Pain was still stored up within me, but the urge to move forward surged through my whole body. I was alarmed by the new energy that filled me. It brought to mind the power that coursed through me in Naples while I was running around the camp and the tension I felt in my muscles when I rowed a boat.
As it turned out, the days in the hospital under Dr. Winter’s care, the long months in the convalescent home, and, especially, the time I spent with Rivka had equipped me with everything I needed for walking long distances.
—
The paper lay before me, and the pen. I poured myself a little drink from the bottle of cognac that one of the patients had given me, and I immediately felt the burning liquid seep into me. I wasn’t rushing to go out. It seemed to me that I had to gather more strength before girding my loins, and so that’s what I did.
I sat tensely, but I saw nothing. At one time, the pain and my visions gave me signs and signals so I wouldn’t lose my way, but now I saw neither the road ahead nor even the entrance to the path, not to mention any shortcuts.
The months of preparation had not done their job. Everything was in place, but I was just sitting there like a fool. I was about to stand up and go to open the window, the way my father sometimes did, but even that simple action suddenly seemed beyond my reach. I leaned back in my chair. This was something Father also did in times of distress.
I moved closer to the desk and took another sip of cognac. I took a deep breath, as though I was preparing to start a race. I felt that my own direct efforts were being obstructed, but then another power, far stronger than I, stood behind me and pushed. I smoothed the paper and began to write:
To return home. Who has not heard that whispered inside him? To return home is the sigh of the heart that swells every time a sharp pain attacks you, or when a decision bound up with terrible doubt crushes you, or—usually in the hours of darkness—when you collapse completely beneath the burden of your failures. Just then, a marvelous gate opens before you and invites you into your first house, your eternal house, which waits for you the way you left it.
My first house was built when I was six years old, and there it has stood ever since. The years have passed. I have moved from place to place, from one shelter to another. In all of those dwellings, there was not a trace of the security I felt when Mother sat on my bed and read to me from Legends of the North, a large book full of splendid pictures. She read slowly and softly, and with my entire body I felt the tall plane trees in the yard, shading the house and filling us with their solid tranquility.
The first house is Father, and it is Mother. They are standing at the entrance. Father will soon leave for work, and I will stay with Mother. Parting from Father momentarily darkens that bright morning. I love the closeness of my parents and everything that emanates from that closeness: the aftershave that Father splashes on his face, the smell of cigarette smoke after meals, the fragrance of the eau de cologne that rises from Mother’s neck.
“Why are you leaving us, Father?” I ask, trembling.
“I have to go,” Father replies, putting on his white summer jacket. It’s clear to me that I can’t delay his departure. He climbs up onto the carriage and quickly disappears from sight. But Mother, aware of my feelings, kneels down and hugs me, pressing me to her soft breast and gently moving me away from the realm of sadness.
The plane trees protect the house. I look all the way up to their tops, and I get dizzy. Compared to them, the house looks low and without secure foundations. But there is no need to worry; the plane trees shield us in winter and summer. In the summer they dapple the yard with shade. Sometimes Father climbs a ladder and cuts a flowering branch from one of the giant trees. Mother places the flowers in a blue vase, and this is the giant tree’s gift to the house. The whitish-yellow flowers decorate the living room for a few days and then wither. But even withered they have a hidden beauty, and Mother is in no hurry to throw them away.
Later Mother sits in an easy chair and reads, and I sit on the grass and play with the big blocks that Father brought me from the sawmill. Our dog, Miro, sits and watches me eagerly. Miro is the silent soul of the house. His eyes are big, and his long ears flop to the side. When Mother is busy, he stays near me, and when Mother is worried, he stands close to her legs and worries along with her. If a key or some tool is missing, he joins in the search, and sometimes he finds it with his sense of smell. He seems to see what we can’t. In the afternoon, when I am overcome with fatigue, I lay my head on his belly and fall asleep. A person knows this kind of closeness only in his first house.
One day I counted the plane trees, and with a shout of victory, I cried out, “Seven!”
Mother looked at me in surprise.
“We never counted them,” she remarked.
There’s a tool shed in the yard. Soon the gardener will come and take care of the vegetable plots and flowerbeds. He’s a tall man who hardly ever speaks. When Father asks him something about the plants, his eyes widen, but the words refuse to leave his mouth. With great effort, he overcomes this obstacle and manages to join one word to another. I like to watch the way he walks and the way he bends down, turns over the earth, and uproots weeds. His measured movements have a wondrous silence about them.
Once, he asked me if I wanted to be a gardener.
“Yes!” I replied in a loud voice. He chuckled, revealing small, square teeth. I had expected a man of his height to have large, wide teeth, but he didn’t.
At sunset he places everything that has ripened in a basket: tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, and green onions. The smells of the earth and of the vegetables mingle for a moment in the open air. Mother wants to take this gift of nature from his hands, but Chito—that’s his name, if you didn’t know—won’t allow it. He brings the full basket into the house and places it on the counter next to the pantry.
When there’s a lot of work, Chito takes a break and sits under one of the plane trees. He spreads a cloth on the grass and makes a simple meal for himself: peasant bread, a small pitcher of buttermilk, and a green onion. Mother brings him a cup of coffee.
