The Iron Tracks

by Aharon Appelfeld

  From Gruenfeld I continue north. This is a land of forests and lakes that conjures up the image of my native city, which is buried within me. If I have a grasp of anything on this earth, it is of my lost hometown. Rather: that neglected little house on Siebenbirgerstrasse, where I would return to see my mother. Sometimes it seems that all my travels are to that place.

  My mother spoke little, but the few words that came from her mouth filled my heart. In time the patience vanished from her eyes, and sharpness settled in. I didn’t know yet all the ups and downs of her life, but I sensed that I should be near her. She would sit in the corner of the room, imprisoned within herself.

  “Mother.”

  “What?”

  “Why won’t you talk?”

  “What?”

  Thus the words would echo through the dark room. There were days when I was afraid of her silence. I would open the door and sit down right there. The light would flood the hallway, and birds would come and peck at grains of wheat in the palm of my hand. In winter I would press close to the window and watch the sleds skimming over the snowbanks. At night she would cover me with three blue blankets. Sometimes a surge of affection would burst from within her, and she would hold me softly. Then, too, she spoke little, her words sounding as if she was forcing herself to overcome her silence. As if freeing herself from her own prison.

  Later she shut herself off even more. Her face had closed, and her lips twitched. Sometimes I would find her leaning on her arms, supporting her thin body as if afraid it would collapse. Her shoulders shrank, like someone trying to become as small as possible.

  Without realizing it, I was handed over to my father’s custody. He would drag me from meeting to meeting and from gathering to gathering. My father was completely immersed in the task of liberating the Ruthenians, and I became a kind of appendage to his mission. More than once I was forgotten on a bench and would fall fast asleep. At night he would carry me on his shoulders to the cabin where he slept. That’s how I learned the Ruthenian language. My father had kept me away from his mother and father so that I would also learn the ways of the Ruthenians. He was convinced that their way of life was correct and organic, and were it not for the estate owners and the Jewish merchants, they would live in complete harmony with nature.

  At the age of six I spoke Ruthenian like a native. My father was proud of that. The language of the Jews repelled him. He used to say it exuded the odor of grocery stores and sounded like the rustle of money. Nor did he care for German. He used to say that in Czernowitz the Jewish merchants wore their shabby German like borrowed finery. Sometimes he would go way into the mountains, to the remote cells of the party, to members mainly housed in abandoned apartments or stinking stables. My father’s appearance would change there. He would be like an estate owner dispensing favors in every direction. The simple Ruthenians liked him and would serve him deep bowls of sour cream and goat cheese. Sometimes he would forget me in a hut or absent-mindedly leave me behind. For hours I would sit and gaze at the evening lights and at the animals slowly returning from pasture. If there is one vision deepest in my heart, it is of a Ruthenian village at dusk. At night my father would remember me and shout, “Erwin, Erwin.”

  At the age of six I returned to my mother. During the year I hadn’t seen her, she had changed greatly. Her dresses had grown longer and more faded. Her face was gaunt, and her knuckles stuck out. She looked at me for a while and said, “Do you remember me?”

  “Mother!” I ran to her.

  Still, it wasn’t like before. The school was far from the house, and every morning she would take me to the brick building. I didn’t inherit my parents’ courage. My Ruthenian classmates frightened me. Often I would stand next to the wall and tremble with fear.

  “Why are you afraid, my dear?” my mother would ask softly.

  “They scare me.”

  “They won’t do anything to you. They’re children like you.”

  During our year apart her face had sealed entirely, and she barely left the house. Sometimes one of her friends would come and sit with her in silence.

  A year later I was returned to my father. My mother walked me to the gate of the house, and, without exchanging a word with my father, put me in his care.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The train advances, and now it’s close to the little village of Gruenwald. In the past I would get off here and stop for a day or two. A Jewish couple lives in the village, refugees without children. I met them a few years after the war, and afterward I used to return and stay with them. They were friendly and hospitable. They had a long sleeping porch where they put up guests. In the evenings we would sit at the table and drink tea. They quietly bore the suffering of the camps within themselves, without unnecessary words and without slogans. He was about forty, she a bit younger. Because of their generous nature, people would call at their house, stay for a day or two, and pass on. They owned a grocery store with a housewares section. He was called Mark, she, Rosa. One evening, when I told them my name, they turned pale and silent. That sudden, sharp muteness afflicted me: I spoke with fervor, in words that weren’t my own, about my father and mother, who had suffered for the common good all their lives. My words did not soothe them. In fact, it was evident that the sound of my father’s name scalded them.

  That night I packed my valise and left without a word. In the empty station two drunks sprawled. They jeered at me and barked like dogs. I could have struck them, but as a rule I never hit people. Now, when the train stops in Gruenwald, I stay in my seat. From the window I can see that the grocery store has expanded. Customers stand by the shelves and at the cash register. The owners have certainly forgotten me, but I shall not forget the evenings I spent in their home. They left their scars.

