As she was walking, she came to a hill. She and her children climbed the hill and then went down the other side. Rachel fell out of the shawl and her mother did not notice, since the pillows and blankets pressed heavily on her back and they weighed more than the child, whose entire weight was only twenty pounds. The children suddenly stopped and sat down. “Perhaps you want to eat?” she said. “Perhaps you would like to drink?” She turned her back to take out water and food from her satchel, and saw the pillows and blankets on her back — but no Rachel. For as she had come down the hill the shawl had struck the side of the hill and the knot at her waist had loosened, and Rachel had fallen out. Rachel’s mother lifted up her voice and cried aloud, until the sound reached the end of the caravan. People turned around and called after her not to go back, for the sound of the enemy’s guns could already be heard. But she ignored them; she handed over her three children to some of the people and started to go back, while the children screamed and wept, “Mother, Mother, we don’t want to stay without Mother.” She ran and ran until she found Rachel lying among thorns, with hornets circling her, ready to sting. She bent down to shield Rachel, picked her up in her arms and ran with her through the fields and forests, hills and valleys (for in her confusion she lost her way), and did not find the people of her town and of her group, or Dolik, Lolik, and Babtchi, for they had already turned and gone in another direction. There she stood, crying, “My children, my children.” Along came another group of Jewish refugees, so she joined them and walked on with them, holding Rachel fast in her arms, for not every day does a miracle happen. After several days they came to the Hungarian frontier. A widow, a Gentile woman, had pity on them and took her and Rachel into her house. “All I have in the house is for you, just as for me,” she said. “It may well be that while you are staying with me my son may be staying with your sister, and in return for my kindness to you she will be kind to my son.”
So she stayed with that widow until her feet, which had been bruised on the roads, were healed and her body was somewhat recovered, and looked after Rachel until she was well again. But since it is not right to accept favors for nothing, she did not stay there long, especially as they had had words, because of the good heart of that Gentile woman, who was sorry for her because she would not taste any cooked food or let the sick child taste soup and meat, for her food, of course, was not prepared according to Jewish law. So Rachel’s mother left all the widow’s kindness behind and went to the town, where she found work as a maid in a hotel, for which she received her food and lodging. There she stayed until she heard that her children were in Vienna. She took Rachel and went to Vienna, where she found them, one here and one there, clad in rags, hungry and barefoot, their bodies bruised. She gathered them together, took a room, and healed their bodies. Merciful people gave her work to earn her living, and one who took particular trouble was Rabbi Zvi Perez Chajes, of blessed memory, who spent himself completely in the service of the Jews and was like an angel of deliverance to them. She earned her living with her own hands making knapsacks for soldiers, and when she was out of that work she found other employment, to keep herself and her children, and even make enough to send tobacco to her husband, for he could do without anything except smoking. At first, before he went into the army, he did not smoke, but when the war came he could not go on without smoking, for smoking dulls the reason, and distracts a man’s mind from his deeds. At last the war ended and some people began to think of going back to their home towns. So the woman took her children and went back to Szibucz. It was not in one day, or two, or three, that they went back; but they wandered for weeks and weeks on the roads, for all the trains were full of returning soldiers, and many who found no room inside the trains climbed up and lay on the roofs. Some were wounded there and others were killed. May the good God have mercy on their bones, scattered along the wayside, and comfort their dear ones.
In short, they came to Szibucz hungry, thirsty, and weary. Now Szibucz itself was in ruins in those days, and people were tired and depressed, restless and homeless, no one knowing where he would lay his head or find his next meal. After several days, Mrs. Zommer’s husband returned, melancholy and dejected, and it goes without saying vhat he came back without a penny, except for an iron amulet the government gave him for standing up like a hero in battle. What should he do? Go back to selling hats? Was there a single man there with a head on his shoulders? Said Mrs. Zommer, “People come to tour the town and see the ruins, and they need bed and board. I will open a hotel, and whatever I have left over from the guests I will give my husband and children.” So she set to with great vigor and opened a hotel. After some time the rest of the people came back to Szibucz and the town returned to life, and charity officials, commercial travelers, and others began to arrive. “So by God’s mercy,” she said, “we managed to keep alive, sometimes in pain and sometimes in pleasure, whatever seemed fitting to the Almighty, more than we deserve according to our deeds.”
I sit in the hotel, sometimes in pain and sometimes in pleasure, whatever seems fitting to the Almighty. Even in this hotel, where I am a guest for the night, there are things that give pleasure to the beholder. Rachel, the innkeeper’s younger daughter, sits and sews, passes the thread through the hole of the needle, or takes the tip of it between her lips, and I watch her as she works as if she were doing my eyes a kindness. And since I am not ungrateful I tell her things to sweeten her work. What did I tell her and what did I not tell her. If I were telling Rachel this story at this very moment, I should tell her the story of a king’s daughter, seventeen or eighteen years old and upright as a young pioneer girl on the day she comes to the Land of Israel. The first time I saw the king’s daughter my heart stood still and I wanted to weep at how the Almighty had scattered His grace over the daughters of the nations. Or perhaps this grace came to her from the kings of the House of David, for she was of their seed. For when the Queen of Sheba visited Solomon he satisfied all her desires, whatsoever she asked, and there were born to her the kings of Ethiopia. I raised my hat and greeted her. She nodded her head by way of acknowledgment, and the white of her eyes gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Mother-of-pearl of the kind I found on an autumn day on the Jaffa seashore. That was when little Ruhama was still present. You have heard of Ya’el Hayot, but you have not yet heard the name of Ruhama. But I tell you that this Ruhama was worth more than Ya’el Hayot. If so, you may ask, why did I leave Ruhama and run after Ya’el Hayot? Because at that time my mind was not yet mature, and I behaved like the young men who run away from what is right for them and run after what is not right for them. But it is not only young men who do this; every man does so, and even inanimate things. Perhaps you will say: But is it possible for an inanimate thing to run away, since it is fastened to its roots? But I tell you: I myself have seen it, for when I was a boy in the Beit Midrash, the Beit Midrash ran away from me, and when I went up to the Land of Israel, the Land ran away from me.
Now I will tell you something of the hair of the king’s daughter. Her hair was black and shining. Rachel’s hair also was black and shining, but the other’s hair was more beautiful than Rachel’s — not the hair itself, which was very much like Rachel’s, but the way she wore it; for it was long, not trimmed, and it hung in braids behind her. And it is almost certain that it was not prickly — unlike hair cut short, which has a way of pricking.