All Whom I Have Loved Page 6

  Since she had started coming back late, only to disappear at night, I have been repulsed by her. Even her clothes, which I used to love to smell, put me off—they were now saturated with a suffocating perfume, and I was glad that Halina crammed them into the chest of drawers in the morning.

  “What's the matter?” Mother sometimes asked.

  “Nothing,” I said without meeting her gaze.

  Once I loved hearing her read aloud from a book. Even now she forced me to listen to her reading. But I didn't listen to her, I only looked at her lips and told myself, “These lips that kiss André in the dark are not clean lips. I'd far rather have Halina's kisses, because she hates her fiancé and she loves me.”

  On my last outing with Halina we got as far as the Jewish orphanage, on the outskirts of the city. We stood next to the high fence for a while. Everything there looked rundown, peeling, and neglected, and the children's faces were sickly and jaundiced. Halina told me that if a child had no father or mother, he was sent there.

  “But I have parents,” I hastened to say.

  “True,” Halina said.

  Yet I couldn't shake off the feeling that soon I would also be sent to the orphanage. I did not tell her about that feeling. I had begun to be haunted by a different fear. I dreamed that André was punishing me the way the Ruthenians punish their children. First they make them bend over, and then they strip off their pants. The children scream and try to escape, but it's useless—the belt comes down on them time after time, and the father won't stop thrashing until he draws blood.

  Mother abandoned me every night so she could go to André. The darkness frightened me, but I swore to myself that I was not going to cry. I sat on the bed or stood by the window. Sometimes I armed myself with two kitchen knives, so that if the darkness invaded, I could thrust into it, wounding it on the spot. Halina had told me something else: that Jews do not marry non-Jews. When I asked her if André was Jewish, she laughed and said, “He's a goy—you know what a goy is?”

  “No.”

  “Whoever isn't a Jew is a goy. Not a nice word—don't use it.”

  Mother, it seemed, had no idea that I was awake during the nights, that I heard her dressing and leaving stealthily and returning toward morning. She thought that I didn't know what she did at night, but I knew everything. Halina had already told me and made me swear that I wouldn't tell a soul. After they kiss, they would undress and stick to each other when they were naked. I had complete faith in what Halina said. Halina didn't lie to me like Mother did. Since she had told me this secret, it had been hard for me to speak to Mother. I had nothing but scorn for her, and I swore to myself that as soon as I grew up I would not see her face anymore.

  20

  Catastrophes come when you least expect them. While we were sitting and playing cards on the broad bed, enjoying the warmth of the stove, eating cheese pastries filled with raisins, playing, laughing, and fooling around, a man's shadow appeared at the entrance of the house. He knocked on the door. At first it seemed that this had to be someone who was lost and found his way here by accident, but the shadow stayed stuck to the door and the fist continued to rap on it.

  “Who's there?” asked Halina.

  The man said his name and Halina opened the door. As it turned out, it was a soldier, Halina's fiancé. The fiancé was not happy and did not embrace her but immediately began to ask her questions in a loud voice. Halina answered but must have become confused. The fiancé became angry and raised his voice. Halina rallied and spoke in a flood of words. He interrupted her and silenced her. Halina ticked off on her fingers everything that she had done in the past few days, but he shouted, “Shut up, you liar!”

  “You're the liar!” she burst out to his face. “You've got another woman in the village!”

  “You'll speak to me with respect!” He turned on her in a choked voice.

  “I'm not afraid, you're not my husband,” she said defiantly.

  “I'm your fiancé, so mind your language.”

  “I'll do as I please.”

  “You certainly won't!”

  “I will.”

  “You will not.”

  “Get out of here, this isn't your house!” she screamed at him.

  When he heard this last pronouncement of hers, he loaded his rifle and took aim. It was a very strong shot, and it shook the house. Immediately there was silence. Halina fell to the floor with a groan. The neighbors burst in. The fiancé made a dash for it, slipping away as the neighbors shouted, “Catch the murderer!”

  “Murder! Murder!” everyone was shouting. In no time at all, the police arrived, accompanied by the doctor and a medic. The doctor knelt down and exclaimed, “She's wounded! Take her to the hospital at once.”

  “Is she breathing?” the women in the doorway asked.

  The doctor ignored them. He and the medic carried Halina to the open cart outside, laid her on the flat surface with her arms dangling, and were off at once.

  “God, spare Halina!” I cried, breaking down. Meanwhile, there were people all over the house. Everyone knew that Halina had already been taken to the hospital, and yet they stood there as if rooted to the spot, as if a secret was still lurking within. The news spread rapidly and reached the school. Soon Mother pushed her way through the crowd and hurried toward me. André was with her, which stripped the meeting of all emotion.

