Katerina

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “What can I do?” the woman apologized. “She paid me in advance. A nice sum, you can’t deny.” The landlord wasn’t appeased. He exacted a promise from her that she would never rent out the attic again.

  But in the meanwhile I had a broad view from the window. In the center were many Jewish houses, low, small shops, among them a tailor’s and a cobbler’s. On rainy days the light in the sky was extinguished, and the place looked like a gray, flat swamp, but on days when the sun shone, the place sprang to life and all the preparations were in full swing.

  I was glad to have Benjamin with me in that hubbub. I remember clearly how my beloved Benjamin used to gather up the last remains of leavened bread on the eve before the holiday and utter his blessings by candlelight. The actual burning of the leavened bread took place the next day. That burning involved no particular ceremony, but to me it seemed as though a great secret was hidden in that small activity.

  The landlord never stopped grumbling. “Why did you let a stranger into the house just before Passover? I saw her wandering around the kitchen. I don’t know how I can lead the Seder. It’s not enough for me that there are goyim outside. Now they’re in my house.” The landlady didn’t respond to him any longer. Finally, she said, “What can I do? I made a mistake.”

  Those clear voices were hard on me. But I didn’t take offense. I knew the Jews well. All year long they lived a hard, scattered life. On his holiday a Jew wanted to be by himself and with his book. In order to diminish my presence, right after nursing, I went down to the streets of the village. Every day the preparations for the holiday intensified. Only among the Jews is there that anxiety. Seen from a certain distance away from the market, they looked like tiny workers passing tiny bricks from hand to hand and bringing them rapidly to the scaffolding, where the bricks were carried up to build a great wall. Only on the very last day before the holiday did the bustle recede, and a kind of calm suddenly fell on the streets and muted them.

  The holiday came. I opened the door of the attic so that Benjamin could absorb the story of the Exodus from Egypt in its entirety. A baby learns in its mother’s womb, and even more so outside it. It was important for him to soak up those melodies while he was still an infant. I remember my beloved Benjamin conducting the Seder. It was a Seder without any formalities or grand gestures. Now too I identified the sounds, and I knew: They’re dividing the matzoh, dipping, eating parsley and bitter herb, and I was happy that Benjamin was absorbing those sounds unobstructed. When the day came, though I would no longer be in this world, he would remember and say: Almighty God, where did I hear those voices? They’re familiar to me.

  Benjamin was developing, and he looked like a six-month-old baby. I spoke to him a lot and explained to him that this was his second stop. The first was with the mohel, who had removed his foreskin and hurt him. Now it was Passover, the time of our freedom, and it was important to hear the melodies of freedom that were filling the house. I told him about little Moses, whom they hid from the murderers in a basket. For many days he drifted on the great river, and when he grew up he became a savior, because he saw with his own eyes how great was the travail and how hard the servitude.

  The intermediate days of Passover were half holidays. People stood in the street and conversed. There was no haste. Sometimes it seemed to me that it wasn’t a holiday but rather a kind of excitement. The Jewish holiday, especially Passover, echoed over a distance. Every holiday painted the sky with its colors. Passover, for example, was bright blue. I wanted to tell that to Benjamin, but Benjamin didn’t listen to me. He was completely immersed in suckling. He nursed hard and weakened me. But I overcame my weakness.

  The days were warm now, and the windows of the houses were opened wide. I too went out to the grass, spread a blanket, and put Benjamin down on it. Benjamin had gotten plump, I found. His eyes were wide open and lively, and he followed every sound. But as for me, my spirit was clouded. I no longer saw my dear ones in my dreams at night. My sleep was deep but opaque, as though I lay at the bottom of a pit. Where are you, my dears? I groped, and I awakened soaked with sweat. Most of the day I was outdoors. I kept away from the taverns so as not to be tempted. There were many taverns in this little village, mostly belonging to Jews. During the holiday and the intermediate days, the odor of vodka wasn’t perceptible, but now it wafted into every corner, arousing desire in me.

