The next day I met her manager, a young, plump Jew, grasping and fussy. He had prepared the concert tour down to the last note. To me, for some reason, that precision sounded like a banishment. You mustn’t drive people from their homes, I was about to shout, but my voice didn’t stand by me.
Later, we sat and sipped a few drinks. Her voice trilled. She spoke with a kind of enthusiasm of the need to overcome weaknesses and to practice a great deal, for only practice can repair the flaws. That wasn’t her voice but one she had borrowed for the purposes of this conversation. What are you talking about, I wanted to stop her. You have to take care of your health, to rest in the country. But I couldn’t talk. Her voice poured out and silenced me. Finally, she said, “No matter. We’ll see a lot of each other, and we’ll talk for many days. There’s a lot to talk about. A lot.”
The next day Henni left for provincial cities, and I, in my great despair, sat in a tavern and sipped a few drinks. Afterward, distractedly, I straggled along the street near the railway station. The night lights flowed on the damp sidewalks, and I, as they say, had no goal. If a man had come along and dragged me to his room, I would have gone. No one approached me. Everyone streamed by in haste. It made me angry that no one approached me, that everyone was ignoring me, but I kept on walking. For some reason I turned into a side street. While I was walking, I saw a dim light and smelled Jewish food. I had a strong desire to climb up to the first floor and ask for a little soup, but I didn’t dare. I stood and waited for the door to open and for someone to call me: Katerina, come in. Why are you standing outside? For a long while I stood there. It was, it turns out, a vain expectation. One by one, the houses were shut up behind walls of darkness. “Why won’t anyone give me a little soup?” I finally raised my voice. My words were not answered. The houses seemed like fortresses, and darkness was piled upon darkness. I kept on pacing, and as I continued, the odor pursued me. Irritation goaded me to climb up to the first floor and make a ruckus in front of the doors, but I didn’t do it.
While I was standing there, I noticed I was in front of a small store. From the door and the lock, I knew it was a Jewish shop. I was about to pass it by and continue on my way, but something told me to stay still, and I did. Now the way inside was easy. I smashed the window with a swing of my arm, and immediately I was stuffing cigarettes and chocolates into a bag.
Furtively, I went up and continued through the alleys. I knew it was a contemptible, ugly sin, but I still felt no remorse. A coarse pleasure flooded my body. The night passed without my feeling it. I was thirsty, but all the taverns were closed. Toward morning, I collapsed in a heap at the railroad station and fell asleep.
10
I WENT FROM TAVERN TO TAVERN. The railway station street was full of them, orderly ones and some less orderly. I preferred the quiet ones. Two or three drinks restored Rosa and Benjamin to me. I know I shall never forgive myself for allowing the Ruthenians to steal the boys. Sometimes I felt they were thinking about me in secret. If I had known where they were, I would have gone to them on foot. Sometimes it seems that time has stopped and we are still together in that little shed during that winter. The rustic stove is giving off its thick heat and I am bundled up with the boys in the big wooden bed.
Each tavern evoked different sights for me. In the Royal Tavern, near the front window, I saw Henni. Now it seems to me I understand her rigor better. She couldn’t bear “almost” or half measures. Without that rigor, she would have floated away. That was her character, and that was how she punished herself. Now she was jolting all over the provinces and entertaining the dull ears of the wealthy. Izio’s rigor was even more severe than hers. I remember him saying, “One must peel off the many outer layers of the matter and lay bare the kernel.” At that time the word peel astonished me. Now I understand the dread inherent in that word. I was afraid of his rigor. The Royal Tavern was quiet, and I could sit there for many hours. Once men used to accost me. Now only old men took an interest in me. In the Royal I met Sammy, a tall and husky man with eyes like a child’s.
They say the Jews are cheats. Sammy, for example, didn’t have an ounce of cunning. I saw him sitting in a corner, sipping a drink. In Strassov, no Jew would enter a tavern. Wonder of wonders, here a Jew sat and piled up glass after glass. I approached him. “What’s a Jew doing in a tavern?”
