IV. A
hand was rousing Boris Kahanowitz. A
Polish conductor was pointing out the window and saying “Kabtsowz” the Polish
name for Kabstiel.
When
Boris alighted from the train, he looked about.
There was a wide main street, only partially paved. A brick town hall and a synagogue. A few houses constructed in a modern
style. But here and there, the pastiche
remains of the shtetl: a tumble down
shack, trees sprouting through its roof; an old chicken coop one half upright
and one returning to the earth.
Out
beyond the small town was a vast expanse of swamp. A long dock jutted out at the end of the main
street, as if the town was meant to extend into the brown waters and had
stalled and were replaced by a dozen skiffs moored to poles. There was a maze of channels surrounded by
reeds twice as high as a man and as far as the eye could see. A stiff breeze blew in from the marsh. Boris clipped his nose against the
stench.
He
entered a café and about two dozen people were huddled around a radio
broadcasting something in English.
Someone translated it into Yiddish but without satisfying the
crowd. The poor flustered man would try
and translate again, only to be hit with a barrage of comments and
questions. The line of the story was
lost in the hail of conflicting, bickering voices.
“What
happened?” Boris asked the man nearest him.
“Invasion.”
“Who?”
“As
far as we can tell,” the man answered, “Russians from the east and Germans from
the west.”
“Who
will make it here?” Boris asked. The man
simply shrugged his shoulders.
“We’re
between the hammer and the anvil, as the saying says.”
“Can
I get a drink in this town?” Boris asked, his head reeling.
“The
man who runs the tavern has fled,” the man said, taking a few steps toward the
door.
“Can
you take me to Reb Yasha Shulevitz?” Boris then asked, moving forward as if to
chase the fellow.
“Better
to flee, landsman,” the man said, already out the door.
“Where
to?” Boris asked.
“Farstuken Swamp…
where else?”
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