Chapter Three
Remembering the Forgotten
The Beginning of War
A hot and muggy summer day of June 22nd, 1941, was drawing to a close. Mark and Leon rambled through the woods and along the banks of the river Emenka which meandered around their small provincial town called Nevel.
Nevel was an old town, first mentioned in Ivan the Terrible’s will as among the towns that had been founded during his reign, probably before 1580. Jewish people had begun settling in Nevel since the middle of the 17th century. By the time of World War II, Jews made up half the town’s population. Once a historical town with a diverse culture of old monuments, churches and synagogues, its face completely changed after the Russian Revolution. The only major church that survived demolition was the Holy Trinity Church, an old building of modest architecture, topped with a steeple and overlooking the astonishing beauty of Lake Nevel. Four streets branched out from the river, and coming together in the center of town, formed a small square named after Karl Marx. Many years ago, a monument to him had been erected in this central square to perpetuate his greatness. The monument was huge in size and seemed even more grandiose in comparison with the small buildings surrounding the old square of their town.
Mark and Leon, enjoying their summer vacation, spent their day away from home, going for a spin around the torturous river-course that disgorged into the Lake Nevel. Mark used to sit for hours by the river, contemplating the view he had always loved and watching the way the river quietly curved around its steep banks and sharp stones. As an artist, he felt a magical attraction to its shining, limpid waters that played with the colors of the falling day and approaching twilight.
They stopped at an effervescent brook to quench their thirst when a soaking rain and strong wind tore open the sky. Suddenly, the surface of the river began winking and plop-ping in the rain. It began moving faster, becoming darker and darker, as if foreseeing a disaster. And only the steady reflection of a lonely streetlamp in the river, disturbed by a strong, howling wind, moved along with the fast raging water. Mark and Leon took off their shoes and gingerly waded across the shallow part of the river, right before it flowed into the lake. Dusk began creeping upon the lake and the woods, brushing away the bright colors of the summer day.
“I am afraid that a bad storm is brewing.” Leon announced as they reached the other side of the river.
Mark didn’t reply right away and continued lagging be-hind Leon toward their house, which could already be seen perched on the cliff, in seclusion at the very turn of the river and near the picturesque lake. Beyond the house, the white roof of the local synagogue with its carved frilled eaves was visible from far-off. A small Jewish cemetery with a wooden fence, the main attraction for the local kids, was attached to the old synagogue.
“Please be quiet, Leon. I can hear silence exchanging words with the dragonflies, or, on the contrary, the dragon-flies are trying to start a conversation with silence. Can’t you hear it?”
“All I can hear is a fish sloshing about in the bottom of the river,” Leon replied.
Mark pressed a finger to his lips, making a sign to Leon to be quiet, but Leon didn’t pay any attention to his brother’s words. The wind caught the fine drops of rain, and through its mist he noticed a looming silhouette approaching them.
“I behold a ghost,” laughed Leon, but his heart began to leap up with premonition.
A girl in a red dress ran toward them, waving and shouting something at the top of her lungs. At last, her words reached their ears: “The war, the war.” It was all they could make out, overwhelmed with a sudden foreboding.
They hurried to Rebecca, their eldest sister. Only now, approaching her, they saw her face twisted with pain and fear. She slowed down, still puffing after running, and stretched out her hands as if seeking their support. Murmuring over and over again the same words, “the war, the war,” she fell heavily into their arms.
“Rebecca, please stop crying. Tell us what has happened,” Mark demanded, staring at her in disbelief while Leon tenderly stroked her messy hair.
Her shaking body reminded them of leaves shaking in the wind. And then, haltingly, still heavily breathing, she proceeded to tell them what had happened.
“You left at the crack of dawn to go to the lake; mother and I were about to leave the house to go to the food market, and father—to the synagogue when Igor appeared on the doorsteps—he looked so awful. ‘Turn on the radio,’ he shouted, ‘Molotov has announced that early this morning without any warning the German Army crossed the border and advanced into Russian territory.’ I have been looking for both of you all day long. What are we going to do now?”
Rebecca stopped crying and, looking questioningly at her brothers, continued, “We need to hurry up. Father is waiting for us. I heard that the Germans are not far from Vitebsk, and they may be here very soon. I am frightened. A real danger is hovering over our heads….”
* * * * *
“I am not sure yet why you are telling me about Nevel, but please continue.”
Eduardo threw a quizzical glance at Alex, attempting to apprehend what he had just heard. Alex quashed a feeling of disappointment and tilted back in his chair, staring for some time pensively into space before he began talking again.
“How little we know now about the war. We show less and less interest in events related to our parents and grand-parents. But our past does not disappear—it comes back to haunt us, reflecting our present and our future. Tomorrow will not come without yesterday. No matter how hard we try to forget, to erase yesterday from our memory, hide it deep in our archives, it still lives in every cell of our brains, hearts and souls. What is happening today in the world has its roots in the past,” he said reproachfully.
Eduardo nodded in agreement.
