All Whom I Have Loved Page 13

  “What defect do they find in us?” Father asked in a loud voice.

  “I don't know.”

  “Let them move to a corner and not us.”

  “I insist that you move,” said the maître d', in a tone that drove Father crazy. Father got up and, without further ado, hit him. The man rallied quickly and sprang at Father, who brought him down with a single punch. The restau-rant's employees immediately gathered around and fell upon Father. Father took many blows and hit back, and he cursed in all the languages that he knew. Finally we found ourselves outside. Even now Victor did not lose his head. The incident amused him, and he threw himself into the snow, muttering and calling out, “Painters are strong, very strong; they know how to give as good as they get.” Father did not laugh but went on cursing. In the end we went to the tram on foot. The walk calmed Father down, and he sang Ruthenian songs that he had heard in his childhood from the women who worked at the orphanage. And all that evening at home he sang these mournful Ruthenian songs, as if his soul had found a temporary refuge in them.

  And so March passed. Father did not paint and did not read; he did not even listen to the news on the radio. Victor did not hide from us the fact that anti-Semitism was on the rise. One evening several walls were plastered with vicious slogans, and more and more the radio was full of venomous propaganda.

  “We'll move to France,” said Father.

  “That's an idea,” agreed Victor.

  It was as if we were in a cage. Sometimes it seemed that Father was about to cause a huge scene that would topple houses and start a great conflagration. Victor would talk to him quietly, as if to someone who was sick and needed to be soothed. In the meantime, the demons had fled the house. I, at any rate, did not see them. But perhaps they had not been expelled, but were instead hiding in the cracks, and would emerge in the spring from their hiding places. Perhaps they were afraid of Father's rage and did not dare provoke him.

  Last night Father surprised me and said, “We haven't heard a word from Mother. She promised to come and she hasn't.”

  “Mother promised to take me to the Carpathians,” I reminded him.

  “It won't work out this year. We're close to the end of winter. The snow is melting.”

  Later, Father told me that when he was young he had spent a month with a rich Jew who owned tracts of forests in the Carpathian Mountains. He had been hired to create paintings for the man's home, and he did begin to work, but when the rich man's wife saw the paintings, she clutched her head with both hands and shouted, “I don't want these paintings in my home—they depress me!” At first the husband tried to convince her that it was good art, showing her articles that praised Father's work, but it didn't help at all. So finally the rich man compensated Father with a substantial sum, and Father left. He told the story without bitterness, as if it were just a fleeting episode and not an unpleasant one.

  47

  While this was going on, I got a telegram from Mother: SICK WITH TYPHUS. CAN'T COME. LOVE YOU. MOTHER.

  I showed it to Father. He read it and said nothing.

  Victor came by in the afternoon, talking enthusiastically of the need to encourage real art as a shield against the darkness. Father didn't agree with him; he claimed that art no longer had a place in the face of the evil and vulgarity that had overtaken life. Victor's attempts to ease Father's despair were futile. “Bucharest is no different from Czernowitz,” claimed Father, “and it's doubtful that the epidemic can be kept from spreading.”

  I was sad to see Father in such despair. Only a few weeks before, he had been happy and painting feverishly, but since the opening of his exhibition, he'd been angry, with furious words on the tip of his tongue. Now Victor took him only out to the country. They didn't bully us in country taverns, perhaps because they couldn't tell the difference between a Jew and someone from the city.

  Then some of Victor's friends came to the house. They made toasts, joked around, and called the anti-Semites derogatory names. They spoke about the people running the country and about distant lands, and the heavy atmosphere lifted somewhat.

  After the guests had gone, Father said, “We must set off immediately to see how Mother is doing.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  It's hard to guess what Father's reactions will be. They're so sudden.

  At first Victor tried to talk him out of the hasty journey, but when he saw that Father's mind was made up, he stopped. For a few days Father was caught up in a strange frenzy, tearing up papers and sketchbooks and talking about the need to arrange his life differently. “The house is yours,” Victor kept promising. “Any time you'd like to return, just come.”

  Father didn't thank him but simply repeated, “Right now I have an urgent journey.” The bottle of cognac was constantly on the table, and before uttering anything, Father would take a swig.

  Just before we left, Victor came by and gave Father a wad of banknotes. He promised Father that he would buy any of the paintings that weren't sold in the exhibition and would send him the money anyplace Father wanted. Father was embarrassed. He shoved the banknotes into his coat pocket and thanked Victor with short bows. “As soon as Henia's health improves,” he promised, “I'll rent a studio and I'll start to work.”

  We hardly packed for this trip. Father put my clothes into one suitcase and his into a duffel bag. The math books and the rest of the schoolbooks were left, for we both agreed that I wouldn't need them any longer. Victor was embarrassed, and he kept apologizing for the dismal atmosphere in the capital. Father was distracted. He kept patting his coat pockets and muttering, “I must first get to Storozynetz; when I'm there, I'll decide what to do.”

