if possible, but surely in faith! And you must sing, do you hear me? You must sing! Do you want me to help you? The last time we were together, it was for the High Holy Days of the New Year
.

I remember, Grandfather.

We had gone to the
Rebbe
to participate in the solemn services. The disciples were weeping, the
Rebbe
was not. He remained silent. We recited our prayers and our litanies; we implored the heavens to protect us, to let us live, we shed unending tears; not he, not the
Rebbe.
He may have had some inkling of what was to come and that it was too late: the decree had been signed, it was irrevocable
.

But then, why was he silent? If he knew, he should have wept all the more!

At one point, just before the sounding of the
shofar,
he began to sing, something he had never done before
.

Now I recall: his song tore at our insides.

The words, do you remember them?

No. Only the melody.

A
verse from the Psalms. “The dead do not sing the Lord’s praise.…” Oh, yes, the
Rebbe
knew. And therefore he tried to do the impossible: to revoke the edict. If you kill your people, if you condone its annihilation, who will praise you? Who will sanctify you with song? He sang with all his heart, with all his soul, sensing that it was for the last time. That’s what we had failed to understand. For us this was the first time. Of all the men, of all the women present, you are the only survivor, the only one to carry His song in you: let it burst forth, let it ascend to heaven. Sing in His place and in mine!

I cannot, Grandfather. Don’t push me to do the impossible. My place is with you, my heart is in mourning. They have murdered the child that I was, and you want me to sing?

I want you to live
.

Try to understand me, Grandfather. Try to forgive me.

Beneath your clothes, you were wearing your shroud.

Of course
.

You had a premonition? You knew that the train was carrying us to our death?

Of course
.

You should have told us.

Who would have listened? An old woman’s delusions, that’s what they would have called it
.

You were beautiful that day, Grandmother. Calm, peaceful.

All of them were afraid. I wasn’t. Fear is like pain. It hurts, it hurts very much, and suddenly it no longer hurts; you are beyond pain. And fear
.

You were smiling. Like …

Shabbat eve?

No. Like Friday mornings. On my way home from
cheder
, breathless, I would stop by to see you. You held out the
challah
. Quickly, I washed my hands; quickly, I recited the customary prayer; quickly I bit into the warm bread. And you, Grandmother, you would sit there, in the kitchen, your black scarf on your head, watching me, smiling, and to me your smile was a haven: it announced
Shabbat
and its joy,
Shabbat
and the angels of peace that escort it into time and even into the heart of man.

That last Friday, do you remember it?

I shall remember it to the end of my days, Grandmother. We were already in the ghetto.

We were a little cramped but we were not sad
.

We didn’t know.

I did. Yes, I did. On that particular Friday I put the dough into the oven the same as always, and when I took it out it was charred. I tried again. Failure after
failure. I was unable to produce even the tiniest
challah.
Then I knew
.

And yet you seemed serene.

You
forget You didn’t see me. You entered the kitchen and I turned my back to you. So as not to see you, so as not to be seen by you. I handed you a piece of cake. You asked, But where is the
challah?
I answered, We must keep it for tonight, for the
Shabbat
meal
.

But that evening, I remember, you seemed at peace.

It was already
Shabbat.
I thought, It’s our last here, the last with my grandson and his parents. The last
Shabbat
of my life. What good will it do to protest? I chose resignation, submission to His will. In a sense I even experienced a strange satisfaction. I no longer loved the world and those who live in it; I no longer loved Creation
.

That Sunday you wrapped yourself in your shroud underneath your clothes.

I felt like attending my own funeral. Only there was no funeral. God turned away from earth; in its stead He chose fire. What? You don’t know? God saw somebody set the world on fire, and He began to cry so that His tears might douse the flames. But His eyes were dry
.

Stranger, tell me a story.

Look away, my boy. To look at me is dangerous. I bring bad luck
.

Tell me a story. Any story. I cannot live without stories.

