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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
A flicker of candlelight
The train started again, going full-speed ahead. And in the stillness of the night a calm prevailed, the train like a human body, its anxious heart pumping, gliding past Tambov, Minsk, Bialystok, receding from view. … Soon, very soon, Jacob will be home.
The train approached the metropolis, then entered a long tunnel, slowly coming out in the open into the main station in front of a neon sign.
"WARSZAWA"
What a beautiful name. How much he loved it. How much he missed it. Overwhelmed, embraced by it.
A huge crowd had gathered, a tall man at the end of the platform rushing toward an elderly couple, a feeble woman holding onto him, crying. Another, flowers in hand, waving; still another pacing nervously, puffing a cigarette.
Jacob was glad, planning his homecoming differently. Unshaven for the last month, he wanted to see his family first, then reveal himself.
Then, why is he on the train, losing precious time? The station is already cleared, not a person in sight.
A nagging fear dampened his expectations. For a while he felt like someone surfacing from the deep sea, slowly decompressing.
Abruptly, he left the station. The train was already gone, only the caboose wiggling behind.
He crossed the railroad plaza, toward the Chmielna and Swietokrzyska, the Sienna, Sliska, and turned to the Panska. Another kilometer and he’d be home.
With each step his heart was beating faster, his head spinning. He bumped into a couple and apologized for his clumsiness, the stocky brute muttering angrily, "Today you must not be on the street, but in the synagogue."
Sure, that Pole was right, it must be a holiday. No wonder there were no Jews, particularly in this part of the city where so many resided. Finkel’s dry goods store is closed, the shutters bolted. So is Geisha’s deli, the best corned beef and pastrami, favorite snacks and beer, patronized by the entire neighborhood. Also his cousin’s grocery.
Turning the corner he could see the store – in the living room a flicker of candlelight, silhouettes of young girls.
Someone was there, for sure. Then what is he waiting for? One had to admit that an unexplained mystery, a great spectacle unfolded, and he wanted to prolong it. Soon the curtain will rise and the actors will enter. But this is not a performance, it’s the real thing, his homecoming.
Climbing the steps, he felt his knees buckle.
At the first knock, no one answered. The second, third, no sign. Then faint, delicate steps approaching; the inside door opened slightly, a girl asking: "Who is there?"
For a moment Jacob was tongue-tied. Then he mumbled, "Is this the Brotgebers’ residence?"
"Yes," the girl replied. "If you are a customer, please come later, I cannot let strangers into the house."
"But I am not a stranger," Jacob said apologetically. "I have greetings from Fishel the watchmaker’s son."
"You are a friend of my brother Yankel?" she said, then opened the door, ushering him into the living room.
"You must be hungry and I would gladly feed you, but I can’t because today is Yom Kippur. My parents will be home soon, then we’ll have a feast."
"It’s all right, I can wait."
From the kitchen two more girls appeared, and though they had changed considerably, Jacob recognized them.
The girl who opened the door was tall, slim, full of poise; she must be Malkele.
The younger, a beautiful redhead, her face sprinkled with freckles, is Faigele; and the third – Esther’l, his Esther’l. Her dark hair evenly cut, her little nose on her pale rosy cheeks a delight to his misty eyes.
How he longed to take her in his arms, feeling sorry for his disguise. The only consolation, another hour or so, then will come the great moment, the reunion.
"I bet I know your names," Jacob said, gaining composure. "You are Malkele – you, Faigele, and you little beauty, Esther’l. Right?"…The three exchanged glances.
"Mister, how come you know our names?" asked the little one. "We never told you."
"But I am right! Aren’t I?"
"Yes," replied the redhead, "but I don’t understand," suspiciously staring at her sisters.
"I’ll tell you. Your brother is a friend of mine, the best. Most of the time he talks about your father, mother, your brothers and you."
"Then, why didn’t he come himself?" asked Esther’l. "Is he sick, in the hospital? Wounded from the war?"
"No, he is all right. He was just detained, he’ll be here soon, sooner than you think." Then there was a knock at the rear door.
"It must be mother," said Malkele. "She probably went ahead to prepare the food.
"Mother, there is a man who wants to see you. He has regards from Yankel," she said, bubbling with excitement.
There was no reply; a tall, bent figure, long tresses of grayish hair in a bun, entered the living room, took off her white shawl, her handsome face wrinkled, then said, her voice without distinct resonance, "Where is he?" and Jacob nearby, from the corner of his eye observing her.
This fragile woman was his mother, the dearest treasure one could possess.
The suddenness, brisk reality overwhelmed him. He began to tremble, his heart beating so violently he feared it would burst through his rib cage.