“But coming back to my story… Who would have thought that Germans would invade Russia? In 1939, shortly before the Second World War started, Stalin signed a non-aggression pact with Germany. It stated that the Nazis would not attack the Soviets, and the Soviets would do the same. Eight days after the pact had been proclaimed, Germany invaded Poland, and the Second World War began. Hitler believed that he would be able to defeat Poland quickly and hoped to complete the operation by late winter of 1941. As for the Russians, to win the war became a matter of life and death.” He threw another glance at Eduardo, who listened to him with bated breath. “Anyway, I’ll make my case, and it’s up to you to connect the dots. Well, what was I saying be-fore? Oh, yes…”
Alex gazed at Eduardo one more time, as if suddenly realizing something and then, collecting his thoughts, continued, “When they returned home, the whole family, including their mother, father and brother-in-law, were already sitting around the kitchen table….”
Chapter Four
Final Decision
When they returned home the whole family, including their mother, father and brother-in-law, were already sitting around the kitchen table. Who could know what was in their hearts? Were they horrified, afraid, stunned? No, none of those—they were rather shocked by the sudden develop-ment of events. The word “war” struck them as the utmost unreality, almost nonsense, something that they could have only read about in books or seen in movies, but now it had become so tangible, so real.
Perhaps only some old men in their town foresaw the evil days to come. But who would have believed them when the sky was blue and the sun was bright? They couldn’t accept the fact that their happy and peaceful life was about to change or end. They had read before about World War I, but now it was happening, happening to them, and the Germans were not far from their very own town. Suddenly, white turned into black, light into darkness and known into unknown. The bright summer colors of life faded before their own eyes. What awaited them? What about their dreams of love or the future? Did they now have any future? In a whiff, these thoughts flashed through their minds. The time of awakening had now arrived. In one instant, their fate had be-come intertwined with the fate of their country, and they had to face it with courage. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing, except defeating the enemy and saving the lives of those they loved.
Their father, a rabbi at the local synagogue, who was regarded as one of the wisest and most respected man in their town, presided over the meeting. A single candle flickered in the middle of the table, throwing a dim light on their worried faces. Mark glimpsed at his father’s face across the table, noticing the deep furrow between his brows as he began talking, carrying the news with the utmost fortitude.
“My children, I am afraid that we have dire days ahead of us. Our country is facing a great calamity. The German Army has invaded and attacked our country, and is now about to reach Vitebsk. How horrifying and how sorrowful it is. My heart tells me that we, the Jews, are in great danger. I believe that in times of trouble we should cling together. And now, I think that we should leave this town, all of us, before the Germans get here. However, I daresay that you, Igor, is hopefully safe, and yet you should go with us.”
He leaned across the table, as if wanting to get a better look at his son-in-law, Rebecca’s husband, a Russian man. He had been part of their family since his childhood when his parents were executed by the Bolsheviks. Igor blanched on hearing those words.
“Actually, I do think that we are all safe. I am sure…I thought…to some extent many people would like to join the German Army to escape the Soviet regime. Why do you think they would kill the Jews? It’s nonsense. They didn’t kill any Jews during the First World War. Why would they do it now? Suffice it to say that the Germans are people of great culture; they gave the world so many great names: Goethe, Heine, Nietzsche, Wagner…,” he counted, stuttering and wallowing with his speech, “Rebecca should stay with me. I am here to protect her. I am almost ten years older than she. You are all cowards to run away. I do believe in Ger-man virtue and that the German soldiers are our liberators. Trust me—”
He hadn’t finished his sentence when Mark reared up and shot back deeply offended. “Trust you? Are you kidding me? God damn, Igor, what a foolish idea! What are you trying to pull on us—to live with the Nazis? Do you think we don’t understand what communists have done to you, to us and to our country? Nevertheless, I am not going to abandon my motherland when she needs me the most. I am going to join the Red Army. What about you, Leon?” He turned to his twin brother.
“Sure, I’ll go with you, Mark,” Leon’s voice muffled a bit as he covertly glanced at their mother.
The mother sat motionless, clinching her hands on her knees, thinking how much alike and yet different the twins were. In her late fifties, she was still very attractive and looked younger than her husband, who was nine years her junior. The mother surveyed the room with her sad eyes and then stared at the paintings which covered all the walls of their small house. Mark’s watercolors had dramatic colors and disturbing emotions. He had a rare gift of penetrating in-to the secrets of nature. Leon’s work was more abstract, a collage of wild colors and unrealized imagination. How different the boys are, she mulled again. Mark—strong, but sensitive, almost like a girl, and Leon—weak, but deter-mined, and yet both are so emotional.
She was proud of their natural aptitude for art. Damned war! Now, all their dreams would be shattered. Mark had been studying medicine in Leningrad and was taking art courses while Leon’s dream was to become an architect. All of a sudden, Rebecca’s shaking voice sank into her consciousness.
“Please don’t quarrel. We have no time for that. I have some really good news—Igor and I…we are going to have a baby. Surely all of you have already noticed that I am almost five months pregnant. You see, I can’t leave now.”
Probably any other day it would have sounded like a thunderclap, but now… A dark silence reigned in the room for some minutes until their father raised his voice, “Congratulations, my children. This is great news. Mazel Tov. ” He turned to his wife as if looking for her support, and then continued, “Why didn’t you tell us before? Do you think we are all blind? However, it’s not time to argue now….”
Confused, Rebecca didn’t utter a word. It was Igor’s idea after all to keep it a secret from her parents.
