The Man Who Never Stopped Sleeping Read online

  ALSO BY AHARON APPELFELD

  Badenheim 1939

  The Age of Wonders

  Tzili

  The Retreat

  To the Land of the Cattails

  The Immortal Bartfuss

  For Every Sin

  The Healer

  Katerina

  Unto the Soul

  Beyond Despair: Three Lectures and a Conversation with Philip Roth

  The Iron Tracks

  The Conversion

  The Story of a Life

  A Table for One

  All Whom I Have Loved

  Laish

  Blooms of Darkness

  Until the Dawn’s Light

  Suddenly, Love

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Translation copyright © 2017 by Schocken Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schocken Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Limited, Toronto. Originally published in Israel as Ha’ish Shelo Pasak Leeshon by Kinneret, Zmora-Bitan, Dvir Publishing House Ltd., Or Yehuda, in 2010. Copyright © 2010 by Aharon Appelfeld and Kinneret, Zmora-Bitan, Dvir Publishing House Ltd.

  Schocken Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Appelfeld, Aharon, author. Green, Yaacov Jeffrey, translator.

  Title: The man who never stopped sleeping : a novel / Aharon Appelfeld; Translated from the Hebrew by Jeffrey M. Green.

  Other titles: Ish she-lo pa-saḳ li-shon. English.

  Description: First American edition. New York : Schocken Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016028875 (print). LCCN 2016036028 (ebook). ISBN 9780805243192 (hardcover). ISBN 9780805243208 (ebook).

  Subjects: LCSH: Jewish men—Fiction. Jewish youth—Fiction. Jewish refugees—Fiction. Young men—Fiction. World War, 1939–1945—Europe—Fiction. BISAC: FICTION / Literary. FICTION / Jewish. FICTION / Biographical. GSAFD: War stories.

  Classification: LCC PJ5054.A755 I8413 2017 (print). LCC PJ5054.A755 (ebook). DDC 892.43/6—dc23.

  LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/​2016028875.

  Ebook ISBN 9780805243208

  www.schocken.com

  Cover photograph by Ludwig West/Flickr/Getty Images

  Cover design by Linda Huang

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Aharon Appelfeld

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  About the Author

  1

  At the end of the war, I became immersed in constant slumber. Though I moved from train to train, from truck to truck, and sometimes from wagon to wagon, it was all in a dense, dreamless sleep. When I opened my eyes for a moment, the people looked heavy and expressionless.

  No wonder I don’t remember a thing about that long journey. I ate what they gave out or, rather, from what was left over. If I hadn’t been thirsty, I probably wouldn’t even have gotten up to look for a slice of bread. Thirst tortured me all along the way. If some memory of that sleep-drunk journey still remains with me, it’s the streams where I knelt to gulp the water. The chilly water put out the fire inside me for a while but not for long.

  The refugees carried me and supported me. Sometimes I was forgotten, and then someone remembered me and went back to pick me up. My body remembers the jolting more than I do. Sometimes it seems that I’m still in that darkness, drifting and being borne along. What happened to me during those days of sleep will probably be unknown to me forever. Sometimes a voice that spoke to me comes back, or the taste of a piece of bread that was shoved into my mouth. But aside from that, there is just darkness.

  That’s how I arrived. The truck drivers rolled up the canvas. People and bundles tumbled out. “We’re in Naples,” the drivers announced. The sky was high above us, the sun blazed as it dipped into the sea, and the light was intense and dazzling.

  I had no desire to push my way in to look for a bed in the sheds or to stand in line to get the used clothes that people from the Joint Distribution Committee were giving away. Everything around me buzzed with desire and a thirst for life, but the people looked ridiculous in their rushing about.

  I could barely stand on my feet. At last I dragged myself over to a tree, sank down at its foot, and plunged into sleep.

  It was a more diluted sleep. I could hear voices and the noise of the generators. I was borne along but without force. I felt the hard earth beneath me, and I said to myself, In a little while they’ll come and shake me. At first that worry kept me from sinking into a deeper sleep, but, nevertheless, I eventually did so. In the evening a man approached, nudged me, and called out loud, “What are you doing here?” I didn’t open my eyes and didn’t bother to answer him. But he kept shaking me and bothering me, so I had no choice but to say to him, “I’m sleeping.”