“I like to have a drink. What can I do?”
“Jews aren’t supposed to drink, don’t you know?”
“I’m a sinner. What can I do?”
He looked strange in the tavern, a boy in a den of thieves.
“You mustn’t be here.” I spoke brazenly.
“Why?”
“Because Jews have to direct commerce. If they don’t direct it, who will?”
He laughed heartily, and his laughter infected me, too.
I used to see him sometimes, but I didn’t go up to him. I felt that my presence embarrassed him. Finally, he overcame it and approached me, paying me back in my own coin. “What’s Katerina doing in a tavern?”
“Because Katerina is Katerina, a Ruthenian from time immemorial.”
We laughed and drank like two friends.
Most of the day I wandered through the streets and slowly soaked up the big city. In fact, I didn’t stray from the streets around the railroad station. But even those faded streets had the odor of a big city.
In the evening I sat with Sammy. Sammy told me about his life. Twice married and twice divorced. He divorced his first wife because she was domineering and the second because she was crazy. He had a grown daughter from his first wife, but he saw her only seldom.
“Why don’t you have steady work? Every Jew has steady work.”
“How do you know?” He chuckled.
“For many years I worked for Jews.”
“I hope you weren’t contaminated by them.”
There was a kind of piercing honesty to his rejoinders. I, for my part, told him about my native village. Sammy was a stricken man, and every word that came out of his mouth was dipped in his wound. Nevertheless, a few of his movements were pleasing to the eye, and his voice, too, or rather his accent, sounded melodious to me.
I was not working then, either. I squandered the money Henni had given me with abandon. Each morning, I would wander the city streets. The city was full of Jews. For hours I sat and observed them.
In the afternoon I would enter a Jewish restaurant. My appearance astonished the customers for a moment. When I asked, in Yiddish, for chicken soup with matzoh balls, everyone’s eyes opened wide, but I wasn’t offended. I sat in my place, ate, and watched. Jewish foods are pleasant to the palate; they don’t have too much vinegar or an excess of black pepper. In the evening I used to come back to the tavern and sit beside Sammy. While he was drinking no one did him any harm, but when he got drunk, they abused him and called him a drunken Jew. Sammy was a strong man, defending himself even in his drunkenness, but he didn’t have the strength to stand up to the tavern’s owner, his son, and his son-in-law. At midnight they grabbed him and threw him out. “I won’t come back here!” he shouted, but the next day he came back.
“Get a grip on yourself,” I tried to persuade him.
“I must control myself,” he agreed with me.
In my heart I knew he wouldn’t do it, that he couldn’t take himself in hand, but still I plagued him with vain demands.
“And you, what about you?”
“I’m a Ruthenian, the daughter of Ruthenians. Generations of drunkards flow in my veins.”
“I get drunk easily,” he admitted.
The daytime was all my own. I wandered among stores, courtyards, and synagogues, and at noon I entered the Jewish restaurant. Yiddish is a savory language. I could sit for hours and listen to its sound. The old people’s Yiddish recalled delectable winter dishes. I would sit for hours and observe the old people’s gestures. Sometimes they seemed to me like priests who have forfeited their pride, but occasionally an old man would lift his head and direct his gaze
toward someone impertinent, and then one saw clearly the priestly fire burning in his eyes. I, for example, loved to stand near the window of the synagogue and listen to the Rosh Hashanah prayers. People tell me that the Jews’ prayers are maudlin. I don’t hear any weeping in them. On the contrary, they sound to me like the complaints of strong people, firm in their opinion.
While I was wandering, doing nothing, forgetful of myself and surrounded by many sights, I saw a large advertisement in the newspaper: “The famous pianist Henni Trauer has gone to her eternal rest in the resort city of Cimpulung. The funeral will take place tomorrow morning at ten.” I read, and my eyes went dark.
