“You're doing the right thing.” Father spoke in a loud voice.
“For the time being, I'm saving for a ticket.”
Father told him about Bucharest, about the exhibition, and about the anti-Semites swarming around everywhere.
“I can't imagine a world without anti-Semites.” Eddy spoke in a clear but weak voice.
“I must have deluded myself all these years,” said Father, imitating Eddy's voice.
“I don't even think about them.”
“Why?”
“They're part of nature; apparently there's nothing to be done.”
“And that's how it will always be?”
“That's how it seems to me,” said Eddy, and shrugged like a child.
Father was stirred by his words, embraced him, and repeated over and over: “It's good I met you. How many years has it been since I've seen you? You haven't changed at all, Eddy.”
“A pity that I can't change.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A man has to change.”
“You've already decided you're emigrating, and that's good.”
“It's too late, my friend.”
I noticed something: the skin on his fingers was transparent, and you could see his veins pulsing underneath. When he said, “It's too late, my friend,” a look of wonder filled his large right eye.
Then Father asked about the store and its owner, and about Eddy's friends at work. Eddy replied at length, and Father, who is usually impatient, did not interrupt him. He questioned him in great detail, and Eddy answered in the same detail.
“And you?” Eddy suddenly raised his head.
“I'm going to Storozynetz. Henia—we no longer live together—has come down with typhus and is in the hospital.”
Eddy lowered his head as if he was embarrassed that he had asked. Father added, “Henia worked at the primary school in Storozynetz. She's a dedicated teacher and was very highly thought of.”
“May God make her well again,” Eddy said in a voice that surprised Father.
“I see you're religious.”
“Insofar as I can be.”
“Strange,” said Father, a smile cracking the corners of his mouth.
“Why strange?”
“We didn't have fathers to teach us.”
“We did, only we didn't have the privilege of seeing them.”
“I didn't know that you're religious,” Father said again in a tone of wonder.
“I keep as much as I can,” said Eddy without looking at us.
“As for me,” Father confided to him, “I feel much closer to Christian rituals than to Jewish ones. Surely you remember how, at the orphanage, they would force us to pray. I couldn't stand the way we were forced.”
“I also couldn't stand it,” said Eddy in a quiet voice.
“And on Shabbos they didn't let us leave the yard.”
“You remember, I see.” Eddy laughed, and his large right eye filled his entire face.
Darkness began to fall. Father got to his feet and said, “We have to hurry to the train. It leaves at eight o'clock.” Eddy, who had sat there hunched over the entire time, also got up. Now I saw clearly how thin and short he was, as if his orphanhood had not left him. Father took some banknotes from his wallet, held them out to Eddy, and said, “That's from me toward your ticket to America.”
“What's with you?” said Eddy, stepping back.
“It's nothing.”
“I won't take it.”
“I beg you to.”
“I can't.”
“You must take it,” said Father in a tone that shocked me.
“And if I don't travel to America?” said Eddy in a different tone of voice.
“Then you'll give it back to me.”
Father had apparently put him on the spot, and Eddy seemed frozen in place. He stood there in silence, his head bent, and then he began to cry. At first it looked like he was shedding only a few tears, but the longer he stood there, the more the weeping spread throughout his body, making his shoulders shake.
“Forgive me,” said Father, and slipped the banknotes back into his coat pocket.
“You have to forgive me; I've refused your generosity.”
And so they parted. Father and I headed down to the station, and Eddy turned and went on his way. Father tried to explain it all to me, but I didn't understand anything he said. I felt that Eddy's refusal to accept his money had hurt him. As always after a hurt, Father raised his collar and buried his head inside it.
51
We missed the eight o'clock train and waited at the snack counter for the one departing at midnight. Father read a newspaper, lighting one cigarette from another. A cold night already crouched over the empty platforms. Here and there a porter could be seen dragging a bag or a suitcase. The warehouses alongside the platforms were locked with wide iron bars, and dim light rested on the protruding windowsills. I suddenly felt so sorry for Father that I touched his hand.
“What is it, dear?” He turned to me apprehensively.
“Nothing, Father.”
I saw how his speech had become muted and his cheeks sunken. People came and went, but there were no familiar faces among them.
After an hour and a half 's delay, the train arrived. The car was cold and empty. The suitcase and the duffel bag seemed small next to the seats, as if they had shrunk. Father wrapped me in a sweater and took off my shoes. The lights from the lamps came through the windowpanes, laying squares of light on the floor.
“Are you cold?” Father asked in a whisper.
“No.”
“In three and a half hours we'll be in Storozynetz.”
The words echoed through the empty car and then vanished. Father took a few swigs from his flask, and a groan escaped him. I again saw Eddy, from whom we had parted only a short while earlier. His large right eye was spread over his face, as if it was trying to hide his soul. Now I understood: Eddy had not cried over Father's fate but over himself and his own life, which had not changed since he had left the orphanage.
I was awake. The wide car was full of shimmering shadows that heightened my alertness and overwhelmed me.
