LIFE

The man in front of me kisses my forehead.

Gently. Fatherly.

His hands are still strong and full of life as he squeezes mine. His beard is still black, but his face is illuminated by a light that has no age. It makes him look ancient, powerful. An image as if painted by a monk, as if sealed in an icon – but alive, of blood and flesh, stands before me.

I weep. Tears choke me in their grip, and my throat shrinks in sobs and spasms.

There is not even a drop of sadness in his eyes.

“I told you I wouldn’t let them take you, Sarah,” his voice is soft and heavy, sincere and confident – there is no other truth for him than the one he speaks. I almost believe him.

“There is but one who is omnipotent in the universe, and He is up in heaven while you are down on earth. Don’t give these me vain promises you won’t be able to keep,” I swallow my tears as if they were poison.

“I swear to God!”  I jump as if scalded.  “I won’t let it!”

I push the half-full porcelain coffee cup accidentally with my elbow as I put my hands over my mouth. A tortured sound I don’t recognize as my own rips from my throat.

“Don’t swear at it! Don’t swear at Him and give me the vain hopes I seek as a drowning man seeks a breath to be his last!”

“Sarah!” his voice rose in the small, modestly furnished room at the back of the building. The sound waves hit me right in the chest – his face is open, anxious. What have I done to deserve such a protector?

“Father…” my voice is calm now. The tears have stopped flowing and all I feel is resignation. I refuse to accept the possibility that death is not inevitable. Once I do, the alternative will take my sanity before it does my life.

He senses my disbelief and embraces me.

“You’ll see, Sarah. I promise you, you will see. I will neither fail in front of your mother, God bless her, nor the Holy mother.”

We stay together in silence for a while.

I’m leaving. My legs are not holding me as steady as I would like them to.

The following days pass monotonously.

In waiting.

I spend my daily life wrapped in a cocoon of nerves and worries. The air is charged with electricity – it takes a single spark to make everything explode, to burst the barrier that prevents my feelings from overflowing and drowning me under their own weight.

I have nothing. I have no one but bishop Cyril.

I have this room, these four walls and objects, meaningless in the face of eternity. The silverware left over from my mother. The black radio by the window. My favorite burgundy leather sofa.

My fear of death seems just as meaningless. What will I leave behind that I fear? After I’m gone, who will turn on the radio, humming the wrong words? Who will put on the slippers in the cold autumn days and sit on the sofa after it’s over, exhausted?

Who will water the flowers I’ve been growing for years? Who will feed the ginger cat who appears at my door every day, hobbling on three legs, and gently nuzzles my ankle, hoping for a bite of my treat? Or will everything living in my life, like me, fall into oblivion and perish?

Probably I shall understand neither of these things. He whose name we are forbidden to speak will take my soul to himself long before I can.

On the seventh day of my meeting with bishop Cyril, there is a knock at my door.

He knocks.

Before I can react, two men in uniform burst in.

Deep down, I find no surprise, but I’d be lying if I said there was no disappointment – as soft as the kiss of a mother.

The men don’t waste time with small talk – they grab me by the elbows and drag me a few blocks down. There are more policemen surrounding a group of Jews. They shove me towards them. An elderly woman grabs my shoulder to keep me from falling. I nod to her gratefully. There are no tears in her eyes – only fierce determination.

I don’t know if I don’t feel more sorry for her because of this.

The men lead us somewhere – they don’t say anything and no one dares ask. They collect other Jews along the way, compare lists and move on. Our procession is sad and silent. No one has the strength to speak – what can be said?

Finally we approach a large building – a school. One that is unfamiliar to me.

They spare no one as they usher us into the courtyard. The few fools who try to escape are beaten mercilessly. I look only at my feet. I see nothing, hear nothing. I mentally pray that I will be able to jump off the building where they are taking us before they do anything to me. I pray fervently, more fervently than I can remember ever doing, and hope that this transgression will be forgiven.

The image of bishop Cyril springs into my mind.

I could not say goodbye to him. Not the way we deserved.

I have not been able to say goodbye to the only person close to me since my mother died. The man I felt more like a father to than my own.

I couldn’t thank him like it was the last time.

For the first time today, tears well up in my eyes. Wheezes and screams reach my ears, my nose fills with dust, and everything feels more, everything feels too, too real.

Suddenly, everyone falls silent.

Years later, I’ll remember the next few moments like a slow motion cadence. It’s as if I’m a heroine on a movie set and my actions are not my own, my thoughts are as if I’m hearing them for the first time, and words are a privilege not due me.

My head shoots up and my gaze searches for answers. Why is everyone quiet? Has the time come to take us to Germany? Am I really ready? Who has ever been ready for a trip that no one else has returned from?

There are whispers in the crowd.

“ Someone is standing at the fence.”