When darkness falls, Chito picks up his bundle and goes home. After he leaves, the yard changes. The shadows deepen and the sound of the water flowing in the river can be heard clearly. A white rabbit runs across the yard and disappears under the bushes.
At that hour Father returns from work. The table on the balcony is already set. If he is late, Mother worries. She walks to the gate, turns her head this way and that, and stands and listens. If she detects the gallop of the horses, her face broadens into a smile, and she announces with a slight sigh, “Father’s coming.”
Father’s return from the forests in the evening is a great joy, as though he has been lost and has finally found his way to us. Father steps down from the carriage, hugs Mother, and swings her in the air. Father is taller than Mother and broad shouldered; when he laughs, his body laughs with him.
Before we sit down to our meal, Father waters the horses and feeds them. Immediately thereafter, he washes his hands and face, walks to the balcony, and calls out in a merry voice, “Behold, I am ready!”
Dinner, which is served in the last light of the day, is a quiet ritual with small gestures that will be preserved forever. The first course is vegetable soup, which Father loves and for which he always finds a new word of praise to compliment Mother. The second course is cheese dumplings spread with butter. And for dessert, Mother serves raspberries and cream.
Summer evenings here are long and melt slowly into a starlit night. We sit on the balcony for quite some time. Father tells Mother everything that happened during the day. Sawmills figure in the story, as well as flour mills, and of course the rafts on the River Prut. I don’t understand the flow of their conversation, but the few words that I do catch quickly become pictures, and I see before my eyes the noisy sawmill and the strong workers dragging the huge beams over to those enormous saws, which cut them lengthwise into planks. When I hear the word “raft,” I see the gr
een and brown water of the Prut, and a secret fear gives me goose flesh.
Then we go down to the yard and sit outside on thick mats. Mother cuts a red watermelon, and Father finally has time for me. Together we build a castle with the large wooden blocks. Miro watches from a distance and doesn’t mix in.
It’s already late, but red, blue, and gold still flicker in the twilight. Day and night mingle and are drunk with color. Father and I concentrate on building the castle and its outbuildings. Mother leans on two pillows and watches us. She doesn’t comment or ask questions. Finally, when the castle stands, tall and broad and surrounded by its offspring, Father rises to his feet and says, “How’s our castle, Bunia?”
“A work of art,” says Mother.
I’m tired. The wings of sleep already flutter over me, but I try to stay awake and listen to the hawks and owls that pierce the first darkness with their screeches. The calls aren’t pleasant, but I’m not afraid. I am encircled by Father’s big arms and drift easily into a soft sleep.
It’s morning again, and once again Father puts on his white jacket and goes out, and once again I’m saddened by the separation.
“Soon it will be Friday, and Father will be with us all day,” says Mother. She knows what I’m thinking. The big castle that Father and I built stands the way we left it. The night rain moistened it but didn’t stain its beauty. The castle will stand for two or three days, until a heavy rain comes or the neighbors’ big dog invades the yard and knocks everything down.
Friday is a day of cleaning, scrubbing, and commotion. Victoria reports at an early hour, and with her large hands, she changes God’s order of creation. Carpets, mats, and bedding are taken out and spread on the grass and the balustrades of the house. The upheaval drives me outside. I can barely find a free space under one of the plane trees. During this crazy time, Miro doesn’t leave my side. He sits next to me tensely, ready to do whatever I tell him.
If Mother allowed me to, I would go down to the river with Miro. The boys my age who live in this area regularly wander along the dirt paths, bring potatoes and onions from the fields in wheelbarrows, and even ride horseback.
Those pleasures are forbidden to me. I am imprisoned in the yard and can only follow what’s happening outside from there.
“Why can other boys of my age play outside, and I’m not allowed?” I keep asking Mother.
“You have to ready yourself,” she says without explanation.
It occurs to me that perhaps my parents are training me to be a prince, like Prince Felix in a story Mother read to me. They imposed grave prohibitions on Prince Felix and even exiled him from the palace so that he would grow strong, overcome hardships, and return home braver.
Finally, I ask, “When can I go to the river with Miro?”
“Next summer, I expect.”
“That’s a long time from now.”
“Not so long.”
That night I dream that one of Father’s workers has come with his wagon to take me to my place of exile. I am surprised that Mother is standing aside and not intervening. I want to shout out loud, but I feel myself choking, and then I wake up.
In the afternoon, after dusting the house and washing the floors, Victoria brings the scattered contents of the house back inside.
Once, Victoria called out my name and stroked my head. I was frightened and burst into tears. Now I’m no longer afraid, but the remnants of that fear smolder inside me.
Mother pays Victoria with bills and coins. Victoria binds the money in a handkerchief, blesses Mother, and goes away.
Friday ushers in two festive days in a row. Father will come back from work and be only with us, and my world will emerge from its constriction and broaden.
“When will I go school?” I ask Mother.
“You’re studying at home, my dear.”
“Why do all the other children go to school and only I study at home?”
“Because we’re preparing you to study in the secondary school,” Mother answers hastily.
