I Have Lived a Thousand Years
who lives at the other end of town, moves about in a daze. My brother Bubi is the only help Mommy has. He is like Mommy, practical and efficient. We have to hurry. By 1 P.M. Somorja must be Judenrein, free of Jews.
    It is eleven o’clock. All carts are laden. Father is sitting on the furniture cart. Aunt Serena is on the cart with the clothingand food. Bubi also hops onto that cart. The coachmen snap their whips and the carts are off. Mommy and I wave goodbye to them, and my heart sinks.
    Mommy and I will follow them on the cart with the firewood. Mommy wants to go to the cemetery first, to take leave of her parents’ tombs. She has received permission from the police.
    Mommy’s parents died before I was born and are buried in the old Jewish cemetery, near the next village, a forty-minute walk. My grandfather was a revered Hebrew scholar and a tzaddik. My grandmother was known for her beauty and for her friendly, cheerful personality. I have always regretted not having known them. I only know their graves. I used to accompany Mommy to the cemetery whenever she visited their graves. And now I am to accompany her again, perhaps for the last time.
    The cart with the firewood stands in front of our house, waiting until we return.
    “Your keys.” The grim cock-feather policeman extends his hand. “Hand over the keys.”
    “Ah, yes. The keys.” Mommy’s embarrassment is painful. I avert my eyes. “You want them now? Can it wait until we get back from the cemetery? We won’t be long. We will be back before the deadline. Before one o’clock. Can I give you the keys then?”
    “Now.”
    Mommy hands the keys to the stern figure. And in her eyes there is a veiled look of humiliation and terror.
    Mommy and I hurry along the length of our town, past wide open gates through which men and women, driven by fear, hastily carry a hodgepodge of belongings and load themonto the carts. They do not take time to cast a glance in our direction.
    We, too, hurry on. We pass the synagogue at the end of the town. Old Mr. Stern stands facing the western wall of the synagogue, deep in prayer. Mommy motions to me, and we stand still, waiting for him to finish his prayer. Mr. Stern closes his prayer book in slow motion, and bends to the wall, kissing it. Tears flow down his white beard.
    For several moments Mommy and I watch the old man stand there with eyes closed, clinging to the wall of the synagogue. The old man and the wall are one.
    We approach him quietly. Mommy touches him lightly on the shoulder. “Mr. Stern. Farewell. God be with you.”
    The old man is motionless.
    “Mr. Stern. The prayer. We, too, want to pray,” Mommy says softly. “What shall we pray?”
    His head turns, but his eyes remain locked in a realm far beyond us, beyond the desolation of the synagogue yard. “We are going far, far away. On a very long road. Perhaps it will never end.” Mr. Stern’s sobs become audible. “We must pray. The prayer for the road. The road is ahead of us . . . It’s very, very long.” His voice is drowned in convulsive sobs. Mommy takes him by the arm and leads him into his house right behind the synagogue.
    As we approach the cemetery I can see the tombstones glistening white in the brilliant sunshine. I lie down in the grass among the graves, pressing my aching belly against the moist ground. The murmur of Mommy’s prayer dulls the pain in my stomach. It’s 12:30 P.M. We must hurry back.
    On the main street all carts are gone. The gates of the Jewish houses are wide open. I can see scattered furniture,pots, and pans, lying about in the yards, doorways, and even on the sidewalk. But no living soul. Where are the Gentile neighbors? Their windows and doors are shut. Shades are drawn in every window.
    There is only one solitary cluster of life in town. The lonely horse cart in front of our house laden with firewood, the horse impatiently flicking its tail, the driver frozen in his seat, and the cock-feathered policemen menacingly
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