I don’t care about anything – I trudge forward. I push the human mass with elbows, knees, limbs digging into my ribs, ugly words reaching my ears.

Meaning – none. I need to see who it is.

My eyes glaze over, and my throat tightens like a vice.

He’s there. bishop Cyril stands at the iron gate of the fence.

I start to cry again. I feel like I’ve never stopped.

We all watch the policemen stare in amazement. The bishop is talking to whoever is obviously their superior. Both gesticulate passionately.

In an instant they are talking. The next, in an instant, bishop Cyril jumps the fence.

Just like that. His sturdy hands grasp the top of it, his foot nimbly shifts, and he steps lightly to the other side. Among us

As if aided by forces unknown that no mortal would understand, his black sash flying over the sharp iron, he steps confidently and gracefully to the ground. He stands in our midst, his face turned towards the huddled policemen and soldiers. Proud. Confident. Majestic.

I cannot breathe.

“I said it to His Majesty once. I will repeat it to you.”

The whole world stands still before his voice – as if it were a command of God. It is as if no sound is heard anywhere on earth except his words – heavenly messages.

“With what measure you measure – with such you will be measured.” he continues. “For your doings God watches in heaven. I swear that as long as I live none of those present here will leave Plovdiv.” He turns and looks at me. There is fire in his eyes, eternal fire, and magic in his bearing.

“Father”, the police chief steps forward. His round face is flushed with anger, and his beady eyes seem about to pop out of his skull. “Your highness, this is not your battle! These people do not profess our faith! Leave the schoolyard while you can, please don’t give me any headaches!”

“Whose battle is it then, if not the followers of the Humanist? Their lives have just as much value as yours. Their families are families and their children are children. You have no right to take them away against their will. God is watching, Mr. Police Chief – the same God who protects you protects them”.

“You know very well you don’t speak for the church, Father.”

A broad smile lights up the clergyman’s face.

“I speak for the Almighty. He is just.”

The people around me express a thousand different feelings – confusion and happiness and hope and fear and shame and anger and love. Love for life, for the person next to them. And gratitude. Some are skeptical. Some – like me – haven’t stopped crying.

Bishop Kirill’s next words will echo in the walls of my mind until the end of time. Like a foreign memory – distant but close.

He turns to us – his gaze riveted on everyone present at once, all-seeing and infinite. In him I see the people around me, I see my own image reflected in his will to live, I see everyone I’ve ever loved and in this moment he is everything.

“Wherever you go, I shall come with you!”

The world explodes all around – in screaming, in crying and pleading. The warden begs the cleric to leave, begs him to back off, but he is as steadfast as a rock – his eyes are still disastrously green in their determination.

We stand in the courtyard for hours, but the despair is gone. Gone is the hopelessness. The tears are sweet, life-giving instead of salty. There is no mourning. Strangers hug me and I let them. The knot in my throat now tangles, now untangles.

Bishop Cyril speaks at length with the uniformed chiefs present. They fume, shake hands, raise their voices – but they know they cannot even touch him, except to kiss his hand – if he allows them.

Amidst the din and clamour, a giant of a man stands up proudly. The voice of the bishop rises distinctly:

“Anathema, of this infernal deed!”

I hear my own breathing like a summer storm. The adult men are on their knees before their savior, eyes cast heavenward. And the clergyman looks on. As if waiting for the thunder to strike the guardians of order at any moment. At the end of this eerie silence, a postal worker in a uniform that may have been green years ago steps timidly up to the police chief and, with trembling hands, hands him some paper tape.

”By telegraph…” stammers the poor man. He looks at the servant of God and crosses himself “an order… from Sofia…”

At last they release us.

The clergyman comes to me, beaming. He presses me hard and I cry, as if for the last time.

What else could make me cry after today?

But also, how can I not allow myself to shed tears if it means I’m alive and I can cry?

I have no words left to express my gratitude. I remain silent. He understands me without words. He presses me against him and strokes my hair the way a parent would.

Tonight we all go home.

I stand outside the house for a long time without moving. I look at the shabby paint on the white door and the imperfections in the plaster on the wall. I see that one of the curtains is down – hanging – and the other is not.

My head overflows with thoughts. I mustn’t be getting any sleep to take eggs to Mrs. Ovadia. Has the bathroom handle gone bad again? I must buy bread, no doubt.

Will I be able to watch the sunset tomorrow? Hey, just for fun?

After an eternity, I decide to open the door. My hand is still on the handle when I hear a quiet sound. I turn and see the ginger cat that visits me so often at my feet. He’s become so skinny he can barely move, and the missing part of his front paw seems to stand out even more.

I take him home to live with me. I give him a name – “Haim”*.

*haim – life (Hebrew, n. a.)

Danitsa Rumenova Kostova

Varna