Chapter Nine
Blizzard in New York
That day in December Eduardo had a ticket for a con-cert at Carnegie Hall. The program included Brahms, Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky, his favorite composers. He planned to stay in New York only for a couple of days on his way to Washington, where he was going to visit some of his fellow artists, and then fly back to Rome. However, he learned in the morning that it was going to be a cold and windy day. A severe snowstorm was forecasted by nightfall. Therefore, the much-anticipated concert was suddenly cancelled. Now he regretted having come to New York in such stormy weather. Although his day was ruined, Eduardo still tried to justify his unnecessary stop in this city. The prospect of spending a day by himself made him feel miserable. He loathed staying in the hotel alone imprisoned in a small cell. Therefore, he decided to spend a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
He was surprised to see that despite the blizzard and bitterly cold weather, the Metropolitan Museum was crowded with people milling about and pushing each other, and the stoically standing museum guards. Museums and art galleries were always his sacred places where in total solitude he could observe the mystery of art, and feel the deep spirituality depicted in paintings by artists of past centuries. Most of all, he loved paintings by Tintoretto and Botticelli for the warmth of their gold colors, purity of their tones, clarity and smoothness of their brush strokes. A woman in Botticelli’s paintings became the woman of his dream, attracting him by her warm, tender femininity. Sometimes, he saw her in his imagination—transparently gold, flying with him into quiet, deep and unfathomable skies. He often tried to find her in the real world but could only find her shadow or distorted image.
Even now, listlessly watching the crowd, in one sweeping glance he noticed a young woman in the ticket line. She seemed to be preoccupied with her thoughts, and he detected an expression of sadness on her face. While everything was moving around her, she looked quite alone, isolated within the large crowd, remaining in her own world.
Nothing is more disturbing than to feel lonely in a large crowd, he thought while examining her expression. Usually, Eduardo was not so easily impressed. After his bitter divorce, he finally realized that he didn’t need any special woman to change his happy and placid life. He immersed himself in his own world of art and music, and only an occasional love affair distracted him from the one thing he loved most—his work. But the aura of mystery that emanated from this stranger, aroused his curiosity. A sudden, scarcely acknowledged desire, took some unpredictably possession of him. Without thinking twice, haunted by her image, he decided to follow her.
The woman bought a ticket and then, pausing just for a moment, hurried toward the new exhibition of the Spanish artist Jusepe de Ribera. It was exactly what he had planned. Eduardo was delighted—they had the same intention, and he hastened gaily after her. He stumbled upon the woman at the very first painting. She was leaning forward, carefully studying the portrait of an old man. Eduardo, moved by simple curiosity, began to scrutinize her—his eyes traveling from her face down her body. She was of average height, slim, well-built. He was struck by something childlike in her whole appearance. He continued to examine her. She had long chestnut hair, falling down to her shoulders in soft waves, setting off her delicate and yet dusky complexion. She was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and blue jeans, holding a short fur jacket in her hands. She looked very appealing in her simple outfit.
“Like it? I do. What say you?” Eduardo asked, bending affably closer to her face.
He inhaled a faint scent of some refined perfume. The woman raised her eyes then gazed at him with a prolonged, remote and absentminded look, nodded and turned away, unconcerned. She totally ignored him and his question. Eduardo was unpleasantly surprised by her rudeness. He didn’t go away but instead observed her eyes of a soft, hazel color with golden lights, inviting him to drown in their mysterious depth. Intrigued, he still patiently waited for her reply, wondering if it was impolite of him to start a conversation with a stranger, but after all he was an Italian, and she was an attractive woman. Almost a whole minute passed before she looked at him again and smiled. And suddenly, her whole face lit up with the same familiar inner light he had seen before on the faces of women painted by Sandro Botticelli.
“Oh….I do know you and love you very much,” she prat-tled and then added in embarrassment, “I mean I love your work and the way you express yourself in your paintings, and in your music. You are Eduardo Goldano, the Italian artist and composer, aren’t you? Or…maybe you have just reminded me of someone? Actually, you really do….”
“In fact, you are right—I am Eduardo Goldano, your humble servant, but how do you know my name?” Now it was his turn to be surprised.
“I saw one of your exhibitions in Rome and fell in love with your work. Your originality and the anguish of your turbulent colors shone through your work and were magnetizing. The emotions, the disturbing colors, strong brush and sensitive soul impressed me the most. When I looked at your work, I knew exactly what you felt when you painted your pictures. I even had a chance to exchange some words with you,” she exhaled and blushed like a schoolgirl.
“Oh, right now I feel that once and for all I have achieved immortality. Did I really make such an indelible impression on you? I am honored.”
She blushed again, avoiding his eyes. Eduardo gave a heartfelt chuckle, bowed, and a roguish twinkle danced in his eyes.
“May I ask your name?”
“I am Nora,” she announced somewhat tersely and stretched her hand for shaking. Her hand was small and soft. This innocent gesture roused his curiosity about her all the more.
They walked for hours through the exhibition together, exchanging their thoughts and opinions. It appeared that they had the same taste in art. One of Ribera’s portraits impressed them both, and drew them into conversation.
“For Ribera,” Nora reasoned, “in my opinion, spiritual beauty and intellect were more important than physical appearance. Look at his portraits. They are of incomparable artistry. On the one hand, one could be struck by the physical ugliness of his sitters; on the other hand—impressed by their deep spirituality. Take for example the portrait of this philosopher. It is my favorite. Do you agree?”
They approached the portrait she had pointed out to him. It was as if she read his mind. His perception of the painting was identical. Their feelings about art bound them together. They began to feel at ease with one another. It happens sometimes in life that you meet someone and suddenly sense with all your heart, subconsciously, that it was fated.
Chapter Ten
Farewell
Eduardo and Nora left the museum together. By then the snowstorm had ended, but a high wind dashed into their faces. The ground was crusted over with deep layers of snow, and the roofs of the buildings were mantled and capped with ice. The brittle branches, crackling in the wind were frosted with icicles. The last fading sunrays reflected in their trans-parent purity and looked like imaginary precious stones or even like large, sparkling diamonds. Eduardo took one tiny icicle in his hand, and it slowly melted, turning into droplets of water.
“I wanted to give you a diamond ring, but it disappeared just before my generous gesture could be realized. I almost proposed to you.”
“Don’t worry, just look how many huge diamonds are hanging from the roofs.”
She had scarcely finished her sentence when a long, heavy icicle fell to the ground next to them. Barely escaping, they laughed. The northern wind increased its speed, and the temperature fell sharply. However, they did not feel the cold—their hearts were on fire.
As they wandered about the quiet streets of New York, she spoke to him in a soft voice, showing her interest in his art and music. She felt free to express her opinion about his musical compositions.
“Remember what Shelley once wrote: ‘They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’ I think that, compared with your paintings, your music lacks profundity.”
Eduardo was shocked and even annoyed with her bold, straightforward statements, though he appreciated her honesty.
“Let me make it clear. Are you trying to suggest that the creative process is based on suffering, and that those, who have not suffered, are incapable of creating? Do you really mean what you’re saying?” He reacted quickly.
She sensed some irritation in his voice and replied hastily. “Yes, I do think that the real, profound art comes from pro-found suffering. I am talking about suffering that leaves deep scars on our souls. Thomas Eliot once wrote that to write poetry does not mean to express but to escape yourself. When creative people put their thoughts and emotions on paper, they cleanse their hearts and souls, they share their experience with the rest of the world. What is it, our experience? Our experience is what we learn through suffering.”
“It’s interesting what you are saying. I have never thought about it before, but you are probably right. I eventually give up,” he admitted rather gleefully, “but your observation made me analyze why sadness has always been a part of my soul.”
Nora nodded in sympathy.