  The landlady wasn’t talkative; her face was turned inward, and when I asked her something, she answered with the utmost brevity. At night I woke from a nightmare: a Ruthenian thug had tried to snatch Benjamin from my arms. He looked like one of my cousins. I struggled with him with all my strength, and when I couldn’t overcome him, I sank my teeth into him. He let go and cleared out. That bad dream left its mark on me. The next day I felt very weak. My fingers were frozen. I did go down to the grass, but I didn’t let Benjamin play on the blanket. I held him in both hands. That evening I heard the landlord ask his wife, “When is she going to leave us?”

  “In two weeks.”

  “It’s hard for me to bear her.”

  “She doesn’t do anything. She’s quiet.”

  “I need that attic like air to breathe. Why did you do that to me?”

  “We didn’t have any cash, don’t you remember?”

  “For cash you deprive me of my corner?”

  “Excuse me,” said the woman in a choked voice.

  The next day I got up early, packed up my few belongings, wrapped up Benjamin, and announced that I was leaving the house.

  16

  I HEADED NORTH. It was easy to travel in that season. The roads were full of wagons and carriages. You got up on a wagon, and no one asked you where you were headed. At night we used to sleep in little inns, tucked away out of sight, deep within the hilltops.

  After my nightmare, fear didn’t loosen its grip on me. It sometimes felt as if my entire village was chasing me. I knew it was only vain imagining, an impression, restlessness, but it was hard for me to dislodge the fear. I ran from place to place, and every morning I blessed my life and my son’s life.

  Just a year ago I had had strong bonds with Rosa and with Henni. I spoke to them face to face, without barriers. Now my sleep was thick and dreamless. I woke up in panic and started to pack my belongings.

  “Where are you hurrying to?” a familiar voice suddenly asked me in clear Yiddish.

  “I have to get to Czernowitz,” I answered for some reason.

  “But drink something first. Give the boy something to drink. In this season there are wagons, and if fortune smiles on you, you’ll even find a coach.”

  Her voice was like the essence of silence. Only a believer has such a quiet voice. She prepared porridge for the baby and a mug of coffee for me. The old woman’s soft movements calmed me, and I wanted to weep. Benjamin clung to me and smiled.

  “Where are you from, my dear?” she asked.

  “I’m a gentile.” I didn’t conceal it.

  “I see,” said the old woman. “But you’ve soaked up a lot of Jewishness.”

  “For years I worked in the home of an observant Jew.”

  “But your voice tells me that you were always close to the Jews.”

  “Since my youth.”

  “And now what do you want to do?”

  “I want to raise my son, Benjamin, in a clean, quiet house. I want to keep him away from coarse voices and from crudeness. I want him to see a lot of trees and a lot of water, and I don’t want him to be in the company of horsemen.”

  The old woman looked at me with her good eyes and said, “It’s been a long time since I heard a voice like yours. Who was that woman you worked for in your youth?”

  I told her.

  “And where is that woman?”

  “She was murdered by thugs, she and her late husband.”

  “They don’t give us any peace, my dear. Here too the murderers’ hands are full of blood. My son-in-law, may he rest in peace, was murdered ten years ago, in this courtyard. He was sitting
on a bench and drinking a cup of coffee, and suddenly the murderer came and struck him with an ax.”

  “And you aren’t afraid to live here, mother?”

  “I rise every morning and deliver my life and all my wishes into God’s hands. Let Him do with them as He desires. Once I was very frightened of death. Now I am no longer frightened. I have many dear ones in the world of truth. I won’t be alone there.”

  The village Jews were creatures of a special kind. The trees and the silence purified their faith. They spoke about matters great and small with the same simplicity. The peasants admired them, were afraid of them, and when their bigotry welled up, they murdered them.

  “The Jews should leave the village. The village is a trap,” I said.

  “You’re right, my dear. But I’ll never leave here. Here I was born and here, apparently, will be my grave.”

  I paid her for the night’s lodging and added a few pennies.