  Mother did not ask, “What happened? What did you see?” as once she would have. She just stood there and explained to André about Halina's life. I was hurt that she could tell him things that were only for us and Halina. I was about to shout, “Shut up!” but didn't dare. I moved aside and went into the bedroom. I saw the disheveled bed where we had been romping about a short while ago, and my heart tightened and my legs trembled.

  Mother and André were engrossed in their conversation and didn't even look for me. “God, give me back Halina!” I cried out, feeling pain in my stomach. The pain spread to my thighs and stayed there. And for a moment it seemed to me that Halina was hiding beneath the bed, as she used to do. I lifted the cover and bent down carefully. The musty darkness assaulted my nostrils.

  I told myself that Halina was in a deep sleep and that the doctors were taking care of her. Last spring, Father and Mother had taken me to the hospital to have my tonsils removed. They had been inflamed and had hurt me the entire winter. Father had said, “It will be as easy as removing a hair from a glass of milk.”

  I had believed him. A short time after that one of the doctors, a large, strong woman, had put a mask over my face and suffocated me. I don't remember anything of the operation, only the suffocation before it and the pain that followed it, and the ice cream that Mother fed me. The ice cream had looked wonderful but didn't taste good. I could taste the medication in it.

  I envisioned Halina lying in bed and one of the nurses giving her ice cream. Halina tells her about the pain and the nurse explains to her that the ice cream heals like medicine. I got into bed and covered my head with the blanket. I immediately felt more certain that Halina would get better and that, in a short while and to everyone's astonishment, she would rise, like Jesus, and come to me.

  21

  I slept until late morning. When I woke up, Mother said, “I'll be leaving for school soon. There are sandwiches and drinks in the pantry; you'll have to look after yourself.”

  “Where is Halina?”

  “In the hospital.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “Let's hope she recovers.”

  Only when Mother had gone to school and I was all alone did I again see Halina as she fell to the floor. Everything spun around me.

  I went outside. The garden was quiet, illuminated by the muted morning light. I approached the fence between us and the bearded Jews. An elderly man came up to me and asked how I was. I told him that the day before, Halina's fiancé had wounded her and now she was lying in the hospital.

  “And who's looking after you?” he asked with concern.

 
“I'm on my own, but I'm not afraid.”

  The old man smiled and said, “God will look after you.”

  He held me in his gaze, and I felt as if he knew not only what had taken place the day before, but all that had happened to us since Father had left the house and we arrived here. I wanted to enter the synagogue and pray for Halina, but I didn't dare. So I locked up the house and went into the street, thinking that I'd make my way to the hospital. On our walks outside the city, Halina had once pointed out a low structure, saying, “That's the municipal hospital.” The building was hardly welcoming; it resembled the orphanage. The forecourt was neglected and some Ruthenian horses harnessed to miserable carriages stood around listlessly, as if they had lost all will to live.

  I knew the main street and some of the side streets well; I'd spent so many hours walking with Halina. Now the sidewalks were drowning in fallen leaves, and I waded through them. I passed the tavern and thought of Father. Now I often saw Father in my dreams. In a dream his silence is more tangible. A black flame flickers in his eyes and his lips are pursed. Once I asked him in a dream why he doesn't speak. He looked at me with his black eyes and said, “That's how it is.” He often said that.

  The gate and the front door of the hospital were open, and it was easy to enter. The main corridor was empty, and so was the corridor that led off it. At the end of the corridors there were steps, and I went up them.

  “Who are you looking for?” a man in orange overalls addressed me.

  “I'm looking for Halina,” I replied immediately.

  “Go to the information counter,” he said, and turned away.

  The information counter, it turned out, was right alongside me. The man there glanced at me and asked, “Who are you, son?”

  I told him.

  “Halina has had two operations, and we have to pray for her recovery.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “When the Almighty will open her eyes.”

  It was eleven o'clock, but I was in no hurry to return home. The man's answers sounded unclear but not without hope, perhaps because he had mentioned God. I passed the orphanage and remembered what Halina had said to me about the place. Then I stopped at the home of Princess Josephina, which is surrounded by a large garden and has a high iron gate in front. Halina had told me a lot about the princess, who was related to the royal family and was now living there by herself. At each step I could hear Halina, even by the trees at the post office. Next to the post office she once told me, “Only letters leave here, never people. People get stuck here forever.”

  At the chapel next to the post office I saw a woman kneeling and praying, and for a moment I told myself that I would also kneel and pray for Halina's recovery. But it was a long line and the people who were waiting did not look nice.