“First, I am an artist and then a composer. I feel and comprehend art at much deeper level than music, and it is much closer to my heart and my soul. I will not argue with you about ‘depth of creativity.’ I need to think about it. You might be right.”
And in his usual manner, he leaned forward and almost whispered, “I don’t mean to pry, don’t take me wrong, but it is your turn now to tell me about yourself. One subject that we have not touched on yet is you. Do you mind telling me your story?”
He fixed his green eyes on her. She seemed somewhat reluctant to talk, but finally drawing a deep breath, she asked him uncertainly, “What would you like to know? Honestly, there is not much to say.”
“Anything and everything….”
Nora slowed her steps and, after some hesitation, began talking, looking straight in front of her.
“I live in Philadelphia, and I came to New York for just two days to see the exhibition and simply to spend a day in my favorite museum. I needed some time to be alone in order to make a decision that may change my life forever. What else?”
She seemed lost in reverie for some time. He didn’t interrupt her, waiting patiently for her to continue the story. He felt some latent, heartfelt warmth emanating from her. He began to feel deep down that he did, indeed, need a woman like Nora in his life—a person with cordiality, warmth and understanding.
“Look, Eduardo, I don’t really know what else to tell you.”
She walked silently next to him. The wind strolled pensively behind them, wiping carefully their footsteps and eavesdropping curiously on their conversation.
“Do you have a man in your life?” He inquired, while recognizing that he was probably a damned fool for asking such a question of someone who was little more than a stranger. But he felt that the woman walking next to him was not a stranger anymore. He realized that there was a deep connection, a strong, invisible bond between the two of them.
“Yes, I do,” she blurted out unexpectedly, “That’s all I can tell you. Our relations are too complicated, and truly, I am not in the mood to discuss it, especially today and now.” Nora seemed visibly upset, as if he touched the subject she was not inclined to discuss.
Coming closer to her, Eduardo pressed her elbow as if trying to let her know that he understood. He wanted to show her how much he needed her and her closeness at this moment. The unspoken words, deep, mutual understanding, in-ner longing for each other united them in that cold, winter blizzard.
“There is something awfully moving about you, Nora. It may sound odd, but when you look at me, I have the feeling that you are looking deep into my mind. Do you also have feel that we are inwardly bonded? It seems to me so unusual that we grew up in different countries and yet have so much in common.”
She didn’t reply, and he didn’t wait for her answer. She freed herself and slowed her pace, quiet and rueful, while he was watching her being engrossed in her own thoughts.
How could she know that for him this lonely, cold night and a beautiful woman with chestnut, golden hair were like a miracle recreated by the brush of the mysterious Italian pain-ter Sandro Botticelli?
* * * * *
The city had already drifted into slumber, and even the windows had shut their wide-open eyes. Eventually, pitch darkness embraced the city and its tall buildings. Large, hea-vy icicles still dangled from windowsills, threatening to break off and fall. Everyone seemed to be hiding in their warm, cozy dwellings, and it was only the two of them who were aimlessly rambling through the empty streets of New York, reluctant and unwilling to say goodbye to each other. Finally, they found a small restaurant, half-empty at the hour. In the corner, an old man quietly played a piano, a tango from the movie Gilda that Nora loved. She smiled and took his hand. Eduardo could not take his eyes off Nora’s face. He felt an immense physical attraction for her. Struggling to conceal his emotions, he forced himself to take the first step.
“We don’t have much time left, Nora”, he was searching for the right words, “maybe just this one night.” He gave her a swift glance as she again trustfully touched his hand across the table.
“Look, Nora,” he spoke rapidly, afraid that she would interrupt his train of thoughts, “why don’t you move your lug-gage to my hotel room? We can spend more time together. Never in my life had I felt so attracted to a woman I hardly knew.”
“The truth is, Eduardo, that before long you’ll forget me. I am nobody or maybe just that tiny star that soon will merge with the universe.”
He didn’t reply because he didn’t know what to say to her. He felt pity in his heart for himself, for this seemingly casual and yet such an unusual adventure. He wanted to think that it was indeed just a moment of passion, afraid to give their feelings a proper name—love.
At this very moment, they were both engulfed by sudden intensity of emotions, the uncertainty of their future, difficulties to come to the right conclusion. He had to make only one step forward and she would give up everything, but he saw the impossibility to make such a step, afraid to ruin her happy life, her and his own future. He still could not apprehend the depth of their spiritual and physical connection, the meaning of their sudden feelings.
“Eduardo, when you return to Italy, I want you always re-member me as the illusive woman from the New York blizzard.”
“I wish for you to be real. What had happened to us is real. Maybe one day the fate will bring us together again. I want to hope.”
“I don’t know, Eduardo. Time will tell.”
“But then it could be too late.”
“Don’t torture yourself. I wish it were in our power to change the circumstances, to have enough courage to give up everything for the one you love. Are you capable of doing so? Look deep inside your soul. But is it love? Maybe what happened to us is just a flash of light.”
She desperately wanted to hear a different answer when he replied rather stiffly.
“You are right. Life is too complicated, selfish. Perhaps it could be just a fleeting feeling. Maybe we should be happy with what we have today. Nobody can predict tomorrow. Let’s wait, time will decide for us.”
“I have no time, Eduardo. Tomorrow my life will change forever. I don’t know how to express my gratitude to you for this marvelous day we have spent together. Thank you.”
Impulsively, she rose and stepped toward him. He took her into his arms. Their lips locked in prolong, passionate kiss. He finally let her go and cleared his throat. Then they both fell into silence, but some important, still unspoken words hung in the air. When he began talking, he heard his own voice as if it were spoken by another person.
“I don’t want you to go. I can’t say goodbye. The realization I will never see you again is becoming too painful.”
He could not find a reason to convince her to stay. He kept talking as if trying to fill a space between them, to pro-long the time, their last moments together.
They left the restaurant and turned around the corner. Nora suddenly stopped.
“Maybe it should be this way. It is too late anyway. I wish I had never met you. We are on the road of no-return,” she said quietly.
“Well, I suppose so,” he nodded, following her. He was deeply hurt, but pride didn’t allow him to beg her to leave her previous life and go with him to Italy. Eduardo always lived by impulse, trusting his intuition. However, this time it was only his pride that kept him silent.
“I am leaving soon for Italy and you return to Philadelphia, I can’t insist. After all, your whole life is there. You hardly know me. I live by emotions, but I trust my instinct. I feel with all my heart—you are my woman, and you are the one to make a decision whether to stay with me or to go back to your previous life.”
Nora did not reply. She walked away from him. Eduardo came close but didn’t dare to ask for her address or phone number—a decision he would lately regret.
“I’ll see you off, Nora.”
“No, please. I would rather say goodbye to you now. I’ll catch a cab right here. Take care of yourself, Eduardo. I will not forget you.”
“Never in my life had I felt that way. I will always re-member you, Nora. I hope you will be happy with the man you are going to marry. I wish you….” He almost choked and stopped talking, looking away from her.
“I had a feeling, Nora, that I had known you long before we met, and that we were just reunited after so many years of separation.” He swallowed his pride once again.
Nora did not say a word but took off a glove and extended her hand to say goodbye. Only then did his eyes catch the glimmer of a large diamond engagement ring on her right hand. She saw his gaze and hastily pulled her hand back. She was about to leave when suddenly she turned around, and an odd expression flickered across her face.
“Your eyes are of such an unusual color, neither grey nor blue. I would say slate-colored,” she paused, “or even some-times they are the color of aquamarine stone. That’s right—stone. I have seen such a color before, but it was usually icy cold. We should not see each other again, Eduardo, ever.”
