The victorious troops hold aloft flags and regimental banners as they march to the rhythm of military bands. They seem benevolent in the first flush of triumph. Doors and gates are swung open with increasing confidence; the inhabitants of Bialystok swarm onto the streets, unleashed from their self-imposed exile. âWho knows? Perhaps this lot will be better than the last one that ruled us', some of the more optimistic are saying. âA plague on all their houses', mutter those whose memories are more ancient, and they spit on the ground.
But for the children this is a picnic. My father, then a boy of ten, runs with hordes of children after the soldiers, scuffling for the sweets they are throwing into the crowds. And mother, whenever I ask her to recall the day the Kaiser's troops entered Bialystok, searches for a tune; it comes first as a humming, then glides into the words of a German marching song which resounded through the streets of the city on that July day:
When the soldiers into town come marching in
Girls open doors and windows to let them in.
Marching songs, sweets, flags and banners: the initial flush of a new order. But all too soon the reality of occupation was apparent. Even as the Kaiser's war machine was being paraded through the streets, Field Marshall Von Galvitz was issuing the first orders. He sent for the chief rabbi, the head priest of the Russian Orthodox church, and the Catholic archbishop of Bialystok, and imposed a fine of three hundred thousand roubles on their congregations, for âbad conduct'. The city was cordoned off, movement strictly controlled, and special passes and identity cards introduced.
When the soldiers into town come marching in
Girls open doors and windows to let them in.
My father, the arch realist when it comes to talk of war, asks me, âWhat else could one do?' When the soldiers came marching in, either you fled, assuming there was somewhere to flee to, or you opened up. The girls who opened up were called âsugar boxes', he tells me. They were sent by pimps, go-betweens, even families who were desperate for something to eat. In return for sexual favours they received flour, salt, and sacks full of sugar. The pimps organised it well, father claims. It was a polite, well-run business. My father, a prince in the art of survival, rarely speaks of heroism when he discusses times of great upheaval. Instead, he focusses on the back alleys, the side-streets, the small-time wheeler-dealers who saw their families and friends through with a dash of cunning, a willingness to bend the knee, and much more than an ounce of luck. As for me, the deeper I journey into the terrain of his youth, the less judgemental I become, the less inclined to argue with him. And the arguments between us had been, at times, quite ferocious.
While a few may have profited, the bulk of the populace was consumed by hunger. Bishke Zabludowski could no longer sell newspapers. Reb Aron Yankev could only find occasional work in textile factories requisitioned to make uniforms for the occupying army. The family matriarchs quickly saw what was what, and took charge.
Sheine Liberman made regular trips to Polish villages in the surrounding countryside to barter safety-pins, needles, buttons, and salted herring for peas, potatoes, corn, and cucumbers. Father often accompanied her on these missions. For him they were great adventures. When he tells these stories he creates images of a small boy running beside his mother on errands of survival, through an autumnal countryside bathed in gold, through field and forest into villages with ramshackle peasant cottages.
âCome in, come in', the old widow beckoned. âYou are welcome. Stay overnight. It's getting dark. You can start back in the morning.' She fed them borscht and toffee apples, and made up the beds. Sheine Liberman and her Meierke slept in the one big room with the old widow, her son, and daughter-in-law; and, late at night, father heard for the first time the sounds of love-making. He could just make out the movements of the bodies in the darkness, against the faintest outline of wooden crucifixes, dangling from the walls, in mute submission to the instinctive ways of the world.
Sometimes, however, their trips could end on a bitter note. Gangs of bandits roamed the forests. They would attack and, with a few deft kicks and punches, seize Sheine's food and trinkets, and run off with the loot. And even though many of Sheine's missions were fruitful, gold turned eventually to snow, cool breezes to biting winds, and autumnal romances to the brute reality of desperate winters.
As for Chane Esther Probutski, she surveyed the ice-laden streets of the city and decided upon a more radical course of action. With her customary precision she packed a wagon with bedding and furniture, and set out with her children, under the cover of a stormy night, towards the east, to a shtetl called Grodek.
