Grandpa Yosef comes back from the window, hunched over as if bearing a heavy weight. He has been recounting the torments of the Rabbi of Kalow during Effi’s shifts too, and during mine, and Dad’s. As he retells the journey, from within his raging spirit comes the stormy soul of the rabbi, counting the passing days, shut in the cellar, agonizing. Grandpa Yosef spreads his hands out, explaining, “His firstborn was…with the goya!”
I nod understandingly. The months go by, and time is more powerful than the rabbi’s supplications, than Grandpa Yosef’s explanations, than my quiet nod.
“The peasant woman continues to bring the rabbi food and water, trim his beard, clip his nails. She cares for him generously and her stomach grows larger, a monstrous swelling in front of his eyes. Having no choice, he survives. In the hours between dawn and day, when the farmer is out, he goes up into the house to pray and soak up some light and air. The peasant woman watches him pray, sighing, and she too moves her great body about. ‘I will call him Moises,’ she says.”
Grandpa Yosef grows agitated. “To use the name of Moshe our Teacher, she wants!”
“The Rabbi of Kalow says nothing. He finishes his prayers and goes down to the cellar. Most days he huddles there, sometimes hearing the farmer and his wife speaking above the floorboards of his prison. The farmer happily awaits the arrival of his child. He makes promises to his wife. He will work hard, make money, the newborn shall want for nothing.”
I press him. “How does everyone know it’s a boy? Are you telling me they did an ultrasound?”
Grandpa Yosef dismisses my question with a wave of his hand. He hints at the world of holy rabbis, goya witches, and life at the edge of the woods on the margins of darkness. It would be a son.
“And indeed, it was a son. Her time to give birth had come. Over the head of the rabbi, on the floorboards, many pairs of boots and shoes creak. Farmers walk around the house, young neighbor women come and go. The peasant woman falls ill, grows weak, and is ordered not to leave her bed. The neighbor women care for her. Smells of cooking fill the house. And downstairs, the rabbi starves. He nibbles on onions and raw potatoes from a sack. And he prays. He offers up many prayers.”
“What did he pray for?”
“Just prayers. The duties of a Jew.” Grandpa Yosef stares at me, trying to comprehend what I am really asking. What do I mean? “Just prayers,” he says.
“And then, one night, a great commotion. Elderly women in the house, babas dressed in cloaks, satanic midwives, they deliver a male child. A large, healthy boy, the farmer immediately falls in love with him. He repeats his promises to his ailing wife, tenderly caresses her head, promises support, good health, everything.”
The rabbi can no longer contain himself. The conduit of Grandpa Yosef is not sufficient, and so he speaks up himself:
“No sooner had the farmer set off to work than the cellar door opened. The peasant woman, weakened, padded over to me, wrapped in many clothes. Alone she came, without my son. She brought me food. She asked my forgiveness in a soft, pained voice. She could barely leave her bed, the labor had weakened her greatly. Her face looked old and wrinkled, her body had barely any strength left. And so, how can I say this…I caressed her hair. One caress. After all, she too was created in His image.”
“Caressing is permitted,” Grandpa Yosef interjects.
“The peasant woman said, ‘His name will be Mieczslaw, that is my husband’s wish. But we will call him Moises.’
“And the boy was flesh and blood, and he had a name, he was a living creature, the deed could not be undone.”
“Such an affair,” Grandpa Yosef mumbles.
“I remained in the cellar while above me, day and night, I could hear my son crying. I too wept. Seven days and seven nights. The next day the peasant woman came down. She waited for me to finish my meal and said, ‘I have circumcised our son.’
“That night there was madness. The baby cried out in pain. The farmer was beside himself. He did not know what had happened, but his instincts were unsettled. Something was wrong and he did not know what. The peasant woman cared for the baby, secretly changing his bandages. The madness descended as far as the cellar. I had pain in my feet and burning in my heart. In the chambers of my soul the rebellion stirred — I would run away, take the boy and flee. And where would I bring the child? Where would I go? The urge, barely roused, was lost. It rose and fell. Born, then dead.”
Grandpa Yosef sighs. “You must recall that he told me this story, he gave me the deposit, in the camp, by which I surmised that one day he had made a decision and committed an act. What did he do? There is no knowing. Where is the child? No telling. He ended up in our camp, and more than that he did not wish to tell. ‘Here I am,’ he said with a gray face, and looked away from me. He leaned back into the world of his ponderings, having completed his part in this world. He motioned to me to leave him alone. I was helpless. Soon the gates of liberation would open for the Jews, but the life of the Rabbi of Kalow was draining into the Next World like a leaking well.
“The next morning the gates of the camp opened. Liberation! Everyone ran to the gates and I rushed to check on the Rabbi of Kalow. He was still alive. I gave him the good news. The Kadosh Baruch Hu had provided for us. ‘Liberation!’ I told him. ‘Liberation!’
“‘Liberation,’ he whispered. He was free to go. He breathed into the depths of his lungs, as if taking a final taste of this world, and his soul departed. The Rabbi of Kalow was dead. Baruch dayan ha’emet. I was not able to ask, ‘Why, why the annihilation?’ And he was the last to be annihilated. He brought the people to freedom but did not see it. He came to the brink of Israel, but remained on Mount Nebo.
“From outside I heard the prisoners celebrating, shouting, cheering. Feet pattered this way and that, storehouses were raided, people roamed outside the fences. I sat in the shadows of the hut at the feet of the dead rabbi. I could not share in the happiness. I whispered my vow: ‘When I have a son, I will name him Moshe.’ The rabbi’s tortured face, now pure and bathed in the brilliance of the afterworld, seems to repeat his promise: ‘And he will be the savior of Israel!’”
During Atalia and Effi’s shift, Grandpa Lolek opened his eyes and lay facing the white ceiling, looking slightly bewildered, as if his deep blue eyes had left something behind. It soon became clear that it was his vision. Grandpa Lolek’s sight had not yet come back, but his eyes had taught themselves how to open again. He remained a still, helpless figure. His eyes opened with great desire, but his body would not yet cooperate.
The doctors told us that Grandpa Lolek’s body had made up its mind to get better, but there was a slight delay in the process. They still needed to remove the benign tumor pressing on his brain, although it was unclear if they should risk removing the entire tumor. In Switzerland there were experts on this kind of tumor. They may decide to remove only part of it. There were modern treatments that did not require surgery. They had to consider the risks, the dangers, the experts’ recommendations. In any case, Grandpa Lolek no longer needed the ward.
Somehow a decision turned out to have been made: Grandpa Lolek would move in with Grandpa Yosef for now, so he could take care of him. He needed this supervisory transition period before anyone took a risk and rushed into wasting money on some Swiss treatment that might not be the best solution. When the decision had been made, or when there had been discussions and deliberations, was unclear. That was how it worked with them. The decision materialized out of thin air without requiring any sort of debate or concrete words. The situation set its own course, and from the hospital Grandpa Lolek went straight to Grandpa Yosef’s house, for-a-supervisory-transition-period.