  “You added too much. A person must save his money for times of trouble,” she said.

  I looked at her face and said to myself, A person doesn’t meet a countenance like this every day. People are stingy and mean as if this world were an eternity. I shall preserve her face in my heart. That day, her face told me that death is not the end.

  The sun was full, and I walked on foot. I was happy with Benjamin, and happy among the trees. When I got tired, I would spread a blanket on the earth and offer him whatever was in my bag: cheese, soft bread, a tomato, a mashed egg. He ate everything that came to hand. There was no need to feed him. And when he was happy, he rolled on the grass like a puppy, laughing and voicing little bleats like a baby kid.

  But the nights frightened me. I tried to overcome fear, but fear was stronger. Sometimes Benjamin also woke from a dream and scared me. I told him that dreams are meaningless: Your mother’s at your side; she’ll always be at your side. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I hugged him hard, and he calmed down.

  In the morning Benjamin spoke his first word. He said, “Mommy,” and he said it in Yiddish. He immediately laughed out loud.

  “Say it again.”

  He laughed and said it again.

  Now it was clear to me that Yiddish would be his language. That discovery made me happy. The thought that my son would talk Rosa’s and Benjamin’s language seemed to fill my heart with new hope, but why did my hands tremble?

  The next day I taught him a new word: hand, I showed him my hand, and he said, “Hand.” He rolled on the grass with the words, repeating them with the sweet accent of a baby, bringing tears to my eyes. The green meadows extended as far as the horizon and evoked in me, against my will, the meadows of my native village. Now they seemed so far away to me, as if they had never existed.

  So we went on. Every night in a different inn. The proprietors of the inns didn’t always smile upon us. It was fortunate that I could pay for a hot meal. After a day of walking, the two of us were bone weary. Benjamin spoke a few words of Yiddish, and everybody laughed.

  “Where did he learn?” asked the Jewish owner of an inn.

  “From me.”

  “What does he need that for?”

  “So he won’t be a goy.”

  I knew that answer would make him laugh, and he did laugh indeed.

  It was very hard for me to do without a drink. I promised myself not to drink, and I kept my promise, but I paid in blood. At night I woke up short of breath, my hands trembling. It was a hideous torture, and sometimes I asked myself if it wouldn’t be better to have a drink. After all, it was no sin.

  I shall never forget that summer. But the autumn abruptly came and cut off my happiness. It was a muddy autumn, flooded with wild rains, which would suddenly slash down and drown the roads in mire, and we would be in a neglected inn, among toughs and drunkards, the floor full of filth and the bed not clean.

  “Where’s the kid from?”

  “He’s mine.”

  “Why does he talk Yiddish?”

  “He doesn’t talk. He just babbles.” I tried to shield him.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “Take him to a village quickly so that he’ll learn a human language. Even a Ruthenian bastard is a Ruthenian. Only children of the devil talk Yiddish.”

  “He’s not a bastard.”

  “What is he then? Was he born with a priest’s blessing?”

  “He’s mine.”

  To my misfortune, Benjamin began to recite all the words I’d taught him. I tried to shush him, but I didn’t succeed.He laughed and babbled, and every word that came out of his mouth was clear and distinct. It was impossible to mistake them; the child was talking Yiddish.

  “Get him out of here,” shouted one of the drunkards.

  “Where can I take him?”

  “Take him outside.”

  I was depressed and had a few drinks. The drinks warmed me and imbued me with courage. Fear left me, and I informed them clearly, leaving no possibility for misunderstanding, that I had no intention of returning to my village, no matter what. The village was full of coarseness and wickedness, and not even the beasts of the field were innocent there.

  “Servant girl,” one of them cursed at me.

  “Villain,” I didn’t hold my tongue.

  “Whore!” he said, and spat.

  I left the inn and found refuge in a barn. I blocked the window with two big bales of hay, wrapped up Benjamin, and clutched him tightly to my body. After an hour of shivering, he fell asleep in my arms.