A COUNTRY ROAD stretches between open fields interspersed with groves of pine trees. A cock crows, a town clock strikes ten and, as if awoken from a dream, I find myself approaching a small town. It appears in the midmorning sun like a mirage of shimmering jewels. The onion-shaped domes of a church rise above the mirage to dominate the skyline with silver spires that catch fire in the sun. On the outskirts of the town, clay paths peter out into fields where isolated cottages and shacks slant as if caught and frozen in the middle of a dance. Grodek, birthplace of my mother, stands motionless before me in one of those rare moments that hover on the edge of revelation.
Nikolai Tomasewitz cycles along a road that leads away from the town. I wave to him, and when he dismounts I introduce myself and try to explain why I have come to Grodek. He is wearing a weathered black cap, a threadbare navy blue jacket, baggy grey trousers held up by braces, and a flannel shirt: clothes which match a worn and creased face. There is a softness in his features, however, an expression of childlike awe and wonder, which offsets the jagged edges. We communicate awkwardly at first, as I extend my Polish beyond its narrow limits; it is more effective when we give way to a language of signs and gestures.
Nikolai reaches into his trouser pockets and extracts identity cards that indicate he was born in 1915. A glance through these tattered cards reveals that each one coincides with a different regime which had at one time or another ruled over these parts. It is as if he carries his various guises with him, just in case the pendulum swings yet again. For this is border country, where rival empires have fought ferociously over every centimetre of territory.
Yet
they do not seem, these contending armies, to have made a lasting impression on this rural backwater. Grodek, on this mild summer morning, lies outside history, a town that has managed to remain camouflaged by its pastoral quietude.
And this is what Chane Esther may have thought and hoped for as she fled towards Grodek from war-torn and impoverished Bialystok in the year Nikolai Tomasewitz was born. Children, furniture, roosters, pots and pans swayed and rattled on a wagon drawn by two horses. For thirty kilometres they had trotted along ice-laden roads, beneath a canopy of falling snow, back towards the shtetl where for generations the Malamuds had been a prominent family. They travelled under cover of night to avoid patrols of the occupying army. As they neared the Jewish cemetery of Grodek the wheels slipped on ice, the horses reared high, and the wagon overturned.
âLoift kinderlech, loift'
, Chane Esther urged. âRun children, run!'
Nikolai leads me away from the town along a dirt path through fallow fields that give way to a forest of pines. The old man indicates that somewhere within is the place I am looking for. We part company as I set out in search of an ancient burial ground. Recent rains have induced a strong aroma of resin. Thick layers of pine needles carpet the forest floor. What seem like stones from a distance are revealed, on closer sight, as tree stumps or the charcoaled remains of campsites strewn with empty vodka bottles.
I move in circles for an hour before coming across the first stone, on a rise, where the forest thins into a clearing of brambles and wild flowers. Soon I have located about a dozen, slung between shrubs and long grass. There are no headstones, not a single Hebraic letter, merely body-length slabs: some uprooted from where they had covered corpses for many years, others lying like solidified slugs glistening in the sun. Lizards dash frantically into the undergrowth, disturbed by the unexpected intruder. Fungi and moss grow from layers of earth encrusted on the stones. Clusters of ferns are dying at the edges with the approach of autumn. A crow squawks, cicadas shriek and, from the distance, where the town stands hidden from view, bells chime midday.
âRun children, run', Chane Esther calls out in the night. âDon't let the cold take hold of you!' The children dart between wet graves and slippery paths. The snow is thick and soft, and it is hard to lift feet that sink deep with every step. âMaster of the Universe, help!', Chane Esther pleads; and just beyond the muffled thud of falling snow can be heard the cling, cling, cling of a sleigh. This is how mother has told the story many times: with the vision of a seven-year-old girl who will never forget the cling, cling, cling of a sleigh driven by two peasants towards an overturned wagon, and a horde of children running in circles among tombstones, shattered furniture, panicking roosters, and horses struggling to regain their footing on snow and ice. They were like messengers from heaven, mother tells me. With their timely help the wagon was set back on its wheels. Soon after, it trundled through the familiar streets of Grodek as the first light of day was beginning to dissolve the darkness.
