In the Land of Armadillos (11 page)

“Hey, kid. Do you mind if I stay here for a minute?” he said. He had shoulder-length brown hair that he wore parted in the middle, and a small neat beard. “It's been a long night.”

“How do I know you're the real Messiah?” I challenged him. “There have been a lot of imposters, you know. I'll have to ask you a few questions.”

His features had an incandescent beauty to them, like paintings of Jesus I'd seen in school. “Fire away,” he said, shifting his staff from one hand to the other.

One by one, he shot down the inquiries on my list. Yes, he was descended from the house of David. Yes, we would still have to keep Shabbos and kosher, he couldn't do anything about that. No, he couldn't raise the dead. Neither would he fly or walk on water. To my vast disappointment, there would be no miracles, no thunderclaps or lightning, no Leviathan feast, heavenly shofar blasts, or voice of God, no giddy ride to the Promised Land on the wings of eagles. He had come to Włodawa on a donkey. Downstairs, I could hear my mother shouting for me.

“I'd better get dressed,” I said. “She's getting really mad.”

The Messiah made a gesture with one hand. “Don't bother,” he said. “You're not going anywhere. I quit.”

I stared at him, aghast. “What?” I said, confused. “Do you know how long we've been waiting for you? If you don't get us out of here, the Deutschen will kill every last Jew in Europe.”

“I know,” he said tiredly, putting his head in his hands. “Don't you think I know? Why do you think I'm here?”

I sat back in my bed. “But you're the Messiah. The rabbis said you were going to rescue us.” I am ashamed to report that my voice quavered.

“Not exactly,” he muttered.

Downstairs, I could hear my mother and sisters in the kitchen, chattering to one another like birds. His tone of voice made me uneasy. “You're a good little yeshiva boy,” he said. “You know all the rabbinical debates. Will the Messiah come on a white donkey? Or after every Jew keeps Shabbos for one week? Will he come in an era of peace? Or will he come at a time of great upheaval, half the world at war with the other half, the Jewish people faced with extinction?”

He spread his long delicate fingers across his forehead. I drew the covers up to my nose. Suddenly, I was seized with a panicked trembling, a shivering I could not control.

“You know the story of Avrohom and Yitzchak,” he continued wearily. He didn't seem to be talking to me anymore. “God commanded Avrohom to sacrifice his only son . . . and willingly, Avrohom picked up the knife. Only at the last minute did He stay Avrohom's hand and direct him toward a ram whose horns were stuck in a thornbush.”

The Messiah turned his gaze toward me. In my unlit room, his eyes were dark hollows. “The Jews of Europe are the ram,” he explained. “Only afterward, when all the bodies have been counted, will there be a Promised Land, the Temple rebuilt, the end of war, peace on earth.”

“But—” My throat was dry, it was hard to swallow. “The rabbis promised—the wings of eagles—”

“The rabbis . . . ” The Messiah made an impatient gesture, of anger, of despair. “The rabbis will be the first to die.” He slid off the bed, got to his feet. With determination, he said, “I've made up my mind. I won't be a party to this anymore.”

Then he twitched his head to one side, knotted his brows. “Did you hear that?” he demanded. I had heard, perhaps, the sound of chimes. “He says he doesn't accept my resignation.”

“Are—are you—talking to
God
?”

“God? Nah. He's busy running the war. Allow me to introduce you to that
paskudnyak
Gabriel, the
so-called
Angel of Redemption.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Please, Mr. Messiah,” I squeaked. “Don't make him mad.”

He shushed me with a motion of his hand. “I don't even know why I'm talking to you!” he hollered at the air. “Where's Melkiel, the angel of the sixth firmament, who stands on the sixth stair of the heavenly throne, responsible for delivering those attempting to escape a besieged city? He's the man for the job.” He concentrated for a moment, his hand cupped over his ear. “Oh,
you're
going to deliver the Jews of Europe? You mean the way you delivered Jerusalem into the hands of the Roman Empire? Or maybe you were thinking of the way you delivered the Jews of Spain to the Grand Inquisitor?”

He lunged for the window, threw it open with a bang. A gust of rain sprayed his face. “
No!
” he shouted at the clouds. “I've made my decision.”