I immediately went down to the railroad station to catch the express. It was already late, the station was empty of travelers, and only drunkards lay in the corners, making a racket.
“Can I get to Cimpulung this evening?” I called out desperately.
The ticket agent opened his window and said, “What’s the matter?”
“I must get to Cimpulung,” I informed him.
“At this hour there are no trains to the provinces. It’s midnight, for your information.”
“Not even a freight train? It doesn’t matter to me. I’m willing to travel under any condition, at any price.”
“Freight trains are for beasts, not human beings.”
The ticket windows shut, one after the other. The lights dimmed. Even the drunkards collapsed in a heap and fell asleep.
“God, send me a train from heaven,” I called out. I had barely voiced that prayer when a freight train steamed in and stopped.
“Can I get to Cimpulung with you?” I called out to the engineer.
“Are you willing to ride with me in the cabin?”
“I’m willing.”
“Climb in,” he said, and lowered the ladder.
“I have a great task,” I informed him. “I must get to Cimpulung.”
“You’ll get there,” he promised.
I knew I’d have to pay the price of the trip with my body, but the trip was more important than my body. I stood in the narrow cabin, knowing what to expect.
“Why are you trembling?”
I told him that a woman who was more dear to me than a sister had suddenly died, and I had a strong wish to bid her farewell.
“We’re all going to die.”
My words didn’t impress him.
“True, but meanwhile some set out to meet their fate and others stay alive.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“It’s hard to bear that parting.” I tried to soften his heart.
But he stuck to his guns. “That’s the way of the world.”
I didn’t know what to answer and fell silent. While he was operating the enormous engine, he asked me what village I came from. I told him at length. I wasn’t afraid. I was prepared for anything to get to Cimpulung on time.
On the way, he fondled me and said, “The Jews have ruined you. You mustn’t work for them.”
“Why?”
“They ruin the feeling.”
My heart impelled me to say, Jews are people too, but I didn’t say it.
Afterward, he was busy getting the locomotive ready. He had a long conversation with the track inspector, and finally he asked him to inform all the stations he would be late. Now I saw again: Night in a railroad station is a different kind of night. The noise freezes. It isn’t silence but a confined hubbub. Ever since I’d left the house, I’d known those godforsaken places.
Later, he started the engine and spoke a lot about the Jews and the damage they caused and about the need to wipe them out.
“There are also good ones.” I couldn’t stand idly by.
“None.” He jabbed that isolated word into the roar of the engine and added nothing.
Afterward, he stopped fondling me and, casually, said, “You’ve worked too long for the Jews. You mustn’t work for the Jews. They ruin body and feeling.” The morning steadily lit up the horizon, and suddenly it became clear to me that Henni was no longer alive. That vivid knowledge frightened me, and I wept. The engineer was busy operating the locomotive, and he paid no attention to my weeping.
Toward morning, we arrived at Cimpulung. My fear that he would take me from the station to a hotel was unfounded. He told me, not without disgust, “You’re dismissed.” I remembered. That was the way the manager of the restaurant in Strassov used to get rid of old women who worked for him. The morning light spread out over the empty platform. I ran for my life to a café.
The coffee was hot and thick and I sank completely into its taste. I forgot for a moment why I had dragged myself there. For a long while I sat, remembering my childhood. My father and mother now appeared very hazy, as though they had never existed. Only when I went to the cashier to pay did I remember my long night journey, and my body trembled again.
11
LIKE ALL JEWISH FUNERALS, Henni’s was gloomy and confused. The people ran about next to the gate of the cemetery and spoke in panicked tones. I stood at the side. This strange tumult made my sadness congeal within me.
A tall man with an active demeanor told at annoying length about how he had learned about Henni’s death at night and how he had succeeded, he and his two friends, in renting a car and arriving here. In a corner, Henni’s manager spoke about disruptions of that season’s programs and about the compensation he would have to pay to the owners of concert halls who had sold tickets in advance.
