All Whom I Have Loved

by Aharon Appelfeld

  In the evening Father returned tired and depressed, his face dark and somber. It was clear that he had had several drinks, but they didn't relieve his depression. When Father was depressed his face became taut and his jaw clenched; the sockets of his eyes darkened and his eyes seemed to sink into them. He prepared our evening meal without uttering a word.

  36

  I sit at home looking through a book on the history of art. The word “expressionism” crops up on almost every page. It's as if it's a magic word, and if I knew how to pronounce it, I'd be enlightened, and wiser. Two of Father's drawings are in the book. In the first you can make out utensils and fruit, and in the second, a young woman wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. The woman looks like Mother, not the Mother who was here some days ago, but the Mother who was with me over the summer vacation by the tributary of the Prut.

  Now I can picture Father as a beloved prince borne aloft on his admirers' shoulders, greeted in every city with flowers. Father does not speak, as the way of princes is not to speak. But now there is no one who knows that Father is a prince. In the city he has many acquaintances, but they also don't know that he is a prince. They speak to him as an equal. If they only knew, they would kneel before him. Our landlord has worked out a bit of the secret. Once he said to me, “Your father is a real prince; it's a pity that he doesn't pray.” I showed the landlord the book, and I pointed to Father's name and to his two paintings.

  “I didn't know that he was a painter, but I knew he was a real prince,” he told me.

  “How can you tell?”

  “By his features. There are many real princes among the Jews, but they've forgotten who they are and they behave like anyone else.”

  “Why have they forgotten?”

  “It must be God's will.”

  “And when will they wake up from their forgetting?”

  “Who knows?”

  At this time of the year the landlord works in the yard. When it rains he's in the cowshed or the barn. He walks slowly, mumbling to himself. Sometimes he speaks to the animals as if to partners who labor alongside him. Once I saw a cow giving birth to a calf. I could not bear the sight of the blood and the pain, and I went into the house.

  I want to ask Father about the days when he would paint and travel with his paintings from city to city. But I don't ask because I know there are secrets of which one must not speak. Father guards a big secret; if you get too near to his secret, his face darkens.

  Once, he saw me looking through the book about the history of art and said, “That's not for you.” I kept quiet and did not tell him that I had discovered his secret. “Why don't you read your own books?”

  “They don't interest me.” I didn't hide it from him.

  A smile spread over his face, and I knew that he understood me.

  At night we go to the church refectory. It is full, and they serve corn pie, with milk and cream, at the counters. Father meets many acquaintances here, and they slap him on the shoulder. They say that the old man is sick and that it is doubtful that he will preach. It's a shame that here they don't know that Father is a prince. If they knew, they would carry him like they carry the venerable old man. True, Father is a silent prince, and he guards his secret behind seven doors. If he would only let me bring along that book, The History of Art in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and show them the photo of Father and his two pictures, then they would believe me. They would cheer and crown him.

  This evening the old man does not speak, but everyone sings. It is a thunderous song that shakes the walls of the hall. People cover their faces with their hands, and Father also sings with his eyes closed.

  Then we walk for hours in the fine rain, visiting churches and galleries. Father does not like the pictures in the galleries, and he is particularly angry with a gallery that shows Jews in traditional clothes, calling it a desecration of man and other names that I don't understand. Before we take the tram, we go into a tavern and Father downs a drink or two. In the tram he suddenly says to me, “There are things that we will never understand.”

  I know his mind is elsewhere, and yet I still feel that he is offering me a fragment of his mystery.

  37

  Cold, gray days follow and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Snow falls darkly and incessantly, covering the roofs and the fences. Even the mighty Prut stops roaring. Father comes home drunk and depressed and throws himself onto the bed. I don't know what to do, so I just sit next to him. When his depression worsens, he tears up papers and drawings, tossing them into the mouth of the furnace. This is no longer anger, but despair. The work at his school leaves him totally exhausted, the students have no talent, and the administration drains his vitality. “What am I asking, after all—just a little time and a studio!” he bursts out, and it seems to me that blood will spurt from his mouth, and I am shocked, frightened.

  Every morning, while it's still dark, Father dresses and leaves to catch the first tram. His departure freezes the darkness of the room, and it seeps into me throughout the day. Sometimes I feel that I must be a burden to him and I want to slip away. When I told him that, he began to cry. Now he occasionally cries, and it's more frightening than his anger.

  The landlord comes in every evening, bringing us provisions. Father scarcely talks to him and asks nothing. The landlord doesn't take offense. “Arthur, my dear, you mustn't despair, there is a God in heaven,” he says. Father raises his eyes as if to say, “Why should you torture me, too?” The landlord lowers his head, mutters a short blessing, and goes out.

  But to me the landlord says something that shakes me: “God has removed Himself from him, and until he returns to his forefathers, he'll be tormented by demons. Where there is no God, there are demons; they breed like insects.”

  “What should one do?”

  “Pray.”

  There is a kind of certainty in his voice that shocks me.