I thought about this for a minute. “All right,” I said. “Let's go tell my mother.”

*  *  *

Mama listened to the Messiah's story, nodding with grim determination. “We'll just see about that,” she said, and sent us to talk to the rabbi.

My father was the Chief Rabbi of Włodawa. He listened to the Messiah's complaints, stroking his beard and nodding. Occasionally, he would ask a question, holding up a soft white hand to interrupt. The Messiah recited his story with reluctance, as if he had tired of his burden, wishing only to be rid of it. At the end, my father shrugged.

“Well, then that is our fate,” he said. “If this is our role in the redemption, then we must go to it with glad hearts.”

“That's what the rabbis say in every town,” said the Messiah. “Just before the soldiers turn their machine guns on them.”

“Will you stay with us till the end?” my father asked gently, undeterred. “To bring us comfort in our last days?”

The Messiah looked incredulous. “Did you hear anything I said?” With that, he threw his staff onto the floor and stalked furiously out of our house.

*  *  *

There remained the indisputable evidence of the donkey. We put it in the shed, where it shared a stall with the chickens. It seemed grateful for the company.

The next time I saw the Messiah, it was two weeks later. He was leaning on a shovel and smoking a cigarette. Lucky for him, he had been assigned to dig ditches in the frozen earth with one of Chief Engineer Falkner's crews. Lucky, because Falkner protected his Jews.

By now he had traded in his robe for ordinary workman's clothes. “You're still alive?” he greeted me.

I stopped, leveled what I hoped was a superior glare at him. “You deserted your post,” I said sternly, with all the self-righteousness a twelve-year-old boy can muster. “A good leader never deserts his men.”

The drainage ditch abutted the empty army camp where, the previous winter, we watched ten thousand Russian prisoners of war slowly starve to death. He blew a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “What's your name?”

“Usher Zelig,” I told him.

He rolled my name around in his mouth with the taste of the smoke, blew it into the air over his head. “Well, Usher Zelig. You're a nice kid. I like you. Go home and tell your family to hide in the woods. There, they might have a chance.”

“My father will never desert his congregation,” I said defensively. “Not like some people I know.”

The Messiah grinned, pushed his cap back on his head. I could see he had cut his hair. “You know any girls?” he asked.

“Just my sisters,” I said with distaste.

“Any of them pretty?”

I considered them. Eight years old, Suri was all skinny arms and legs, more irritating than any girl had a right to be. Mushka was five, chubby, not old enough to be horrible yet. At seventeen, Temma thought she was all grown up, but she still liked to get in bed with me on cold nights.

“They're all annoying and stupid. But Temma's not so bad to look at.”

“Hey!” hollered the guard. “You there, Jewish pig! I'm warning you! Stop talking to that kid before I blow both your heads off!”

He nodded at the guard, threw his cigarette butt down on the cold earth. “Tell your mother. I'm coming for dinner Friday night.”

*  *  *

True to his word, the Messiah showed up after shul that Shabbos. Somewhere he had found a jacket. He had also shaved his beard. When he laid eyes on my big sister, Temma, his eyes widened, and his breath came a little quicker.

“What should I call you?” she asked demurely.

“Call him nothing,” said my mother.

“You can call me Shua,” he said gently. I don't know if I mentioned it before, he had beautiful eyes, wide and almond-shaped. His breath smelled of oranges and cinnamon.

At dinner, he was polite, almost deferential. My father asked him to make the kiddush, and he did so, in a voice that rang with such sweet celestial beauty that the clocks stopped ticking so they could hear it.

Over the challah, Temma and the Messiah exchanged a few heated glances. My father quizzed me on what I had learned in cheder that week. I recounted the story of the matriarch Rebecca, pregnant with the twins Jacob and Esau, the scholar and the hunter. I also explained the Midrash, the one where the angel tells her that she is carrying two nations within her womb, and that they would struggle against each other until the end of time. I was trying to impress the Messiah with the scope of my knowledge, but I don't think he heard a word I said.

“Where are you staying?” my father wanted to know.

