Crossing the River

10. In the Village

10 In the Village It was another fine sunny day in June, a Sunday morning just like the one three years before when the war had begun. Peckyte arrived early. With an intense look on her face like the one she had had during her first visit, she inspected my clothing and knapsack. I said good-bye to my Lithuanian lady and we left. We had agreed to keep the greatest possible distance between us. At corners, she waited a bit to make certain I was following. She had assured me that at that early hour the city would be empty and that I had nothing to fear. If I were stopped, she had reminded me, I was not to say that I knew her, and above all I was not to say where I had come from. Julija had made me swear the same thing, and I made the promise as a thing to be taken for granted. She set out with me in tow, walking slowly, awkwardly, like a mole blinded by sunlight. I do not recall much of my march across the city. We almost certainly went down the entire length of the little lane, also passing my sister’s house. We descended the main artery through which the Russian tanks had rolled four years earlier. At the first opportunity, we turned into a side street that took us to the old quarter. We did not see many people, but I was dumbfounded by every person we passed. And then we were already in Rotushe Square. We had to wait for a truck next to the former Jewish Ethnographic Institute. A few other people stood there, weekend passengers calmly waiting for a ride. It had been years since I had been so close to strangers, people with no conception of the danger they represented to me. Opposite us still stood the model shelter , expanded and reinforced; it had evidently been put to good use in the intervening years. Nearby were the benches and the garden, the spires of churches, the roofs of cathedrals—all stood here as aloof and haughty as before; nothing had changed. Across from them was the stairwell of the bishop’s house, redecorated in bold colors. Peckyte bought a newspaper and gave it to me, both to pass the time while waiting and, if necessary, to hide my face. I struggled against the fears that rose 166 Chapter 10 and revolved in my mind—how would we get into the vehicle, where would I sit, what would I say if other passengers asked me questions, and, especially, what would happen if sinister-looking people joined our journey? How would I pass through checkpoints on the way? The truck pulled up, and people clambered onto it from all sides; we did, too, after the woman paid for both of us and informed the driver where she wanted to stop. We sat some distance apart and, after waiting again for what seemed an age to me, away we went. The truck turned south. We quickly reached the big bridge over the river; it still bore the damage of the massive attack upon it that Monday night at six on the second day of the war. Soon we were above the southern bank of the river, leaving the city. Beyond this point, on the right, was where the “Flug-Platz” brigade had turned on its daily march to the airport. We continued toward the expanse past the airport, toward the southwest.The road was straight as a ruler, the fields were full of golden grain.There was no sign of war or of armies. From time to time we met German military trucks with chimneys perched on them—they were powered by wood-burning engines due to the shortage of gasoline. The truck we were in had low sideboards and was full of sacks of grain or seeds; we held onto them as we rode. I sat down in the left-hand corner nearest the cab, stealing glances from time to time at the other passengers, hiding my discomfort behind the newspaper so as to shield myself from their searching looks. People would get on and off at various locations, but thank God there were no inspection points. We rode for two or three hours, well into the afternoon. I had an apple and a sandwich with me but I didn’t eat either of them. Peckyte and I exchanged glances of relief when she finally...