Free Sunrise West by Jacob G.Rosenberg Page B

When I came out I heard that a delegation from the Vatican had paid a visit while I was in the cooler, and Henk had vanished. Apparently he had received a landing permit for Australia from those black-robed heavenly lieutenants.’

    Perhaps because of the strong sun, bread grows stale quickly in the south of Italy. To eat it, we found that we needed to dip it in water or red wine. We preferred the wine. It was something the local populace would seldom have done, but to us young men, accustomed to drinking wine only on festive occasions, the practice made wonderful sense.
    One morning, as Zakhor, Mendel and I sat around chatting vivaciously after a joyous breakfast of this kind, Mendel stood up to make an announcement: ‘My friends, I am determined to give luck one more try.’ I knew what he meant but I kept my peace. No one could have changed Mendel’s mind, and it was useless to try.
    So Mendel left, never to be seen again.
    Years later I learnt that my daring friend had gone to Trieste, illegally boarded a ship bound for Palestine, joined Haganah, the Jewish underground military organization, and rose to be an expert machine-gunner. In one of the clashes with the invading Arab armies in 1948, he covered his infantry detachment’s retreat and kept the enemy at bay, until he ran out of ammunition. I was told his body was hacked to pieces.
    There, amid the golden dust of the Negev, Mendel’s rebellious spirit was stilled at last.

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    Â  En Route to the Republic of Hope  
    We had been promised fair weather but it didn’t stop drizzling. ‘The southerly winds are tearing my world apart,’ complained my new acquaintance, a fellow survivor, as weemerged for a respite from the bus that was ferrying us to Santa Maria di Bagno, after my Naples interlude. We had met in the bus and quickly struck up a conversation. ‘I took a decent dose of tablets, yet the cough still keeps hammering at the door of my rotten lungs. Is it possible,’ he continued, as if addressing himself, ‘that the weather forecasters have shares in the pharmaceutical industry? Or have the politicians usurped the job of prophesying our weather?’
    â€˜Hope is one’s best remedy,’ I proclaimed solemnly, not believing a word.
    â€˜A strange panacea,’ he remarked. After every cough he furtively inspected his white handkerchief.
    As we travelled deeper into the heart of night, I noted the yellow moon’s grimace of indifference. And why not? Wasn’t creation intrinsically a reflection of its Creator? Didn’t painters, writers, composers, recompose themselves in their work?
    The man turned out to be an intelligent, stimulating companion. ‘I believe we’re born to utter abandonment, to tragedy,’ he said, holding back an oncoming cough. ‘Something that has never happened to other nations. And why should anyone care? Soon, everything that has ever happened to us will be forgotten.’
    â€˜I don’t agree,’ I objected, again doubting my own words.
    â€˜It’s your privilege to disagree, but forgetfulness is what makes existence on this planet possible. Remembrance carries the seeds of sadness. Look at us survivors — we’re all a bunch of hopeful paupers, demanding a place under the sun. But it’s written that a pauper’s wisdom is laughed at; the stupidity of the wealthy is what’s praised.’
    At dawn next morning I awoke on the bus to the awareness that we had almost arrived. Arriving and departing, coming and going, had become a way of life for displaced persons. We were forever en route, always in groups, streaming towards the next transit station, sojourning at preconceived illusions. Togetherness had begotten a camaraderie, a warmth, a homely homelessness.
    There is an old folk saying: the misfortunes of many are the solace of one.
    Santa Maria, situated on the western shore of the Italian heel, offered plenty of scope for