Mid afternoon I stroll through the streets of a town which never quite leaves the countryside. Fields eat into the very heart of Grodek; market gardens extend from the backyards of many houses, and a stream moves in and out of side alleys. On the main street a turkey sits on a wooden bench, sunning itself; rows of upturned buckets and porcelain jugs lie side by side, impaled on the pickets of a cottage fence. Nearby, a bucket dangles from a rusting chain over a water well ⦠And over a century ago, great-grandfather Vigdor Malamud and his wife Freidel set out from these quiet streets to journey to the town of Slonim for an urgent meeting with the Rebbe of the Slonimer Hasidic dynasty, the one his disciples claimed was a saint who could work miracles.
All his life Vigdor had been a Misnagged and had looked upon the Hasidim with disdain. An ancient quarrel still simmered in towns and hamlets of the Pale. In the 1700s, the Misnagdim, led by Elijah ben Solomon Zalman, the Sage of Vilna, the renowned scholar of his era, had condemned as heresy the practices of the newly emergent Hasidic movement. A man requires years of study, a sober and pious life, strict observance of the Laws, the Sage had argued, with the desperation of an outraged prophet fearful that his people were about to sink into apostasy. The Hasidim had chosen a dangerous path, he claimed, with their emphasis on devotion, dance, and wonder-workers. There were no short cuts to the Creator, no cheap miracles, he warned.
The quarrel had split communities apart and cut deep schisms in shtetl life. There had been bans, book burnings, and family feuds. Denunciations to the czarist authorities had resulted in imprisonment. Rival houses of worship had ordered Hasidim to leave their congregations. They were not to be given even one night of lodging; and it was forbidden to marry them or assist at their burials.
Vigdor Malamud seems to have inherited the stern outlook and attitudes of the Misnagdim. From the few anecdotes that have filtered down through the generations, he is depicted as a disciplinarian and a strict patriarch, in the mould of the legendary forefathers. At least, this is how I liked to picture him in those childhood years when my obsession with the family tree first began. I needed an ancestral elder. I had dreams of a patriarch with a long white beard around whom angels and seraphim whirled and floated. For many months I tried to redream him, night after night, until he faded and became impossible to recreate. When I heard talk of a great-grandfather who had been venerated in a shtetl called Grodek, I adopted him as the patriarch I could no longer bring to my dreams.
Vigdor's avid piety and stern adherence to his faith had not, however, averted a great misfortune: one by one, his first five children had died, each succumbing to illness in infancy. Vigdor and Freidel's efforts to have new offspring, as they approached middle age, had failed. In Grodek there lived followers of the Slonimer Rebbe. They constantly sang the praises of the Tzaddik, their wonderworker. âGo to him', they urged the despairing Vigdor and Freidel, and finally the couple relented. There was, after all, nothing to lose. Vigdor and Freidel returned from Slonim with the Rebbe's blessing. Within a decade there were seven healthy children, and Vigdor had become the most fervent of Hasidim.
Chane Esther was the fifth child born in the time of the miracles. She was raised in Grodek, and as a teenager she was betrothed, in the usual way, to Aron Yankev Probutski from the shtetl of Orla. What was the usual way? According to father, who certainly loves to embroider a story, the usual way was for a shadchen, a matchmaker, to be hired. In his notebook he kept lists of potential brides and grooms. âAh', muses the shadchen, âit is obvious!' In Orla there is an Aron Yankev, son of Isaac Probutski and Rachel the Rebbetzin, pious God-fearing Jews and fervent devotees of the Slonimer Rebbe. The fast-talking matchmaker shuttles between the two families â quite a demanding task, if one considers that Grodek and Orla are many kilometres apart.
Preliminary discussions over, Reb Isaac, Aron Yankev, and Rachel the Rebbetzin travel to Grodek to meet their potential in-laws. They are served afternoon tea by Chane Esther, and thereby the teenage Aron Yankev has a chance to observe his prospective bride: her appearance, her demeanour, how she performs domestic duties. He must decide at a glance. And did the bride have a choice?', I ask father. âIt wasn't for her to make such decisions', he replies. And judging by the number of failed marriages these days', he adds, âperhaps this method was as good as any.'