  “Did you eat?” asked the man.

  “I’m not hungry,” I replied.

  My body knew that kind of annoyance. All along the way people tried to wake me up, to shove bread into my mouth, to speak to me, to convince me that the war was over and that I had to open my eyes. There were no words in me to explain that I couldn’t open my eyes, that I was trapped in thick sleep. From time to time, I did try to wake up, but sleep overpowered me.

  Waves of darkness carried me along, and I moved forward. Where are you heading? I asked myself. Home, I replied, surprised at my own answer. Only a few of the refugees wanted to go back
to their homes. Everyone else streamed to the sea in trains and trucks. People knew what they wanted. I had just one wish—to return to my parents.

  As I was being carried forward, a hand touched me, and when I didn’t react, the hand shook me again. I didn’t want to answer, but the pulling disturbed me, and so I said, without opening my eyes, “Leave me alone. I want to sleep.”

  “You mustn’t sleep for such a long time.”

  “My weariness isn’t done. Leave me alone.”

  The man went away, but then he came back and prodded me again. My sleep was no longer deep, and I felt the man’s determination to draw me out of it, no matter what.

  I opened my eyes and was surprised to see that the man, on his knees and wearing glasses, looked like my uncle Arthur. I knew he wasn’t Arthur, but still I was glad to see him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked softly.

  “I came with the refugees.”

  “From where?” He stretched his neck toward me.

  I couldn’t answer that. The places where we had stopped slipped past me without leaving a trace.

  The man stared at me and asked if I wanted something to eat. I was about to say, A cup of cocoa, but I realized that would be a foolish request. Only at home, at breakfast, and toward evening at supper would Mother make me a cup of cocoa.

  “I’ll bring you a sandwich and a glass of milk,” the man said. Without waiting for my response, he went off to get it for me. I wondered about the man who resembled my uncle Arthur, not only in his build and face but also in his movements, and I decided to ask him whether he was a communist, too, like my uncle.

  He came back with a tray of food.

  “Thank you,” I said. Since I had left the house, years earlier, no one had served me food on a tray.

  “Hearty appetite,” said the man, another term I hadn’t heard since the war broke out.

  I ate. The more I ate, the more my appetite grew, and I finished it all. The man watched without disturbing me. Finally, he asked my name.

  I told him.

  “What do you want to do?” he asked.

  “Sleep,” I said.

  “I’ll leave you alone,” he replied, and went away.

  I was by myself again, and I felt relieved. After the war, it was hard for me to be with people. Sleep was right for me. In sleep I lived fully. I needed that fullness like I needed air to breathe. Sometimes a dream floated up and threatened me.

  —

  The next day the man who looked like Uncle Arthur came back and knelt beside me. Again the resemblance stunned me.

  He asked whether I had slept well, and I said yes.

  I didn’t hold my tongue and asked whether he knew a man named Arthur Blum.

  “No,” he answered curtly.

  “You look like him. He’s my uncle.”

  The man asked my age, and I told him.

  “I’m sixteen years and nine months old.”

  “What do you want to do now?” he asked, as if he were a relative and not a stranger.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  That night I woke up and found a tray of fruit and a note. The note said, “Hello, my young friend. Tonight I’m leaving the camp and setting out. I wish you a fine awakening and a life of alertness, activity, and the ability to love.” The note was signed, “Your friend who looks like your uncle Arthur.”

  I read it again and again, and tears flowed from my eyes.

  2

  I overcame the bonds of sleep and rose to my feet. The sea was already glowing. The grown-up refugees bathed in it, and a few swam. The sight was stunning in its strangeness.

  My desire to return to slumber didn’t fade, but the strong light, the bare shore, left me with no doubt that here one doesn’t sleep during the daytime. I didn’t see a shade tree nearby, or an awning, so I went back to my tree, closed my eyes, and waited for the night to enfold me and return me to the recesses of sleep.

  Toward evening, hunger woke me up. Near the water there was a table where they were distributing rolls and glasses of milk. I stood in line and got my portion. The people looked ridiculous in their satisfaction.

  Night fell, and I curled up next to my tree and fell asleep.