“Well, you know, Rebecca,” her father went on, looking her straight in the eyes, “I always opposed this marriage because you were raised together, almost like brother and sister, still you are a grown-up woman now, and your fate is in your own hands. At least, listen to your father and come with us; leave Nevel for the sake of your unborn child. Even being the wife of a Russian, you are still a Jew, and it is dangerous for you to stay here. Listen to me, Rebecca, I am more experienced and wiser than you are. I want my grandchild to be safe. As for you, boys, it breaks my heart to say goodbye to you.”
He swallowed back tears and stroked his beard.
“But you made the right decision, and I understand the need to protect our country and our pride. I wish I could join you, but unfortunately my poor health will not allow me to do so.”
On an impulse, Rebecca got up and approached her father. She wrapped her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder as she used to do in her childhood when she was about to cry.
“Dad, I truly think that it is too risky for you and mother to take a long trip to God knows where. Nevertheless, I suggest that you should pack and leave town immediately. You have to escape the Nazis and get as far away as possible. Please listen to me and do as I ask you. I beg of you because I love you. I promise—I’ll be waiting here for your return. You have to understand—I can’t leave Igor alone, and I can’t really go very far in my condition. I will rely on God and entrust my fate to Him.” She was so determined that it was folly even to persist in asking her to do otherwise.
The teakettle whistled on the stove, and the wind rattled loudly at the windows as they spoke late into the night, hashing over their plans and their actions. It was decided that Eliza and Samuel, their parents, should get to Kalinin and then take a boat. They would travel up the river Volga to Ufa, the capital of Bashkiria, where they had some distant relatives. Presumably, they would be out of danger there. They hoped that the German Army would not move far into the country. After hours of arguing, persuasion, changing plans and Rebecca’s tears, a final plan was approved.
* * * * *
The shock of the disaster reverberated quickly throughout the region, and the whole town was now astir with this sinister news. In just one day Nevel had become unrecognizable—the streetlights had been turned off, and the warm, grey dusk enfolded the town. The main street and central square, usually crowded, were now deserted. The anxiety of separation, farewells, women’s tears and the pallid faces of men had suddenly become their only reality. Their favorite old waltz, The Waves of Danube, had been chortled on the radio all day long. Its lingering music was heard everywhere, but now it sounded like a farewell hymn to their youth and their past. That hot summer night united the hearts of the citizens of Nevel in their sorrow, grief and uncertainty about the future.
The next day, some neighbors and relatives joined the rabbi for their final deliberation. Many of them still did not want to leave—they too, like Igor, believed in the virtue of the German nation, unable to perceive the extent of the great catastrophe awaiting all of them.
Again, late at night, they gathered around the kitchen table contemplating, wrangling and discussing the latest news. They heard that Vitebsk was on fire, Polozk on fire, and the Germans were not far from Nevel. Impossible…it was impossible…only because they had believed that it could never happen to them. It was so hard to imagine that maybe tomorrow they would be dead, and their houses, their small, cozy dwellings, would be destroyed along with their happy lives. The heated debates had exhausted everyone. Women cried foreseeing their future; men were deeply occupied with their own ruminations.
O, Lord, how did you allow this to happen, why didn’t you protect us? Bound by shared calamity, a woman asked the rabbi these questions, but even he, the wisest man in town, could not answer them. The uncertainty of tomorrow, the betrayal of their trust in God made it clear to their neighbors that the time had arrived to take their lives into their own hands.
The shadows of the night ominously blinked on the paintings and the white walls of the house, perched and isolated on the cliff at the very turn of the river and near the picturesque lake. The last ripples of thunder, like the remote sound of guns, were heard from far away, beyond the woods. The day of their parting barreled in faster that they had ever expected….
* * * * *
The night before their farewell Mark had a dream—a broad plain of snow sprawled before his feet. He stood in the middle of this totally white space, surrounded by white mountains. Everything around him was white: the sky, the moon, the earth and the air. He was completely dazzled by the pure whiteness of this ambient space and the splendor of the early December morning—clear, ethereal and cold. He could almost touch the air and feel it, feel how it was pres-sing heavily on his lonely figure, standing in the unfathomable open space, and it was only his body that threw a dark shadow on the snowy ground.
Unexpectedly, far beyond the horizon, he saw an indistinct light, and then… shadowy silhouettes… swimming out of the night towards him. For some time, he could even sense their presence, but then he realized—they were only shadows—the shadows of the dead. And at this very moment, there was no longer any boundary between the living and the dead. The ground began to shift under his feet, and he found himself floundering about in deep snow moving toward the shadows. His hands stretched out, trying to reach for them. Suddenly, among the moving dead, he saw his own ghostly reflection. The wind whipped up, the sky darkened, and the white turned into black: the earth, the moon, the air, the mountains and all the shadows became invisible. Their spirits were gone, lost forever somewhere in the universe.
His dream was like a short episode from a silent movie—black-and-white. The vision dissolved slowly in his consciousness, and he opened his eyes. He was awakened by a weird and unearthly rustle of the night. The room was still plunged into darkness, but a scarcely tangible feeling of spiritual presence and fear of death were still in the air. He raised his head from the pillow, dazzled by an eerie light coming through the open window. A lonely, resplendent star was shining above, from the unknown, the bright star—his celestial guide—which would always watch over him from another world and illuminate his path, no matter which way he might choose to go….
