“I’m going to harness the horses,” the man said roughly.
“Are you joining us?” For some reason Karl turned to the owner of the store and his wife.
The woman looked at her husband before turning to Karl and saying, “I wish we could, but this shop is all we have, and there’s no one to take our place. Everything is wide open here. Franzi will forgive us.”
“Pardon me,” said Karl, regretting that he had embarrassed them.
“If things were otherwise we would certainly go to the funeral, but what can we do? They’ve already robbed us twice.”
Meanwhile, the horses were harnessed and the men climbed onto the wagon with the spryness of youth. The woman joined them.
“I must hurry,” said Karl. “Sorry for the trouble. How much do I owe you?”
“Perish the thought, sir. We have enough, thank God, to offer a guest,” the man answered firmly.
The wagon was wide, with two benches along the sides and a stretcher in the middle, covered by an old blanket.
“Where are you from?” the woman asked.
“From Neufeld.”
“I hear everyone’s converting there. Is that true?”
“Not everyone,” Karl replied, trembling in his seat.
“They have no shame. I would be ashamed.”
What’s the fuss, madam? Let everyone do as he wishes. If someone’s more comfortable in the church, why judge him? He wanted to answer.
The woman continued. “I don’t understand what they find in the church. I’d rather scrub floors than change my religion. Some respect they show an ancient faith.” She spoke poor German, mixed with Yiddish, and her face showed the raw anger of someone who’s been cheated.
Karl hung his head and said nothing.
“Jews can be despicable too. Don’t you agree?” She was relentless.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Karl hesitantly.
“The Jews are strange, a people without integrity or self-respect. They’ll sell their souls to Satan without giving it a thought. Even an Austrian peasant wouldn’t do that.”
The man sitting at her side opened his mouth and in an old Jewish tone said, “Don’t judge your fellow until you stand in his place.”
“I don’t like Jewish toadies,” she persisted.
“Why do you call them ‘toadies’?” asked the man at her side.
“Because they grovel; they imitate everything like apes. What do they find in the church?”
“Don’t speak that way,” said the man beside her. Apparently she didn’t realize what the three men had already understood, that Karl was among the converted.
“It’s hard to keep still.”
“I would keep silent, nevertheless,” said the man sharply, and with this the woman seemed to catch on.
They drove slowly, the driver going easy on the horses. Meanwhile, Karl’s memory, which had been frozen, began to thaw a little. He remembered that he had been tossed about for many hours on the way—first in the train packed with coarse peasants and now in this old wagon.
The woman didn’t utter another word, her face seeming to shrivel up. But the man sitting at her side began to speak, as if to distract him, about the rains that had destroyed the summer crops and about the prices that had soared. Karl sat and listened without understanding the muddle of words, which somehow entangled him in their net.
The words brought his parents’ narrow grocery store back to life before his eyes. Only on bright summer days would a little light filter in, banishing the musty smell and brightening the shelves. That trace of light was one of the secret joys of his childhood. Sometimes a ray of light fell on his mother’s face, and the wrinkles around her eyes eased. Only then would a smile rise to her lips. His father always had a haunted look. Were it not for the few hours he immersed himself in chess, almost like a child, his life would have been worn away in worry and fear.
The wagon stopped opposite a square little peasant hut with two windows staring out like tired eyes. The roof was made of wooden planks, with no gutters, and the chimney was too long and narrow, as if plucked from elsewhere. The door was open.
The dead woman was laid out on the floor, covered with a yellow sheet. At her head were two burning candles. A few Jews sat on a bench and prayed. The candles lit the darkness and the faces of those sitting. Karl was glad he had brought a hat with him. It was a white summer cap, the kind you buy on the banks of the Danube or from the men who rent out boats. The cap didn’t suit the moment, but he was glad not to be bareheaded.
The sounds of prayer gradually diminished, and just one broad-shouldered man, with a splendid beard, the kind of Jew no longer found in the cities, prayed softly, as if trying to explain something difficult to his brothers in mourning.
Then the woman appeared with two buckets of water, calling, “Everyone out.” The men rose and left. Outside they seemed taller, different from the Jews who used to buy from his parents. Gloom was spread over their long faces.
“When did she pass away?” Karl asked of one of those standing.
“Near nightfall. My wife was at her side.”
“Did she die peacefully?” he continued.
The man bowed his head, a smile creasing his lips. Karl realized he had asked a foolish question and was ashamed. Still, his tongue moved again. “How did you know my address?”
“We knew your parents very well. We are from the same place, Bukovina.”
“From Zadova?” Karl remembered.
“Yes, yes. Your father and I went to cheyder together, and then to grade school. We were best friends. And how are you? We heard you’d gone very far. Too bad your father’s passed away. Franzi used to speak of you sometimes. She was proud of you, so we decided to send you a telegram.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing could be done. The doctor said it would have been a shame to move her to the city.”
“And how did she spend her last days?”
“She wanted to light candles on shabbes.”
