Jewels and Ashes (15 page)

Yidl with his fiddle,

Berel keeping beat.

Sing me a melody

In the middle of the street.

The hours of the night are being consumed one by one, gulped down with vodka and food. The spirits flow freely in the apartment of Zirel the widow. A table bulges with roast duck and potatoes, slices of beetroot soaked in oil, carrot stew, gefilte fish, salted herring, poppy-seed cake, apple compote, borscht, wine, and whisky.

‘My stomach is exploding', gasps Kaminski, as he whirls around the room to refill glasses that are eagerly stretched out towards him. This is a special occasion, a celebration; and I comprehend, fully now, how it was in Yiddish shtetlech that stood defenceless on the flatlands of East Poland, wedged between imminent perils, dodging disasters, keeping heart and soul together with evenings such as this.

Moshe hums snatches of melodies. He dredges up random verses like fragments of lost parchment, and flings them across the room:

There's a well in my garden with a bucket dangling

And my lover comes to drink there every evening.

‘Moshe! Now you have many wells on your land!', exclaims Kaminski.

‘But no lovers; just water for the cows', laments Moshe. ‘Who would have thought it possible,' he adds, ‘that in my old age I'd be an owner of fields and beasts, a man of property.' Moshe Berman thumps the table with his fists: ‘Aron! A Jew must have a bit of land and a sword in his hand to defend it!'

‘The sword won't do us any good', retorts Kaminski. ‘No matter what we do, there will always be a black plague upon us sooner or later. What we need is a nigun and a glass of schnapps!'

Tonight we have a rare quorum, almost, for there are nine of us in all; just one short of the required number. Let me introduce the company that has gathered in the apartment of Zirel the widow. Besides Moshe Berman and Kaminski there is Zoshia, Kaminski's wife, ruddy faced, her shock of auburn hair beginning to grey at the edges. On marrying Kaminski she had converted to the Jewish faith. Their son, Marek, the fair-haired giant, had begun the evening with that same awkwardness he had displayed when we first met several days ago; but as the night progresses he loses his reserve and, for a time at least, relaxes in our company. Our hostess, Zirel, was born a daughter of Jews; but before her childhood was over her parents had said, ‘Enough of this curse; it brings us nothing but miseries!'. They had ripped the mezuzah off their door, and had never again mentioned their origins. Zirel's young son and daughter have watched tonight's antics with astonishment — shocked to see their mother find her way back to a tongue they had never heard her speak, and join in melodies they had never heard her sing. As the room spins with increasing abandon, the children give way and join us in our wild attempts to reawaken ancestral dreams.

Towards midnight, Moshe's son Romek arrives. He is a chubby man with a pale pink complexion and a large forehead which extends back to a receding hairline. His eyes, however, betray an enduring anxiety. Romek, it soon becomes apparent, is driven by a single obsession: how to find a way out of this provincial town. He clings to me with increasing tenacity. I am the one who possesses a foreign passport.

‘Can you obtain a permit, a visa? This country is no place for me. I am a fish out of water here.'

Moshe comes to his aid: ‘He is right. I don't mind if I die here. I've lived long enough. But for him it is different. Maybe you can find him a sponsor? A job? A wife?'

‘Why not Zirel the widow?' says Marek.

‘One husband was enough', laughs Zirel. ‘That is, unless you can find me a robot, someone who would never talk back.'

‘Oh, God in heaven,' sings Kaminski: ‘Where does one find such a husband, a golem? So meek and so mild, a man who doesn't ask any questions; a man who does everything he's told; such a man is a piece of gold.'

Romek descends to the downstairs apartment he shares with his father, and returns with a pile of letters. He pushes them into my hands. As I sort through them I see that they are from various countries.

‘I have many penfriends', says Romek. ‘I am always asking them to send me a permit. None of them seems able or willing to do so.'

‘Enough! Leave our guest alone!', interjects Kaminski. ‘If you want to leave so badly, find your own way to escape. As for me, I'm here to stay. This is where I'll be buried. Let me enjoy my simche in peace!'

Kaminski heaves himself onto a chair. He sways unsteadily as his hands extend upwards. The chair groans beneath his considerable weight as he reaches out for the chandelier and pushes it into motion. The chandelier sweeps shadows and patterns onto the walls, and we clutch each successive hour until the night finally runs out of its allotted time.