His mother asked question after question, not waiting for answers, and Jacob stood glued to the spot, head down, not daring to look up. Then straightening, his eyes forced upon her, and before he could say anything, she whispered …
"No! No! You are not his friend. No! You are Yankele, my son!" and collapsed into his arms.
"God, oh, dear God!" she wept, holding onto him. "Thank you for listening to my prayers. Thank you, Almighty God, for giving me back my Yankele!"
It was a while before all calmed down. The girls cried, a moment later they laughed, calling him a liar.
"Let me take a good look at you," his mother said, her eyes lustrous. You are so pale, so thin. But do not worry, you are home, I will fatten you up. Then, why the beard? You thought that you could fool me? No, you could not disguise yourself, I would recognize you anytime, anywhere, because you are a part of me, my flesh and blood," kissing his hairy face. "Tomorrow, you will shave it off."
"Yes, Mama, yes, Mameshyi, I will," he said, holding her wrinkled hands, kissing them again and again.
Soon the rest of the family arrived, Esther’l excitedly shouting, "Daddy, Daddy, come here, we have a surprise for you, come, guess who it is?"
There was his father, the man Jacob revered, all gray. Behind him four young men; he recognized three, not the last. But he of course was David’l, tall and handsome.
Father embraced him, so did his brothers. Only David was hard to convince, finally accepting him.
"This calls for a celebration!" said his father. "Let us drink L’chaim, be thankful to the Riboine Shal Ovlom, for his benevolence." When Jacob bent down to pick up his little sister, then, just at that moment, the train stopped – the screeching of the wheels waking him.
"You had such a silly grin," said Kolya. "I couldn’t make you out. For a while you were somber, crying, then elated. What is it, Yasha?"
"I had the most wonderful dream – my family reunion. It was so real. Great. Just great. A heavenly experience."
"Oh, Yasha, Yasha, you are such a dreamer, such a fool," the Russian said vigorously, shaking his head. "What is the matter with you? How long can you run away from reality? Don’t you know what the Germans did to your people? Don’t you? For Christ’s sake, wake up, otherwise the shock will kill you.
"I know you better, you are a practical guy, not naive," the handsome brute continued. "For the last couple of years that we have been together I had the opportunity to observe you, how you managed to overcome so many hardships, ordeals. Most of your friends succumbed – you survived, and for that alone I admired and respected you. Now, I begin to wonder," he said, his huge hands pouring machorka into a scrap of the Pravda, forming a cigarette.
That much empathy Jacob did not expect. It was beyond him, he owed him an explanation, the guy deserved an answer. But how could one? Would he understand?
Deeply moved, Jacob said, "Nikolay, you may call me a fool, a dreamer, and I don’t mind, though I fail to comprehend whether it is an asset or a liability, but this I know – without it I would have been long gone.
"I am also a realist, but where has it gotten me, what were the results? Tell me then, Kolya, what can I do to make you understand who is the real me?
"I am not like you, nor anyone else in your cockeyed world interested in me for one diabolical reason or another.
"I am a Jew.
"You are right, that I am not naive. I can’t afford that luxury. That is my second nature, it goes much farther. Since the death of Jesus, my people carry the cross.
"So tell me, what is a guy like me to do, if not to dream? That’s the only thing left giving me sustenance, hope. Thus, as long as I am in want of indisputable facts, I’ll not give up, I’ll keep dreaming."
"Okay, Yasha, you are not a fool but still a hopeless dreamer. Let’s go out for some fresh air before the train is on the move again. Let me buy you a drink, we can use one. Come, my wise ‘Zhid.’ "
Waiting on a secondary line for the right to go, Jacob had witnessed an incident that left an indelible impression.
A heavily guarded cattle train stopped at the station, German prisoners standing in the doorways begging for food, when babushkas rushed past the guards, tearfully distributing their wares among the pitiful creatures.
One could not help but admire those humble women for the outpouring of charity, their generosity. The Russian soul demonstrating its compassion to none other than their most outspoken enemy. … Jacob’s heart melted.
At last the train reached its destination: Kushtchevka. A most picturesque village, 80 kilometers south of Rostov on the Don. Their task was to repair small bridges damaged by the war.
The men were quartered among the local population, not only convenient to them, but also profitable to the natives. This basin lacked in forests; thus the wood of the damaged structures was the source of much-needed fuel.
But most importantly, the village was without men. Women waited for the return of their husbands, mothers for their sons, girls for their sweethearts. No wonder that the female gender was happy to see them.
After a bath, all hastened to the railroad station, the customary meeting place, welcomed by a balalaika, accordion, and the ever-famous "Tschastusushkiy," and the local girls, their eyes aglow, the overheated dancing couples witnessed by the full moon and blinking stars stealthily disappearing to the nearby meadows.
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