  Then Father sat in the living room with Victor, and I went from room to room. Since Father had decided on this journey, it had felt strange there, as though the spacious rooms filled with handsome things were about to be taken away from me and would soon be erased from my memory. I was sad about losing the visions of light that had been revealed to me there, and I tried to see them again so as to store them away inside me. But for some reason they resisted this, and my feelings were slowly being planted elsewhere.

  Father got to his feet and said, “We have to go.” Outside there was a fierce, snow-filled wind. Victor was sorry that he hadn't brought a sleigh.

  “Don't worry,” Father said, “it's not far to the tram, and we can do it in half an hour.” His face was red, and he could hardly stand.

  So we set out. On the way, Father told Victor about an art critic named Zeigfried Stein, who had written some nasty reviews of his early exhibitions. And as if this weren't enough, Stein then traveled to each place that Father's paintings were being shown, declaring publicly that this was dangerous, decadent art and should be banned.

  “And what did you do?” asked Victor.

  “I wanted to thrash him, but God got there first and shut him up.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He drowned in the river.”

  The train came on time. There were hundreds of people on the platform. Victor embraced Father, and tears coursed down his cheeks.

  “Look after yourself.” He spoke as if he wasn't Father's agent but his father.

  “I promise you.”

  “You must paint,” Victor persisted. “Every hour is precious.”

  “I'll get myself a studio first thing.”

  “Just telegram me and I'll send you anything you need.”

  “Thank you, my dear friend.”

  “Don't thank me.”

  “But I want to thank you.”

  “There's no need. Good-bye, dear friend. Don't forget to write me. I'm not going to budge from here.”

  And with these hurried words we parted from Victor and were pushed into our compartment. There were no longer any empty seats, and Father regretted not taking Vic-tor's advice to buy seats in first class. He sat me down on the suitcase and stood next to me. I was tired, but I saw clearly the spacious house in
which Victor had put us up, the chests of drawers, the wide beds, and the great light that streamed in from the large windows. Now it all seemed distant and imaginary, as if I hadn't ever been there.

  I asked Father if we would return to Bucharest.

  “Of course we'll come back. In Bucharest we have such a true friend. He'll welcome us with open arms whenever we come.”

  I sensed the trembling in his legs, and it hurt me that he had no place to sit down.

  48

  Then I fell asleep and I saw Mother. She was in a swimsuit, sitting alongside the stream and preparing a midmorning snack. Her face was clear and open, and a bright smile played upon her lips.

  “Mother,” I said.

  She turned her head slowly toward me. I'd always known this way she had of turning her head, but now it was as if I were seeing it for the first time. I felt her love for me, and I was gripped by silence. She immediately explained that she'd wanted to come to me at Christmas and take me to the Carpathians, but things hadn't worked out. I didn't know what she was talking about, and I wasn't going to ask her. Her love was so apparent that it completely overwhelmed me.

  “Mother,” I said again.

  “What, my love?”

  “How long will we be here?” I tried to hold her attention.

  “All the time,” she replied after a brief pause.

  “And I won't see Father anymore?” I asked, then regretted it.

  “I, at any rate,” she said in a tone that I recalled well, “intend to make the summer vacation last as long as I can.”

  “More than a year?”

  “More than five years,” she said, with a peal of laughter.

  “And we won't leave here?”

  “Why should we leave?”

  “I thought perhaps we would travel to the city.”

  “What do we need the city for? The city destroys all hope.”

  “Hope.” I tried to probe this familiar word, which suddenly sounded suspect to me.

  “How else would you say it?” wondered Mother. This sentence was also something I recalled, but I didn't remember when it had been said.

  Then I stopped talking and Mother prepared sandwiches. Her thin sandwiches, with yellow or white cheese. Mother's sandwiches had a fresh taste that they retained for hours.

  “Why don't you ask me what I've been doing all this time?” I asked.

  “I know everything.”

  “How?”

  “I'm with you, even when you don't see me.”

  “So you know Victor?” I wanted to test her.

  “Of course I know him. Victor was with me at the teachers' seminary. He was an outstanding pupil. But he didn't want to be a teacher; he was drawn to art.”

  “Strange.”

  “Why strange? He was always short and round and very generous.”

  After the meal we went down to the dark lake. The trees at the dark lake are always low and dense, protecting you on all sides, and we swam without clothes. Mother was taller without clothes, perhaps because she gathered up her hair. It was unusual for her to dive under the water and stay under so long. I was scared and shouted, “Mother!” Hearing my shout, she surfaced and floated.

  When she came out of the water I started to ask her whether she had married André. Mother made a dismissive gesture with her hand, as if to say, “Let's not talk about it.” But I couldn't hold back and I asked her anyway. Her face darkened and she said, “Why do you ask?” Her question, or, more accurately, her rebuke, was so sharp that it left me mute. She immediately added, “And suppose I did marry, is that a reason to lash me with knotted whips or banish me forever?”

  I was shocked by what she said. “I love you, Mother.”

  “I hope so,” she said suspiciously.

  “Why do you say ‘I hope so’?”

  “What should I say?”

  I didn't know how to respond, so I was silent.

  “If I've been mistaken, do forgive me,” said Mother in an affected tone of voice, which immediately saddened me.