Chapter Five
The Invasion
On the 15th of July, 1941, the German Army invaded Nevel. The whole horizon glowed with fire. Covered with heavy dust, the German tanks, cars and motorcycles rumbled along Vitebsk Avenue, wreaking havoc among the citizens of Nevel. Enemy warplanes, like ominous black birds with widespread wings circled the town scattering death into every corner of their peaceful country lives. The main square and usually noisy streets were completely deserted, as if fear and anxiety had turned them into black empty holes. Although the whole town was astir with news, people remained hidden in their homes, hoping for the best, even though anticipating the worst. The best never happened, and the old town froze suffocated with fear and horror. The invaders were on their way to plunder the town, shackle souls, enslave minds and break spirits of its citizens.
The women and children fearfully watched the invaders through the curtains on their windows. They saw the motion-less faces of the German soldiers dressed in green uniforms, holding guns and ready to shoot their innocent victims. They had already heard about the Nazis’ infernal cruelty, the burning houses, the thousands of graves, and the extermination of the Jewish population, including women and children.
Soon afterwards, the town itself was on fire. Some old wooden houses, churches and synagogues were already ablaze, fiercely belching fire into the quiet summer sky. One by one, engulfed in flames, like toy-houses, many of them had collapsed. On the first day of the invasion the Nazis took prisoners—sixty members of the Soviet army—and carried out a bloody massacre in the backyard of house #58 on Vitebsk Avenue. Then they threw the dead bodies into a hole and covered them with mud. Some buildings spared by the fire had been immediately turned into prisons where the massacre continued every single day. Consumed by fear, during the first night of invasion people could not sleep. Drunken Germans soldiers sang their songs loudly, shouted, drank wine and beer, and launched rockets into the cloudless sky. The horrific period of German occupation had begun with the revelry of the Nazis, the hunger and fear of the local population. During the German invasion, from July 15th, 1941, until October 6th, 1943, over 7,000 Russian soldiers and 8,000 of Nevel’s citizens were executed.
* * * * *
The 15th of July, turned out to be a fraught day for Rebecca. The nocturnal blackness had just hidden in the folds of the clouds, and the first shaft of sunlight filtered out through their heavy blanket and through the window chinks, dispersing its sheen all over the room. Rebecca rose up, not being able to stay in bed any longer. At dawn, when she stepped out of the house to bring some water from the well, she heard cars purr in the distance. And then a huge monstrous shadow swept across the sky and a strip of black haze floated above the town. Watching this flying black cloud, she realized that the dire days of war with all its destruction, grief and sorrow, were hiding behind this fast-moving shadow.
Every day now, had she struggled to quell a growing fear of death but in vain. She walked around the house, plunged deeply into thoughts, when her neighbor, an old Russian woman, swung past her.
“The Germans are coming,” she announced jerkily on her way home, but her voice was drowned out in the roar of the warplanes.
Rebecca didn’t hear her words but saw the woman’s pal-lid face and her eyes full of horror. Meanwhile, her neighbors, swooning with fear, crept out of their houses. The street was deluged with old women and children. It hummed with their agitated voices.
“There are tanks moving along Vitebsk Avenue. I saw them with my own eyes,” one woman was telling her story when a first lonely shotgun fired somewhere close to their street.
And as if horror had gripped them by the throat, they became silent. One by one, pushing their children in front of them, they quietly tiptoed to their houses. The rusted locks made mournful sounds, and the doors closed behind them. The shutters came down, separating their past from an unknown future. But Germans soldiers were already knocking at their doors demanding milk, water and food.
Rebecca, along with her neighbors, returned to the house and clung to the window. Clouds of heavy smoke hovered low above the cemetery, the lake and the river. The red sheen of flames wounded the sky. Usually a clear blue, it was now badly bleeding. The cascade of the dispersed sparks reminded her of holiday fireworks when, with her parents and her brothers, she watched the festivities from the banks of the river Emenka. For a brief moment, she had forgotten about the war, but then a first lonely shotgun blast rang out somewhere close to their street. Rebecca was clinging to the window, trying to see what was happening when her husband’s voice intruded into her thoughts.
“Rebecca, Rebecca,” Igor flew into the room, “they are here, our liberators, our future!”
With some difficulty Rebecca forced herself to return from her childhood memories. She didn’t say a word to Igor, just turned away from the window and went to the kitchen to heat his lunch.
“Please go and wash your hands,” she demanded entering the room. She put a bowl of soup on the table in front of him.
“You look pale. What’s eating on you? I suppose it’s not my fault that your brothers went to war. I could go too, but I have different plans. I want to live in a civilized society. I hate the Soviet regime that murdered my parents and other innocent people. You know all about it, and you hate them too.”
“But it doesn’t mean, Igor, that you have to betray your country, your friends, your relatives, even your wife…at the most difficult time of our lives. Who has created such a golem out of you, Igor?”
Uncontrollable anger surged up in him when he heard her brutal words. His face twisted in pain, and he arched his eyebrows in disbelieve—her words enraged him.
“Hang that all, including this country! Rubbish! I didn’t betray our country—communists did. My parents were innocent, but they had to die for their allegiance to a cause. And you…don’t ever dare to talk to me like that. Don’t I take good care of you?”
He got up and in a fury smashed the dish. Soup spilled on the tablecloth, and its smell made Rebecca feel like vomiting. She had not eaten all day long, saving food for her husband.
“I can’t take it any longer.” He shot her another furious look.
“Scram, scram! I couldn’t care less. Leave me alone,” her words reached his ears despite her sobbing.