Once a week, and sometimes twice, in the early afternoon, Miss Christina comes to teach me reading, writing, and arithmetic. She’s young and pretty and wears city clothes. She’s a student and attends a school in the center of town. On weekends, holidays, and the long summer vacations, she returns to her parents in the village.
The hours in her presence are a pleasure and a celebration. We read and write and occasionally linger over a single word, such as “heavenly” or “prey.” We look for synonyms, but we don’t find them easily. I appear to be better in arithmetic. I learn the times table by heart and don’t make mistakes.
If the weather is fair, we go for a walk, and sometimes we go as far as the river. Christina teaches me a poem or tells me a folktale.
“Why did they exile Prince Felix?” I ask.
“So that he could become strong and fight evildoers.”
“Isn’t it possible to become strong at home?”
“Apparently not,” Christina says, smiling. I love her smile, which shows her pretty teeth. While we are walking, I notice a small building with a pointed green roof. How miraculous. I’ve walked on this path many times, and until now I never noticed it. Christina notices my surprise and says, “It’s a chapel.”
“Did children build it?”
“Children don’t build things.”
“I built a castle with Father in the yard. Who lives in the chapel?”
“Nobody. People go inside to pray. Do you want to see?”
Christina opens the door, and a splendid sight appears before my eyes: the picture of a mother nursing a baby. On the shelf at her feet, two big wax candles burn. The light of the candles flickers on the picture and brings it to life. Christina bows her head and crosses herself.
“Do I have to cross myself, too?”
“No, Jews don’t cross themselves.”
Because of my astonishment, I don’t look carefully enough at things that happen along the way. A naked young woman swims in the river. She swims quickly and rhythmically. I am about to ask Christina if she knows her.
“It’s not proper to swim without a bathing suit,” Christina says with suppressed anger. Because of the sharpness of her words, I don’t ask her why. The chapel has made such a strong impression on me that all night long I see the mother’s large breast and the infant’s lips clinging to it.
Twilight has spread over the treetops and tall bushes. The smells of water, soap, and starch rise from every corner. Father is in a linen suit, and Mother is wearing a poplin dress. Miro is happy to see us together. Miro loves each of us differently. He seems to like Mother best. He stays near her most of the day, ready to do what she tells him. He loves Father with respect and awe. With me he carries on; either he runs after me or I run after him, and in the end we roll on the grass. Miro understands my moods. When I’m sad, he curls up next to me and lets his head sink between his paws.
Friday afternoon is devoted to music. We sit on the balcony and listen to classical music. As a girl, Mother played piano. Now she seldom plays. I love to look at her face while she listens. She is wide-eyed with wonder, and her lips are pursed. Father listens differently. His head is bowed, and he makes no comments. Mother loves to describe what she’s hearing, and she uses colorful words that create a full picture.
Once, Christina said to me that it was good to listen to music in church.
“Why?” I asked.
“In church it connects you to heaven.”
“And at home it doesn’t connect you?”
“The church is the gateway to heaven.”
At home we don’t speak like Christina. Sometimes Mother does say, “Good God,” but it’s a sign of excitement, not a call to God. Christina likes to take expressions apart and look for synonyms.
“Is ‘heavenly’ a synonym for ‘divine’?” I wonder out loud.
“We’ll have to think about that,” she says without explanation.
On Friday night, dinner is festive: colorful salads a
nd cheese blintzes topped with strawberry jam, all made by Mother. Our meals are prepared with care and restraint, but their taste lingers with me for hours.
After dinner, we sit outdoors on the wide wicker chairs and provide company for the evening as it departs. Sometimes Father recalls things that happened to him. He relates them slowly, in great detail and in rolling cadences. It’s hard for me to follow what he’s saying, but I love to listen to his melodic voice, even though his speech is usually sparing, and the silences are considerable.
After an hour of silence, I become restless, and I begin to circle the house with Miro. The walk with Miro puts me at some distance from the house, and I remember the last summer vacation we took in the center of the city. Once again, I see streets paved with dark stones, tall chestnut trees that cast their thick shadows on the sidewalks, the restaurant in the hotel courtyard, and the elegant cinema. Father has a lot of business in the city, and my hand doesn’t leave Mother’s.
Fear of getting lost in the big city fills my sleep with arrogant and violent people. Because of those nightmares, I’m glad to return home. The carriage that brought us returns us. When we arrive, Miro leaps to greet us with boisterous joy. No anger is evident in him. He welcomes each of us with equal fondness. When the commotion dies down, he turns exclusively to me, and we rekindle the affection that we had missed when I was gone.
On Saturday, Father harnesses the horses to the carriage, and we go off to Count Minitsky’s tennis court. Father and Mother play well. Sometimes the count’s son appears with his sister, and my parents play with them. They are tanner, and they are better at this sport. This is no surprise, as they spend many hours on the court. Father and Mother quickly lose, and this pains me. But they aren’t upset. Their friendship with the count’s children, who are younger than they, is a pleasant one for them.
When I grow up, I swear to myself, I’ll practice for many hours, and the day will come when I’m taller and stronger than they are, and they won’t be able to return my strokes.
The Man Who Never Stopped Sleeping Page 21