She shot him a frosty look and then waved for an approaching taxi. He didn’t have time to reply. She hopped into a cab that was about to take her away from him forever…
Chapter Eleven
“To Nora”
“At night, we sink into fairytale dreams of an unreal world, and it’s only when waking up in the morning that we realize the reality of today and our solitude in this immense space and time,” Eduardo said pensively on finishing his story and then cited Heinrich Heine:
Outside, white snowflakes are blowing
Through the night: the storm is loud:
Here I’m alone, besides the blazing
Hearth inside, warm, quietly bowed.
I sit here in my chair, just thinking,
Here beside the crackling glow,
Kettle humming, as it’s boiling,
Melodies from long ago.
Alex recognized his favorite German poet and continued citing the verses.
Now many a long forgotten age
Rises in the twilight air,
As if in shining masquerade,
And faded splendor, there.
“How shocking it is that we both can recite the same
poem.” Eduardo smiled rather absentmindedly, having some difficulty within his mind as he crossed the border from his distant past and to the present.
“Did you ever see her again?” Alex inquired.
“No, I did not. Remember that I did not even ask her whereabouts.” Eduardo shook his head.
“Have you ever tried to find her?”
Eduardo said nothing. He was seemingly disturbed by these questions, and it became obvious to Alex that he was not inclined to continue discussing this painful subject. Since the time of her leave taking, whenever during his long lonely evenings he thought about Nora, Eduardo remained deeply troubled by those old memories. After all, at this very moment Eduardo could hardly grasp the idea that he had just revealed his innermost feelings to a stranger. Or was Alex a stranger?
“Please, Alex, continue your story. What happened next? I have a strange feeling that….”
“Don’t you feel tired? Alex turned to Eduardo.
“Why? I am perfectly fine.”
“Look, Eduardo, we are both tired out. It’s getting late. Why not save the rest of our story for tomorrow? I’ll continue it at breakfast and tell you all I know about the fate of my family. We can ask at the desk if there are still any rooms available at this hotel, so you can stay the night. Let’s get out of here.”
Eduardo finished his wine in a gulp and nodded agree-ably, but he was visibly disappointed by this abrupt ending.
The lobby of the hotel was empty except for an old couple who were arguing loudly with the receptionist. The old man with a sharp nose and small eyes peered at the receptionist, scrutinizing her with disdain while his wife stood aside, evidently ashamed of her husband’s loud behavior.
“Never again in my lifetime will I come back to your hotel! What kind of room did you give us?! All the windows face a noisy street. Please move us to a better room, or perhaps call another hotel and check if they have a room for us,” the old man screamed, looking extremely upset. He angrily threw the key from his room on the counter.
Alex winked at Eduardo. “I see that our luck is now resting on this counter. Do you mind a noisy room?”
“Are you kidding me, Alex? I am dead tired. I could even sleep in this lobby. I wouldn’t mind moving into that awful room right away.”
By the time the receptionist had settled her dispute with the old couple, Eduardo had his lucky key for the noisy room which happened to be right above Alex’s suite. Finally, they decided to meet the following morning at nine o’clock downstairs at the same restaurant so Alex could continue delivering the story that had taken place almost sixty years ago. They were both excited by this sudden turn of events, and each felt the closeness that sometimes only strangers can experience after long and heartfelt effusions.
* * * * *
Since their long conversation ended late, Eduardo felt exhausted. He took a long, hot shower and stretched out comfortably in bed, hoping to get some sleep, but instead he lay awake, mulling over his own hapless life.
On one rainy day, yielding to his mood, he sat at the piano and played her favorite prelude by Chopin. The sound of the raindrops and the outside noise—everything dissolved in his music. It seemed the entire orchestra, revealing a new palette of sounds, played it. He felt as if he were playing a new symphony, the raging symphony of his life. The sounds scattered and then united again, plunging into the air and eventually dying. He closed the cover of the piano, moved the chair closer to the fireplace and added some wood. The room grew much warmer. The music still disturbed him, but the new composition had already been born in his head. He knew he should get up and write down the scores, but he was incapacitated, unable to move, to break the warmth of the hot air, to lose the sounds of music and scare this fragile sense of the past. It was pleasant and yet disturbing.
At last, he sat at the piano again. The room, the furniture, everything disappeared, and only the red sparkles from the fireplace remained. The music poured out without any difficulties—hot and spiritual, light and complicated, like his life, like his feelings for her. The music filled the air with the commotion, the dramatic cords and the sudden changes into the soft, languid tones. The wind grew silent, and the curtains no longer moved. The fireplace stopped cracking. Everything fell into silence, as if listening to this sudden pro-found and tragic symphony. He finished playing and looked throughout the scores. He was longing to repeat the music, but all his strength had left him. In front of the title he put his dedication “To Nora.” This was the only music Eduardo had ever dedicated to her….
Eduard had been happy once, though it was all in the past. He did not watch time anymore. All the events, people, everything, moved around him while he remained frozen in that time when he was so deeply in love with a woman who belonged to another man….
* * * * *
When Alex walked into the restaurant the following morning, Eduardo was already at the table, clean-shaven and neatly dressed. He was drinking his coffee, nervously looking at his watch.
“Good morning, Eduardo,” Alex greeted him warmly, shaking his hand.
Eduardo rose with a wide but sad smile on his face. “I’m so glad to see you, Alex.”
“Sorry to be late. I had a bad dream. Did you sleep well?”
Alex glanced imploringly at Eduardo and was flabbergasted to see that his face looked tired after an evidently sleepless night.
“Thank you for asking, Alex. No, not really. I hardly slept at all, subsiding once in a while into a fitful slumber. But every time I woke up, I was thinking about the story that you began to tell me. Please go on. I am eager to know what happened next.”
Alex relaxed for a minute, concentrating. Finally, he gathered his thoughts and returned to the narrative he had to interrupt the previous evening.
“So, I told you about Blue Cottage, the first Jewish Ghetto in the Russian land. On the same day the Jewish people were driven to Blue Cottage, Igor stomped into the house and sat heavily down on the sofa, ignoring his wife’s presence….”
Chapter Twelve
Unforgiveness
On the same day when the Jewish people were driven to Blue Cottage, Igor stomped into the house and sat heavily down on the sofa, ignoring his wife’s presence
Seeing the tormented expression on his face, Rebecca knew he brought tragic news. She had been expecting it to happen for days now, but still she felt scared.
“Tell me, Igor, what’s wrong,” she begged him, sitting next to him on the sofa.
“To my great chagrin, Rebecca, I have to bring you bad news. Very bad news….There is a new order today to deliver all the remaining Jews to Blue Cottage.” He paused. “But I can reassure you that you can stay due to my connections to the Gestapo.”
However, he tried to shield from her the whole truth.
“Yes, I heard about it. Is there an inkling of truth in your constant lies, Igor?” She moved away from him. “Do you really have any connections to the Gestapo? If you do, shame on you. I don’t need your help then. Shall I start packing?”
“You want to know the truth. Fine! I am informing you that all the remaining citizens of Nevel have to register immediately at the German Command Post. But, Rebecca, for the sake of our future baby, I want to protect you, to save both of you. Your defiance surprises me, please don’t be so stubborn. You are not in danger. Trust me, you are not.” He gave her a warning smile.
“I don’t trust you anymore, Igor. I need time to think about what to do next.”
“You can think, Rebecca, but don’t act against common sense. Nothing terrible is going to happen to us. I promise. Think about our baby.”
She threw a wistful gaze at her husband and walked outside, feeling woozy from an agonizing pain that racked her whole body. A German rocket soared up into the sky and loudly exploded somewhere in the lake, just behind the neighboring houses. Rebecca watched the ominous glow in anguish. Since the war had taken a complete possession of their lives, she now often tried to banish from her mind any thoughts of their uncertain future.