  I don't remember how long this darkness lasts. With every passing day Father's face darkens, and the trembling of his hands increases. I want to help him, but I don't know how. One evening he returns home drunk and happy, a telegram in his hand. A distant friend—a forgotten friend who lives in Bucharest and was once a gallery owner—writes that he is putting a house at Father's disposal and has prepared a generous advance for him. The telegram ends: come to us at once; those who love you await you. Father reads it and tears roll down his cheeks. The good news affects him so that he can hardly stand on his feet. We drink coffee and do not eat supper. Father calls Victor a savior from heaven. He swings me high, up to the ceiling, proclaiming jubilantly, “Bucharest! Who would have imagined that redemption would come from Bucharest?!” After this he says no more, and I see tiredness overcome him. He sleeps deeply, and his breathing is regular. I cover him with a blanket and am glad that God has hastened to his aid.

  Snow falls, and from day to day it grows colder. The Prut changes color, and now it is a dark blue, a hard and unpleasant color.

  I sit at home and look at books. Once a day the landlord comes to the door and gives me a pear or an apple. Father tells me that at the end of the month we will be on our way.

  “Don't forget that you're Jewish,” the landlord tells me when he comes back from the church, smelling of incense and in high spirits.

  “I'll remember,” I say, so as to make him happy.

  “Jews tend to forget it.”

  In the evening we usually go downtown; we sit in a café or go into a tavern. Father is full of energy. He tells his acquaintances about his friend from way back who has invited him to Bucharest. Everyone's happy for him, joking around and wishing him inspiration for his work.

  One evening he is set upon by a drunk, who calls him a dirty Jew. Father demands that the drunk apologize, but the man continues to curse him. Father hits him across the face, and the drunk collapses on the floor. Immediately, other drunks gather around, threatening Father. Father is quick to push them away, striking out fearlessly. I am afraid. On the way home he tells me, “You mustn't
let wicked people get cocky; you have to beat them.” It has been a long time since he's spoken in full, clear sentences. After that he calms down and is happy, telling me of his plans and about Bucharest, a gracious city with many galleries—a gateway to France. I'm wary of his enthusiasm. After he becomes enthusiastic, depression engulfs him.

  The landlord takes care of us, and every evening he brings us one of the dishes he's prepared. Last night he brought us goat cheese. Father promises to write him a letter from Bucharest. I've noticed that with Father he doesn't talk about the things that he discusses with me—with Father he talks mainly about fields, crops, his neighbors, and how they're all being taxed. However, this time he allows himself to ask, “What are you going to do in the big city?”

  “I'll paint.”

  “May God guide what you do,” he says, and extends his hand.

  Father bows his head, surprised at the blessing that the landlord bestowed on him.

  Father packs up his books and sketchbooks and gives away the household utensils to people he knows. The landlord mutters angrily, “You're too generous. A man has to hang on to what he has,” and he refuses to accept the big grandfather clock. Father persuades him by saying, “It's a loan, not a gift. The day will come when I'll take it back.” The landlord consents, but not without reminding Father of the well-known proverb, Whoever hates gifts will live.

  This packing up saddens me and reminds me of how Mother had packed. In just a few days we will be on our way, and I assume I won't see Mother anymore. Many of her expressions have already fled from my mind. Now I recall only what she looked like most recently, and the heavy coat she was wearing. I am sad that she has changed so much.

  We go downtown every evening. It is cold and dry. The snow squeaks underfoot, and heavy shadows cling to the fences of the municipal park. I dress warmly. Father has bought me a pair of leather boots, a scarf, and a fur hat. “Bucharest is cold in winter, and we must have warm clothes,” Father says, as if he has bought them for himself as well. One of Father's admirers, a tall woman in a luxurious fur coat, sidles up to him in the café and says, “In what way have we insulted you that you should leave us and set out for Bucharest?”

  “Bucharest, apparently, understands the soul of an artist better than Czernowitz.” Father speaks in a tone that I have never heard him use.

  “We love him passionately—and we won't relinquish him so easily.”

  Father draws himself up, lifts her hand, and kisses it. He opens his heart and says, “Don't worry, I won't forget Czernowitz; this city is planted deep within my heart, and it will go with me wherever I go. A birthplace cannot be uprooted from the heart—even one that has been hard on you.”

  “Thank you,” says the woman. Without raising her head from her collar, she turns and leaves. Father stands where he is and follows her with his eyes.

  “Strange,” says Father. We leave the café and go into a tavern. There he downs several drinks, and I must have fallen asleep, for the following morning I find myself in bed, as if I have been tossed up from the stormy waters of the Prut.

  38

  The next morning the landlord took four crates of books to the railway station in his wagon. The crates were to travel via the freight train while we followed them on the night train. I felt sad about the room that we were going to abandon. Father was shoving sketches and paintings into the blazing fire. The landlord tried to prevent this destructiveness but couldn't. Father was adamant: the flames alone could correct them.

