Sunrise West by Jacob G.Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page A

fool.’
    â€˜No, wait! People are people, everywhere — some are good and some are evil.’ I was prepared to argue the point vehemently. ‘After all, have we always been such angels?’
    â€˜Listen,’ said Moshe, gesturing for me to stay calm. ‘I know we’re not angels, that we’re also capable of evil. But think of what we’ve been through, think of all the evil we’ve suffered and witnessed. And let’s not forget: evil begets evil.’
    The day was about to depart and there was a chill in the air. Moshe touched my shoulder and half-turned, as if about to take his leave. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘when I was younger I thought very much like you.’ He fell silent but seemed reluctant to go. I could tell that something was lingering within him, something he was unable to impart. What a solitary vessel is man, I thought, with language such an imperfect means of navigation, especially when the waters become unnavigable — around camp survivors, for instance. I suddenly felt that our conversation had shaken my new acquaintance.
    He nodded distantly, privately, and with a deep sigh began again.
    â€˜Do you remember a man called Joseph Gross in our ghetto, a little fellow with a lugubrious face? His enormous eyes were always tearful. Before the war he was an amateur boxer in Germany; in ghetto he was a steam-presser. I can still recall the song he used to sing. It was enough to break your heart...

    â€˜ Die Welt ist so gross,
    Für dich ist sie klein;
    Ein Land ist noch frei,
    Du kommst nicht hinein;
    Ein Tür ist noch auf,
    Für dich ist sie zu;
    Kein Platz in der Welt,
    Ein Jude bist du.’

    Â 
    Â  Survivors  
    We led a symbiotic existence: shadows on a precipitous rock, holding on to one another, defying night. The ever-talkative Moshe repeated the story about his parents. As for me, I had not yet divulged my own past to anyone — very few people spoke about the past. Why was this? Did we suffer a kind of mental paralysis? Had Germany succeeded in destroying our inner selves? Or was it simply a fear of remembering?
    I spent many an hour with Zakhor. His mood shuttled between murkiness and jest, though there were times when I thought the jester within him had died. I had once read that Shakespeare removed the Fool at a critical point in King Lear because the great bard understood that true tragedies cannot accommodate jest.
    But there was also another reason, gnawing not only at Moshe’s heart but eating away at all of us: the question of a kind of shame at being the ones who had made it through the storm. How do you go on living when you know that all your dear ones are dead? How do you continue struggling with such a knowledge, too fearful to articulate? What sort of faith can there be about the future? In the small hours of the night I had a vision: I saw Moshe Zakhor with a cloud of mist around his head, and as he walked towards the sun his shadow preceded him. I was puzzled. How could anyone walk with both the sun and his shadow before him?
    As with many of my other dreams, I didn’t mention this one to Zakhor. I dreaded its sinister meaning. How could I tell my friend about his future shadow? I began to realize,more than ever, that a man — especially a survivor — is truly a solitary island protected by dangerous, rocky waters. One has to be an extremely skilled sailor to moor one’s words safely on the shores of such an island without causing untold damage.
    I recall an evening when I sat with Zakhor and watched him moving his almost voiceless lips; yet I could hear his every word. ‘I saw a doctor today, a lady doctor,’ he was saying, ‘a tiny little woman in a white starched blouse and a face like a wrinkled apple with a pair of beady, mercantile eyes. “You have six months to live,” she told me nonchalantly. “I can lengthen your life with injections, but you must see me twice a