Hearing those words, a chill ran through him.
The men began praying again. It was a whispered prayer that lasted several minutes and stopped all at once. Two men entered the hut and prepared the stretcher. The corpse, wrapped in a shroud, was covered with a blanket and placed on the wagon.
Everyone got on, filling the benches. The men opened worn, yellowed prayer books and prayed. They prayed out loud but with restraint. Karl remembered that years before he and his parents had ridden a similar wagon to a village to buy goods. Then too it had been autumn, and the breeze blew in his face. He vividly remembered the scene, as if the years had not intervened.
After traveling slowly for an hour, the wagon stopped at a small cemetery. Hebrew letters showed on every gray and moss-covered stone. The grave was ready. The oldest man in the group looked around and said, “Jews, remember to honor the dead.” The body was placed carefully in the grave, and they immediately began shoveling earth onto it. When the grave was filled, they put down their shovels and prayed. Karl didn’t understand a word. When he was a boy, a tutor came to their house to read the prayer book with him. There was something frightening about the old man’s presence. He came for two years, once a week, and finally he stopped coming, much to Karl’s relief.
“Say Kaddish,” they proposed to him.
“You say it—you know it,” he said, approaching the grave, then stepping back.
The old Jew said Kaddish, and another one, who looked like the grocer who had greeted Karl upon his arrival, delivered an emotional eulogy. He spoke about her arrival in the village, about her loyalty to the Jews. What she had given and how she had given. In her latter years she had chopped wood with her own hands and brought it to the poor. “No one will forget those kind acts,” he concluded, “not in this world and not in the world to come.” Karl wanted to embrace these strangers, press them to his heart, but he felt unworthy and did nothing.
Afterward, they stuck a wooden plank in the earth,
and the women wept.
“How much do I owe you?” asked Karl foolishly.
“What are you talking about? This is a mitzvah.”
Karl remembered that word, which he had heard at home from time to time. “Then I’ll leave this for the poor, in Aunt Franzi’s name.” Overcoming his shame, he thrust bills into the old man’s trembling hand.
“That’s too much.” The man recoiled.
“No matter. The poor need it.”
They climbed back onto the wagon and sat as before, with the women in front, but the stretcher was now folded. It was evening already. The look of the harvested fields, empty and gray, had changed. A few patches of darkness spread over the edges and glistened like puddles. Of all that had happened he remembered only the coarse faces of the peasants in the train. The anger that had run through his arms throbbed within him once again, but now it was a different anger. He was angry at himself for not knowing how to control his own actions, for always bringing himself into straits. They stopped near the small railway station. “Thank you,” said Karl, shaking the men’s hands.
“Where are you going?” one of them asked.
“To Neufeld. I live in Neufeld.”
Hearing the name of that city, the woman who had purified the body raised her angry eyes but said nothing.
“May God console you,” said the old man.
“You too,” Karl said, not knowing what he was saying.
CHAPTER
9
That very week he was informed that the senior appointments committee had unanimously chosen him to be the new municipal secretary. Karl was surprised. He had not expected the process to go so smoothly. As it turned out, Hochhut had indeed sought to block the appointment and had almost succeeded. Fortunately, the deputy mayor was behind Karl, which caused Hochhut to give in.
After work he wanted to celebrate, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t want to go to Victoria’s. Two weeks earlier he had spent an evening there and left depressed. He hadn’t seen Martin for a month and realized that he was avoiding him. He thought about visiting Father Merser to apologize for several absences from prayer. In the end, he entered a café. News of his appointment had spread quickly. The owner greeted him warmly and proposed a toast. Karl knew this reception wasn’t altogether sincere. Nevertheless, he was pleased, and he thanked everyone present.
Later, he strolled down Salzburg Boulevard. Intoxicated by the fresh air, he headed for the river, which sparkled in the distance and brought back to him the faces of those who had attended Aunt Franzi’s funeral. He thought about how Aunt Franzi, after years of wandering, had returned to her people, who had accepted her without rummaging through her past. For some reason the thought pleased him that evening. “Final rest is necessary to us all,” he said to himself, not knowing what he meant, but as he walked on, he began to understand. His mother, in her final hours, had pleaded not to be buried in the new cemetery, which lay outside the city, but in the old one, in town, next to her Aunt Betty, who had died of consumption years before, at the age of thirty-one. Karl’s father had ignored that last request, because he thought she was delirious. And so she was buried in the big cemetery, outside of town, among strangers.
On his way home, Karl met Harry Baumann, an affable fellow and his father’s old chess partner. He and Karl’s father would sit for hours in a narrow little café in the center of town, playing chess until they became drunk with it. Often his mother would lock the store, find him at the café, and announce, “I can’t do everything!” Karl’s father, ashamed, would pull his face away from the chessboard, stand up, and follow her back to the shop. Quarrels were inevitable, and they were as bitter as wormwood.
“Great to see you,” said Harry, hugging Karl.