* * * * *
Learning from Igor the latest news, Rebecca couldn’t stand by idly. Reckless of consequences, under the cover of the night, risking her life, she set off to secretly visit her aunt. Since the German troops occupied Nevel, there was no sign of life on its streets. She ran, hiding behind the dark houses, dissolving in the shadows of high trees, keeping distance from the populated areas. Finally, she managed to reach her aunt’s backyard safely. She stood for some time at the front door of the old familiar house mantled with heavy fog and surrounded by wooded area. It was a dark summer night. The earth evaporated evening chill. She began feeling giddiness from a heady smell emanated from the woods, although the air was cold as it usually happened when you got into the wooded area. She knocked at the door and called her aunt’s name. The woman popped out of the window and stared into the night. Rebecca stood at the doorsteps, blinking, while the fear of being caught still smoldered in her heart.
“It’s me, auntie. I hope I didn’t wake you up.” Rebecca
whispered but loud enough that her aunt could hear her.
The woman came out. She could not conceal her astonishment at seeing Rebecca. Her ash-gray face expressed deep distress. First, she carefully examined the yard, pierced her eyes into the dark wooded area and only then let Rebecca in.
“No, you didn’t wake us up. We are packing, but you shouldn’t come, Rebecca. It’s too dangerous.”
She embraced the girl and quickly ushered her into the room. She was thunderstruck by Rebecca’s bravery. Rebecca stood in the middle, surveying the room in bewilderment. Her aunt’s usually neat house was a mess—all their be-longings were littered about in total disarray. Children, looking lost and scared, sat quietly around the table. Her heart withered as she watched the scene—her relatives packing for a long trip to Palestine, refusing to accept the inevitable—their demise. Rebecca hugged warmly every one of them.
“Don’t go,” she begged them, “Please don’t go. Hide into the woods. Hide somewhere. I’ll help you as much as I can.”
But they didn’t hear her—they put their trust in God and God only.
“He will not let us die. He’ll take care of us, of you, of your baby,” her aunt said, evading Rebecca’s intense, worried look.
Now bereft of any hope, Rebecca turned to her aunt’s oldest daughter, Roza, who was also her closest friend. She was three years younger than Rebecca, considered being a real beauty with smooth skin and large murky eyes. She was the most popular girl in their school, but today her face was a greenish pallor. Rebecca took her aside. Roza seemed to be deeply upset by a sudden turn of events.
Rebecca made an attempt to appeal to her conscience, “Roza, I beg of you not to go. I feel with all my heart the danger awaiting all of us.”
“Don’t worry, Rebecca, we are all going to be send to Palestine. I am sure. Nothing, nothing is going to happen to us,” she tried to convince Rebecca, but her words sounded very unconvincing.
At daybreak Rebecca kissed every one of them, knowing in her heart that she would never see them again.
Autumn had just begun to paint the woods with beautiful varieties of colors. Swaths of new-shorn grass gave her a feeling of a peaceful country life, but the piles of broken glass, furniture, debris of all kind of lumber painted quite a different picture. She hesitated for a moment but then decided it would be safer to return home by taking a short cut through the cemetery.
Rebecca walked fast, looking back with the strange feeling, as if someone was following her, breathing heavily onto her neck. But it was just the light breeze, playing its games with her, pattering, groaning, and laughing. Heavy gravel rustled under her feet. Somewhere far-off, but distinct, an owl whooped out a strident, drawling cry. Rebecca flinched and peeked around cautiously to see if someone had been following her, but she didn’t see anybody. The pale moon-light swam on the surface of the sky, struggling to break the white mass of heavy clouds. The soft lilac light shimmered down upon the cemetery, creating an eerie sensation of total solitude. She was approaching her house when in the fading away moonlight she noticed a dark shadow flickered round the corner.
“Who is there?” Whispered Rebecca, trying to pierce through the fog. An unknown woman appeared in front of her, calling her by name, “Rebecca, Rebecca.”
Rebecca stopped, glancing at a stranger. The woman was probably in her late forties. Her well-shaped oval face with a perfect marble skin was framed by the heavy, ash-blond hair tied behind with a pin. Her wide-opened blue eyes set deep in their sockets, and only her thin lips made a feeble attempt to stretch into a friendly smile. She was dressed in a long black skirt, and a long shawl drooped down from her shoulders. In her dark clothes, she almost merged with the dusk, like a nocturnal sorceress from Rebecca’s favorite fairytale. There was something tragic and yet familiar in her face, as if she had seen her before, long ago, in her childhood imagination.
“Please, Rebecca, don’t go away but listen to me,” the dark woman begged.
“Have you been following me?”
“Yes and no, I have been waiting for you near the cemetery for many hours. I am sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to do it at all.”
Finally, the moonlight traveled away, and the first sunlight forced its way through the clouds. Rebecca stood for a minute contemplating.
“Please come in. My husband is not at home, and we can talk there.” Rebecca took the key from the pocket of her dress and opened the door, inviting the woman in. The silence of the house oppressed the stranger for a minute. The woman stood at the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do next.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Rebecca’s voice cut off the harsh muteness as she opened the window to let fresh air in.
“Oh, no, please, don’t” the woman protested, “please, please, Rebecca, close the window. Somebody could be listening to us.” In a fright, she covered her face with her shawl.
“There is nobody there. Only the wind is swaying the tree branches,” Rebecca tried to calm the woman. “What about tea?” She repeated her question, still carefully examining the stranger.
“No, thank you, but please listen to me. I walked from afar to see you, Rebecca, because I needed to talk to you.” She took the shawl off her shoulders and threw it on the back of her chair, covering the first fine threads of sun with the transparent veil of the dark fabric.
Rebecca was thoroughly baffled. “Who are you, and how do you know my name? What can I really do for you?”
The woman continued talking as if she hadn’t heard Rebecca’s question, “Thus far, I have never told anybody my story. I kept my secret deep in my heart. Throughout my whole life I have been devoured by guilt.” She panted for breath and then continued, “I was married when I was eighteen. My husband was the handsomest and the smartest man in the village. We lived then in a place called Pustoshka. He was the only son of the local rabbi, well-mannered and well-educated. I was lucky to have him. When my child was born, I felt as if I was the happiest woman in the world, until one day….” The woman’s voice became faltering as she struggled to breath. A lurid paleness set upon her skin.
“I can’t talk anymore. It is hard for me to rake over the old ashes. No, I didn’t kill anybody, Rebecca, don’t look at me with your fearful eyes. I lost my family, but I didn’t kill anybody. Nevertheless, I made a grave mistake.” She wheezed and stopped talking.
“Please continue. I want to help you if I can.” Rebecca put her arms around the woman’s shoulders.
“I must finish my story, Rebecca. I want you to understand me and to forgive.”
Suddenly, sensing the truth, Rebecca moved away from the woman. Something struck her—she too, the only one in their family, had a perfect marble skin, ash-blond hair and blue eyes.
The woman grasped for the air. “So, one day a fortune-teller stopped me at the local market. ‘You have a beautiful child,’ she exclaimed, staring at my baby and grabbing me by the hand, ‘but this child will sunder you from your husband. Be careful with this baby. Get rid of her.’ Strangely enough, her prediction did not surprise me one whit. The big penetrating eyes of my daughter scared the hell out of me. I couldn’t sleep that night. I was very superstitious, and I had to make a choice between my husband and my baby. I have chosen my husband….God punished me for that…and I have lost him too.” The woman stopped talking, and for the first time looked Rebecca straight into the eyes.
“Can you forgive me, Rebecca? I am lonely and unhappy. Please forgive me, my child. I have suffered enough, and I hope God has already forgiven me, pardoned me my crime.”
Rebecca came closer and bent over the woman, touching gently her hair. “For all these days, I have been struggling to understand you, but I could not. I feel sorry for you; my soul is crying, but yet deep in my heart I can’t find the forgiveness.”