Slamming the door, Igor huffed out of the house and didn’t come back until late at night, drunk. Rebecca sulked for a couple of days, but unable to bear her silence for too long, he soon approached Rebecca.
“I apologize, Rebecca, don’t be mad at me,” he rasped grudgingly, almost repentant, trying to reach for her hand.
She pulled away from him, still struggling to forgive him, though at this moment it didn’t really matter to her any-more.
“I accept your apology, but you have changed, Igor. You are not the same person,” she retorted flatly.
In order to avoid any further quarrels, she opened the door and slipped outside. She was glad that he didn’t follow her.
That summer was generous with warm, cloudless and soft evenings, but the quiet was disturbing, as if misery and death hid behind every corner, every tree, behind the black tranquility of the night. Rebecca was scared. Now she sensed danger in every whiff of a soft breeze or crackle of a tree branch. And yet she longed for her usual long walks by the river or her morning bath in the translucent water of the lake. A pleasant confluence of peaceful scenery and unusual serenity among all those horrors made her just walk around the house for some time.
She couldn’t remember how she reached her favorite secluded place. The transparent lake met her like a loyal lover, caressing her naked body with tender touches and adoring her unadorned beauty, fluorescent in the blue moonlight. She lay back on the mirrored surface of the lake, letting the water envelop her, reaching her chin and licking her face. She then swam for a long time until the tired moon bade her goodbye and turned into a tiny fireball, reminding her of the enemy warplane, as it flew away.
Rebecca threw her body on the warm grass, drifting slowly into a delirious slumber. The night was unusually quiet. She was cradled by the sky, and the stars sang to her their lullaby. Blurry images from the past of her parents, her brothers, schoolmates—all flooded her disturbed sleep.
She woke when the first pale sunrays showered their light on the grieving earth, cutting through the transparent waters of the lake and then drowning somewhere in its depth. She didn’t know for how long she had been sleeping, but the mingled tumult of birds singing and the loud explosions somewhere near her made her rush home.
When Rebecca got back, Igor was still heavily asleep, and the smell of alcohol poisoned the air. She drew the curtain to create a nocturnal dimness, and exhausted, went to bed to continue her slumber.
Waking up late in the afternoon, Rebecca found the door wide open, and Igor already gone. She lazily stretched out and indulged in deep thoughts. She missed her parents, her brothers, her friends, and most off all their happy lives before the horror of war. She had no news from her parents since the day they had left but prayed everyday for their survival. Finally, she decided not to pay any attention to Igor’s ignominious behavior but instead to concentrate on her own wellbeing and eagerly awaited baby.
Chapter Six
The Letter
From that day on everything went wrong. Most of the time Rebecca stayed home, reading or sewing clothes for her unborn baby. At night, she would sit by the window staring at the black surface of the river where it merged with the earth, forming one whole mass. The sky, the earth and the water—everything moved together, submerging into a world of delirium. Poor Rebecca, she still could not comprehend what was going to happen to all of them—her friends, her relatives, and those she loved the most. Her thoughts went back to her mother and the letter she had given to Rebecca before her departure.
“Read this letter, Rebecca, when I’m far away, and re-member that I love you with all my heart—you are my life. You brought light and happiness into my lonely existence,” she said, handing Rebecca a small envelope.
It was hard to explain why she was afraid to read the letter, but one day Rebecca came across it incidentally while dusting the bookshelves. After her mother left, she tucked it away behind the books. Rebecca went to the kitchen to prepare supper for Igor and only then, ensconced comfortably on the sofa, pulled the letter and opened the envelope.
“My dear beloved Rebecca, my daughter,
How many times have I been tempted to tell you the story of your birth, but I was too scared of losing you. You are a gift to me from God, and you gave me all the happiness in the world. It is a long story, and it is much easier for me to write than to tell it. I feel so guilty not to have told you all of this before, but believe me, Rebecca, I could not. I did not have the courage to do so. Please forgive me.”
Confused, Rebecca put the letter down and wandered around the room—her thoughts in disarray. The night pressed against the window glass and crawled into the room. She picked up the letter and continued reading it, pacing the room up and down.
“I am not your mother. I found you in snow when you were just a one-month-old baby, a beautiful child I prayed for my whole adult life. My small hut stood near the Jewish cemetery. There I buried my sister and my parents who had passed away when I was only eighteen. I learned how to live alone and worked hard, trying to make both ends meet. By the time I found you, I was thirty-five years old, an old maid living alone near my deceased family. You were a miracle baby who brought happiness to my lonely dwelling.
The news that I had found a baby near the well spread fast around the town and beyond. But whose child could it be? Nobody knew or could even guess. On one cold winter day, I noticed a young man, a stranger, walking around my house. The next day he came again—he came to stay. It was your father, Samuel, who had learned that his wife abandoned you. At that time he lived in a small town called Pustoshka where he had his four brothers and many cousins. Your real mother disappeared, and nobody ever heard from her again. I do hope you’ll find forgiveness in your heart. Please, understand and forgive me, my beloved daughter.
Your loving mother,
Eliza”
The drops of falling rain spattered against the window, breaking the hashed silence into the splinters of her past. Her happy childhood floated for a moment in her mind, but its vision wilted slowly away. She tried to keep these flashes from fading, to hold on to those happy days, but her memory blurred. She felt giddy from this sudden revelation. All her emotions drifted away, intertwined with the silence of the night. But then, once again, her thoughts traveled back to the day when, returning from a trip to Leningrad, she had a strange encounter.
