“You’re a doctor, not a priest.”
“I take good care of myself. I have a warm sheepskin coat for traveling at night, and it protects me.”
The warmth of their youth seemed to return as they sat and sipped. Karl promised Freddy that this wasn’t his last stop, that he still had it in mind to do things. Perhaps one day he would come and visit him.
It was sunset, and the tavern was crammed with people. “Why don’t we go out for a stroll,” Karl suggested. But Freddy preferred the noise. After a few drinks he forgot his reason for coming and spoke about the plans he had never realized: the clinics he would open to the general public, and the assistance he would offer the needy. At first he thought he could gain the support of the owners of the estates and mines for his plan. They had insisted on seeing written memoranda, so he wrote out very detailed proposals. In the end, they didn’t even reply. Now he would turn to the Ministry of Health.
Don’t do that, my dear fellow, Karl wanted to say. I know them very well. No good will come from them. But seeing his hurt face, he refrained.
As they drank, Freddy spoke about Martin and his blood pressure, his frequent trips to Winterhof, how much he drank, the women who had driven him crazy, and his impudent clients. Finally, he blamed himself for not sending him to get a second opinion.
“You should know that he had contempt for you as a doctor.”
“That doesn’t change a thing. A physician can’t pay attention to insults. A physician has to be able to endure that sort of thing.”
“But we expect a certain loyalty from friends,” said Karl, unwilling to give in.
“A physician must overcome that, too.”
Karl was astonished. He had never seen such submis-siveness, as though Freddy had taxed himself all these years in order to reach this level. Nor could he stop now. He would wander from village to village, and patient to patient, until he wore out his soul.
“Why won’t you use your clinic in the city?”
“My patients are scattered among the villages.”
“You should make them come to you.”
“No, they’re all infected with typhus.”
“Isn’t there a danger of your becoming infected?”
“The physician is immune,” said Freddy, and a mischievous smile brightened his eyes.
Later, silence fell upon them. Darkness clung to the windows, and the peasants were already drunk. They cursed the owner of the bar and his wife, and the tax officials who had come by train the day before to confiscate property and to arrest people.
“It’s late, where’s the train?” Freddy awoke.
“Why don’t you stay with us for a few days?”
“I can’t. A typhus epidemic is raging.”
“Too bad.”
“I brought you some money.”
“No, my dear fellow. I got severance pay from the municipality. Don’t forget, I worked there for seventeen years.”
“But you don’t have a regular salary.”
“I received a lot of money. You have nothing to worry about.”
Even on the way to the train, half drunk and leaning on Karl’s arm, Freddy kept talking about how Martin had failed to take care of his body, which he called “the temple of the soul.” Karl wanted to scold him and say, you’re wasting your devotion on people who are unworthy of it. But seeing his misery, he merely said, “Everything will be fine, my dear fellow, everything will be fine,” and he pressed him to his heart.
CHAPTER
29
The summer came to an end, and Gloria was preparing vegetable soup, spinach pies, and potato knishes. He could ignore the dark clouds that spread over the mountains and say to himself: that dreary color isn’t forever. Soon the snow will come and spread out its canopies, and all the gloom will vanish. He could have said it, but for some reason he didn’t. Freddy had left a sadness in his soul that fermented within him. He walked down to the village early, played a game or two of chess, and then went straight to the tavern. A few drinks would calm him down. He would sit and listen to the retired soldiers whose coarse, stale jokes amused him. He would return home in a haze. Gloria wasn’t pleased by his coming home late, but she said nothing. In her heart, she knew he needed some release.
He didn’t always return relaxed. If people spoke out against the Jews or the Gypsies, he would stand up and protest. “Don’t blame the minorities,” he argued. “They’re human beings too—they too have sleepless nights and aches and pains.”
“But they’re the children of Satan.”
“There are no children of Satan. There are good people and bad people.”
Once, when the discussion heated up, one of the soldiers, a war invalid, stood up and called out, “What are you, mister, an Austrian or a Jew?”
“I’m a human being.”
Karl knew he was using slogans from his gymnasium days that had no connection to real life, but they burst out of him every time a racial slur was flung into the air of the tavern.
“He’s crazy,” they declared, dismissing his words.
Autumn showed a clouded face. One day he imagined that sturdy horses, like those that had brought Freddy, were approaching the house with muffled steps. Soon the reins would be released and they would trample the vegetables and flowers. He knew that if he picked up the whip and went outside he could drive them off, but he felt that it was no longer in his power. His limbs were frozen. The horses drew closer, with a single desire—to trample the garden that Gloria had nurtured. Why don’t you stop them?” he wanted to shout with all his might. Gloria didn’t seem to sense the danger. She was standing by the oven, cooking a spinach pie. Karl knew that it was only an unpleasant daydream, but still, it was hard for him to forgive Gloria her indifference.
“Why are you standing idly by?” A shout finally burst from his throat.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gloria.
“Nothing.”
“You shouted, or did it just seem that way?”
“It seemed that way.”