The woman looked at Rebecca, trying to say something, hardly moving her lips. Rebecca bent over again and heard her words: “I understand. I don’t blame you, Rebecca. We are two strangers on a train heading to nowhere, or…perhaps…to our demise. You heard what is going on around us. We are all going to die, all of us, but before I did hope you would be able to find in your heart compassion and forgiveness.”
“I tried,” Rebecca’s voice wavered, and she pronounced her words with the utmost severity, “I tried to find forgiveness in my heart…but I couldn’t. You left me in the snow to die. You gave me life and then tried to take it away from me. Why? What have I done to you? I haven’t conceived of your actions. Would you, yourself, be able to forgive such a crime? Would you?”
The woman didn’t reply. She whispered something under her breath with the muffled, hoarse voice. Rebecca couldn’t understand a word of it. The woman spoke only to herself, plunged into her own world, forgetting about Rebecca and everything that kept her alive. The world around her became now strange and remote, not the same world where she had cherished her last tiny hope. She peeked listlessly at Rebecca.
“For all that, think about me, Rebecca. Never forget that somewhere in the universe there is a lonely soul that loves you.”
The woman stretched her hand and with a blind movement tenderly touched Rebecca’s face. At this moment, her eyes warmed, and a guilty smile played at the corners of her lips. She sat mutely for a time, her head down. Then she surveyed the room as if trying to prolong her stay. Though not able to find the right word to express her sorrow, she got up and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Once more she turned into a black sorceress from the old fairytale. Making a sloping stagger toward the door, the woman looked at Rebecca for the very last time and receded into the mist of the awakening morning.
Chapter Thirteen
Playing with Death
The following morning, Igor received a new assignment from the SS to take the rest of the local Jews to Blue Cottage, an order that made him fear for the life of his wife.
On the last day of the assignment, a long line of the remaining Jews went a different route. Instead of taking the main street, leading directly to Blue Cottage, the cortege lumbered out onto a country road that followed the bend of the river. Accompanied by horse-driven carts, loaded with children, old men and women, they walked along the river toward their destiny. White, tall birches, wounded by the war, flanked the road on both sides. Soon, the road turned sharply left and the horses cantered down the slope along the meandering river. They were approaching a bridge, straddling the riverbed
As if foreseeing their destiny, an old Jewish man with a grey beard and a quick eye, clutching to his heart the Holy Scriptures, gazed down on the mirrored surface of the river. The reflection of his kind old face drowned in the pitch-dark gloom of the water.
“Damn this war!” he whispered angrily, and then his pensive face turned into a sorrowful expression. He exhaled the words of prayer in Hebrew, pronouncing the blessing for survival, illness and danger:
“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha olam, ha gomel lahayavim tovot sheg'malani kol tov.”
And the heart-rending prayer sounded like his last words of farewell and his last words of gratitude to the Lord whom he worshipped and loved. But in the middle of the bridge, the flow of the old man’s heartfelt words had been abruptly interrupted.
At the beginning of the prayer, a young Russian police-man was motionless, gripping his weapon between his knees. Slowly, the words began to reach his consciousness. Infuriated by the prayer, he pushed the old man in front and pointed the gun at him.
“Ñòàðûé äóðàê, íèêàêîé Áîã òåáå óæå íå ìîæåò ïîìî÷ü. ß òåáÿ ñåé÷àñ ïðîó÷ó!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, and with those words whipped out a pistol, cocked it and fired at the old man, the bullet hitting the old man in the head.
Suddenly, as if by a special order, the policemen began firing at those who were sick or old, ruthlessly pushing their bodies, dead or alive, into the river Emenka. They fell straight into the water, and the dark river turned red. Opening its abyss, it swallowed the innocent victims. Everything happened so fast that not a sound was heard, just some sudden splashes and tremulous ripples on the quietly flowing waters. A red glow billowed out above it, and the surface of the river bubbled and groaned for a long time. The river Emenka had become Nevel’s first mass Jewish grave.
Time froze for a moment, as if caught in a battle between life and death. At that very instant, Igor’s whole life turned upside-down. He didn’t participate, but this kind of madness deeply scared him. After all, he was not a murderer, and he was not going to curry favor with the Nazis. He was neither going to become a quisling nor had he any intention of betraying those to whom he owned his life and his gratitude. He made a sudden realization that his trust in German virtue was an irreparable and calamitous mistake. He was still too young and too na;ve to understand that he had too became a victim of the cruel Nazis propaganda.
* * * * *
At the end of August, Rebecca gave premature birth to their son Alek. The baby was very weak and tiny but alive. Igor couldn’t be happier, and yet he was afraid that some-one might denounce Rebecca. He tried to hide the birth of his son from the Nazis and the local policemen. Often, his new assignment kept him away from home for days and nights.
Rebecca was overwhelmed with joy and grief at the same time, sensing the approaching end. At night, she could not close her eyes, but during the day she walked outside with her baby, paying heed to different and mysterious sounds. They were talking to her, like letters of the alphabet. Putting them together, she could imagine all the happenings in their town. Sometimes, she could hear the terrifying quiet of the streets, interrupted only by sudden sounds of the local women weeping, lamenting their dead sons or husbands. She too often now cried for no tangible reasons. With her tears the pain slowly eased and a numbing cold congealed her heart.
“Weep, weeping dulls the inner pain.” She remembered the words her mother used to tell her. And she cried, hearing the frightful sounds of war and the deadly quiet that scared her the most.
On that memorable day, the silent daybreak had been disturbed by remote lightning and some rare splashes of falling firebombs. It was one of those hot mornings at the beginning of September when the air was unusually sticky and muggy. Rebecca stepped outside, listening as always to the murmur of silence. The wind was talking to her, and the tree branches were touching her face. The grass, glistening with morning dew, petted her bare feet. And only the distant noise of those flying German warplanes and some remote explosions reminded her that the war was just around the corner. She went back to the house, put on her best dress, crimson red, swathed her baby in a light blanket and, pressing him to her heart, walked out of the house to the nearby wasteland.
The road to the wasteland was totally deserted, and only her lone figure was leaving a long, shimmering shadow on the sandy ground. She moved swiftly ahead as if trying to outstrip her own reflection. The yellow fireball of the sun dazzled her for a moment, and she lost her shadow. Now it lazily trudged after her, hiding and then suddenly appearing from behind the trees. Rebecca smiled—even her shadow was looking for shelter, afraid of the German warplanes, soaring loudly above her. And yet she stubbornly moved for-ward, acting impetuously, without thinking, as if she had lost her mind. There was madness in her eyes. Her loose, heavy hair swung in disarray across her shoulders, bathing in the generous sunlight. She felt dizzy. Suddenly, the sky, the earth and the trees—all revolved around her. She froze for a moment in the middle of the burnt land. The arms embracing her baby were raised to the sky. The German war-planes with black crosses on their wings glided low above her, so low that she could see the Nazis’ pale, clean faces, and even the sleeves of their green uniforms.
Overcoming her giddiness, she trudged on further through the land, boldly flirting with death, begging the black beasts hovering above, to shoot her. And indeed, she didn’t want to live anymore—she fell into a state of utter despair. The German warplanes continued to circle around her as she stubbornly and inexorably walked through the burning land, lamenting and begging them to kill her and her baby.
“Kill me, kill me,” she shouted at the top of her lungs, “I don’t want to live.”
Finally, totally exhausted, Rebecca sank to the ground, but still not a single shot had been heard. Before she collapsed, she saw a neighbor running towards her, waving her hands and trying to tell her something. It was the last thing she could remember.
The German pilots were amazed by such a mad Russian girl, walking through the burning land without any fear. Some locals, who saw the scene, angrily reported it to Igor.
“Keep your wife locked up. It looks like her mind is verging on madness. She is completely insane to behave like this now. Are there not already enough killings in our town? She is courting disaster and will bring it down upon us. After all, you shouldn’t condone such behavior. For God sake, lock her up.”
