All Whom I Have Loved

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “You'd suppose,” said Father in an affected tone.

  “And still, what's with Jews at a monastery?”

  “Jews also believe in God,” Father replied in a different tone of voice.

  “Not the new Jews.”

  “The new ones are not that different from the old ones.”

  “Completely different,” the peasant said firmly.

  “In what way?”

  “The new ones don't pray.”

  “And what else?”

  “They don't fast on Yom Kippur.”

  “What's wrong with that?”

  “People who have no God are frightening.”

  “Who do they frighten?”

  “Us.”

  “They don't frighten me.” Father made a funny gesture.

  “True,” said the wagon driver.

  “Why ‘true’?”

  “Because sir's apparently one of them.”

  Father laughed. The driver's wit had caught him off guard, and he said, “I see you know Jews well.”

  “I grew up with them.”

  “With the old Jews or with the new ones?”

  “Both of them.”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “The old ones keep to themselves, and the new ones travel to the city to learn medicine.”

  “True, true.” Father laughed again, and it was clear that the wagon driver's insights amused him.

  We reached the monastery with the last light. Father asked about the cost of the journey, and the driver named his price. Father doubled it and handed him the banknotes. The wagon driver was astonished. He shook his head and smiled.

  We got down from the wagon and stood at the gate.

  “May God bless you,” the driver called out from his seat.

  “And you, too,” Father replied in the same tone of voice.

  I immediately saw that this was a different place from the ones I had seen till now. A tall monk stood at the entrance to welcome us, and Father hastened to explain why we had come. The monk listened, and I saw that his attentiveness not like ours. “You're looking for Henia Drushenko?” The monk wanted to be sure.

  “Correct.”

  “She is, indeed, in our infirmary.”

  “And may we see her?”

  “I should think so.”

  I looked up and saw that the entrance was decorated with pictures of saints and that the windows were of stained glass. From the nearby hall came a burst of organ music accompanied by a choir of male voices.

  “I'll take you to the waiting room,” said the monk, and we went straight down a long corridor that was lit with tall wax candles. At its end there was a spacious waiting room. “Please be seated. You'll be called,” said the monk, and he retraced his steps.

  Here the music could not be heard. From the long, narrow, stained-glass windows, a blue light streamed into the hall. The silence was so thick you could almost touch it.

  “How do you feel?” asked Father, taking my hand.

  “I'm all right,” I said. I was not afraid, but I had the feeling that this hall led to a long corridor, just like the one we had passed through, and at the end of it there was another hall, just like the hall we were sitting in. For some reason, this thought made me dizzy, and I closed my eyes.

  Father got to his feet and went to look at the paintings on the walls. He liked them, and he smiled faintly, the way he always did when he was satisfied with some picture or object.

  I closed my eyes and saw the road that we had taken with the wagon driver. The driver's behavior had not been pleasant. He had cursed and lashed at the horses without mercy, but Father had not been angry with him. The responses the driver gave Father had amused him, and he had smiled and laughed the entire way. Even now, as he stood next to the pictures, a trace of that same smile played on his lips.

  “They've forgotten about us.” Father turned to me. “Good that there are ancient pictures here that one can look at. These old pictures are always amazing, because they don't try to be more than what they are—do you understand?” I did not understand, but I didn't dare ask him to explain. Most of what Father says is beyond me, and yet still I like to hear it.

  55

  A little later, a monk entered and Father introduced himself. “Arthur Rosenfeld. I used to be married to Henia. And this is her son.”

  “Henia is very sick.” The monk did not hide the truth.

  “Is she talking?” Father asked.

  “Very seldom, only when she opens her eyes.”

  “We would like to see her.” Father spoke in a quiet voice.

  “Come with me.”

  Again we went down a long corridor that was lit with tall wax candles. Here and there in the arched ceiling there'd be a dark skylight. For some reason, I suddenly recalled Tina's small, wondering face, when Victor and Father had loaded the suitcase and duffel bag on the sleigh. Her wonder had been intense, as if she realized that from now on her life would no longer be what it had been. I tried to uproot this memory from my mind and think only about Mother. But my efforts were futile; only when Father held out his hand to me did I understand that at the end of the corridor we would stop, drop to our knees, and fall to the floor.

  The monk stopped walking, and we found ourselves standing next to a white iron bedstead. In the bed lay a woman, her head sunk into a pillow and her eyes closed. I did not recognize her, and neither did Father. “That's Henia?” he asked falteringly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Henia,” whispered Father. The woman in the bed did not move. Father turned his head, as if looking to see if anyone was behind him, and approached the bed.

  “Does Henia open her eyes?” Father asked in a subdued voice.

  “Sometimes.”

  “We have come from far off, from Bucharest. The bad news caught up with us there, and we immediately decided to come here. There are things that a person must do.” Father spoke distractedly.

  “I understand,” said the monk.

  I had the feeling that Father was not speaking to the point, and that the monk would soon interrupt him to point out his mistake. The monk did in fact change the tone of his speech; he turned to Father and asked, “Where will you spend the night?”

  “We would like to return to Storozynetz.”