Later I fell asleep, and I saw Mother emerging from brackish water. It was similar to what I had seen in the sum-mer—the river flowed in the same direction, and the water was black and viscous.
“Mother!” I called.
“What is it, my dear?” she said, and the black water flowed away from her. Some water stains clung to the upper part of her body.
“Mother, please take away those stains.”
“It's nothing,” Mother said, and shook them off, the way she shook dust off her coat. Now it seemed that she was about to kneel down, spread out a cloth, and prepare sandwiches. These movements are imprinted in my mind, and I can easily imitate them.
But this time she did not spread out a cloth; instead she drew out of her bag the books and notebooks that I had left in Victor's splendid home in Bucharest, laying them on the ground. For some reason they seemed very tattered, as if someone other than I had been studying from them.
“Mother, did you bring all this here?” My mouth dropped open.
“It wasn't heavy,” she said, and showed me the bag.
“And you didn't bring sandwiches?” I asked, and immediately regretted my question.
“I did prepare them,” she said, “but they spoiled.”
“They got black?” I asked.
“How do you know?”
I looked at the water. It flowed black, and in the bends of the river, a sharp metallic light glinted on its surface. Mother wasn't surprised by all this oddness; on the contrary, there was a strange ease about her.
“Mother.” I raised my eyes to her.
“What is it, my dear?” she said.
“I know that you've married André,” I told her.
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows.”
“But you weren't supposed to know.”
&
nbsp; “If everyone knows it, so do I,” I said, and we both laughed, as if we had been caught in a white lie.
52
We reached the station at Storozynetz early in the morning. Frost sparkled on the ground and on the platforms, and icicles hung on the drainpipes, but the sky was blue and clear, and a large sun appeared on the horizon.
“I need a cup of coffee; that's just what I need,” said Father, stomping his feet.
Here, too, there weren't many people. What few there were hurried to the front entrance. Someone shouted, “Where are you?” But there was no response.
Seeing the station and its familiar entrance cheered me up. For a moment it seemed that we had come here only to drink our morning coffee at Café Vienna, renowned for its splendid cakes, and then go off somewhere else. The café owner, who did not remember us, turned to us and said, “Gentlemen, you're up early today. The first rolls won't be coming out of the oven for another half an hour; why not read the paper in the meantime.”
Alongside the partition between the café and the bakery was a counter beyond which you could see the fiery oven. In the hall itself, the dimness of night still reigned. The proprietor returned, promising that coffee and cake would soon be served.
Father lit a cigarette. I clearly remembered coming here with Mother. She was wearing a blue poplin dress. We sat next to the window, and it felt like a continuation of our summer vacation. I had no idea at the time that it was only a prelude to those long and meandering days, that I would lose Halina, and that Mother would find herself a lover. Disaster seemed distant then, as if it belonged to other people and not to me.
The cheesecake arrived and with it steaming coffee. Father tasted it and said, “Excellent.” The grayness in his face faded away, and only traces of it remained under his eyes. The café owner came over and offered us another cup of coffee. Father said, “Of course.” He praised the coffee and the cake.
“I used to come here with Halina.” The words popped out of my mouth.
“Who?”
“Halina.”
“I don't remember her.”
“Halina. The girl who was killed.”
The word “killed,” which had never before passed my lips, was like a flare in my memory. I immediately saw the funeral, with flutists playing all the way from the village to the graveyard. I also saw the clear skies opening to receive Halina. Because Mother had been in a hurry to get back, we didn't attend the funeral meal and didn't see her full resurrection. I was angry with Mother: she was head over heels in love.
Father asked the proprietor how to get to the hospital; he stood in the doorway and pointed, saying, “Straight ahead, straight ahead.”
It was hard to grasp that we were about to visit Mother, sick in the very same place where Halina had been. I saw only Halina, as if both the place and the way to it belonged to her. Father didn't speak, and I didn't disturb him. Winter still crouched everywhere, and we walked along slowly, as if we weren't in a hurry.
In the hospital forecourt many homeless people lay around and thin dogs strayed among the low carts. The homeless were momentarily taken aback when we appeared, and shouted, “Jews!” Father stood there and stared at them.
“Jew, what are you looking at?” one of them said.
Father strode over to him, and the man fled for dear life.
We entered the corridor and climbed the steps. The man at the desk apparently remembered me, but responded with a shrug to Father's question. “Not with us. Perhaps at Wexler's, the private hospital. Or perhaps at the monks' hospice.”
“Where is the Wexler hospital?”
“Not far.”
As we left, one of the homeless shouted out rudely, “What are you doing here, Jew?”
Father didn't hesitate. He grabbed the man by his coat and shook him. The man must have been shocked by Father's reaction and said, “I didn't mean you.”
“So who, then?”
“The bearded Jews.”
“Ask forgiveness. Apologize right now.”
“I'm asking.”
“That's not how you ask.”
“What should I say?”
“Say: ‘I ask forgiveness of all Jews.’ ”
The man repeated this word for word, and Father let him go.