Igor was dismayed and frightened by Rebecca’s actions. He returned home that night in a sullen mood and found Rebecca curled on the bed like a child, next to the crying baby. The red dress with the dirty spots on it lay on the floor. Igor knelt beside the bed.
“What has happened to you?” he asked her calmly, but she said nothing—only shot a quick, evasive look at him, utterly unconcerned.
Igor picked up the dress and put it on the bed next to her. She didn’t move. He peered at her, patiently waiting for her reply, but her mind was still far away. Suddenly, she raised her head and glared at him with blurry, indifferent eyes.
“Igor, leave me alone. Go away. Please go away now.”
Her behavior was totally incomprehensible to him. He stood there disoriented, not knowing what to do next, feeling her pain and her distress, and yet not being able to help. Finally, he turned around and stealthily glided out of the house.
The dark sky had descended on the roof of his house, and the evening haze had wrapped itself around the town, as if creating a wall between him and the world behind that wall. He groped his way through the darkness to the well, looking for the dip-bucket to get a drop of cold water. But not finding it, he fell heavily on the wet grass. Igor lay there quietly for a long time, realizing the full horror of their present circumstances and the ferocity of the world around him. At that moment, he knew that their young lives had been changed forever—there was no way back into the past, and death had become their only future….
* * * * *
Alex stopped talking and took a swallow of water. His throat was too dry to continue, and he was too depressed to talk. Eduardo kept silent. He needed time to comprehend the ferocity, the injustice and the horror of war, the inhumanity of human beings. But after a short pause, he asked the question that had been on his mind all the time while Alex was telling his story.
“Is Rebecca your mother?”
“I can’t tell you right now,” Alex ducked the question again. “We still have a long way to go. Look, Eduardo, why don’t we take a walk to Central Park and continue talking? It’s a beautiful day after all.”
They left the restaurant still under the spell of Alex’s story.
“Alex, I see you wear a wedding ring. Are you happy in your marriage?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Eduardo. Perhaps I am… but as for Eleanor…, my wife, I don’t really know. She was my student before we got married. She was a very talented one.”
They were about to sit on at the bench under a tree. Alex huddled up from the increasing wind.
“We should probably be going. I feel like having a cup of hot coffee again.”
“That’s a great idea. It’s getting chilly.” Eduardo agreed and continued questioning Alex. “Was Eleanor fascinated by your grandeur?”
Alex walked for some time, mulling over Eduardo’s question.
“She was obsessed at the beginning. She needed me as her guide and her teacher. Eleanor is much younger than I.”
“Is there a difference between love and obsession? Is it not true that obsession and love are identical emotional states?”
“Allow me to disagree with you, Eduardo. Love has positive energy—like the light or the sun—while obsession is dark, almost evil. Eleanor never loved me. I can say it now…but at that time….I believed she did. As for me, I loved her as I had never loved anybody before. After our marriage, I made several attempts to channel my emotions into my creative work. I dreamed of painting her portrait, a masterpiece that would make me famous. However, I could never paint a portrait of my wife the way I wished to depict her. The fact is that I failed to express strong emotions in the portrait, make the portrait talk, tell the story and simply to understand the woman I so passionately loved. Once, she disappeared from my life for a long time. It happened the day after our engagement, the day after I put a ring on her finger.” Alex hesitated for a moment, debating whether to continue his story or not.
“Go on, Alex, you need to talk. I feel that there is a heavy burden on your soul. Please continue.” Eduardo’s voice was soft and encouraging.
Alex turned his head, watching a young, attractive woman pass by.
“Then, why you are still looking at other women?” Eduardo’s voice expressed reproach.
Alex laughed. “It’s a professional habit. I enjoy looking at beautiful things. I always have mistresses in spite of my feelings for my wife. She has recently grown too cold, too indifferent. You should understand that as an artist I need inspiration.”
They walked into a coffee shop and found an empty table near a window. They both sank into silence, astonished by the bright sunlight coming through the window.
Some minutes passed before Alex continued his thought, “After things went wrong with Eleanor, I knew the only way to stifle my pain was to take a brush and through my work to plunge into another world, capture the innocent beauty of other women, who trusted me with their bodies and their souls. Strange isn’t it?”
“No, it is not. I understand. At least, if you experienced real love once in your lifetime, you are a lucky man. It’s a blessing. Do you think that Rebecca loved her husband?”
Alex mulled over the question for a couple of minutes, inhaling the aroma of strong coffee. He added three spoons of sugar, and slowly sipping from his cup, continued.
“She probably did love him at the beginning, but the war altered everything—people, their feelings, their views. Under extreme circumstances people change, and somehow everything bad or good comes to the surface. Not everyone can be strong when death follows your every step, when there is no guarantee that tomorrow you’ll be still alive.”
“Are you trying to justify Igor’s behavior, Alex?”
“No, not at all, but to judge him you have to hear the whole story to the very end.” Alex relaxed and looked at his watch. “It’s almost two o’clock. I think I ought to finish my story about Rebecca and Igor.”
“Did she too die at Blue Cottage?”
“Bear with me, Eduardo; I am coming to the end of my story about Rebecca and her husband. On that day, September fifth, Rebecca felt dizzy and completely worn out….”
Chapter Fourteen
Facing the Truth
On that day, September fifth, Rebecca felt dizzy and completely worn out after the newborn baby had hardly slept the previous night, crying for milk she didn’t have. Igor came home late. He tried now to be tender with his wife—she and his baby remained the only human beings he loved. His face and his clothes were covered with dust. There was a shattered look on his face. He embraced his wife and, crying like a child, told her what had really happened.
In the morning, Igor was ordered into the Gestapo’s main office. The Gestapo was located in the old two-story building of the local bank. Walking down the empty streets, he felt that from now on disaster would always follow after him. He feared for Rebecca’s life and his baby’s, and ached not only for his own survival but also for the safety of his family. He owed it to his parents-in-law, to Rebecca.
He approached the familiar building and looked up. Red bricks embellished the entrance, and two angels with broken wings held the arch. The young German officer carefully checked his documents and took him upstairs. A lanky, young Nazi with a raw, but well-shaved face presided at the large table piled with papers. Puffing at his pipe, the officer contemptuously raked Igor with his small lackluster eyes and, goaded to fury by Igor’s dithering, spoke in broken Russian.
“So, I was told that you have a Jew in your house—in fact, two of them.”
He pulled out the top folder and put it in front of him.
“Well, we have been patient with you long enough. It is my official obligation to give you a proper warning. It is time to get rid of them.”
He then carefully leafed through the folder.
“I can see here that she is the daughter of a local rabbi. I heard that she is crazy anyway. Have you tried to pass her off as a Russian, you, idiot? She should be delivered to Blue Cottage immediately. Now!”
During his tirade, he gradually goaded himself into more fury.
“And you, yourself, should take her there. Do you hear my order? Now!” he screamed loudly in a pitched voice.
Igor cringed in horror—his mind was reeling. He tried hard to object, but it made the man even angrier.
“Shut up, I am not interested in your excuses. I am kind enough to spare your life…for now. It is an order. You can go. We are running out of time.” He repeated his command, pointing at the door without glancing at Igor.
Igor left the building overwhelmed, not yet fully under-standing that now on him and his family were simply doomed. Since that moment, time was moving inexorably toward the death of his family, toward the end of their young lives.
* * * * *
Half-an-hour later, Igor finished his story. Rebecca was silent but glared at him incredulously. She got up and for a minute stood in the middle of the room. She was lost in thought. Her mad eyes still had a weird expression of aloofness. Was she thinking about death and her baby, and wondering if it would be painful to die? She didn’t fear death itself, and yet she knew that the pain of seeing her baby and her husband for the very last time would be unbearable. In silence, she docilely donned her jacket, comfortable shoes, tied back her thick hair with a red ribbon and looked at her husband.