About ten men had gathered, and now they were waiting for the bereaved mother.
“Where can one obtain a cup of coffee? Without a cup of coffee I’m lost,” called out a man dressed in an exotic coat and wearing a broad silk cravat.
“There are nothing but graves here,” another man answered clearly.
“Henni will forgive me. She’ll understand me. She too was addicted to coffee.”
“The funeral begins at ten.”
“Jewish funerals never begin on time. There’s a buffet not far from here. Won’t you join me?”
“I’ll do it on the run.”
All the faces were foreign to me; during the last year very few people had visited the house. Henni had a single sentence on her lips: “If this is your inner consciousness, if this is what your heart tells you to do, who am I to stand in your way?” She used to recite that sentence hourly. After she spoke it, there would be a silence, and then she would repeat it. That was on a Saturday when Izio hadn’t returned home, and Henni knew what had been done could never be undone. She sank to the ground, moaning in tears. I, for some reason, reproached her and told her, “You mustn’t weep that way for people who are still living.”
Now everything had come to an end. A few Jews in tattered traditional dress scurried between the office and the graves. From time to time, they would accost someone and ask for a contribution. One of the nonreligious men said out loud, “Leave me alone,” recoiling with repugnance, as though that Jew had wanted to touch him.
Time raced by, and the mother hadn’t arrived. The men stood at the office door, asked questions, and grumbled. The most annoying of all was Henni’s manager. He said, “We can’t wait forever. There’s a limit to patience.”
“By all means, telephone.”
“To whom? To God?”
“To her mother.”
“Did they inform her?”
“I assume so.”
“For whom, then, are we waiting?”
“For the mother.”
“And if they didn’t inform her?”
“Ask the burial society, don’t ask me.” The clerk’s patience had snapped.
The head of the burial society didn’t respond. He sat in the other room and read a newspaper.
“This is Jewish order. Jewish order is warped, confused, and wicked,” said the manager, and left the office doorway.
Afterward, the manager and his two assistants burst in and demanded: “The funeral must start now. The funeral must start immediately.”
“And who will pa
y?” The head of the burial society lay down his cards on the bare table.
“Who’s supposed to pay?”
“The relatives or friends of the deceased, and if there are none—his employers. Is that too difficult to understand?”
“I, for example, don’t understand it.”
“It’s very simple,” said the head of the burial society in a voice as chilly as ice. “Maintaining the cemetery costs a fortune. Somebody has to pay, right?”
“Should the mourners pay? Now, with the dead woman lying before them?”
“There’s no cause for embarrassment here. Money is money everywhere.”
“And if we don’t pay?”
“We’ll leave the body unburied, if that’s the mourners’ wish.”
“Now I understand,” said the manager. “It’s not a question of her mother but of money.”
“Gravediggers have to eat too, sir. By the way, to whom have I the honor of speaking?”
“What difference does that make?”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Now matters proceeded very listlessly. Neither the clerk nor the head of the burial society left the office. The sky became covered with clouds, and a thin drizzle sprinkled down. Fatigue gradually overcame me. Had it not been for the rain, I would have sat down. I tried to remember Henni’s face, but I couldn’t see a thing. Finally, my old cousin Sarina appeared before me. I knew she wanted to torture me, and I closed my eyes.
While we were standing there, the manager burst back into the office, shouting, “I won’t wait anymore. I’m going. Cheats rule over the Jews. Everything is money. Henni was and shall always remain dear to me. I despise ceremonies. Everybody knows that I built up a magnificent career for her. You can take her body but not her spirit. She deserves another kind of funeral, a quiet one, like among the Christians. At any rate, you’ll not bury me here. I’m going to have my body cremated. I don’t believe in resurrection.”
The officials didn’t seem astonished, and they didn’t react. The manager now mixed in another matter: the death of a young violinist. The violinist had died in a hotel, and the burial society had demanded an exaggerated fee for the burial.
Katerina Page 7