Still, that autumn his daily schedule remained orderly. Gray clouds continued to surround the house, but there were also hours as clear as crystal. He helped Gloria in the garden and brought baskets full of vegetables inside. The feel of the loose soil and the moist vegetables made him so happy that tears came to his eyes. But he spent more hours in the café, playing chess and arguing. The Jewish merchants liked him but did not agree with his views.
“You mustn’t bribe the police. Bribery corrupts.”
“If we don’t pay off the police, we’ll be fair game for anyone.”
“You mustn’t be afraid.”
“It’s not fear, it’s the choice between life and death.”
It made him angry that healthy men, dependable and devoted to the community, should flinch every time anyone mentioned the police. A person must defend his honor.
“What should they do?” asked Gloria.
“Learn to defend themselves.”
“Jews don’t know how to use weapons.”
“It’s time they learned.”
A strange anger simmered within him. Gloria wanted to accompany him to the café, but he preferred to go alone. Every day he would go down, and every day he would carry the arguments from the café to the tavern. In the evening, when he returned home, his face was weary, his eyes angered, and a kind of restlessness vibrated in his fingers.
“Karl, what should I cook for you?”
“Vegetable soup.”
She would cook everything that grew in the garden to cheer him up, but Karl wasn’t as happy as before. Distant matters returned to haunt him. Once, out of the blue, he said, “I’m not sorry I converted. It freed me from a deep pit. Now that I’m up on the surface, I can at least see and hear. It’s not much, but it’s something.” Gloria didn’t understand what he was talking about. It pained her that he was no longer meticulous in his dress. Every day she ironed a shirt and a pair of trousers for him, but when he returned at night, his
clothes were rumpled and stained.
I mustn’t criticize him, she told herself.
On Rosh Hashanah she spread a white cloth on the table and put down saucers of honey and apple slices.
“What’s this?” asked Karl, without raising his head.
“It’s the eve of Rosh Hashanah.”
“Where do you find such optimism?” he said, and a thin laugh twisted his lips.
Melancholy didn’t overcome him every evening. Sometimes his face brightened. He would sit on the mat with Gloria and they would have their drinks with salty crackers. His memory was clear and his movements spry. He would imitate the municipal clerks and bring her to tears with laughter.
The next day she would plead with him, “Don’t go down.”
“I must,” he would say and walk off.
CHAPTER
30
On Yom Kippur he went down and, to his surprise, found the square deserted. The stores were shuttered, and only a few horses were tethered outside. A cold wind blew between the naked trees. From the tiny synagogue, lit by candles, came a low hum. Had he entered, they would have been glad to see him. As he stood there, he remembered his mother, as he hadn’t for many days: young, her face full of life. He was pressed to her breast and wrapped in her arms. A customer had tried to amuse him, but he had been afraid of him. Shrinking, he gripped his mother and curled up in her big wool sweater. The sweet fragrance of wool mixed with the scent of soap surrounded him with intoxicating pleasure.
From where he stood he could see the house on the hill. The day before, Gloria had prepared the dining room with care, reminding him of Yom Kippur at home. Again, he said to himself: Gloria remembers more than I do. Life in our house had penetrated into her, yet it left no impression on me. Gloria, he wanted to ask, are you religious? Do you understand the meaning of what you’re doing, or is it just habit? But he changed his mind. Gloria’s acts were so modest, and the words he thought to utter were so pompous and vulgar. After she had tidied up the kitchen, she spread a white cloth over the table.
But he could not restrain his tongue. “Do you believe in God?” asked Karl.
This time she wasn’t flustered and answered, “I believe in God.”
“In the God of the Jews?”
“I left my house when I was very young because things were very bad. Your father and mother gave me shelter, clothing, and bread to eat. I love the Jewish holidays because they’re quiet.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Gloria.”
“What was your question?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, laughing.
Later, they sat in silence. Karl didn’t smoke or drink, and he fell asleep very early. He slept all morning. In the afternoon, he got up and dressed and immediately hurried down to town. On the way he felt a threat in the air, but he dismissed the feeling and continued. He wanted to reach Rosow in time to see the people walking to synagogue. He had forgotten that at this hour, close to the concluding service, not even little children go out. When he reached Rosow he saw with his own eyes: no one. A cold emptiness blew in every corner.
While standing in the empty square, he noticed two young peasants near the tavern throwing stones. First it seemed they were throwing at a target. But when Karl drew close he saw that they were aiming at windows.
“Why are you breaking windows?” he asked as he approached them.
“The Jews closed the tavern and there’s nothing to drink.”
“You should know,” Karl addressed them quietly, “that this is a very sacred holiday for them.”
“To hell with their holidays. People have to drink.”
“It’s a holiday of spiritual accounting,” said Karl, strangely.
“What’s he talking about?” the young peasant asked his friend, who was shorter.
“About having respect,” answered Karl.
“We shit on your respect.”
“I suggest you not use foul language.”
“I piss on this place.”
“Young man, that’s indecent language.”
“I piss on you.”