He named a family known to us. The husband was a gambler, the woman augmented their income with gifts from male admirers. “You know,” he said to my sister, “I'm not sure how to get there from here.”

“I'll walk with you,” Temma offered. My mother stared at her, stupefied. So did I. But my father smiled a sad smile, scratched under his beard, and gave them a little wave of blessing. Then they left. They didn't even wait for tea.

Mama made a great clattering din as she attacked the dishes, scouring them clean, stacking them furiously in the cupboard. My father made a tactical retreat to the labyrinth of his studies, then to the labyrinth of dreams. At ten o'clock, when Temma wasn't home yet, I was man of the house.

“Find her,” my mother said evenly, but I could see that she was trying not to reveal her real fears. It was already past curfew. “But please, Usher. For Rabboyna Shel Oylam's sake. Be careful.” I put my coat on and went out into the night.

Pellets of dry snow assailed my ankles, nested between paving stones. I hadn't gone very far when I spotted them. There was a grassy lane that ran between some of the streets, the houses joined by arches overhead. By daylight, it was pretty. By night, it was dark, private. They were leaning against one of the houses. I recognized Temma by her sweep of glossy hair. Quickly, I hid myself behind the nearest arch. Despite the racket being drummed up by the pounding of my heart, I resolved to spy on them.

The Messiah was standing very close to her. I wondered why her coat would be open on a night as cold as this. The fingers of one hand curved around my sister's waist, while with the other, he smoothed his forefinger over the bow of her upper lip. In disbelief, I watched as she turned her face up to him, like a sunflower seeking the sun. After a moment's hesitation, he bent his head to kiss her. I had to turn away, for on his face was the purest expression of awe.

*  *  *

Two weeks later, they came for us.

With the enthusiastic application of clubs and whips and guns, we were encouraged along the streets to the Market Square. A
Selektion
was going on, led by SS Gruber, Rohlfe, Hackendahl, and Haas. Falkner and Reinhart were there, too, their workers stowed safely away behind them.

We were being steered toward Haas, who had a reputation as a cold-blooded killer. Today, though, he seemed preoccupied. He kept wiping his eyes with a big white handkerchief. He gave our papers a glance and sent us to the right. Together with seven hundred other Jews, we were hustled at a smart run into the Odeon Cinema.

There's something I didn't tell you about my mother, something I probably should have mentioned earlier. One of her legs was a little shorter than the other, the only remaining trace of the polio she had encountered as a child. It gave a slight rolling pitch to her gait that I found charming; she always reminded me of a ship falling and rising through heavy seas.

But now she couldn't keep up with the crowd; as we ran, she lagged farther and farther behind. I wanted to keep her company, but I was afraid she would yell at me. A guard fell into step with her, screamed that she should run faster. She was really trying; sweat was beading over her brow. The guard, a tall, corpulent gorilla, kicked her to the ground.

The last time I ever saw my mother, she was lying on the cobblestones in front of the Odeon Cinema.

The last time I ever saw my mother, an SS man was bending over her.

The last time I ever saw my mother, she had the slender barrel of a pistol pointed at the back of her head.

Inside the theater, we claimed a section of the floor. Before us, onstage, velvet curtains the color of wine displayed the masks of comedy and tragedy. Above us, tiny white lightbulbs twinkled in a peacock-blue stucco sky.

We sat slumped there for the rest of the day. I kept turning to Mama with questions, then grieving all over again when I remembered that she was gone. From time to time, the pop of gunfire would filter in from the street, making some of the women screech like birds. The world outside already seemed separate from us, like a scene from a movie playing in another theater.

I was cold, I was hungry, I was scared. An officer came in and announced that we were being transported somewhere farther east, where there would be food and lodging upon our arrival. People nowadays are surprised that we believed this.

“Wouldn't this be a good time for the Moshiach to come?” asked Mushka mournfully. My father pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and began to sob.

I don't know what day it was, or what time, when I awoke with Temma's fingers over my mouth. It was dark, the Deutschen in their infinite wisdom had shut off the lights. The phony stars sparkled away in the faraway ceiling; perhaps they were controlled by a different switch. I struggled, trying to push her off me. I had been dreaming, and in my dream, my mother was waking me up for school.