  Now the train rises toward the thick forests of Gruenwald. Even in May the light does not come through. The train speeds into a tunnel of green, and the smell of moss returns me to a childhood home, this time to Grandfather’s dairy cellar.

  During the summer, when I was in my mother’s care she would send me by wagon to her native village, to her father and mother. She herself did not go back there. It was a small village surrounded by tall trees, and from a distance Grandfather’s low house resembled an abandoned kennel in the heart of the forest. That, of course, was just the way it looked. Inside the house were two long rooms, and attached to the house was a shed where Grandfather would sit most of the day with his books. He was the village rabbi, and toward evening many people would gather at his doorstep. They were tall, bearded Jews. The smell of horses wafted from their long garments, and whips never left their hands. The women were also tall and sturdy. They sat in covered wagons and nursed their babies. The children beneath the wagons looked like Gypsies. They ran about barefoot.

  The people would arrive toward evening. The neighing of the horses and the ringing of the bells would put an end to the silence. The men would get down from the wagons first and stand there, hesitant and confused. Then they would head for the entrance. Near the door they paused awkwardly. Grandmother would come out and speak to them softly, and they would return to their wagons.

  For hours I would sit and observe their waiting, which would continue until dark. I saw the women kneel and whimper beside their wagons, which were loaded with sacks. Sometimes Grandfather would come out of his shed and quiet those who wept. Grandmother was a short woman, withdrawn, and her movements were restrained and quick. Her contact with the people was quiet, without unnecessary gestures. Sometimes she would serve tea to those who were waiting. Those who wished to see the rabbi would present sacks of flour, vegetables, and bottles of oil. If their donation was too much, Grandfather would step out of his shed the next day and scold them. A rabbi is not a lord. He doesn’t eat more than he needs. You should give to the poor and the sick. There are many such people in the villages. At times like this Grandfather would seem like an ancient prophet.

  The local commissars of the Communist movement shrewdly
cast their spell over the young and drew them from their houses. Later, they would take them away to training camps. The best of them, and there were many, were sent to the Soviet Union. Prayers and pleas were of no use, nor was the intervention of the aged rabbi. They were seduced and left their homes and never returned. How did we sin? At night in the courtyard they would ring their hands and implore. Grandfather would stand in the doorway, mute as a stone.

  During those long bright summers, I learned the morning, afternoon, and evening prayers. Grandmother would sit and practice with me. She knew the prayers by heart. Sometimes we practiced so long that I would fall asleep on the porch. Grandfather seldom spoke to me. It was clear that he didn’t know how to talk to children.

  Mother didn’t ask at the end of the summer how it was or what Grandfather had said. I myself did not yet know how being in the forest had changed me. At night I would remember the tall, bearded men who gathered at the door of Grandfather’s house. Their sturdiness belied a certain helplessness. They expected the rabbi to say something to them, but since he said nothing, they would shift in place like tethered horses. Grandfather, hearing their dismay, would leave his shed and cry out, “Prayer and charity will ward off the evil decree. Go to the poor and give them the fruits of the season.” Then they would immediately mount their wagons, snap their whips on the backs of the horses, and be swallowed up by the darkness.

  When my father heard about my visit to Grandfather he said, “Why did you go there?” As if I had gone to a place I was too young for. Of course, he immediately realized it wasn’t my fault, and he blamed my mother.

  When I was in my father’s care, I didn’t go to school. Father would say, “Bourgeois education spoils the natural instincts. Besides, it’s better for a child to be among working people. He can learn what life is from them.”

  I spent most of the months with my father on trains, in third class, of course, with all the wretched and oppressed, crossing through villages, rivers, and forests. He loved the Ruthenian way of life from the depths of his soul, and he would pronounce every word in their language as if savoring a piece of honey cake. The Ruthenians were impressed by his accent, but they guessed, of course, that he wasn’t one of their own. In the party cells, father was well known. He was chairman of every meeting. I was silent witness to all the plans and plots that were hatched in closed sessions. Here they planned their acts of sabotage and arson. In particular, they harassed Jewish factory owners, who paid their workers little and late.

  Life in stables, near the animals, was for me a lasting magic. I very much wanted to stay awake to hear all the new words that flew at those meetings, but as soon as the pungent odors struck my nostrils, I would collapse into sleep.

  When I was seven my father went underground. For years afterward he went without daylight. We lived in tunnels, caves, abandoned houses, and barns on the outskirts of villages. During these times he didn’t talk with me much. In fact, he was so absorbed in his work that he seemed unaware of my existence. From his hiding places he organized strikes, acts of arson, demonstrations, and more. Then I realized the extent of his hostility toward the Jewish factory owners. He saw Jewish shops as the very source of evil. Without hesitation, he would send them up in flames. There were a number of Jews among the underground members, but they were just like Ruthenians, speaking their language and making their gestures. Like father, they hated the merchants. In those years I learned the scent of the earth and the fragrance of barley and corn. In every corner there was a mat to curl up on. Sometimes my father would awaken in the middle of the night and ask, “Where are you? Are you cold?” I knew that he had had a nightmare.