Now he had no choice but to do what he always did when confronted with bullies. He grappled with the first and then with the second, shaking them and throwing them to the ground. They were thunderstruck, their legs waved in the air, and they begged for mercy.
“You’re not getting away from here until you apologize to the Jews.”
“We apologize,” they mumbled together.
“Not like that. I want to hear you ask forgiveness of the Jews of Rosow for desecrating their holiday.”
They repeated what he said, word for word. In the end, he let them go and they ran for their lives.
When he returned home, it was already night. Gloria was sitting at the table and waiting for him. The holy day was inside her. Her face was pale from the fast and a weak light glowed in her eyes.
“A blessed year, Karl,” she said, coming toward him. Later, he told her about the incident in the square. Gloria listened and said nothing. In her heart, she knew that the peasants wouldn’t easily forgive an insult like that. She prepared a full meal and they sat and ate. She wanted to tell Karl something about her father, but a fear that had dwelled in her since childhood rose up and choked her. The words never escaped her mouth.
CHAPTER
31
The next day Gloria noticed that the cabbage patch had been torn up. At first she thought it was a theft, but then she realized it was vandalism. Karl gritted his teeth and, without delay, went down to Rosow. The police station was locked. And when he asked where he should go to lodge a complaint, people shrugged. In the café he realized what that meant. One of the merchants, a clever chess player, explained to him: “You see, one hand washes the other. Those who were once policemen are now thieves and murderers, and tomorrow they’ll switch back.”
“And that’s how it’s always been?”
“From time immemorial.”
“And no one does anything about this?”
“What is there to be done?”
The nights taught him what village life was really like. Tranquility no longer hid behind its beauty. Wicked hands reached out of the darkness to uproot the garden. Karl no longer slept well. He went out to walk around the house and returned with a stormy look, his mouth clenched in anger.
He went from store to store, trying to buy a pistol. Panicked, the merchants urged him not to do it. Karl was furious. He rejected as so much hot air the argument that the peasants were people of the soil and you had to make allowances for their behavior. If a person defends his honor, he told them, no harm will befall him. In the end, seeing no alternative, he bought a pistol. It was broken and old, but he was sure he could repair it. For a full day he and the jeweler labored, without success, to replace the trigger. But Karl didn’t despair. He promised a large sum to anyone who got a working pistol for him. Meanwhile, the merchants avoided him, and he would spend hours in the tavern, drinking and quarreling with the peasants. When he returned home, he immediately announced that he intended to fight. Gloria knew that their lives were now in God’s hands and that she could no longer hope to influence Karl.
Nevertheless, she told him, “We must leave this place.”
“Not now.”
“They’re planning to attack us. I know them only too well, I am sad to say.”
“We won’t sit with our arms folded, either.”
The next day the old landlord came and got right to the point. “The villagers are furious. The boys are threatening to set the house on fire. The others are also angry. You mustn’t provoke these people. You’d better clear out—for your own safety.”
“Tell him we have harmed no one.”
“The old man understands that,” Gloria said.
“What does he want, then?”
“For us to leave.”
“We have harmed no one.”
“Stubbornness is the mother of all sin,” said the old man, leaving the house.
The siege around the house grew ever tighter. Night after night, horsemen rode into the courtyard, filling it with screams and curses. Karl would go out and shout at them, “Wicked people! We won’t give in to your wickedness!” The horsemen responded with contempt. Karl ignored the danger. The desire to stand up to them, face to face, ruled him. Finally one of them stabbed him. Gloria dragged him inside, while stones and curses were hurled at her from all sides. The wound was deep and Gloria bandaged it with a towel.
“We have to get a doctor. How can I get a doctor?” She wrung her hands at the sight of so much blood.
“No need, it will stop.” And, indeed, toward morning the bleeding stopped. And although the pain continued, Karl was in an exalted mood and spoke enthusiastically about Cracow, about the university and the public libraries there. Gloria didn’t understand most of what he was saying, but she was pleased that his spirits were high. Once he even mentioned Victoria’s, and both of them laughed.
One night he revealed his intentions to her: “We must marry soon.”
“What things you think of.”
“I decided some time ago.”
“You have to get out of here and build a future for yourself. This isn’t a good place.”
“Don’t you love me anymore?”
“I’m not a young woman, and I can’t bear you any children.” She removed a weight from her mind.
“Don’t be silly.” He dismissed her words. “As soon as I get better, we’ll go to Cracow. It’s a pleasant and cultured city. We’ll rent a house with big windows. The money we have will last for two years. After that I’ll find work. I agree with you: this isn’t the right place.”
The following days were rainy and dark. One could hear the strong winds and the rushing streams. Gloria brought vegetables and fruit up from the cellar, everything they had stored during the summer. “Now I’ll cook us some royal delicacies,” she said.
Memories of past days arose as if by a will of their own. The meetings on Tuesdays at Father Merser’s house, his sister Clara, and the music.
“How I was tempted to go there I’ll never understand. Did you ever meet Father Merser?”
The Conversion Page 15