And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,61

has painted it in the dark, like those ancient cave people. In her drawing, the hand of God reaches under the altar, tipping the scales in full view of the archangel Gabriel. Above them is the Holy Mother on her throne, holding a rat in her lap.

11 August 1944

After they buried their dead and cleared the rubble, the farmers hurried to church. Help us, Father Stanislaw, give us consolation. That is your duty.

Another sermon that I never delivered.

15 August 1944

Assumption of the Blessed

Virgin Mary Morning

The crop has turned golden. It sways in the wind at night, as if by a will of its own. As dawn breaks, a woman sets out into the field with her baby, rocking him continuously. Then she exposes her breast. The harvester has covered one plot of land already, and is now approaching the next. As the two of them come closer, they are careful not to tread on the strips of grass delimiting the plots, because those harbor evil spirits.

A world without sinners.

A world without Jews.

Their laughter cuts through the blades of grass. The harvester leans down towards the woman. She places her baby on the ground beside her, and drops into the wave of gold. A cow lashes it tail over their heads. They abandon themselves to their lust, so much so that they do not notice the baby’s crying.

Night-time

The farmers placed the first crop of the harvest inside the church and I blessed it, walking along the pews with the censer in my hand. They breathe it in, and I yearn for my despair to cling to them.

The emptier I become, the fuller my diary is. If ever I were to deliver all those sermons, would I be able to make any difference? I compose them only to soothe my conscience.

The conscience. An organ that cannot be excised.

And there is no prosthetic conscience either.

Maybe these sermons will be delivered by someone else some day. Worthier than I am.

18 August 1944

All week long the village women prepared the enormous wedding cake. The farmer’s wife invited the entire complement of German officers to the celebration. With their very own hands they kneaded bread without salt, omen of a sweet married life together. At the top of the cake they hung golden biscuits in the shape of the sun and the moon.

I make sure all the openings of the church are sealed shut, to keep the smell from entering.

20 August 1944

I’ve performed my duties. My mouth uttered the “Till death do you part”.

I am incapable of adding a thing.

28 August 1944

The sound of thunder is heard in the distance.

The little girl and I are waiting.

Will they arrive?

When will they come?

There is a fleeting look of yearning on her face. Or maybe it’s her fear of the future. I don’t dare think about it. Perhaps she does not want them to keep their promise.

What have I done?

1 September 1944

It seems she is sleeping peacefully. How hard I fought to attain this luxury for her. Suddenly her little body convulses and her pain bursts out.

I am tormented for her. Remembering and reminding – this is the only commandment that still has any meaning, and yet I have been doing everything in my power to erase her memory. For her, forgetting is healing, but for the world, forgetting is the very disease itself.

If I succeed in my efforts of obliteration, perhaps I can place the little girl back on course towards a normal life. But if everything is erased, where will the memory come from? If she forgets, who will remember for her?

All of us are sentenced to march along the Via Dolorosa, but each of us in turn tries to break away from the procession. The most suitable position is that of a bystander, looking from the side of the road on that man kneeling alone under his load. All of us, after all, heave a sigh of relief, whether in our hearts or out loud, when we discover that the cross is being borne on someone else’s back, rather than on our own.

14 September 1944

Day of Triumph of the Holy Cross

On this date, in AD 326, the true cross was discovered, and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was consecrated in the City of the Jews.

Perhaps I have been chosen as the last witness of their existence, because if all memory of them has been lost, I have a sacred mission: at all costs I must preserve not only the tangible existence of the little girl,