  “It's late, good sir, and it's doubtful that a wagon can be found.”

  “And is there an inn in these parts?”

  “There is, sir.”

  “Very good,” said Father, as though he had finally found the solution to a mystery.

  And so the visit was more or less over. The monk turned and we followed him out. At the entrance he showed us the way to the inn.

  “Sir.” Father turned suddenly to the monk and said in a practical voice, “What has Henia got?”

  “Typhus, sir.”

  “And since then she hasn't opened her eyes?”

  “She's opened them, sir.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She muttered disjointed words, which none of us could understand.”

  Father lowered his head, as if the monk was not talking but lashing his head with a whip.

  The walk to the inn took about half an hour. Father said nothing; he mumbled to himself and finally asked me if I was cold. I knew that as soon as he got to the inn he would order a drink, and that's what he did. After he had gulped it down, he rubbed his hands, turned to me, and asked, “What shall I order for you, dear?”

  I asked for a fried egg with bread and butter. I was tired, and what I had seen that day returned to me. The thought that Mother was very sick and lying in a monastery did not preoccupy me. It seemed that our staying here was a preparation for another journey, a longer one, to a place where we would meet Mother again. Father downed some drinks and his mood picked up. He asked the innkeeper about the monastery and the infirmary. The innkeeper did not hold back his opinion. “Corrupt to its very foundations.”

  “The monks or the workers?”

  “Bo
th the monks and the workers.”

  “Strange,” said Father. “You'd expect that a holy place would be pure.”

  “There is no purity in this world, you mark my words,” said the innkeeper, exposing a mouthful of white teeth. After that Father sat with him, and they chatted like old friends. But then, suddenly, one of the drunks got up, came over to our table, and called out, “What are Jews doing in this holy place?”

  “Jews are people, too, and God dwells also in their hearts.” Father spoke as peasants speak.

  “Who said that the Jews are also people?”

  “I said it,” said Father.

  “I say that they are devils.”

  “I'm not a devil,” said Father. “I'm flesh and blood, and I'm just like anyone else.”

  “Ah—there's the lie.”

  “What lie?”

  “There's the lie.” It was clear that the peasant had no more words, and that he would only repeat the same ones with different emphasis. The innkeeper, who just a few moments before had talked with Father in such a friendly way, did not intervene. He must not have caught on that Father was Jewish; when he realized it, he held himself aloof.

  In the meantime, more drunks gathered around our table. There were no blows, only empty threats. Father shouted, “All anti-Semites will have to give account, and the day will come when they'll be put into the same prison in which the art critics are put.” Everyone laughed and laughed, waving hands and bottles. The tumult went on for a long time. Finally the drunks dispersed, and Father turned to ask the innkeeper if there was a room for the night.

  “There is,” said the innkeeper unenthusiastically.

  “We're dead tired,” said Father. I was completely exhausted, and yet I still caught the phrase “dead tired,” and I repeated it to myself until it penetrated the darkness of my head.

  56

  The following day we returned to the monastery. The monk at the entrance and the monk in the waiting room both welcomed us and bowed, and soon we were standing by the white iron bed. Now I recognized Mother's face. Her hair had grayed and her cheeks were sunken, but her smile, or what remained of it, hovered about her lips.

  The monk left, and the two of us stood there. A pure light streamed in from the windows and washed over the pictures and the statues that were set into the walls. I knew Mother's sleep, but this wasn't her sleep. Her head was sunk deep into the pillow, and a strange paleness covered her face.

  The longer we stood there, the clearer it became that we would not be able to draw Mother out of this deep sleep. Father took a firm hold of my hand and said, “Let's go.” But the moment he uttered those words, Mother opened her eyes and looked at us. “Arthur,” she said, and immediately closed her eyes again.

  We remained by the bed, Father on his knees and me at his side. We heard the praying of the monks and the choir accompanying them. I saw angels hovering in the sky and felt that I, too, was ascending.

  The monk came back to us, and Father told him that Mother had opened her eyes, recognized him, and spoken his name. “That's a good sign,” the monk said, and we left with him.

  “And where is her husband?” asked Father in a chillingly practical voice.

  “They've parted.”

  “I didn't know.”

  “The headmaster from her school came once.”

  “And no one else?”

  “No one.”

  We went outside, walked around the monastery, and then returned to the inn. It was empty, and we sat next to the window. Father had a drink and I ate a sandwich. The long journey now seemed like a dream taking place in a steep valley with no way out. Father's attempts to get out proved futile; the walls were sheer and the canyon narrow as we went forward.

  Father could not calm down. We returned to the monastery, and the monk at the entrance told us that Mother had been brought there a month ago, critically ill. The doctors had taken care of her, but although her situation had improved, her life was still in danger.

  “What can we do?” Father asked with an exaggerated gesture.

  “Pray.”

  “And if we don't know how to pray?” asked Father, using the plural for some reason.

  “Don't worry, sir, we'll do that on your behalf.”

  “I thank you with all my heart,” said Father, as if the man had removed a heavy weight from his shoulders. But it seemed to be only a temporary relief. Father was angry, and mostly with himself. The journey to Bucharest and the exhibition now seemed to him like a nightmare.