* * * * *
The train decelerated and came to a stop. The passengers poured outside to get some food. The platform was thronged with local peasants selling pickles, sauerkraut and freshly-baked bread. Crowds were milling around the stalls with various goods. Rebecca too stepped on the platform, her arms clasped around her body to shield it from the biting northern wind blowing from an open field behind the train station.
A withered old woman, bundled up in a Russian flowered shawl and a heavy, ragged, quilted jacket, grabbed her by the hand. Hardship and suffering were engraved on her craggy, sallow face.
“Hi, sweetheart, don’t pass me by. Just look how thin you are. Ah, ah, ah, you must be hungry. My pickles and my homemade bread are the best in the area. Give me one ruble, and they are all yours. You will not regret.” She intoned and smiled at Rebecca with her toothless mouth while melodiously stretching her words and examining Rebecca with small rheumy eyes.
“Oh, you are a beauty. Want to know your fate?” And without waiting for an answer, she opened Rebecca’s palm and moved her callous fingers along the smooth surface of Rebecca’s hand. “What a strange fate! You have two mothers. Don’t you?”
Rebecca pulled her hand back. Suddenly, the woman paled and whispered something into the air, avoiding looking at Rebecca, “You are destined for a lamentable end, but you’ll meet your fate with courage, poor girl.”
Because of a freight train going by at a high speed, Rebecca could not decipher the last words, and she did not dare ask the woman to repeat, sensing something sinister in her words. However, Rebecca detected some sincere and doleful notes in the woman’s voice. It was not in her manner to be disrespectful, but the woman’s facial expression scared her.
“This is all nonsense. I know my past. I have only one mother. And I don’t want to know my future. Besides, I don’t believe in crystal-gazing. Thank you anyway. I don’t need your pity. I am happy.”
Rebecca was surprised at her own harshness, but she handed the old woman a ruble and took a loaf of bread, and a small jar of pickles.
She looked back and saw the train breathed out and produced a heavy puff of smoke. The conductor whistled, and she had to hurry to catch the train that had just begun to gain speed. She remained in a corridor, standing by the window for some time, watching as the boggy terrain flashed quickly before her eyes. The despondent and melancholy visage of the landscapes merged with the sky. The sun, like a fading fireball, drooped in the west, and was finally swallowed up by the earth. The last tender tints of the parting day appeared on the verge of the horizon. Twilight enveloped the earth and threw a curtain of dusk on the rutted, fast-moving landscape as the train clattered on through the night.
* * * * *
This vivid picture from her past vanished instantly when Rebecca heard steps, and then somebody inserted the key into the door lock. Her husband entered the room, carrying with him a scent of summer and a whiff of fresh air. He turned on the light, and it pushed the darkness back. Like a scared bird it flew away and into the empty street.
This sudden light brought Rebecca back from her fleeting reminiscence. Slowly, the words from the letter began to sink into Rebecca’s consciousness and make some sense. She got up and without saying a word moved to the kitchen to hide the letter far back in a drawer, away from Igor. Who was her real mother? Why did she abandon her? All these conflicting thoughts, like annoying flies, noised in her head. She could feel cold penetrating her palms and flowing into her heart.
Was it a dream or did she hear Igor talking to her loudly, annoyed by her silence? She couldn’t understand what he was saying to her as well as she couldn’t comprehend the news about her birth mother.
Chapter Seven
Blue Cottage
The next day, Rebecca complained to her husband on the headache, but instead of going to bed early she watched through the window how the night ebbed into nothingness, and the fathomless sky brooded low above the town, like the quiet sea resting after a storm. She didn’t get a wink of sleep that night, lost in contemplation. Rebecca wandered about the house until the first rays of sun crept into the room. Her pain was slowly becoming dulled. She busied herself in the kitchen, concentrating on the sharp knocks in her belly, as if her unborn child were begging her to bring him out into this cruel world.
A short time later, Rebecca heard rumors that Igor had begun working for the Germans. She didn’t want to believe it, but every time she tried to wheedle information out of him about his work, he would give her a cagey reply.
“It’s none of your business after all. You have food on the table. What else do you need? Where is your gratitude?” he would snap at her.
Rebecca became aware that her neighbors were avoiding her, especially her Jewish friends and even relatives, but she didn’t bother to ask why. All she could think about now was her unborn child. Oh, how much she wanted her child to have a mother, to grow up to be a strong and honest person, to make her proud, but soon the latest news made her realize—the days of her life might now be numbered.
One day, returning home from visiting her relatives, she caught sight of a big poster printed in two languages, Ger-man and Russian. It was signed by the Governor of Nevel, someone by the name of Vasiliev. She read it carefully, barely able to understand the cruelty of the written words, concerning her and all Jewish population. But when its meaning finally sank into consciousness, she was paralyzed by fear and by its tangible and shocking reality, and yet her whole being refused to believe it.
Rebecca pressed her hands to her chest and scurried home through the desolate streets. For a moment, breathing heavily, she leaned against the wall, feeling how her baby moved in her belly. Still panting for air, she stared blindly into empty space, all her energy leaving her body. She felt like a stranger in her own town, forgotten and abandoned to die. Running again for her life through the familiar streets from the brutal reality, she was finally seized by panic. Rebecca felt that those streets would never end, and their hushed quietude frightened her. Their asphalt covers shone and writhed in the ensuing dusk. She felt as if she were walking on the surface of the opaque river whose dark waters could open their abyss and swallow her forever.
