And The Rat Laughed (16 page)

Now all the memories come back to haunt me. Tonight is the night when the dead return to earth, and visit their former homes. As for me, if I were to return to my childhood village, perhaps my grandmother would appear again.

The ghost of my mother too.

The beggars have gathered in two rows in front of the church, and all of the villagers have given alms. The women feed them small loaves of bread.

At midnight a great light will shine in the church. And I am waiting for the dead souls to kneel in prayer before the altar. I wait in vain. This church they will not visit. Every door and window in the village has been opened to receive them. From every direction there are cries of “Holy sainted ancestors, we beg you to fly to us and eat and drink whatever the Lord has granted us.”

Hospitality for the dead, while the living have the door slammed in their faces.

The little girl listened. I could almost hear her voice. How it is still caged inside her.

10 November 1943

For the past few nights she’s been taking apart the wooden floorboards and digging in the dirt underneath. And although I cannot fathom why she does it, I feel a strange sense of relief. Maybe she’s looking for something.

I’ve long since stopped asking You for omens, and I grope for them myself.

I look at the child moving a fistful of earth, packing it between her fingers. As a child, I used to play with mud too. My grandmother would scold me: Don’t get dirty, Stanislaw. God sees you everywhere.

The little girl kneads the earth, shaping it like clay. She tears off a piece of the bread I gave her, and stuffs it inside. The earth crumbles, and she packs it again. Her little hands are swallowed in the clump of earth. What does she create? Be careful, Stanislaw, God is in the mud too. He is following you, whatever you do. Now, not on the Last Judgment Day.

Suddenly something rises to the top. She leans over, and still does not utter a sound. Moves her lips closer to the earth. Dips her face in it, rubbing it over her bristling scalp. I am overwhelmed, but I do not know with what. Perhaps it is the sin that blinds me.

What is the thing that flickers in the vestiges of her memory? Even if I had been a witness to Creation itself, I would not have understood it.

Why did you entrust this child to an ignoramus?

11 November 1943

St Martin’s Day

Whatever few stories I still recall were told to me by my grandmother. On winter nights, she would sit in her rocking chair, patching clothes or spinning yarn and talking about the lives of the saints. I told the little girl, if St Martin comes riding on his white horse, it will be an omen that we too will be covered by snow.

She cringed in the niche that she dug in my quarters, and covered her hair with dirt. I barely managed to pull her out of there so she could breathe.

In church, I gave my sermon. Today we begin preparing for Christmas. Time for soul-searching and for readying ourselves for the Second Coming.

The farmer’s wife stiffens. The Savior has already come. Here is the proof. The Jews are all dead. And you, Father Stanislaw, have you kept your promise yet?

1 December 1943

I have dismantled all of the floorboards in my quarters, and in the niche.

I grovel in the dirt. I dig in myself. At night I rest beside her in the niche, until finally we both fall asleep. This diary too is being written in the dirt, tattered and stained. Sometimes I gnaw at the pages with my teeth. In the dark, on my stomach. The dirt works its way under my skin, tingling beneath my habit. I’ve grown accustomed to the taste. It’s part of me now. I breathe in the dirt, and do not choke.

The two of us wallow in it, and I believe she is finally beginning to recover.

Ave Maria of the dust-dwellers. Blessed is the fruit of Thy dust. Amen.

4 December 1943

Whatever it takes to erase her memory, I’ll do.

I get down on all fours.

I crawl.

I wag a tail.

I burrow.

When she taps her fingers, I thrash with my claws. I leap up.

When she motions me to move back, I keep my distance.

Who am I?

In whose image am I being created now?

It is not You but I who must search the depths.

I am no longer in need of comforting memories from some buried past. Like the bed of nasturtiums I planted in the garden years ago, we are growing new memories now. Our own making.

6 December 1943

St Nicholas’ Day

It is getting cold. I heat the stove with logs I gathered in the forest before nightfall. When I return, I see her little face, pressed against the glass with its frosty floral sheath. I told her, the last deed of the Almighty was to send flowers to earth. But since he created too many of them, some had to go. The Holy Mother took pity on them and said, I will give the leftover flowers to the humans. They will stick to the windows on cold days, and give people a touch of happiness.

