In the Land of Armadillos (10 page)

Despite the bitter wind gusting through the cracks in the drafty wooden cottage, Zosha stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom and contemplated her body, first clothed, and then unclothed. With this act of abandon, her cheeks burned and the hairs on the back of her neck pricked up, as if someone had breathed on them. She experienced pleasure and fear in equal measure, though she could not have explained why.

*  *  *

The knock on the door came late at night, when the Luft family had already settled into bed. Three short raps, followed by the command barked in their harsh language,
Raus, raus, raus!
Zosha and her family were herded into the street by two soldiers holding automatic rifles, where they joined a river of frightened villagers being harassed and harried toward the outskirts of town.

When she looked up, she could see the sky overhead, wide and black and velvety, illuminated by a crisp full moon and tiny white stars. And then they were under the tree canopy, and the heavens hid themselves away from the Jews of Włodawa.

The November wind moaned through the pines as Zosha stumbled barefoot over frozen roots, holding tightly to her brother's hand. Low-hanging branches caught her hair, tore her thin cotton nightgown. She could hear dogs barking, the crude insults of the foreign soldiers, the muddled chanting of men, the frantic cries of mothers and children.

The column of villagers came to an abrupt halt. Zosha shifted her weight from one foot to the other on the icy ground. Off to the side, having a smoke, was a boy who used to play soccer with Zev. His uniform looked new. She caught his eye, smiled. When he recognized her, he turned away.

The line moved forward.

Before her, a clearing opened in the forest. Cleaving it in two was a long pit, jagged and wide. There was Reinhart pacing back and forth, pale and unnerved, his hands clasped behind his back. Two Gestapo men in warm belted overcoats were laughing. Officers chatted among themselves, idly batting riding crops against their boots. Someone's little dog was weaving in between their legs.

An SS major threw down the cigarette he was smoking, crushed it carefully under his boot, and stepped up to address them.
You, you, you, you, you,
he separated out a group of families and ran them at a smart pace to the steep edge of the pit. There, he told them to stop and turn around.

The moon slanted gentle shafts of light into the clearing, allowing Zosha to recognize their faces. The young mother who lived in the house across the road was holding an infant to her shoulder, eyes glazed over with sleep. A woman from the other side of town, a distant cousin, hid her daughter's face in her skirts. A man, shaking so much he could barely stand up, held his hands over his son's eyes.

The soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders, took aim. There was a sound like firecrackers, and the line of human beings jerked like puppets and fell into the pit.

Zosha's family was next. A soldier screamed in her face,
Lauf! Lauf!
and lashed at her legs with his whip. Still holding Shimmy's hand, she stubbed her toes on rocks and branches, following her mother. When they had reached the pit, she caught a glimpse of the boy who used to play soccer with Zev, raising his rifle to his shoulder, nestling it to his cheek, sighting along the barrel.

The bullet that went through Zosha's throat lifted her up and tossed her backward into the pit. She was aware of the sensation of flying, then landing on something that was soft and yielding. Turning her head, she saw her father's face, his eyes fixed and staring.

Again the sound of firecrackers. Another line of bodies came skidding down the side of the pit, burying her under a tangle of arms and legs. She recognized the corpse that lay on top of her, a certain Mrs. Kimmel, the music teacher. Fear rose like a fiery bubble to her throat, but she was unable to make a sound.

The Ukrainian guards noticed it first, a strange lowering stillness, a dense burden of silence. Uneasy, they swung their rifles at the trees. Confident in the power that their greatcoats with gold buttons and tall shiny boots conferred upon them, the Deutschen didn't notice it at all.

A great rush of air rolled towards them through the darkness, flattening the grass, snaking through the underbrush, growing into a vast, tumultuous roar. It blasted forth from the trees, boiled over the trench, and screamed up the other side, overtaking the soldiers where they stood.

All at once the woods were filled with ear-shattering roars, deafening screeches, wild, animalistic ululations. Zosha heard the rattle and pop of close gunfire, shrieks of pain and terror, harsh grunts and squeals.

A bloodied arm ripped free of its trunk fell in the trench, landing with a thunk. Close behind, a single leg spiraled dreamily to earth, shod in a cognac-colored riding boot.

Objects were raining from the sky. Dark hunks of flesh plopped around her with the sound of ripe fruit dropping to the ground. A hand. A foot. A riding crop. A pair of pants with something still in them.

There was a heavy thud. From the corner of her eye, Zosha could see the oblong head of the boy who used to play soccer with Zev, a look of astonishment grafted to his features for all time.

Something leaped into the trench, landing on all fours with a rippling snarl. The weight of Mrs. Kimmel, the music teacher, was suddenly lifted from her, and a blast of arctic air struck her face.

Zosha didn't know whether she was dead or alive, awake or dreaming. Silhouetted against the light of a full moon was a gray and hairy beast. From the waist up, it was a timber wolf, the most feared animal in the Parczew Forest. Below the belt, powerful human legs were barely concealed by the tattered remnants of an army uniform.

The lean, ferocious head sniffed her with a blunt, tapered muzzle. It bared long canine teeth, displaying black and bloodied gums.

“Zosha, Zosha,” it whispered.

At the sight of the wound in her throat, tears collected in the pale wolfish eyes. The creature worked to free her from the tangle of her friends' and neighbors' bodies. Gathering her close to its tufted breast, it sprang out of the pit with as much effort as it would have taken to skip over a crack in the sidewalk.

The wolf laid her down on the dead and yellowed savannah grass, her nightdress billowing like a parachute in the November wind. With remarkable gentleness, it put its arm under her shoulders and pulled her against its chest.

