Read The Testament for Free Online Page B

when the sun disappeared, my father whispered, “Time for
minha.
”
    The men recited the prayer in voices so low I could hear nothing. The darkness became total and I touched my mother’s arm to make sure she had not abandoned me.
    “Paltiel! Say the
Shema Yisrael!”
my father commanded under his breath. “You’re not to leave God just because the enemy is close.”
    I obeyed. I knew that prayer by heart—I still do—having recited it every morning and evening. Reb Gamliel claimed it chased demons away—we would see, soon enough.
    Strange sounds, begotten and expelled by silence, were approaching the Jewish quarter. Suddenly we all froze. My heart—or was it my father’s?—was beating so loud it threatened to wake the whole city. The unknown was going to be revealed to us, the unknown was going to take hold of my imagination and never let it go. I was going to learn what men are capable of. Their madness was going to burst into our universe: black and hateful, a savage madness thirsting for blood and murder. It was approaching slowly, cunningly, with measured steps, like a pack of wild beasts encircling a victim already overcome by terror.
    And then, madness broke loose. A primeval shriek slashed the silence and the shadows:
Death to the Jews!
and it was taken up by countless throats, until it echoed through the city and beyond the forests to the farthest reaches of the earth. It penetrated trees and stones, rivers and rocks, hell and paradise; groaning or sneering angels and beasts transmitted it, offering it up to the celestial throne in remembrance of an adventure that had come to an end, of a failure on the scale of Creation … 
Death to the Jews!
Suddenly these four words, among all the words used by men, meant something, something real, immediate, true. As I listened to them, endured them, felt them ravage my brain, my ears rang, my eyes burned, I ached all over. I could not control my trembling. I clung to my mother, who held me close. She too began shivering. I would have liked to feel my father’s hand on my head, but he was too far away. Just as well: I would have been ashamed to admit my weakness to him. Anyway, what good would it have done? Much better to hide. To be paralyzed, or dead. My teeth chattered and I was sure they made more noise than the pogrom outside.
    It had already reached our street: the harrowing shrieks, the cries of terror and the death rattles. And the roaring of the pillagers, the murderers, the strippers of corpses. Their hatred, their joy were unfurling over our homes. Who was still living, who had ceased to live? I kept thinking of the prayers for the Day of Atonement: someone—was it God?—was reviewing his records, checking off one name here, erasing another there.
    The turmoil was coming nearer and nearer; here it was in our courtyard, inside our house. Chaos—smashed windows, broken dishes, wardrobes hacked to bits with hatchets:
Death to the Jews, Death to the Jews!
The voice of an enraged drunkard: “Hey, Yids, where are you hiding? Come out, let’s look at your ugly faces. They’ve run away! Ah, the cowards! The rats!” Another voice: “They’re worse than—worse than wild animals. There must be more silver!” First voice: “That’s what they’re like, those Yids. That’s all they’re interested in—money and silver!” Another voice: “To do that to us!” Another voice: “Or maybe—” Another voice: “Maybe what?” “Maybe Ivan’s boys were here ahead of us?”
    They ransacked the house and then went out bellowing like savages. They were about to leave the courtyard and take care of the next house when one of them caught sight of the barn and yelled to his followers, “Hey, boys, let’s take a look in there.” They entered, torches in hand, they peered into the dark corners, turned the wheelless cart upside down, tore apart a sack of potatoes, then a sack of dried nuts. Stubbornly, the leader climbed as far as the loft and came down