I can read the question in the little girl’s eyes.

Father, who art in Heaven, was I ever happy? Every night I talk to her and to You. I’ve grown used to the sound of my own voice. The howling of wolves reaches us from the forest. Saint Nicholas, patron of the herds, bring the keys from Paradise, and lock the jaws of the wolf.

They play
Catch the Wolf
in our village. Whoever catches all of the geese is the winner. This is a game I never played.

The little girl lies quietly in her niche, as if she knows the rules of the game.

25 December 1943

Christmas Day

The church bells chime at midnight. The church is packed. I carry the holy bread over to the altar. Take this, all of you and eat it. This is My body which will be given up for you. Then I raise the wine glass. Take this, all of you and drink from it: this is the cup of My blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven.

After the festive mass, the members of the congregation file past me and shake my hand. That was a fine sermon, Father Stanislaw. People from the neighboring villages came to listen too. But who will deliver the true sermon? Even the Holy See in Rome is keeping silent. And who will cry out in Your name that our churches must offer refuge?

If only I could shake the congregants in their pews as they offer their devout supplication. If only I could tell them: the Jews are part of the body of mankind. This part cannot be severed. That is the pit that all of us came from. Remember how you invite anyone who is hungry to join you in your holiday meal, and you even say: A guest in our home is God in our home. After the meal you will pull the bundles of straw out from under the tablecloth, a symbolic wish for longevity. If only they knew what I want to wish them, protected by my sacred vestments. Yes, they look up to me and they trust in me, but in fact I am their hostage.

I want to scream: Look at those who march along the Via Dolorosa. See fathers and mothers and children. They beg for a measure of compassion, and you, who call yourselves true Christians, turn your backs on them. Of all these admonitions, not a word passed my lips.

The farmer and his wife were sitting in the front pew, with their son by their side. Had I denounced them in public, the little girl’s fate would have been sealed. All day long she was at it, spreading fresh branches of spruce in the furthermost corners. I asked her to save her strength, but she ignored me. She sat there facing the crack in the wall, waiting for the Star of Bethlehem. During the Christmas mass, she hid in her niche. I hung the Christmas tree upside down from the ceiling, but I could not muster the strength of spirit to decorate it.

Perhaps because she was so tired, she agreed for the first time to sleep on my mattress. Her curls which have started to grow back rested on my pillow. Under the hairline, I could see the scars. Her lips moved. I recognized the Latin slipping out.

The clearing in the forest facing me is covered with snow. The frost has glazed the puddles, and everything is shiny as a mirror. Even the animals can open their mouths and speak tonight, but only those who are without sin can understand. People talk about a farmer who eavesdropped on the conversation of a pair of his oxen and heard them speak of his impending death. Tonight, even the bells in the frozen riverbeds are groaning. I want to groan along with them, but I cannot. The stars over the fields are bright. Their light I use to write these entries.

The beauty of the tall cypresses and of the untrodden snow is so painful. If the world were to show its ugliness now, our bells would sound a warning. But You have covered Your world in a sheath of beauty, to keep us immersed in utter ignorance. As for me, I have chosen to confine myself to the protected side of this covering, and to turn my back on the hidden
Tohu
and
Bohu
that are beyond my grasp.

I do not question Your existence, Father. You exist, as I do. I was created in Your image – cowardly, selfish and weak. The dead light of the stars bears witness.

Dawn is here, and the pale light puts a new coat of paint on the heavens. All this beauty. The letters under my hand are becoming clearer. I hear a voice. Or do I? Maybe I’m suffering from delusions, brought on by fatigue or madness.

Stash.

I fall to the ground at the little girl’s feet.

Stash.

This single word embraces the tip of a comforting memory.

Maybe You do eavesdrop, after all.

Be that as it may, I shall be her Stash.

