Upon the Head of the Goat Read Free Page A

death, when Babi was still wearing black clothes and staying in the house, reading her prayer book. I spent more and more time playing outside with the children of Komjaty. One day as we passed one of the corner shrines, all the other children stopped, bowed, made a cross over their chests, and said a prayer in Ukrainian. Their movements impressed me; I watched their gestures and then imitated them, bowing and making a cross over my chest. Later, when I got home, Babi took me into her bedroom and closed the door. She was very angry. “Somebody told me you made a cross over yourself. Is that true?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t do it, the others did.”
    She picked me up and stood me on a chair so that she could look into my eyes as she faced me. “Now, look into my face. Did you make a cross over yourself, or did this person tell me a lie?”
    â€œI made a cross over myself.”
    â€œDon’t you know you’re Jewish?”
    â€œYes, Babi.”
    â€œYes, what?”
    â€œYes, I’m sorry.”
    â€œIf you don’t have respect for your religion, how do you expect others to?”
    I respected my religion, but it was hard for me to think of all those people so much a part of my life in Beregszász as enemies. The Ukrainian farmers of Komjaty seemed far more unfriendly than the Hungarians I knew.
    Babi was still busy at the stove, so I asked, “What about the Christians here, the farmers, do they like the Jews?”
    She turned to face me as she answered my question. “They concern themselves more with the land than with borders. They are busy with growing their food, and when their crops fail they blame the lack of rain, not the Jews. Also, we live modestly here. They have nothing to envy us for.” She turned back to continue putting our dinner together.
    When Rozsi came back, she was carrying a newspaper and had a strained expression on her face. “Can I read the newspaper?” I asked, reaching for it. “You would not understand it, it’s all political,” she said. As Babi opened it, I caught the word “JEWS” in bold black letters. Babi ran her eyes over the page, folded the paper up again, and laid it down on the table. “We’ll talk after supper,” she said to Rozsi.
    The next afternoon, when Babi and Rozsi were out walking in the fields, Molcha and I took the newspaper from the night table where Babi had left it before she went to sleep. We went into the clover field, and while Molcha watched to warn me if anyone came, I tried to read it. The phrases “rounding up” and “slave labor” caught my eye, but most of the words were confusing, and I could not understand all the meanings. Places with strange names—Kamenets-Podolski, Novi Sad—were mentioned.
    â€œWhere are these places?” Molcha asked as I tried to pronounce them.
    â€œI don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe Poland, where Babi said Hitler is.”
    â€œWho is Hitler?” Molcha asked.
    â€œBabi says that he is a madman who is turning everybody against the Jews.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI am trying to find out. It says here that we are bad risks and eat up too much of the bread. We cause bread shortages.”
    â€œBut we only eat our own bread, so how can we cause a shortage?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Molcha ended the discussion. “Let’s put the paper back, and you can teach me more Hungarian.”

3
    E ACH DAY WE listened to every shred of news the farmers brought back from the Szölös market, hoping that a settlement at the borders would set the trains between Komjaty and Beregszász in motion. Babi’s time spent in prayer grew longer. After supper she would put on her angora shawl, take her prayer book, and sit in her armchair facing the front window, becoming so absorbed in her reading that she did not even notice the fading of the light.
    One evening, Rozsi and I came in from