  When the police were after him, he would leave me with a peasant, the way you would a tame animal that there’s no need to tether. The peasant would go out to the fields in the morning, and I would remain in the courtyard. In the evening, when I would ask, “Where’s Father?” the peasant would raise his head, stare at me with some anger, and say, “How would I know?” When Father would appear in the middle of the night, there was no end to my joy.

  Sometimes he would wake me up and say, “You should go to school. Everybody goes to school.” These were old words that slipped out of his mouth by mistake. His true opinion was clear: a bourgeois school corrupts thought, and it’s best to remain far from its walls.

  For months I was dragged along with him. There was not a village in the region that we missed. In time I learned that the district where we were hiding was, in fact, a small swampy area that was almost uninhabited. The constant movement from place to place made me forget my mother’s face and our humble house in the city. When I finally returned to her she looked at me with sadness and asked, “Where have you been, my dear?”

  “In the villages.”

  “You didn’t go to school?”

  “No.”

  My mother bowed her head. I felt that the changes in me hurt her, but she didn’t say a word, as if she understood that what had been done could not be undone.

  I refused to go to school. In my wanderings with my father I had gotten used to dark places, and sudden light startled me. I looked forward to my father’s arrival, but for some reason he was slow to come. More and more, my life was confined to sitting in the yard or next to the window. In vain my mother tried to speak to me. The words that left her mouth sounded alien and artificial. Once I said to her, “Why don’t you speak Ukrainian?” Hearing that criticism, she bowed her head, as if her hidden wound had been opened again.

  CHAPTER

  9

  After three hours of rapid travel the train stops at Pracht. This is a small village on a hill surrounded by pines. I discovered the village at the start of my wanderings, and since then I do not pass it by. I suffered then from severe ulcers and was compelled to stop over even in remote stations. In Pracht I found a simple inn, but one furnished, if I may say so, with great thought: a large bed, a bathtub, and a window facing the meadows. Only in Pracht does my body cease its gallop. There I close my eyes and plunge into sleep. The presence of the owner, Mrs. Groton, a tall, aristocratic woman, is barely felt. Her soft steps are lightly absorbed by the peasant carpets. Were it not for the fears that drive me from place to place, I would remain here. In Pracht, I forget my legs, my weariness subsides, and I sink into dreamless sleep. Dreams have always been my enemy. There are dreams that grip me with such force that I have no choice but to get up in the middle of the night and flee for my life. A bench in a public park is better than these garish nightmares. In Pracht the dreams peel away from me, like a scab from a healed wound. After two days of uninterrupted slumber, my head is cleared of all visions, and I stand in the courtyard, empty, as if after a long illness.

  Mrs. Groton usually prepares breakfast for me on the porch. If it is raining, I sit in the dining alcove. We speak little, but she understands me even without words. All her movements are calm and silent. When I stand in the courtyard and see her next to the well, washing or hanging out the laundry, I understand that life is more than evil haste. Mrs. Groton—I feel the need to call out to her by name—what is the secret you conceal within yourself? I, of course, stifle my voice. I stand there and follow her measured movements, as if trying to decipher a code.

  In Pracht I sit and plan my moves. From here I try to pick up the trail of Nachtigel, the murderer of my parents. I have no doubt that he’s to be found in this region. Several times already I have gotten close to him, but he, with great cunning, managed to slip away. Most likely he lives in comfort, in a small, whitewashed house, surrounded by lawns and rose beds. I know that he was, when all is said and done, a minor murderer. Arch-murderers also live here undisturbed. But I have sworn that I will not rest until I find him. The thought that he is within striking distance excites me, and I prepare and hope I will stand the test.

  Years ago Mrs. Groton mentioned, by chance, that a man named Nachtigel stayed with her for a week. He was sixty, a quiet man, who sat with his papers most of the day and seemed to be an agent
for a well-known firm. The last night he got drunk and revealed to her that during the war he was in the East and was involved in hunting down Jews. On the basis of her impressions, and from what I know, I have no doubt that he was the murderer Nachtigel. If I were capable of sealing off the area I would trap him, but in this tranquil, green expanse, it’s hard enough to find a house even with a precise address.

  I have not given up. On the contrary, in recent years the desire to find him has grown even stronger. Were it not for my tendency to oversleep, my unwarranted fears, and my confusing nightmares, I would already have found him. Nevertheless, all is not in vain. I have several comrades who are on his trail, and they too are certain that the day is not far when we shall find him. Since I revealed to Mrs. Groton that I’m a Jew, she looks upon me with a kindly eye, serves me crisp toast for breakfast, good coffee, and cheesecake for dessert.

  She was born in Prague. In her youth she worked in the university administration, where she knew many Jewish students. Now, when she recalls them, a girlish smile lights her face. Like me, she hates the Austrians and fears them. Were she younger, she would return to her native city. I, for my part, promise her that after we liquidate the murderer, I’ll bring her to Prague. Thus we weave our plans.