And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,54

do. I was created in Your image – cowardly, selfish and weak. The dead light of the stars bears witness.

Dawn is here, and the pale light puts a new coat of paint on the heavens. All this beauty. The letters under my hand are becoming clearer. I hear a voice. Or do I? Maybe I’m suffering from delusions, brought on by fatigue or madness.

Stash.

I fall to the ground at the little girl’s feet.

Stash.

This single word embraces the tip of a comforting memory.

Maybe You do eavesdrop, after all.

Be that as it may, I shall be her Stash.

26 December 1943

St Stephen’s Day

All day long, they sing hymns of childbirth. Our farmers throw seeds at one another, auguring a fine crop. When I sprinkle the holy waters, the farmer’s son throws fistfuls of barley and oats at me, and shouts: Today is my birthday, you know!

Today slave and master are equal and all men are free. That is what I told the little girl.

Stash, she utters, no longer mute. Her entire vocabulary is one word.

Stash.

I carry this word. My only prayer.

28 December 1943

Holy Innocents’ Day

This morning, in the middle of mass, the soldiers arrived. A young officer broke away from the group, crossed himself quickly, but did not kneel. He was wearing a long grey coat which covered the tops of his boots, and a grey helmet. He pointed his rifle at my chest. A calm overtook me. If she has been sentenced to die, at least she will not die alone.

They marched between the pews, crawled underneath, inspected the icons and the holy vessels. They fingered the large crucifix from side to side and from top to bottom, as if someone was hiding there. I wrapped my arms around the altar under which she was hiding, knowing she would not make a sound. Her gift for silence is perfect. I walked the Germans to the door, and slowly closed it behind me. They walked away. The young officer stalled for a moment, then crossed himself.

I heaved a sigh of relief. At the nearby cemetery I spotted the farmer’s son hunkering down between the tombstones. When he saw me he made a Sieg Heil salute, then left.

31 December 1943

St Sylvester’s Day

It’s cold in the dirt tonight. Her teeth are chattering. I rake up mounds of earth to cover us both, and tell her another story I heard from my grandmother. When the Holy Mother was fleeing to Egypt with Baby Christ, for fear of Herod’s soldiers, she came across a farmer sowing his wheat. She took a seed sack from him, sowed his field with her own hands, and promised him: You will harvest tomorrow. The following morning, when the farmer harvested his miraculous crop, soldiers came by and questioned him about the mother and child. The farmer replied: Yes, I saw them, but that was many days ago, when I was sowing my field. The soldiers gave up their pursuit, and left – and the child was saved. For the time being.

The ending I do not tell her, for I’m sure she knows.

1 January 1944

Stash.

She brings her dirt-soiled hand closer, and the word comes out, riding on a clear voice. Only when her small finger touches my cheek do I realize that I am crying. She leans over me, perhaps in fear, or taken aback. I take her finger and trace the muddy line formed by the tears on my cheek, praying that some day I will be able to wipe her own tears away.

If she cries, perhaps a day will come when she will be able to laugh too.

6 January 1944

Epiphany

Tell me more, Stash.

I whisper: That day, three kings of the East came to Bethlehem, to bow to the King born to the Jews.

She hurls a fistful of dirt at me, enraged.

Not the Jews. You’re lying, Stash.

It is believed that God himself walks the earth during this time of year – the days between the birth of Christ and His baptism – keenly watching us.

I don’t believe it – because if You saw what I see, You would demolish the world. But maybe You too are in their hands.

2 February 1944

Candlemas Day

Holy Mother, Our Lady of the Candles, you know best what it means to be impure, cast out from all the rest. For forty days after the birth you were forbidden to speak to anyone, even to those who are most precious to you. After all, if a woman dies before the purification ceremony, she changes into a Mamuna, a