  In the evening the landlord brought us to the railway station. Father embraced him, saying, “You've been a brother and a true friend to us.”

  “May God bless you.”

  The landlord turned to me. “Don't forget what I told you.”

  “I won't forget,” I promised.

  “May God bless you both and keep you,” he said. “You deserve it.” He bowed and climbed back up onto the wagon.

  And so we parted from the landlord. We still had another two and a half hours till the train would leave. Father was in a good mood. He bought me an ice cream and called the city a province that fattens up its rich. His enthusiasm does not usually last very long, an hour at the most, and sometimes even less, but this time I saw that he was comfortable with the parting. His eyes shone, and the dark rings around them had faded. A man called out to him. It was an old Jew who had once worked in the orphanage and recognized him. Father was glad to see him and invited him for a drink. The Jew refused. We sat at the station entrance, and Father told him that he was now leaving for Bucharest, where a spacious house and studio awaited him. The Jew listened with his head bent and didn't look excited. Finally he asked, “And a living?”

  “Absolutely!” Father answered confidently.

  They spoke of what had become of the boys from the orphanage—those who had remained in the city and those who had traveled far. The old man could recall all their names, and for a moment he looked at us intently, as if trying to fathom what awaited us far off. His gaze must have frightened Father, who immediately flooded him with talk, as if trying to deflect him. The old man understood that he had made a mistake and lowered his eyes. He stood silently, as if wishing to get away. To our surprise he then stretched out his hands and blessed us. First Father, and then me. Father was embarrassed and his face became flushed.

  We entered a tavern. In the tavern Father met some poor acquaintances and ordered sandwiches and drinks for them. At the same time he told them that in another hour and a half we would be on the night train to Bucharest.

  “Why are you going?” one spoke up.

  “Because here all everyone cares about is money and there's no compassion in their hearts. The artists can starve.”

  “And in Bucharest?”

  “In Bucharest artists get support and they can work.”

  “And won't you miss the city where you were born?”

  “No.”

  “Strange.”

  “Not strange at all. No one has offered me a studio here, or an advance. I teach forty-six hours a week, and when I get home my hands are shaking from tiredness.”

  “They shake from the drink and not from tiredness.”

  “You shut up!” Father raised his voice.

  “I'm speaking the truth. Jews have no respect for their city, for their birthplace. They're ready to go anywhere that will offer them more. A birthplace isn't a shop where you go in, buy something, and leave!”

  “I'm leaving it gladly—and you, too.”

  “Now you know why Jews are hated.”

  Father did not hold himself back but got up and hit the man in the face. For his part, the man did not sit idly by with his hands in his pockets. “The Jews are worms!” he shouted.

  “But not pigs!” shouted Father, and went on hitting him.

  Those around them tried to separate the two brawlers, but Father was furious, cursing in every language he knew. He wouldn't let anyone near him. Eventually someone came and threw him outside. Father's face was covered in blood, and he tried to wipe it off with his handkerchief. The blood was spurting out, staining his shirt and pants, but Father looked far from wretched. A kind of fire flamed in his face. He cursed the town and its people and shouted, “I'll get you! You just wait, you bastards!”

  At the station we found a faucet and Father washed his face. He took a shirt out of the suitcase, and turning toward the tavern, he shouted, “I'm not through with you!” Then we immediately got onto the train.

  39

  The train speeds along, not stopping at small stations. At night, the stations look like dimly lit warehouses. Bags and people are all mixed together, and small children jump around on the platforms and screech at the approaching trains. Father is tired and falls into a deep sleep.

  I remember Mother. It's been many days since I've seen her face. Now I feel that I didn't behave well toward her. When she stood in the rain and said to me, “Farewell, my love,” I stood staring at her as if it didn't affect me. I hadn't even walked w
ith her as far as the tram, and now we were about to treat her shabbily, disappearing on her. She would certainly return here someday, dressed in the same heavy coat and clumsy galoshes, and she would look for us, and the landlord would say, “They've gone to Bucharest … they didn't leave an address.” Mother would stand there as if in shock. She would try to put together a few words and would repeat the question, and the landlord would give her the same answer.

  Halina once told me that God tests us all the time, like He did with Abraham. He tests children with small trials and grown-ups with more difficult ones. At that time I didn't understand what she was talking about. Now, I understand: God also tested me and I failed the test. When the time comes, I'll surely be punished because I didn't keep to what Halina used to drum into me morning and night: honoring one's mother is more important than honoring one's father. Because I didn't honor my mother, everyone insulted her. Whenever an insult landed on her, she would bury her head in the collar of her heavy coat.

  “Mother, we'll see each other soon,” I say with my last ounce of strength, and then I fall asleep.

  When I awaken, the blood-red dawn is already outside the window. My head is resting against Father's side. He tells me that we are very near Bucharest and that in Bucharest we will eat breakfast. I try to picture the railway station in Bucharest. I imagine it to be like the station at Czernowitz, but I know that my imagination is playing tricks on me.