  Apparently, the sun woke me up. Maybe the generator. But I was glad that people hadn’t awakened me. I went over to the table and got breakfast. The light blinded me, and I went looking for cover. The whole seashore was lit as though with searchlights. I was puzzled by everyone’s joyful shouts in the heart of that pounding light.

  I didn’t want to go into the sheds and live with the refugees. I found a long piece of sheet metal and bent it to protect myself from the sun.

  For most of the day, I dozed or slept. Surprisingly, dreams filtered into my sleep and showed me images of days gone by but not images of the war. In one of my dreams I saw Father and Mother standing on the banks of the River Prut. In their faces there was amazement that I had found them. I told them that I had been looking for them for years. People hadn’t helped me, and some of them misled me, but I was firm in my resolve to return home.

  “Weren’t you afraid?” Mother asked.

  “No. I was sure that if I persevered I would get to you sooner or later. I refused to accept the verdict of those who insisted that no one who had left by train would return.”

  “Thank you,” said Mother in a voice I didn’t recognize.

  “There’s no need to thank me,” I quickly replied. “I did it with a clear mind and the desire to be with you.”

  Upon hearing my words, Father smiled his full smile but didn’t utter a word.

  I was surprised that they weren’t eager to approach me and hug me.

  “Mother,” I said, “when will we go home?”

  “In a little while. We just got here. I didn’t imagine we’d meet you.” She spoke in a voice not her own.

  “What’s good to eat at home?” My voice from the past returned.

  “All the things you love. Even meatballs stuffed with prunes.”

  “Mother, I’ve been longing for that delicacy for years,” I said, and I was astonished by the words that came out of me.

  —

  The darkness had grown very thin. I could feel the ground beneath me. I was sorry that the darkness was fading and I would soon be exposed. I curled up in the hope that it would return, thicken, and swaddle me. The thought occurred to me that the man who looked like Uncle Arthur, who had brought me fruit and left me a note, was none other than a messenger from my uncle, and soon, if I could properly expect his arrival, he would appear. This thought roused me, and I opened my eyes.

  3

  That day I saw a boy my age. It seemed to me that I’d seen him on the trip here, and maybe even before that. I approached him and introduced myself.

  The boy wasn’t surprised that I’d spoken to him and said, “My name is Mark.” I noticed right away that he was standing differently from the other refugees. His clothes were neat and his gaze was focused. I told him that I had been sleeping since the end of the war, and today, in fact, was the first day I’d emerged from sleep.

  Hardly had the words left my mouth before I regretted that I’d revealed my secret, but Mark wasn’t surprised. He looked at me gently. From his look, I understood that exceptional things were not strange to him.

  “Where are you from?” I asked, trying to get closer to him.

  “What difference does it make?” he responded.

  I understood. He was guarding his privacy.

  We walked along the shore. The light was strong and blinded me, but I was glad to be with Mark. He left me without saying a word. I didn’t know then that the time would come when I’d get to know him well.

  Most of the day I was curled up under the metal sheet. The refugees recognized me and called out, “Here’s the sleeping boy.” They didn’t pick on me, but it was hard for me to be close to them. It seemed that they hadn’t forgotten the trouble I’d caused them. For that reason, and maybe for others, I kept my dist
ance. I sat at the makeshift kiosk and drank lemonade.

  A woman approached me. “Why do you stare at us like that?” she asked.

  “I’m not staring. I’m thinking,” I told her the truth.

  “What are you thinking about?” She didn’t let up.

  “About what happened to me over the past few months.”

  “What happened to you, if I may ask?”

  “Since the end of the war, I’ve been immersed in slumber. And even now, if I could lay my head on something elevated, I’d fall asleep. Light isn’t good for me.”

  The woman studied me.

  “Are you the one we carried from train to train and from truck to truck?” she asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “We forgot you sometimes, but in the end we found you,” she said, as though in wonderment.

  I didn’t know how to reply, so I just said, “Thanks.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Impatient people tried to wake you, but the wiser ones realized it was wrong to shake you. You slept quietly, and you were handsome in your sleep. It seemed then that you, not us, were living properly. We were confused. And now are you awake?”

  “Almost.”