At dawn Kaminski, Zoshia, Moshe, and Zirel accompany me out onto streets which glisten with freshly fallen rain. We stumble forward together, humming fragments of Moshe's long-lost song:

There's a well in my garden with a bucket hanging

And my lover comes to drink there every morning.

And behind us, oblivious to our singing and joking, Romek, driven by his obsession, sticks to me like a shadow, tugging and whispering: ‘Aron! A permit! A visa! Please help me leave this black hole.'

Over a century ago, great-grandfather Shmuel David Zabludowski regularly walked the road between Bielsk and Orla, delivering mail to remote hamlets at a time when Yiddish shtetl life was at its zenith. Great-grandfather Reb Isaac Probutski was then the sexton of a small prayer house. Of him it was said that, when he prayed, his fervour was so great all the townsfolk could hear him. ‘Ah! Reb Isaac has taken leave of his senses again', they observed in admiration.

Reb Isaac's wife, Rachel the Rebbetzin, more than matched him in piety. Rachel ran a cheder for girls, where she taught the rules of orthodox conduct and the basic prayers as practised by the Slonimer Hasidim. Rachel observed every letter of the law. Mother has an enduring memory, from one of her childhood visits to Orla, of Rachel crawling under the kitchen table to remove her wig and comb her natural hair, out of sight of the menfolk, as orthodox law required.

Generations of Probutskis and Zabludowskis lived in Orla. Where they had come from before they settled there, and exactly when they did so, I can only speculate. As for when I became aware that there existed such a place, of that too I have little idea. It seems to have always been with me, the knowledge that somewhere on this planet there was an ancestral village called Orla where, centuries ago, my forebears had emerged after years of wandering to begin life anew.

A storm is fermenting as I set out for Orla on the back of a motorcycle. I nestle behind the driver's leather jacket to shield myself from the gravel and clay that gush from the wheels as we ride through flash floods. My first taste of the road to Orla is of grit, hailstones, and a biting wind that penetrates to the marrow of my bones.

We come to a halt in front of the Great Synagogue. Random blotches of peeling plaster infest raw brickwork. A pair of fat columns guard an arched doorway boarded by thick slabs of oak. The synagogue towers forty metres above me, deformed by years of neglect.

A burst of violent wind sends me scurrying up a steep stairway ascending from a side entrance, to a room littered with bird droppings and feathers. A dozen dead pigeons lie scattered over the floorboards. Gusts of wind rip through gaps in timber panels nailed clumsily over what was once a slender arched window. Birds fly in from the storm. Feathers are sent swirling and chaos prevails.

I make my way to the cavernous main hall. Four massive pillars arch into ceilings that rise into vaults far above. On the walls and pillars can be seen the remains of frescoes: faint bunches of grapes clinging to vines. The building, both inside and out, is clad in scaffolding: planks, beams, and platforms scale the walls and trail across the ceiling. The voices of workmen can be heard discussing the restoration. A notice outside the synagogue proclaims that this is now a protected relic. It is a crime punishable by law to deface the property. The synagogue is to become a museum.

And the Jewish cemetery? This is different from others I have seen; it stands fully exposed, on a rise which overlooks undulating fields. Sheep graze among the twenty corroded stones. The wind is in a frenzy; flocks of ravens veer out of control, caught in spiralling air currents. On this first visit to Orla all seems in disarray, as if the primal elements are hell-bent on tearing to pieces the last decaying remains of the past.

The next day I set out for Orla by bicycle. Several kilometres out of Bielsk the road meanders through Parcewo, a hamlet of farmers' dwellings, sheds, and stables. The arms of an abandoned windmill stand motionless, silhouetted against a sun that has forced its way through the clouds for the first time in many days. A pair of horses drag a wooden plough: the horses snort and pant; the farmer pushes and curses. Man and beast beat the land and each other into submission, and thereby extract yet another crop from worn and weary soils.

In the hamlet of Wolka a young farmer invites me into a yard where he keeps bees, poultry, and carrier pigeons enclosed in cages of wire mesh. Janek shows me his collection of magazines on the art of pigeon rearing, and claims he can train one to deliver messages to me in Australia. A massive Alsatian rages and strains at the leash, while a fragile kitten wanders aimlessly around the yard. Janek's mother limps from the house and scolds him for his lack of hospitality. Together they stuff my shoulder bag with jars of honey, fresh apples, corn, and home-baked bread rolls. As I cycle back onto the road I encounter the postman. A century after Shmuel David walked this route with the mail, it is delivered by moped.