  17

  WINTER CAME ALL AT ONCE, and strongly. The inns were empty and cold, and the landlords were irritable. Benjamin cried, and I was helpless. The winter winds now prevailed over the area. I stood next to the windows, which were coated with frost, stamping my feet in great desperation.

  I was willing to pay any price to heat the room, but the landlord was stingy about every piece of wood, stubbornly repeating the same argument: One must save. Who knows what frost we could expect this winter. Just a few days ago the roads were full of people, wagons, coaches galloping in every direction, and now there was no memory of them, only winds and snow.

  One of the wagon drivers agreed to take me to the railroad station, but in the end he changed his mind.

  “I’m willing to take the chance,” I told him.

  “A mother with a tender babe mustn’t take risks,” he reproached me.

  He was afraid, and he had reason to be afraid: The storms raged and plucked at the roofs of the houses.

  Finally, I had no alternative but to threaten the proprietor of the inn. If he didn’t give me wood, I would summon the police. That threat made an impression. Immediately, he let me take wood from the storeroom.

  “We thought you were softer,” said the landlord.

  “Why?”

  “You speak fine Yiddish.”

  “So for that we have to freeze?”

  “I understand,” said the proprietor of the inn, without explaining himself.

  Imperceptibly, the winter, which assailed me and confined me in that miserable inn, aroused my old, dormant vitality. I was talking the way they talk in the village, without ceremony. Let people know that the world isn’t lawless. Benjamin also mustn’t be soft. A weak Jew arouses dark instincts.

  “You must be strong,” I drill into Benjamin. He laughs, and his laugh has the sound of glass bells. If you are strong, your mother will be strong too. Indeed, Benjamin gained strength from day to day. His hands gripped me powerfully. And when he got angry, he scratched. The scratches hurt me, but I was pleased by his anger. After he scratched, he crawled under the table, hiding and laughing.

  I trained Benjamin to stand. Standing demanded a great effort from him, but he triumphed and stood steady. I had no doubt that he would be muscular and sturdy. His vocabulary also grew from day to day. Now he made a lot of sounds. To make him laugh I would whisper a word in Ruthenian to him. He would laugh as though I had uttered absolute nonsense.

  Outside,
there was no change. Snow was heaped up on top of snow. I had no need of luxuries. I bought provisions from the landlady and cooked modest meals. Benjamin ate everything and had a healthy appetite. In the evening, he dropped to the floor and fell asleep. His ability to fall asleep was astonishing. He fell asleep instandy. From him I learned that the line between wakefulness and sleep is very thin. My sleep wasn’t tranquil. Visions invaded me from all sides and made me dizzy. The landlord raised the price of firewood again. He claimed that the market price had gone sky high. I paid him without a murmur. I had a hunch he was profiteering. The landlord knew that now I couldn’t leave, so he could take advantage of me. I paid him. Later I didn’t keep silence, and I told him: “You mustn’t profiteer. The Jews received the Torah, and they must observe it.” The landlord was surprised by my argument. He spread out his bills and receipts before me and showed me that he wasn’t profiteering. On the contrary, his losses were great. I didn’t believe him, and I told him that I didn’t believe him. That winter my hunches got stronger, and I wasn’t afraid to express them.

  “You’re embittering my life.” He appealed to my conscience.

  Benjamin had changed me. I became slightly plump, but my movements weren’t confined. I crawled with him under the table, jumped rope, and rolled the length of the room with him.

  The members of the household were wary with me, seldom speaking in my presence and then weighing every word before it was uttered. They were afraid I would inform on them. I had no intention of informing. Tale-bearing is a contemptible trait. Only the basest people are informers. I wanted to tell them that, but I knew that my words would only increase their suspicion. I remembered: Scoundrels had informed on Rosa, and Rosa had had to run from office to office to disprove the false accusation. When she came home, she would fall on the floor and weep in great sorrow and shame. I wouldn’t inform, because the Torah commanded us not to spread gossip, I thought of telling them, but immediately changed my mind, lest it sound self-righteous.