CHAPTER 1

Early Years

I WAS BORN IN A PART of the world historically known as Lithuania orWhite Russia, where Poles, Russians (or, rather, White Russians), andJews had lived together for many centuries. They disliked each other andeven fought, but in spite of this turmoil they shared a deep love for theirtowns, hills, and rivers. It was a feeling of common destiny that preventedthem from destroying one another completely. This area wasbetween ethnographic Poland to the west, East Prussia to the north,Ukraine to the south, and Great Russia to the east.

The Russians and Poles had fought for centuries for political supremacyin this area, while the Jews struggled for bare survival. A commonproverb among the Jews went, "When three persons are in one bedunder a common blanket, and when the man to the right pulls theblanket to himself, while the man to the left does likewise, the man inthe middle is sure of being covered by the blanket."

I lived my first ten years on a farm called Ozerisko, fourteen milesfrom the city of Wolkowysk. The city was named after two brigands,Wolk and Wysk. In the seventeenth century these two men controlled avillage built within a huge forest. From this village they led the people torob and kill travelers and tradesmen. Wolk and Wysk were ultimatelycaught and hanged. But this ignominy did not prevent them from perpetuatingthemselves, if modestly, on the map of the world.

The city built on the site of their murderous exploits was later connectedwith many historic events. The Swedish and Napoleonic armiesmarched through it, and innumerable skirmishes took place there betweenthe Russians and the Poles, Lithuanians and Ukrainians, and,earlier, between the Mongols and the Tartars.

Ozerisko lay in a large clearing between huge forests. It was a jointtenancy of two families, my father's and my uncle's. We children, whowere mostly of the same age, spent our days together in one happy gang.When our parents were busy on the farm, especially in the summermonths, the children escaped the control of eight parental eyes and hadfull freedom to explore and play in every corner of the farm.

Summer days on the farm started at sunrise. The alarm was givenwith amazing regularity by the roosters. They led the farm in its dailyresurrection from oblivious sleep to the rhythm of toil. The earth wasfresh from the chill of the night and silvery with dew. The animalsbreakfasted fast. The cows were prevented from kicking during the earlymilking by directing their personal attention to food. The fields againreceived their guests for the day: the farmhands and shepherds, sheep,horses, and cows. We were not permitted to get up so early, but from thewindows we regularly watched the exodus of our friends. We were somuch part of them that we could not miss this great moment.

When the timidity of the early sun changed to a bright flush of livinggold, we ran to join the workers in the fields. Ahead of us was our friendand faithful companion, a dog called Riabczyk. He was all white exceptfor a black button nose. He kept us company from early morning tonight. Dogs usually absorb the moods of children more easily than thoseof adults. They integrate themselves forcefully into the lives of childrenbecause of the latter's spontaneity. Our dog always seemed to adjust hismovements to the rhythm of our life. Sometimes it seemed to us that wewere jumping with his feet or barking with his friendly voice. The dogand we were one.

This harmonious flow of busy happiness was sometimes interruptedby disasters. One day Riabczyk followed a rider on a horse who waspassing on the road behind our farm. For some reason he started to barkat him. Then we suddenly heard a shot from the side of the road. Thedog came running to us with a bleeding mouth. After several days ofgroaning, Riabczyk died. We cried bitterly, carried him to the top of ahill, and buried him at a spot we could see from our windows.

Although the farmhands treated us like nuisances, they missed uswhen we were not around. Occasionally they got help from us. We lovedto listen to the metallic whisper of the swinging scythes and to the sighsof the clover and rye falling like wounded heroes. The workers used tolaugh at our screams when we hurt our bare feet on the sharp stubs of thecut rye.

At noon, when the sun was in the middle of the sky, work stopped forluncheon and rest. The food was meager: black bread, raw onions, potatopudding, and sometimes cold tea or water. Then, within a minute,the farmhands' tired heads would fall on bundles of rye in heavy sleep.We watched how the sun would play on their noses and how they struggledthrough their sleep with fleas trying to enter their open mouths.While they were sleeping we jumped to the horses having their luncheonof grass. What fun we had stroking their thighs and plunging ourfingers into their manes. If we were lucky we could gently caress onehorse's silky nose. The horse would answer with a look of tender detachment,by sneezing or raising his ears. We were then sure he had returnedour friendship.

Another outlet for our energies was riding horses. We were not permittedto disturb the farmhands during their day work. But at sunset wejoined the workers in the fields, when they were ready to return to thefarms. I remember with pride that I was three years old when I first rode ahorse. My playmates argued that I was too small for this heroic...