And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,52

drink whatever the Lord has granted us.”

Hospitality for the dead, while the living have the door slammed in their faces.

The little girl listened. I could almost hear her voice. How it is still caged inside her.

10 November 1943

For the past few nights she’s been taking apart the wooden floorboards and digging in the dirt underneath. And although I cannot fathom why she does it, I feel a strange sense of relief. Maybe she’s looking for something.

I’ve long since stopped asking You for omens, and I grope for them myself.

I look at the child moving a fistful of earth, packing it between her fingers. As a child, I used to play with mud too. My grandmother would scold me: Don’t get dirty, Stanislaw. God sees you everywhere.

The little girl kneads the earth, shaping it like clay. She tears off a piece of the bread I gave her, and stuffs it inside. The earth crumbles, and she packs it again. Her little hands are swallowed in the clump of earth. What does she create? Be careful, Stanislaw, God is in the mud too. He is following you, whatever you do. Now, not on the Last Judgment Day.

Suddenly something rises to the top. She leans over, and still does not utter a sound. Moves her lips closer to the earth. Dips her face in it, rubbing it over her bristling scalp. I am overwhelmed, but I do not know with what. Perhaps it is the sin that blinds me.

What is the thing that flickers in the vestiges of her memory? Even if I had been a witness to Creation itself, I would not have understood it.

Why did you entrust this child to an ignoramus?

11 November 1943

St Martin’s Day

Whatever few stories I still recall were told to me by my grandmother. On winter nights, she would sit in her rocking chair, patching clothes or spinning yarn and talking about the lives of the saints. I told the little girl, if St Martin comes riding on his white horse, it will be an omen that we too will be covered by snow.

She cringed in the niche that she dug in my quarters, and covered her hair with dirt. I barely managed to pull her out of there so she could breathe.

In church, I gave my sermon. Today we begin preparing for Christmas. Time for soul-searching and for readying ourselves for the Second Coming.

The farmer’s wife stiffens. The Savior has already come. Here is the proof. The Jews are all dead. And you, Father Stanislaw, have you kept your promise yet?

1 December 1943

I have dismantled all of the floorboards in my quarters, and in the niche.

I grovel in the dirt. I dig in myself. At night I rest beside her in the niche, until finally we both fall asleep. This diary too is being written in the dirt, tattered and stained. Sometimes I gnaw at the pages with my teeth. In the dark, on my stomach. The dirt works its way under my skin, tingling beneath my habit. I’ve grown accustomed to the taste. It’s part of me now. I breathe in the dirt, and do not choke.

The two of us wallow in it, and I believe she is finally beginning to recover.

Ave Maria of the dust-dwellers. Blessed is the fruit of Thy dust. Amen.

4 December 1943

Whatever it takes to erase her memory, I’ll do.

I get down on all fours.

I crawl.

I wag a tail.

I burrow.

When she taps her fingers, I thrash with my claws. I leap up.

When she motions me to move back, I keep my distance.

Who am I?

In whose image am I being created now?

It is not You but I who must search the depths.

I am no longer in need of comforting memories from some buried past. Like the bed of nasturtiums I planted in the garden years ago, we are growing new memories now. Our own making.

6 December 1943

St Nicholas’ Day

It is getting cold. I heat the stove with logs I gathered in the forest before nightfall. When I return, I see her little face, pressed against the glass with its frosty floral sheath. I told her, the last deed of the Almighty was to send flowers to earth. But since he created too many of them, some had to go. The Holy Mother took pity on them and said, I will give the leftover flowers to the humans. They will stick to the windows on cold days, and give people a touch of happiness.

I can read the question in the little girl’s eyes.

Father,