  We didn't speak the entire way home. Once inside, Mother took off her shoes and put them in the corner. Then she threw herself onto the bed and covered her face with her hands. I knew that I hadn't behaved well toward her, and yet my heart still did not let me go over to her. I stood in the doorway and watched her. The more I looked at her, the more I knew that she had been meaning to say something to me, but would not tell it to me now.

  I woke up as the train came to a sudden halt, and I saw Father standing next to me. When he saw that I was awake, he knelt down and hugged me, as if he hadn't seen me for a long time.

  49

  Toward morning we reached Czernowitz, and we hurried straight to the café that Father loved, the Alaska. The proprietor gave us a warm welcome, calling out, “How come you disappeared on us, my dear fellow?”

  “I've been in exile.”

  “Where in exile—if one might ask?”

  “Everywhere outside Czernowitz is exile.”

  “If that's so, then you've been redeemed and you deserve a good breakfast.”

  And the breakfast came soon enough: toast, fried eggs, and cream cheese, to say nothing of the fragrant, hot coffee. The proprietor sat next to us, and Father told him about Bucharest, about the exhibit, and about the anti-Semites who had the city in their grip, casting terror in the streets and the cafés.

  “Not that they're lacking here.”

  “But here they're quieter.”

  “That's what you think.”

  “In Bucharest they're swarming in every corner.”

  “And what did the art critics say?”

  “Those critics are short and fat, and they are really asking for a good thrashing.”

  The owner burst out laughing and said, “Arthur is Arthur, and neither place nor time will change him.”

  After the meal, we went downtown to the Herrengasse. It was a bright, chilly day. Father was in good spirits. He unbuttoned his coat and walked about the cold streets as if it were spring. People were glad to see him and hugged him. I saw from close up how much Father loved his hometown, its people, and its language. Here, unlike in Bucharest, he was a native son; here everyone knew him by name and liked him.

  At noon we entered the church refectory and ate corn pie with cream. Here, too, Father was greeted with gladness. People sang and cheered for Jesus, who promised redemption to all the faithful. Father gazed at those singing with great intensity, as if trying to engrave them onto his heart.

  Then the venerable old man came in, supported by two young people, and silence fell upon the hall. He began by blessing those seated, praying that Jesus should dwell among them, that their eyes should see only good, and that they should judge all creatures favorably, for only on account of favorable judgment does the world exist. I liked the phrase “judging favorably,” and I asked Father what it meant. Father put a finger to his lips, signaling silence.

  The venerable man also talked about the poor, the downtrodden, and the sick, whom Jesus loves, saying that all those who help them support Him. Treat the poor well, for they shall bring redemption, the old man concluded, and then everyone stamped their feet.

  After the meal I thought that we'd return to the railway station and travel to Mother in Storozynetz, but we didn't. Father met old friends and was glad to see them, and they convinced him to enter the tavern for a toast. Father yielded to temptation and went in.

  At the tavern Father spoke at length about art and art critics, about the dealers' and gallery owners' monopoly, and about the dreadful taste of petite bourgeois Jews, who decorate their homes with sentimental works of art. He went on and on, and you could see that this was a place where he found a ready ear and where everyone respected him. Toward evening he got to his feet and said, “My dear friends, I must set out for Storozynetz.”

  “There's time; there's a night train.” They sought to keep him there.

  I was tired and fell asleep on the bench. When I awoke it was already nigh
t. Everyone was talking animatedly. Father stared at me suddenly and said, “My poor boy! Dragged around from pillar to post with his strange father and no corner to call his own. Let's take him straight to a hotel.” He rose from his seat, pulled himself away from the gathering, and immediately set out with me for the hotel.

  The owner of the hotel entered us in his registration book and told the bellhop to take our bags up to our room. It was a nice room, but it wasn't luxurious like our palace in Bucharest.

  Father, it seemed, had drunk one glass too many. He spoke of things I didn't understand, and in the throes of his drunkenness, he swore that if an anti-Semite crossed his path, he would beat him without mercy. He also tossed out the name of some art critic whom he had mentioned before, but this time in a very direct and threatening way. Once I was afraid of Father's drunkenness, but now I wasn't. I knew that he'd eventually fall onto the bed, fold up his legs, and fall asleep.

  Sometimes Father would wake up and call to me or one of his friends. I would hear but not answer—that's what he did at night and I wasn't frightened. Since we'd been together I'd come to know him well, from up close. Father was tall and strong, and sometimes I saw him in a dream, standing in a ring and boxing.

  50

  The following day we again did not rush to set out. Father was late getting up, and at noon we ate at the church refectory. After the meal we walked along the Prut. It was clear that Father loved the river and was happy to be near it. The entire way he hummed and spoke and argued, and eventually he turned to me and said, “Isn't it beautiful here?”

  On our way back from the Prut, he met a friend from the orphanage. Father was glad to see him and immediately invited him to a café. A short, thin man, he was named Eddy. For years, since his youth, Eddy had worked at Frost's—a general store notorious for the ill treatment of its employees. He had tried other shops, but it hadn't worked out, and now he was thinking of emigrating to America.