And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,49

children. My loins are dry. Years ago I took the vow of celibacy. Who will teach me how to take care of her? Even Adam learned how to be a son before becoming a father, and Christ was never a father, but he was a son, and I, who have been neither son nor father, how will I know?

During my studies at the seminary I had a dream, night after night: I am a white-haired old man, sitting in a well-lit room. Before me is my small grandson, holding a notebook on his lap, and writing something. In my dream I know that the words he is writing do not come from me, since I am silent. And even when I want to speak to him, to utter some words of affection, I am struck dumb. My heart pours out to the child, but I’m a captive of my silence. Even my arms, which long to embrace him, are paralyzed. When I woke, overcome by guilt, I hurried to the father confessor. The urge to beget a child cannot be undone overnight, he used to tell me.

It took many confessions to erase that dream...

24 September 1943

She shies away from the light. Even the faintest disturbs her. I’ve drawn the curtains, so that not even the moonlight can shine through. I’ve blown out all the candles – but even in the darkness she cringes when I come close to her. My questions go unanswered. I asked her for her name. I begged. Her stubborn refusal was an encouraging sign. Maybe she has not lost the spark of rebelliousness, and a tiny flame of life continues to flicker. Could it be that she has forgotten who she is? Or maybe she has been rendered speechless? In our village, children are forbidden to look in the mirror, lest they be struck dumb as adults. But this child did not see her reflection in the pit. Rather, the body of evil beat against her. I am not the evil one, I promise her over and over. I know she can hear me.

How can I rake off the black filth that has clung to her spirit? No prayer will do.

In my helplessness, perhaps being foolish, I tell her about my own childhood, lending her some memories of my own for the time being. This is my bed, and there are the quilts, filled with goose down. So soft. Embroidered with lace. I thread my fingers through the fine lacework, afraid to tear it. Those are my slippers, always laid out on the rug. Don’t walk barefoot, Stanislaw, or you’ll catch cold. I didn’t have a birthday cake. Another child blows out the candles one by one, instead of blowing them out all at once. Someone laughs. Maybe it’s my grandmother. A rocking-horse is what the little boy received as a present, and for me an illuminated copy of the Old Testament. Moses climbing down the Mount with the tablets in his hands. His expression is stern but compassionate. That must be what my father looked like ... Him I never saw.

I stick to the good memories, and bury the rest. My mother ambles through them, but I dare not mention her.

Mother – a painful memory. Mustn’t even think of it. Sleep evades me. So long as the child is awake, I am destined to stay awake too. All night long I sit at her feet and write. My body disappears. Even my hands are engulfed. Only the whiteness of my diary pages would shine in the darkness.

25 September 1943

Today she took a few bites of food. Slowly I fed her some oatmeal, and she did not throw up. I asked my congregation for a chicken and some eggs, and they stared at me. Never before had I requested an offering of food. I said, it’s because of the War. You would not want a minister who is hungry and weak. Eventually, Zosha the innkeeper brought me a drumstick and an egg. In return, I blessed her and her family for seven generations to come.

The child’s sores are beginning to heal. I remove the bandages and struggle to give hope. Soon you will stand on your own. Soon you will play, the way children do. But the promise rings false, even to me.

It is only because of her that I have come to think back to that distant province called childhood. Naively, I thought that the infant years were the same for everyone. Boundless tenderness and