  We circled the walls of the monastery again. The walk was long and tiring, and toward evening we returned to the inn. Now it was full. The smell of vodka and tobacco hung densely in the stale air. Suddenly, a man emerged out of the tobacco smoke and approached Father. Father did not recognize him at first, but then he fell on his neck and cried out, “Kuba!”

  Kuba had been Father's friend at the orphanage, and they had studied painting together at the academy. His first exhibit was held at the Raphael Gallery, and he had made a name for himself. A year later, he disappeared. Rumor had it that he had sailed to America. Now the mystery was solved: Kuba had bought a house in the Carpathians and retreated there to lead a life of piety. Kuba now looked like one of the Jews whom I had seen in the synagogue at Storozynetz; his beard was long and thick, and he wore a peaked cap. He came into town once a month to stock up on provisions. Father asked if he had a family, and Kuba replied immediately: six sons and a daughter.

  We went out to his wagon, and Father helped him load up the provisions. Then he told Kuba about Mother and her illness, and about the long sleep into which she had sunk. Kuba's body seemed to shrink with the bad news, and he closed his eyes. Father said, “I will be here until the doctors draw her out of her deep sleep.”

  They stood there, talking, recalling people and places and, of course, the orphanage. Kuba seemed to listen with his entire being, and he kept embracing Father and promising to come and see us. For a long time we stood watching his wagon as it disappeared in the distance. And we were silent, as if something wondrous had befallen us.

  57

  We went back to see Mother the next day, and we were astonished. Mother was sitting up, leaning against two heavy pillows, her eyes wide open. Father sank down onto his knees, and I followed him. Mother's face was turned toward us, but her gaze was somewhere else. “Henia,” whispered Father, but Mother did not respond. The elderly monk who was standing next to us and who was a witness to the miracle also sank to his knees. Father pressed both his hands to the floor, as if he were trying to push himself up.

  Suddenly, Mother shut her eyes and her face closed. The monk looked at us as if to hint: it's best to leave her; the patient needs complete rest. Father got to his feet, and I did as he did.

  “She's feeling better,” said Father.

  “True,” said the monk.

  “Thank God,” said Father, as if he had borrowed these two words from the monk.

  We stood there, looking at her. Her closed eyes seemed to be gazing inside herself.

  The monk turned toward the door, and we followed him out. Almost without realizing it, we walked down the long corridor and found ourselves outside.

  “She must be better?” Father linked his question to the monk's answer.

  Again we circled the monastery. Before we had completed the walk, Father said, “Mother will get better and we'll take her with us to Czernowitz. Her marriage to André was a mistake.” His voice was devoid of anger and rang clear. As if I was in a sweet twilight, I now remembered the apartment that we had lived in together with Mother, with Father sitting on the floor and playing dominos with me.

  How many lifetimes had we been through since then? My bond with Father had deepened in the past year. His silence no longer weighed upon me. I could walk with him for two or three hours without exchanging a word and at the end of the walk feel that we'd talked a lot.

  We ate lunch at the home of a peasant, who served us corn pie and omelets made with cream
that he had just skimmed off sour milk. We were hungry, and we ate with relish. Father paid, and the peasant asked if we were Jews.

  “You've got it wrong,” Father rebuked him. “We're Swabian; you can't see that we're Swabian?”

  “My mistake,” he apologized.

  “You don't see that we're taller than Jews?” Father did not let up.

  “You can see it.”

  “So how did you make such a mistake?”

  “It just seemed to me—”

  “Not every person who speaks German is a Jew.”

  “You're right, sir.”

  I liked Father's charade. When he was in a good mood he entertained, told jokes, and threw in the occasional vulgar word. There were times when he would put on a peas-ant's hat or a merchant's hat, doing imitations and playing entire scenes, and everyone would hang on to every word that came out of his mouth.

  So it was then. Father sang, climbed a tree, and imitated the peasant at whose home we had eaten and the innkeeper at whose inn we were spending the night. Most of the time I was afraid of his happiness. After such happiness, darkness would descend upon him, his eyes would narrow, his head would retreat into the collar of his coat, and not a sound would come out of his mouth. But on that day his high spirits did not plummet. He took gulps from his flask, and until late into the night he told me about his childhood in the orphanage and about how he had met Mother.

  That night I dreamed that we were traveling on the train, passing stations in the semidarkness. A man who sat next to Father was pestering him with questions. At first Father was polite and answered, but when the man overdid it, Father got to his feet and shouted, “Enough! I don't owe you any answers!” The man was taken aback by Father's tone of voice but continued asking his questions. Father ignored him, but the man did not let up. Father warned him that if he continued to bother him he would hit him, but the man ignored his warning and laughed. That laughter seemed to hurt Father deeply, and he struck the man in the face. Then the man got up and called out, “I've exposed the face of this Jew!”

  Father continued to hit the man. His punches, though strong enough, apparently did not hurt him, for the man continued to laugh, as if he wasn't the one being beaten but the one doing the hitting. And indeed he was. I lifted up my eyes: Father's face was covered with blood.