Don’t listen, my boy. Close your ears. To listen to me is dangerous. My words wound. They will distress you, they will tear you apart. Go, find someone else to talk to, someone else to be with
.

It is you who interest me, only you.

Why? Do I remind you of someone?

Perhaps.

Your father?

Possibly. I have forgotten what he looked like.

Your brother?

I’ve forgotten him too. I’ve forgotten everything, stranger. I wish to listen to you in order to rebuild my memory as others rebuild their careers or their lives.

You wish me to hand you my past, is that it?

Yes, that’s it.

Even if it is filled with horror?

Nothing frightens me, stranger.

And what if I told you that I am Death?

I’d refuse to believe you.

Why?

Death never gives, it only takes.

You are so young, yet you spoke of Death like an old man
.

I am old, older than you, older than my old Masters of long ago. At his death, my father had not reached my age.

And what if I told you that I am your father?

I would answer that you’re lying.

And what if I gave you proof?

You’re a stranger; my father was my father.

But your father is dead. You just told me so. Why couldn’t he come back as a stranger?

The dead don’t come back; we go toward them. They are waiting for us. My father is waiting for me.

You are trying to join him, is that right?

I am looking for myself near him. We lived together too short a time. I miss him.

He was strong?

Sometimes.

Wise?

Often.

Generous?

Always.

You see, my boy: it’s you who are telling
me
stories
.

I know. I couldn’t live without stories.

Told to a stranger?

Told by a stranger.

And what if I told you …

Don’t say another word.

I saw you, you know.

…

I saw you in the crowd.

…

The crowd was withdrawing, just as the dark sea recedes from the shore.

…

I didn’t know.

What didn’t you know?

That it was the last time I would see you.

Yes, the last time
.

You didn’t turn around.

…

Not even once.

…

Why didn’t you try? Tell me! Why didn’t you try to look back at me? I wanted so much to see you, to see you one last time.

We were being pushed. Slowly, relentlessly, the tide was carrying us forward
.

I know, I know. But still. I lack that image: you seeking me, you looking at me.

…

On the train, an hour earlier—or was it a week? A lifetime? You were telling us we must stay together, no matter what, we must stay together. Someone, Grandmother perhaps, was whispering that we had better consider all eventualities, without saying what they might be. But you had the courage to name them. You said, If we are separated, we shall meet again after the war. At home. Your last words.

…

We were separated. A stifled cry. A heartbeat. And our family was dispersed. Dislocated. When was it that we left the train? Discovered the barbed wire? When was it that the order came: “Families, stay together!” In a fraction of a second I was no longer the same. The uprooting was total, definitive: a sense of loss, of abandonment. I kept looking for you in the crowd, I kept looking for you to call you, to follow you, to tell you the things a son must say to his mother and I would no longer be able to say. Ever since, I feel stifled.

Yet I did see you
.

But we were apart. And you did not turn back.

I saw you in front of me
.

Is that true? But in front of you the night was in flames.

I saw you
.

I only saw your back, I saw you only from the back.

…

I am still looking for you. The war is over and I want to go home. But I no longer have a home. They separated us and we did not meet again.

…

But I go on looking for you, I try to stop the tide. I see you walking hand in hand with my little sister. I see you both and there is a knot in my throat and it gets tighter and tighter. I ache. I ache and I don’t know how to keep myself from howling. I ache and I don’t know what to say, what to do.

Pilgrimage to
the Kingdom of Night

T
HE BEGINNING
, the end: all the world’s roads, all the outcries of mankind, lead to this accursed place. Here is the kingdom of night, where God’s face is hidden and a flaming sky becomes a graveyard for a vanished people.

The beauty of the landscape around Birkenau is like a slap in the face: the low clouds, the dense forest, the calm solemnity of the scenery. The silence is peaceful, soothing. Dante understood nothing. Hell is a setting whose serene splendor takes the breath away.