“I have good news: today I was appointed municipal secretary,” Karl revealed to him.
“Congratulations. Too bad your parents aren’t alive to celebrate with you. They would have been proud of you. I’m proud of you too. I think of myself as one of the family, don’t forget.”
“I know.”
“For quite a while I’ve been meaning to see you, but I was afraid you’d forgotten me.”
“How could you say such a thing?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so glad to see you. Your father and I were very close. He was an excellent chess player. These days it’s hard to find good players like him. There are plenty of amateurs, but not true players. These amateurs, they make a lot of noise, but they don’t know how to play. We spent many hours together. Believe me, they were the loveliest hours of my life. Do you still play?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Once Baumann had had a well-kept shop in the center of town, a profitable store. But his business had fallen off, and like so many others, he had been forced to sell. Now he looked neglected, perhaps because of the old straw hat he was wearing.
“Don’t forget me.”
“How could I?”
“These days a person forgets even his own father.”
Karl walked over to him, hugged him, and said, “My father respected you a great deal. He used to tell me, ‘Harry is a truly superior player. There are few like him.’ ”
“And now I’ve no one in the world.”
“Where’s your son?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Well, come see me, and get me out from under my heaps of paper.”
“It’s a blessing not to be abandoned in this world.” Baumann sighed mournfully and he was on his way.
As if by magic, the brief contact with Baumann brought to mind Karl’s father’s face. All those years his father had struggled—with the outside world, with his wife, and with himself. He was distant from his son, as if Karl belonged only to his mother. Karl’s mother would accuse his father of playing chess at the expense of the store. This accusation simply fanned the flames of contention, for his father could give as good as he got, sometimes making his voice thunder in a frightening way. He had threatened to leave the house more than once. Upon hearing that threat, Karl’s mother would pronounce him as irresponsible as his sister Franzi.
As Karl approached his house, he saw that lights were on inside. He thought he had forgotten to lock the door and expected to find some drunken vagrant sitting in the dining room, drinking from a bottle and smashing vases. An old anger flared within him as he went in to confront the disaster.
But in a moment the riddle was solved: it was Gloria, she and none other.
“Gloria!” He walked toward her. “You startled me.”
She blurted out a few broken syllables and fell silent.
“Why did you leave?”
“I was frightened.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
The more he asked, the more her head sank into her shoulders. She was like an overgrown child who had been caught doing something foolish.
“I’ll make you some coffee.”
“There’s no need,” she said, bursting into tears. She wept as she had at Karl’s mother’s grave and, later, at his father’s. Her shoulders trembled; Karl hugged her and said, “Gloria, nothing’s changed here. Believe me.” Finally she put together a few syllables and told him that since leaving the house, she had been working for a wealthy Austrian family. The other servants picked on her, and the head of the family sent her away every time she appeared in the living room.
“You must come back to us immediately,” said Karl, speaking in the plural for some reason.
“I didn’t behave right.”
“This is your home.”
“I shouldn’t have run away.”
“You loved my parents as no one else did,” he said and was glad to have found suitable words.
“I was hasty and made a terrible mistake,” she muttered.
He noticed that her face hadn’t changed: her high forehead, the thick black hair, and the heavy braid that always hung on the nape of her neck were just as he had remembered them. When she came to them
from the village, he was four and she was eighteen. Now it seemed to him that only he had grown older. He brought her a cup of coffee and sat at her side.
“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” she said, looking into his eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“You have your life to build,” she said, echoing a cliché she had probably learned from Karl’s mother.
“Me?”
She seemed to him as she had on the day she arrived in the house. Her hearing had always been weak, and she stuttered. At first, every time she opened her mouth, little Karl would burst into tears. But in time he became used to her voice, so much so that after a while other voices were jarring to him. No wonder. He spent most days with her until he started school. His parents worked in the store until late at night. She would play with him on the floor, under the beds, in the yard. True, when he was in gymnasium, he seemed to lose track of her. He was too immersed in himself. In those years she and his mother formed a close friendship. Now she appeared to him once again as she once was.
“You must return to us. I don’t intend to sell the house. It is too precious to us all.”
“I didn’t behave right.” She repeated what she had already said.
“Since you left I haven’t done a thing. The dust in these rooms comes up to your knees.”
Gloria bent her head, like peasants when they come to the priest for a reprimand. Frightened by the submissiveness of her expression, he said simply, “I have good news. Today I was appointed municipal secretary.”
“Thank the Lord. It’s too bad your parents are no longer living. They had been looking forward to that for years.”
“I was informed today.”
“That’s very, very important,” she said, speaking as his parents would have.
Now he knew, if there was any remnant of his parents in this world, it was embodied in Gloria’s voice. She had absorbed their lives fully, while he was merely a drifter in their world. His gymnasium years only raised the barrier between him and them. Later came the arrogance and disdain.
The next day he helped her bring over her few belongings. Her employer didn’t ask why she was leaving. He just riveted her with an angry glance and shut the door.
The Conversion Page 6