A sudden crescent moon, reminding her of a lemon fruit-drop, filtered out for a moment, its smooth sheen covering the road… or the river. Rebecca stopped, scared, confused, lost. Where was she? She didn’t recognize the place. Swallowing her fear, she moved forward through the dusk and begged the fruit-drop to show her the way home, away from the horror of war…
* * * * *
On August 7th, the Gestapo issued a special order for all the local Jews. German troops, armed with rifles and ma-chine guns, cordoned off the square, named famously after Karl Marx. It became the place where the Jewish population was forced to go for registration from all over the town and its bordering villages. There, men, women and children were wedged in one dense mass, yielding to their fate.
Meanwhile, it was announced that the punishment for hiding Jews—was death. Those Jews, who didn’t obey the Nazis’ orders, faced immediate execution. All these conditions spawned terror in their hearts and made them wonder if they could possibly survive the German occupation.
At the same time, in order to avoid unnecessary panic the citizens of Nevel were told that the Nazis were going to send all the Jews to Palestine. Some of the locals believed them, clutching at the last straw of hope. Many Nevel Jews appeared at the Gestapo registration post right away, not even suspecting that their fate was sealed—they were doomed and would never return to their homes. During the next two days, the first string of more than 1,000 people walked along Vitebsk Avenue towards Blue Cottage, two kilometers away from Nevel, under the watch of the Russian Chief of Police, Sepunov. Dry, irritating vortexes of dust rose around them, covering their pale, worried faces with deathly grey layers.
Before sunset, under the watch of the local policemen and dogs, the rest of the cortege arrived at Blue Cottage. The last tender tints of receding day still lingered over the horizon on the verge of impending twilight. As Blue Cottage merged with the night, its new inhabitants, including women and children, found crammed into one house. People couldn’t sleep, thinking about their future. Through the windows, they saw how the armed soldiers and policemen surrounded the house, watching them as though they were criminals.
And only in the morning, could they see what a beautiful place Blue Cottage really was. It was a peaceful and remote territory with an almost serene setting. Somewhere from far away, the wind brought an odor of hay, fresh dung, and wild flowers. A big park with green alleys and tall birch trees was built in the center of the suburb near an old mansion, called “Blue Dacha.” A long, sandy alley with flowerbeds on either side led to a red brick mansion where the night before the police and Gestapo unloaded the remaining Jews. Turning Blue Cottage into the first Jewish ghetto in the Russian land, the Germans established there a rigorous regime, during which they subjected the Jews to constant torture, beatings and malicious insults.
Within the next few weeks, people lived in ignorance of what lay ahead. The children were torn away from their mothers. They couldn’t pray any longer and just quietly sobbed. The sudden sticky, hot August days, cold evenings and long working hours exhausted people. Addled by Nazi lies, they now existed in a savage world, bereft of any hope of survival. They were driven to work in the city every day, but neither food nor water had been provided for them. It was hard labor, often beyond their strength. Those, who were weak and feeble, were hammered to death. Only sometimes, the local peasants, feeling deep commiseration, under the shelter of the dark nights, risking their own lives, would bring them something to eat. Hunger, frustration and the cruelty of the Nazis drained people of their strength and their belief in any sort of salvation.
Chapter Eight
Interpretation of Dreams
By now, the restaurant was slowly filling up with new customers, but neither Alex nor Eduardo paid attention to the increasing noise around them. They were still absorbed in the tragedy of Nevel’s population. Thick cigarette smoke now hung heavily over the tables, like smoke from the burning churches, buildings and synagogue, resurrected just some minutes ago from Alex’s narrative. The shock from what he had just heard flooded Eduardo with emotion. He couldn’t force himself to touch food now. He moved his plate away and put down his glass of wine. An expression of pain crossed over his face.
“Who was Rebecca? Who were Leon and Mark? Are you related? Were you born in Nevel? Tell me, Alex, is Rebecca your mother?”
“Eduardo, please don’t rush me. You’ll learn all of this in good time. This story is far from over. The suffering those poor people endured is indescribable. Only survivors of the horror of war are capable of understanding. My father witnessed it, and I am trying to relate it to you the way he told me the story of his family before he died.”
“What an incredible fate.” Eduardo shook his head. “I can’t imagine life during the war with so little food and water, and death following their every step. To live in fear is the most humiliating thing that can happen to a human being. What an iniquitous world and what unspeakable crimes!”
Minutes passed before either of them could speak again.
“The power of evil should never prevail, and only we, the humans, are capable of stopping it,” Eduardo continued after a short pause.
“You are such an idealist, Eduardo. Evil forces always win.”
“Maybe, but what about the power of love?”
“It’s only in our dreams. Has it ever happened to you that you had the same tumultuous dream all the time—distorted reality, twisted, evil images?”
Alex’s question seemed to have some impact on Eduardo. “Oh, yes, but in my dreams I see no evil. I often see the same image of a young woman with the face of Madonna, lit up by an eerie inward light. She is always trying to say something to me, but every time at that very moment she disappears into obscurity, and I can only hear her voice fading away. I think I fell in love with this illusive woman from my dream a long time ago. She represented for me the chastity of our souls, the purity of the world around us. She represented Love. I have never revealed this dream to any-body before. You know, I once read that we all live different lives and have different goals and values in life, but there is one passion we all share—the passion for love. This phrase is embedded in my memory forever.”