26 December 1943

St Stephen’s Day

All day long, they sing hymns of childbirth. Our farmers throw seeds at one another, auguring a fine crop. When I sprinkle the holy waters, the farmer’s son throws fistfuls of barley and oats at me, and shouts: Today is my birthday, you know!

Today slave and master are equal and all men are free. That is what I told the little girl.

Stash, she utters, no longer mute. Her entire vocabulary is one word.

Stash.

I carry this word. My only prayer.

28 December 1943

Holy Innocents’ Day

This morning, in the middle of mass, the soldiers arrived. A young officer broke away from the group, crossed himself quickly, but did not kneel. He was wearing a long grey coat which covered the tops of his boots, and a grey helmet. He pointed his rifle at my chest. A calm overtook me. If she has been sentenced to die, at least she will not die alone.

They marched between the pews, crawled underneath, inspected the icons and the holy vessels. They fingered the large crucifix from side to side and from top to bottom, as if someone was hiding there. I wrapped my arms around the altar under which she was hiding, knowing she would not make a sound. Her gift for silence is perfect. I walked the Germans to the door, and slowly closed it behind me. They walked away. The young officer stalled for a moment, then crossed himself.

I heaved a sigh of relief. At the nearby cemetery I spotted the farmer’s son hunkering down between the tombstones. When he saw me he made a
Sieg Heil
salute, then left.

31 December 1943

St Sylvester’s Day

It’s cold in the dirt tonight. Her teeth are chattering. I rake up mounds of earth to cover us both, and tell her another story I heard from my grandmother. When the Holy Mother was fleeing to Egypt with Baby Christ, for fear of Herod’s soldiers, she came across a farmer sowing his wheat. She took a seed sack from him, sowed his field with her own hands, and promised him: You will harvest tomorrow. The following morning, when the farmer harvested his miraculous crop, soldiers came by and questioned him about the mother and child. The farmer replied: Yes, I saw them, but that was many days ago, when I was sowing my field. The soldiers gave up their pursuit, and left – and the child was saved. For the time being.

The ending I do not tell her, for I’m sure she knows.

1 January 1944

Stash.

She brings her dirt-soiled hand closer, and the word comes out, riding on a clear voice. Only when her small finger touches my cheek do I realize that I am crying. She leans over me, perhaps in fear, or taken aback. I take her finger and trace the muddy line formed by the tears on my cheek, praying that some day I will be able to wipe her own tears away.

If she cries, perhaps a day will come when she will be able to laugh too.

6 January 1944

Epiphany

Tell me more, Stash.

I whisper: That day, three kings of the East came to Bethlehem, to bow to the King born to the Jews.

She hurls a fistful of dirt at me, enraged.

Not the Jews. You’re lying, Stash.

It is believed that God himself walks the earth during this time of year – the days between the birth of Christ and His baptism – keenly watching us.

I don’t believe it – because if You saw what I see, You would demolish the world. But maybe You too are in their hands.

2 February 1944

Candlemas
Day

Holy Mother, Our Lady of the Candles, you know best what it means to be impure, cast out from all the rest. For forty days after the birth you were forbidden to speak to anyone, even to those who are most precious to you. After all, if a woman dies before the purification ceremony, she changes into a
Mamuna,
a witch who snatches babies and replaces them with the warped fruit of her own womb.

The farmers brought their candles to the church, for me to say a blessing. Then they set out in a procession towards their homes, carrying the flames and shielding them from the wind, since a flame that goes out is a bad omen. Tonight they will spread the sacred light throughout their homesteads. They will place the candle on the wall over the bed and will guard it for an entire year. It will be placed in the hands of the dying, to ease the agony of passing from this world.

Stash.

Only when the little girl speaks do I feel alive.

5 February 1944

Today I read to her from the Old Testament. I crawl along, hunching my back, waving a tail like a rat and recording the letters in the dirt to teach her to read and write. In the beginning, God created the Heaven and the Earth. She imitates me. Suddenly, she stops, her legs in mid-air.