“It’s time to go, Igor. Don’t cry. It won’t help. I am ready. You can take me to Blue Cottage. I am not afraid to share my fate with my friends and relatives,” she said calmly without a hint of fear.
“Please, Rebecca, please listen to me, we still have one last chance to escape, to find the resistance group. Let’s do it now, hurry up, Rebecca.”
His voice became imploring. He lurched and flailed about the room in a state of total disarray, trying to convince Rebecca to run away.
“No, Igor, it’s impossible. If the resistance group finds you, they’ll kill you as a traitor, and they may not spare the life of our baby. If I escape with the baby, the Gestapo will not spare your life, and it’s not sure that I will be welcomed by partisans. You heard the stories too how many Jews have been executed by their own so-called fellow countrymen. I don’t want to jeopardize your life or our baby’s. At least now, there is a chance to save you and Alek. Take him to the nearby church. I heard that the priest is hiding some Jewish children there.”
“I won’t let you go. I won’t let you die!!!” Igor lost his temper as he continued to scurry about the room, like a caged wounded animal.
Rebecca watched him almost indifferently without saying a word. She knew how much he was suffering, but she remained deaf to his entreaties.
Finally, Igor put his head down and gave up. “You won this time, Rebecca. I have to save our child. I understand.”
He stared at his wife as if trying to memorize her every feature. And then, he wrapped his arms around her. He remained motionless for a long time. She caressed his hair until finally she forced him to get up. He could not stop and continued quietly lamenting, still not being able to accept the inevitable.
“They will answer with their lives for what they have done to our country, to my family. What evil power led me to believe them? One day, I’ll take vengeance on the enemy. I promise, Rebecca, I promise. I know now that I committed an unforgivable sin. Forgive me, Rebecca. Forgive me, my love.”
Frantic with grief, he took his crying son into his arms.
“Get those loony ideas out of your head, Igor. Don’t blame yourself—it’s not your fault that instead of love hat-red grew in your heart when the evil Bolshevik regime took away your parents’ lives. And don’t act recklessly, Igor, please. You have to take care of Alek. Remember?”
He gradually acquiesced, realizing that he was only causing more pain for Rebecca. As the night fell, they prayed together. Igor held the Holy Scriptures in his hands and swore to Rebecca that he would take care of their son. Finally, after long prayers, they took refuge in each other arms, forgetting for a moment of tomorrow and fear of the coming end.
The last flash of hope petered out as hand in hand they walked out into the enshrouding darkness of the night…. Igor carefully pressed the baby to his heart. A little wisp of a cold black moon waded through the heavy clouds. The vagrant flux of light was dispersed all over the sky. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, every night, in spite of war and suffering, and all the ruins, above all of these, the moon will always shine in the dark universe, illuminating a path to the future, Rebecca thought, walking away from her life.
Chapter Fifteen
The Execution
At dawn, on September 7th, Igor witnessed how Blue Cottage hosted the first mass execution of men, women and children. The crowd of about 80 men was rounded up at a desolate field, not far from the railroad station. The whole scene looked totally surreal. They stood tightly pressed to each other. The first sunbeams threw a yellow light on their haggard faces. Igor was in the hordes with other local policemen. First, they called out all the men and ordered to dig a deep grave. Like in a dreadful dream, they pushed the men to the edge and forced them to jump.
Only one young Jewish boy, about sixteen years old, tried to resist, screaming at the top of his lungs, “ß íåíàâèæó âàñ âñåõ, ôàøèñòû, óáèéöû.” His cry outraged the German officer. His face turned red as he seethed with anger. The Nazi spun around and with a powerful blow repeatedly hit the boy with the butt of his gun. The boy lost balance and fell to the ground, frantically and stubbornly repeating the same words, spitting out a curse upon his murderers.
“Ôàøèñòû, óáèéöû! Ôàøèñòû, óáèéöû! ß íåíàâèæó âàñ âñåõ. Áóäüòå âû âñå ïðîêëÿòû!”
The officer threw a withering look at the boy. “I’ll teach you, you Jewish swine,” he screamed and, fiddling with his gun, began shooting until a bullet went through the boy’s heart.
Igor closed his eyes, veered quickly to one side and stopped, as if turned to stone—he couldn’t kill these young men, women and children. He felt terribly dizzy. A cold thrill of horror passed through his body. When at last he opened his eyes, it was all over. The dead, along with the wounded, were huddled together. The grave moved, breathing, while the policemen threw earth on bodies, dead or alive. The rest dissolved in Igor’s memory. Later, he couldn’t recall any events of that horrific day.
On the early afternoon of the same day, after the Nazis had gotten rid of all the Jewish men, the last group of approximately 800 women and children, doomed to die, under the protection of the SS, huddled together awaiting their fate. A Russian policeman ordered every woman and child to strip naked, except for a few old women, who had to expose only the upper part of their bodies. All the women lamented and refused to undress, trying to hold on to their children, not letting them go. The murderers were furious and did their best to make sure that every child was separated from his or her mother. Soon, after all the children were winnowed from their mothers, there was the order given to kill the children first. The children cried loudly, fiercely resisting the Nazis, helplessly pressing their shaking bodies to their mothers.
The execution lasted all day long, even after the red ball of sun had vanished beyond the horizon. The whole scene had sunk into obscurity. Under the pall of the abysmal night, one of the women darted into the woods but was caught. She was pushed on to her knees, and in front of the crowd she was mercilessly pummeled. The German officer struck her with a long whip again and again. She let out a squeal and fell silent. It maddened him, and he struck her again with all his might, though not a pant escaped from her anymore. Her courage threw him into a rage, and he continued beating her ruthlessly until her blood covered his clean, polished boots. He took a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped off his boots. Only then, being sure she was dead, he ordered a policeman to haul her body down onto the cliff.
From the steep angle of her vision Rebecca saw the whole scene, when in the flash of the light she recognized the woman’s face—it was her birth mother. A scream curdled in her throat. Instantly, Rebecca remembered her mother’s last words: “We are two strangers on a train heading to nowhere, or…perhaps…to our demise. We are all going to die, all of us, but before I did hope you would be able to find in your heart compassion and forgiveness….”
“I forgive you, mama. I forgive….” Rebecca whispered into the air, but it was too late—the woman could no longer hear her words. A hush fell over the crowd. Somebody grabbed Rebecca by the hand. She turned around and recognized her cousin, Roza.
“Be brave, Rebecca. God will take us to heaven,” Roza said quietly into her ear but abruptly stopped, when one of the fascists, with big glasses on his red round face, laid his eyes on Rebecca.
“How did you get here? You don’t look like a Jew.” He gazed devouringly at her, raking her slender body with his bestial eyes. “You are a beautiful girl, and I could definitely find a good use for you in my household.”
He bared his teeth in an insensate grimace, stroking Rebecca’s naked arms and patting her on the back. She fol-lowed the words that leapt from his mouth like noisy black flies. As these dirty flies flew into the pitch dark to their freedom, her face turned ghastly pale.
“I am a Jew, and I am proud to be a Jew.” Rebecca spieled off, trying to enunciate every word clearly, watching him with disdain. At this moment, she had no fear, no despair. She only felt tremendously sad that her short life was going to end right now, and she bravely waited for that moment to happen.
The man’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “I’ll make you pay, you Jewish bastard,” he cursed with malicious joy, while his face turned purple with rage, and the red pimples on his forehead were about to explode. “I’ll make you pay,” he repeated loudly and hit her across the face. And with one ample swoop he pushed her into the ditch on top of the other still alive bodies and shot her in the head.
Then he turned to Roza and pulled her out. “You’ll go with me. Are you also a Jew?”