Eduardo became suddenly disconcerted at having revealed his soul to a stranger who happened to be his double.
Alex was intrigued, and at the same time very sympathetic; he recognized himself as well. He too had always searched for this ideal love.
It took some time before he replied, “Well, I read once about some techniques of dream interpretation. Maybe it will help you to decipher your dream. Sigmund Freud once wrote about the existence of a bridge from the apparently remote dream world to real life. There are memories of the past or our associations connected with something that happened a long time ago. Repressing those memories, we cause them to come to us in dreams or some kind of associations that may suddenly appear in our sleep. He wrote that while we are asleep there is an alteration and distribution of psychic energy.”
Alex stopped and darted a glance at Eduardo, who listened to him carefully, leaning forward.
“Please, go on,” Eduardo asked him nervously.
Alex nodded. “In a way, for me, to have a dream or to hallucinate is almost equal to painting a picture when your unconscious emotions are turned on. The same is true for love. In my opinion, it is an unconscious feeling, the fulfillment of our dreams. We are all longing for love. We are all dreamers, no matter who we are or what we expect from life. The woman from your fantasy is a personification of your dream or an image from your remote past….Could I be right?”
Eduardo threw an odd look at Alex, wondering how he had just managed to peep through his secret thoughts. “As you know, Alex, we, the artists, are all dreamers, living in our own world of illusion and images. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I agree. It is a painful process to pour your soul on-to canvases. How often do people see your creation in a distorted way? You might be surprised by why I only paint the rich and famous. It does not give me any satisfaction, but it brings peace to my soul and heart. Long ago, I ceased suffering, choosing to leave behind the world of real art, the world of illusion and pain.”
“You have touched a most sensitive subject that also concerns me profoundly. My process of creativity, Alex, is just the opposite. My art at the beginning was based on simplicity, superficial feelings, but ended up by baring my soul and my emotions. Fate—or perhaps just one encounter—has changed my life forever. Nevertheless, I have a feeling that we are kindred spirits with the only difference being that your soul is much stronger than mine. You escaped your pain by devoting your talent to a superficial art. You shut up your soul and use only your eyes and hands. As for me, I pour all my grief, all my dissatisfaction, all my disillusionment onto canvas in hopes of easing my suffering. In everyday life, I wear a mask to deceive the world, and probably I do manage to conceal the true nature of my unhappiness. I often think that our unhappiness has its roots in our childhood or unfulfilled feelings. Don’t you think so, Alex?”
Alex gazed at Eduardo, realizing his double at last was going to talk about his past.
“Well, I never saw my father. He died on the day I was born. My mother loved me unconditionally and struggled to give me a good education. I had an incredible passion for painting. As I mentioned to you before, I was born in Austria, but I grew up in Italy, first in Florence, then in Rome, surrounded by the art of the greatest Italian masters.”
It seemed now that Eduardo plunged into his own thoughts and was speaking only to himself, as if taking no notice of Alex’s presence. Alex thought about the notebook. It made sense now. The man was probably tormented by his past, by his unhappy childhood. But exactly what was his childhood and what was his life? Who was this mysterious man, his mirror image?
“Eduardo, you haven’t yet told me much about yourself. Who was your father? Is your mother still alive? Do you have a family?” He felt that Eduardo wanted to tell him something but could not yet bring himself to trust Alex.
Eduardo repressed a beguiling smile. “Humph, you popped quite a bold question, my friend, considering our short acquaintance. My mother died two years ago, hoping before her death to see my great success. I was married once but divorced after only three years of marriage. I have a son, his name is Marco, and he is a grown man. I have never remarried, although I was once deeply in love,” he replied rather scornfully. “Somehow, I don’t like to talk about my life or to dramatize the events that took place many years ago.”
Never before had it occurred to Eduardo to tell his story to anybody. He gave up thinking about his past a long time ago. Once, it seemed to be so significant—the past that had changed his life and his views on art, but with time it had become almost like a spectral past, a shadow…until today….
He leaned back in his chair, and a vague smile touched the corners of his lips. Once again, the image of the woman he once loved glowed vividly in his mind. He hesitated for a moment before he began talking.
“As a matter of fact, this very hotel evoked some reminiscence, a brief happenstance that took place a long time ago and made an indelible impression on my work, and my life,” Eduardo confided.
He paused and, peering into the distance above Alex’s head, as if looking back into his past, began his story: “To be exact, it happened about twenty years ago here in New York. I hope it won’t be too tedious for you to listen to my boring story.”
“No, not at all,” Alex vigorously protested, “please, continue. I am eager to know as much as possible about you. After all, we could be somehow connected.”
Eduardo nodded obligingly and managed a faint smile.
“Splendid. I am glad that you display such a keen interest in my life. Well, going back to my love story… You will be surprised to learn that in addition to being an artist I graduated from the Academia National di Santa Cecilia in Rome and at that time was known in the musical world.”
He moved his plate farther away and took a gulp of wine as if trying to clear his throat. “I didn’t mention this to you, but I have been composing music as long as I have been painting. Those were two of my passions. So, here it goes…. That day in December….”