By the time 1 ride into the cobbled streets of Orla the sky has cleared completely. A gaggle of geese waddle along the main street and hiss menacingly whenever I come close. The leader of the pack steps forward, eyeing me like a bull about to charge. Hens totter on their ungainly legs, sunflowers glow in back lanes, a chainsaw whirs, punk rock shrieks from yards where youths in tattered jeans are tinkering with motorbikes, while elderly men and women sit on wooden benches quietly gossiping.

I approach a cottage where an old woman is attending to an array of potplants scattered about the verandah. Ivies and creepers crawl over the weatherboards and cling tenaciously to a fence that encircles the cottage. Long grass, piles of firewood, and shrubs nuzzle against fruit trees. As I draw up to the front gate the old woman stares at me intently.

‘Mmm. Yes … Gypsy', she mutters eventually.

I tell her that my grandparents and several aunts and uncles once lived in Orla; they were Jews.

‘Ah … Jews!', she exclaims. ‘Probutski? Zabludowski? Yes, I did know a Zabludowski once…' But the memory eludes her; she cannot quite place it. ‘No. There are no more Jews here', she adds. ‘Gone. All gone. Gone a long time ago. Vanished…'

She invites me inside. The living room is cosy, exuding the scent of musty wallpaper and worn sofas. A stuffed eagle, a masterpiece of taxidermy, leaps out from the wall over the doorway. It glares at me ferociously, wings fully extended, frozen in full flight. In a corner there stands a grandfather clock, and on the walls hang a wooden crucifix, a portrait of a Polish nobleman on horseback, and a montage of photos of the Pope.

‘Yes. I knew a Zabludowski once', the old woman mutters. Again she clutches at a vague remembrance, and again she appears to have lost it. ‘Perhaps; perhaps I knew a Zabludowski once …'

Orla recedes as I cycle towards Bielsk at dusk. A woman sits upon a stool in the middle of a paddock and milks a cow. Farmsteads and tottering barns lean against the horizon. Green pastures yielding a late harvest fade into the night. Constellations and galaxies come to light beneath a vast turquoise dome. Yes, Probutskis and Zabludowskis did live here once; and on such a landscape, on such a night, against fields such as these, over a century ago, greatgrandfather Shmuel David, mailbag slung over his shoulders, came trudging home to a Yiddishe shtetl called Orla.

Early morning, as I am about to leave for Bielsk station, Marek arrives unexpectedly. ‘You need not go by train', he tells me. ‘You are our guest. We will drive you to Bialowieza forest.'

He cannot understand why I prefer to travel alone. He becomes insistent. My refusals are a slight on his offer of hospitality.

Marek's car is waiting downstairs, with two companions in the back seat. The drinking has been in progress for quite a while; the floor of the car is littered with empty bottles. Whereas on previous nights the spirits had flowed with a sense of family and trust, the feeling today is very different. The protection and restraints of elders, children, and community are gone. There is an edge of frustration and raw menace in the drinking. As we speed along country roads the car almost veers out of control on several occasions. The men laugh. They have their arms around each other. They curse their small-town life. Today they are on release from prison, free to fly over the countryside and dare themselves to the brink of the abyss.

In their eyes red rivulets are spreading, criss-crossing, flowing in circles. The men have become a mob, a herd. Join us, they are beckoning to me, and together we will rampage. The rivulets are paper thin, as too is the border between love and hatred, between their desire to overwhelm me with declarations of friendship and their desperate need to give vent to an inner rage. Welcome to the brotherhood. Together we can be a force, invincible, triumphant.

The day crumbles into an aimless stupor, a series of taverns, liquor stores, roadside pauses to relieve ourselves in fields before again resuming our relentless pursuit of oblivion. The journey is slipping away from me. I am becoming a mere cipher in a furious charge towards an endlessly receding landscape. It is time to insist, to get out. Marek refuses; he cannot comprehend.

‘You want to desert the brotherhood? You want to break our oaths of loyalty? We have just begun', he tells me. ‘The hours of the night are yet to come. You cannot leave us now.'