“Run for it!” his friends urged him, but the man stood where he was, as if in the grasp of paralysis.
53
We set out in search of Dr. Wexler's hospital. Suddenly I saw Mother as she was back in Czernowitz. She was wearing a thick coat and her steps were heavy and cumbersome; she looked like an old peasant woman. I wanted to rub this image out of my eyes, but it was stuck there.
We asked passersby about the hospital. No one knew Dr. Wexler, and those who had heard of the hospital did not know how to direct us there. Finally we found a Jew who showed us the way and blessed us. The sun rose into the horizon, lighting up fields and trees that were bare of leaves. The white snow had disappeared, but clumps of gray snow still lay along the fields. In the distance small peasant cottages could be glimpsed, thin trails of smoke rising from their chimneys.
We reached Dr. Wexler's hospital by midday. It was a two-story structure, with a guard at the entrance. To Father's inquiry as to whether a woman by the name of Henia was a patient there, the guard scanned a list and responded with a decisive “No.” We didn't know Mother's new surname, and so Father asked to see Dr. Wexler. The guard stood up and said, “Dr. Wexler is busy examining patients at the moment and cannot see anyone.”
“When will he be available, sir?”
“I don't know.”
Father put down the suitcase and the duffel bag and lit a cigarette. I saw the anger coursing through his hands, and I was afraid. I used to think that when Father got angry he broke only furniture. Now I knew that he was liable to raise his hand and start hitting people.
Father asked the guard if it was a long way to the monastery hospital.
“It's far.”
“And can one rent a wagon?”
“No.” The guard answered briefly and reluctantly; it must have enraged Father. Father went up to him and warned him with a look, but apparently the man had no idea what Father was capable of and said, “Get out of here!” Father hesitated no longer and smacked him. Then he went straight in, dragging me with him and leaving the bags outside.
The staff must have seen what Father had done, and they stood there, cowed.
“I'm looking for a patient called Henia,” said Father wildly.
“We don't have a woman by that name,” replied a woman in a choked voice.
“How many patients do you have?” Father continued in the same wild vein.
“Twenty-four.”
“I want to see them.”
A door opened and there stood Dr. Wexler. A tall, thin man, he sized us up with a cool, restrained gaze. In response to his question about what we wanted, Father's answer rang out clear, “I'm looking for a patient by the name of Henia, and I want to know if she's here.”
“Her surname?”
“We don't know.”
Dr. Wexler must have seen that Father would not be swayed because he said, “There is nothing to hide; we'll show him everything.” We went from ward to ward and saw all the patients, with their sickly, frozen expressions. Mother was not among them.
“These are our patients,” said Dr. Wexler, and stepped back.
“Has no one been released in the past few days?”
“No one.”
“I'm sorry,” said Father, and grabbed my hand.
“Thank God that there are things that can be ascertained,” said Dr. Wexler.
Father made no comment, and we went out.
On the way, Father talked and talked, trying to prove to me that everything was the guard's fault: he had been rude and had shouted; he had wanted to throw us out. Had he but spoken politely, Father would not have had to hit him, and everything would have gone fine. “Those guards really like to lord it over everyone; they need to be
taught a lesson.”
Still, he wasn't pleased with what had happened, for after he had explained himself to me, he fell silent and buried his head in his coat. He didn't utter a word all the way back to Storozynetz.
We went into a restaurant. Father ordered borscht with cream and corn pie and asked the woman who owned the place how far it was to the monks' infirmary.
“It's not that far, but the road is terrible and very winding; you'd be better off renting a wagon.”
“There's a wagon here for rent?”
“Of course there is,” she said, and revealed a mouth full of small teeth.
“Would you be so good as to order us a wagon?” Father said to her, as if trying to placate her.
“I'll do it gladly,” she replied, and left to prepare the meal.
The dishes were tasty, and Father asked for more.
“Strange,” said Father.
“What's strange?” I asked.
Father lifted his head from the plate and did not answer my question. His forehead was clear, as was the area around his eyes, but it still seemed to me that he was tormented by thoughts that gave him no rest.
For dessert, the owner brought us plum compote and said, “This is on the house.” Looking at her, I saw that she liked her guests and wanted to make them happy. There was a purity in her expression. Father asked if she had ordered the wagon.
“I certainly did, and it's waiting for you.” She spoke in a child's voice.
“Thank you,” said Father.
“It's nothing,” said the woman, in a voice that reminded me, for some reason, of another woman.
54
We set out toward evening. The restaurant owner was right: it really was a winding, precipitous road, and we dismounted from the wagon several times to make it easier on the horses. The driver cursed both the steep ascent and the horses. Father held out the flask to him, and he took more and more swigs. In the end he turned toward us and asked, “You're Jews, aren't you?”
“Correct,” said Father with emphasis.
“What's with Jews at a monastery?”
“We have someone sick at the infirmary.”
“A sick Jew?”
All Whom I Have Loved Page 14