Roza didn’t deign him an answer, but instead she looked around, as if searching for help and then with all her might spat into his face.
“I am a man of a facetious temper!!!” The Nazi screamed and wiped it off with disgust. Then he drew himself up to his full height and pushed her further into the woods. A short time later, they heard Roza’s long and helpless screams and then some gunshots, and everything suddenly merged into a long, horrific silence. Upon finishing his odious business, the Nazi showed up again, buttoning his pants on the move. Just in a little more than two weeks Roza would have turned eighteen years old.
At his order, a few SS men hurriedly threw the remaining victims into the ditch and shot them all from above. The ceaseless, heart-rending cries pierced the air for a long time after the execution. The mound breathed and moved all night long after the SS and policemen had left the murderous scene. For the next three days, the local people could hear groans and cries from the grave but were afraid to approach. Altogether, 2,000 Nevel Jews perished at Blue Cottage. Re-becca was among them.
With time, their bodies turned into grains of dust that mantled the trees, the grass and the wild flowers growing at the foot of the mass grave. The next day, early in the morning, Igor came to the pit. It was now covered with earth and heaps of small stones. It seemed to him that the mound of earth and the hillock of grass around it were still heavily breathing and loudly groaning. On top of it, he found a red ribbon. It was all that was left of his wife.
* * * * *
Upon finishing his story, Alex too felt emotionally exhaustted, but after a long, seemingly interminable silence, he continued, “It makes my blood crawl when I think about the Nazi atrocities. During the years of the German occupation, 24,000 thousands of Nevel’s citizens had been tortured and shot to death. Nearly 10,000 had been taken for penal servitude to the Nazi labor camps in Germany, and nearly 150 villages had been destroyed and burned. Only on October 6th, 1943, did the Red Army begin the liberation of Nevel.” He paused. “Actually, did you notice today’s date?”
“October 6, 2003. I see your point—today is the anniversary. The liberation of Nevel began exactly sixty years ago. What an awful fate! Have you ever visited that town?”
“No, I haven’t, but, in fact, my father did. He visited Blue Cottage, and there was a monument erected at the foot of the grave. Rebecca’s name is engraved among those who perished there.”
“Alex, you promised to tell me what happened to Igor.” Eduardo tilted back in his chair.
“Well, it is difficult to talk about it, even after so many years have gone by, but you need to know his fate. Here it goes….The first days of autumn fell on earth with a deluge of rain….”
Chapter Sixteen
The Madman
The first days of autumn fell on earth with a deluge of rain and lonely, gloomy nights. Now the cold rays of sun poured down only rarely on earth.
After Rebecca’s execution, sleep totally evaded Igor. Restless, he passed most of the night near his crying baby. Bewildered by the recent events, he couldn’t forgive himself for the tragic and calamitous mistake he had made in joining the Nazis, or for the disillusionment that had blighted the end of Rebecca’s life. He eventually arrived at the conclusion that the German Army invaded Russia not to free millions of her people from the power of Bolshevism but to enslave them and destroy their motherland. They came not to fight the oppressive Soviet system but to fight the oppressed. On the one hand, there was Hitler, a monstrous murderer, but on the other hand, there was their own murderer of innocent people, Joseph Stalin....
After these reflections, he was confused and began to loath every minute of his existence. The only purpose of his life was his son, but Igor was afraid to keep Alek at home, knowing that he too would be taken away from him. On a cold, rainy morning, following Rebecca’s advice, he wrapped his son in a warm blanket, tied with his wife’s red ribbon and took him to the nearby church, the only church that had not yet been destroyed.
The next day, at dawn, with a jittery feeling, Igor stared out of the window. The horrific scene paralyzed him for a moment. The sky was ablaze with a mass of flame—the church was consumed by fire. The Nazis, suspecting that the priest was hiding Jewish children in his church, had set it on fire.
Instantly, on the verge of madness, Igor raced out of the house. “The church…the church is on fire. My son…my son…,” he screamed and ran as fast as he could until he reached the old building and saw that it had been burnt down to the ground.
The lurid reflection of the blazing flames covered the sky, casting an ominous shadow on the debris. A German officer watched the flames with pleasure, holding in his hands an old Russian sacred icon, a Mother and Child. The bodies of the local priest and his wife had been burned beyond any recognition.
Like a madman pushed to his limits, Igor circled around the church, looking for his son, digging deep into the ashes, the shattered glass, broken into shards, burnt furniture, trying to stamp out the fire until his hands were all covered with blood. A suffocating smell of human flesh caused him to stop searching and turned his emotions into scalding anguish.
Only late at night did he return home. He lay down, hoping to get some sleep, but he was kept awake by fitful dreams in which visions of familiar faces looked at him reproachfully from the grave. His life had lost all savor and no longer had any meaning. He felt as if his hands were steeped in the blood of those he loved. He jumped up and looked at his hands—blood was trickling down onto his underwear. Horrified, in a state of near insanity, Igor grabbed his gun and, hastily pulling on his trousers, rushed down the stairs and out of the house.
A full round moon shone down from a sky studded with small, scintillating stars. The world seemed to be peaceful and quiet, as if the earth had forgotten the war, death, all the suffering and murders. Igor staggered grief-stricken around the house and then, like a wild animal, set off down the path to the woods, looking for a shelter from his madness. A strong wind blew relentlessly into his face, shaking the brittle tree branches damaged by the war. Falling to the ground, they rattled under his feet, and in the rustling sound of the leaves he heard voices, calling for him, screaming for help. He looked up at the moon, now hardly discernible, obscured by heavy clouds, and through these passing clouds he saw images and heard the loud sobbing of those who had been murdered at Blue Cottage. His eyes, wide-open, looked farther, searching for the familiar face of his wife among the crowd that was condemned to die. Rebecca was there, gazing at him in agony with a faint smile on her lips. And then, her image slowly glided away into the dark depths of the universe.
Running blindly through the woods, Igor darted down to the river, trying to escape the images, the horror, the voices. A carrion-crow, prophet of evil, shot up into the sky. Startled, Igor followed the trajectory of the bird’s flight until it disappeared from view. He took it for a bad omen, seeing himself lost in a labyrinth without end. He began to walk faster and faster along the edge of a formidable rock precipice. As he ran on and on, his madness gradually subsided and turned into anger at himself, at Rebecca, at the whole world.
Shortly afterwards, the river turned sharply in a bend, and the bank began its oblique ascent. He glanced up and saw how the ominous reflection of the flames from the burning church hung in the sky, leaving a narrow red path on the smooth surface of the riverbed, where it merged with the earth and turned into one dark grave. He fell to his knees and begged God to grant him absolution from his sins, and then, for the last time, he looked up at the moon, as if saying good-bye to Rebecca, and put the gun to his temple….
His body slithered down the steep bank and, tumbling into the abyss, became light as a feather, until the dark water closed above him.
* * * * *
“During the years of the German occupation, 1,032 Jewish boys and girls volunteered to go to war to defend their country. It was only on October sixth, 1943, that the Red Army liberated Nevel, by that time dashed to pieces,” Alex finished his narration.
Eduardo seemed to be in shock. Then, looking about, as if to make sure nobody could hear him, he began talking:
“The war, the destruction—to me it is the end of civilization. Why did the world tolerate the madness of Hitler or of Stalin? It was as if the world closed its eyes to murder, criminal acts and the extermination of a whole nation. I loathe such passivity, indifference, when terrorists are throwing bombs, killing people, and the earth is set on fire. What a horrific fate. It’s hard to comprehend all of this.”
He paused and glanced questioning at Alex who immediately responded:
“Actually, I feel the same way, but it is enough for now. Let’s meet for dinner at six at the same restaurant again. We still have about two hours for a nap. I’ll tell you what happened next. Agreed?”