The clearing in the forest had become a battlefield filled with fairy-tale beasts, the stuff of nightmares. A gargoyle with the gleaming feathered head of a falcon held one of the Gestapo men in its talons, its beak buried deep in his guts. A leviathan of a fish, armored with metallic scales and bristling with fangs, was attempting to swallow a struggling lieutenant whole. The earth shook as an ogre with the massive head of a bull pursued one of Hitler's elite guard into the woods, wearing a bloodied butcher's apron and wielding a meat cleaver in its fist. A mammoth red stag used a gargantuan rack of antlers to pinion a brace of SS men against a tree. A hideous, humpbacked behemoth with the bullet-shaped head of a wild boar hurtled through the clearing, an officer impaled on each tusk like a grisly ornament.

The wolf that used to be Zev Heller rested his silky cheek against her forehead. She could feel the warmth of his tears on her face, her throat.

“Baer,” the wolf called in an anguished cry, “Baer . . .”

A colossal brown bear was lifting a thrashing storm trooper high into the air. At the sound of its commanding officer's voice, the bear swung around, snuffling in fury. It dropped the storm trooper, snapping his spine over a hairy knee. In a blur of motion, it began to shrink, and suddenly, an officer of the Russian army was running toward them through the carnage, carrying a doctor's black case.

With practiced fingers Baer examined her, probed her wound. She felt light-headed now, the pain was receding. She wasn't even cold anymore. He muttered something to Zev in a low voice, and the wolf nodded, made a choking sound, bowed his head.

She didn't see how it happened, but the man called Baer was growing higher again, as high as the trees, resuming the form of the towering monstrous ursine she had seen before.

“You rest now,” the bear said kindly, laying the leathery palm of a giant paw on the side of her face. With a roar of rage, he wheeled around and bounded away.

The wolf who was Zev threw back his head and howled. His men joined him, a victorious cacophony of shrieks, roars, bleats, and grunts that filled the clearing and made the air ring around her.

“Shimmy,” she said. Her voice was raspy, guttural, but it worked. “We were running . . . I was holding his hand . . . ”

The wolf bent closer to hear her words, his whiskers tickling her nose. “He's fine,” he said hastily. “One of my men will lead him over the river to the Soviet side. Life is hard there, but he'll be safe.”

The battle was done. Creatures shoveled spadefuls of dirt over the poor souls they had been too late to save, muttering the prayer for the dead over and over.

Zev caressed the hair from her forehead with fingers that were like claws, told her that his unit was expected near Wyryki at dawn. When she reached forward to touch his chest, his muscles twitched, and he sucked air between his sharp teeth with a hiss.

Eyes wide open, she took in the wild beauty of his face, the tilted gray eyes she had always loved, the steep curve of his chest, the silvery pelt that covered his body, lightening across the belly.

The fur fell between her fingertips in furrows, soft and thick. When she told him she wanted to stay with him forever, the wolfish eyes were calm and grateful and grieving all at the same time.

“Of course, Zoshaleh,” he murmured, taking her hand. “Of course.”

*  *  *

Nowadays, the drab and dreary apartment blocks extend all the way down Wirka Street into the forest. Built in the years of Soviet occupation, the buildings are testimonies to corruption, grim and decrepit.

Among them lies a clearing, green and open to the sky, where no dog ever roams and no child ever plays. No plaque informs tourists of the atrocities that were committed here, no monument graces this quiet square.

It is common knowledge that nothing will grow on this spot except for grass; it is a neat and constant ten centimeters high, despite the fact that no one has ever been known to water or mow it.

The people of the town of Włodawa cross themselves when they pass this place, which is not often, and only by day. They do not speak of it, not even to the priest, but they have not forgotten what happened here in 1942 and who lies buried beneath the peaceful green surface.

Those who have visited the site of the Włodawa massacre by night claim to have seen ghosts. The elders of the town, many of whom lived here during those long, bad years, discourage such wild tales. Let the dead bury the dead, they say wisely.

But the children know. When the anniversary of the massacre falls on the night of a full moon, they gather on the sidewalk to bear witness. At midnight, when the moon is highest in the sky, a strange incorporeal vision can be seen flitting through the trees.

The female wears only a thin white nightgown. Her pale hair shimmers and swims in the wind blowing down from the Russian steppes. The male has the lean upper body of a timber wolf.

Wolves have been hunted to extinction in this southeastern part of Poland, the elders will remind you. One night a year, you can hear still hear them howl.

A
t around two in the morning, my mother shook me awake. The Messiah was coming. There was no doubt about it, he'd been spotted ten miles outside of Włodawa. At this rate, he would be here by daybreak. Get up, get up. We had to pack.

She left me to dress. It was a cold November night; gale-force winds rattled the roof tiles and chimney pots. Reluctant to surrender the warmth of my bed, I shut my eyes tight and snuggled down into the covers to consider this information.

It wasn't as if there hadn't been signs. Strange lights in the sky, unusual weather. An actual golem saving the lives of two hundred and fifty people being led off to slaughter. A whole battalion of Deutschen wiped out by mysterious forest creatures. The news was on everyone's lips. We were in the throes of an epic showdown between good and evil, for sure.

Downstairs, I heard the sound of my mother's voice, hurried, anxious. There would be time for exhilaration later. Now she had to make certain that everyone would have enough food and clothing for the long journey to Eretz Yisroel, the Promised Land.

It was then that I heard it, a tread as light as a cat's footfall. The rustling of cloth, the faintest of sighs. The end of my bed depressed just a bit.

“Get off of my bed, Temma,” I said loudly. My sister liked to sneak in when she could. When I was little, I allowed her under the blankets with me, but I was twelve now, almost a man. There was no answer. Annoyed, I stuck my head out from the covers.

A stranger was sitting there in a long white gown tied with a rope around the waist. Over it, he wore a linen robe woven with stripes. On his feet, sandals.