  I didn't return home until one o'clock. I did not touch the sandwiches that Mother had left. The empty house seemed to me like a body without a soul. Halina had taught me that a person's soul is in the middle of his chest, but you can't see it because it's pure spirit. When a man dies, his soul ascends to heaven and merges with Jesus. One mustn't be afraid of death because death is light and not darkness. That's what Halina taught me.

  Mother returned late and brought me a gift: a cotton shirt and gym shoes. I should have thanked her and been happy, but I was angry with her and with her red lips. Whenever she left the house she put lipstick on her lips and reeked of perfume.

  I burrowed into the bed and covered my head with the blankets.

  “Aren't you going to eat dinner?” Mother asked in an affected tone of voice.

  “I'm very tired,” I said, and closed my eyes.

  I knew that at midnight, after she had graded the notebooks, she would get dressed and leave the house. This certainty did not hurt me now—my hatred was stronger than the pain, and it drugged my sleep.

  22

  Mother leaves every morning, and I stay home alone. Without Halina, the house is cold and gloomy, and I leave it as soon as I can. First I cross the main street and then I immediately turn into the alley that leads to the municipal hospital. Sometimes I forget about Halina and roam aimlessly, but when I reach the street where the hospital is and see the neglect there and the homeless lying under the awning, I quickly climb the steps, go up to the information counter, and ask how Halina is. It doesn't take long to hear the answer: “May God have mercy.”

  When I hear the voice of the man at the desk, I imagine that the doctors who have looked after Halina until now have taken off their white coats, put on priestly robes, and are now kneeling by her bed every hour in prayer. Once in the corridor I saw a peasant couple sitting on the bench. I was sure that they were Halina's mother and stepfather, but it turned out that I was wrong. The woman had come to see the doctor; she registered at the information counter, and her husband paid for the visit.

  Most of the day I wander along the side streets and alleys. I have stolen a little money from Mother's purse, and I buy two overflowing cones of ice cream at a time. An icecream cone brings to mind running in the rain with Halina along the main road from the ice-cream shop to the house. It wouldn't help that we made a dash for it—we would still get soaked. Halina would immediately strip off my wet clothes and dress me in dry ones. These fumbled actions filled me with sensations of rain and laundry starch.

  Those are the pleasant, fleeting memories. Mostly I see the gushing wound in Halina's neck. The doctors are helpless, and whenever her condition worsens, they get down on their knees and pray. At these times I also want to get down on my knees in the corridor, to pray together with the doctors. Sometimes I think I see Father coming toward me. I haven't seen him for weeks. I used to envision him walking with people. Now I see him alone, his loneliness trailing after him like a long shadow. I feel his presence grow within me; now I've come to know his long strides, the way he holds a glass, and the way he grips his old duffel bag. When I reach his age, I'm sure I'll be as silent as he is.

  One night I dream that I stole money from Mother's purse and took a train to visit Father. At the station I asked where he lived. I was happy, because everyone knew him and told me how to get to him. Then I wake up and Mother is not next to me. Darkness lies curled up where she had been.

  So now Mother sleeps with André and she's warm. I'm cold and long shadows hover about, deceiving me. Never mind—when Halina recovers, I'll run away to her village with her. In the country there are fields and streams, and we'll take walks from morning till late at night.

  Mother comes back from school and asks, “What did you do?”

  “I played.”

  “You weren't bored?”

  “No.”

  “I'm looking for a woman to come and look after you, but I can't find one.”

  “You don't have to.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm waiting for Halina.”

  “Halina is very ill.”

  “She'll soon be well.”

  “Who knows.”

  Once, I adored Mother's voice; now every word grates. When she talks about Halina, she says, “Perhaps …Possibly … Who knows?” If she really loved me, she would not speak like that, she would use different words. But because she loves André and not me, she uses words that André uses—dry words like the blond hair that comes down to his neck.

  I go to the hospital every day, and I prepare myself to run away with Halina to her village. I keep my plan totally secret. The thought that I will be in her village in just a few days makes me so happy that I begin to skip in the street, and I have the feeling that no one can catch me.

  The brief talks with Mother at night are forced and wearying, and I'm happy that she leaves me alone and sits at the table, correcting notebooks. Sometimes her face takes on a light from days past, and I remember her beauty. This, of course, is just an illusion. She has changed so much. Her hands have broadened and she eats hastily, buttering slice after slice, trying to get me to eat. I don't feel like taking part in this fit of eating that's called
dinner. I sit to one side and stare at her, and the more I look at her, the more I know that this is not the mother that I loved.

  One day I walk by the school and see the children in the school yard fighting and shouting, and I am so happy that I am not learning there that I forget about Halina and walk all the way to the orphanage, telling myself, “Father knows what's best for me.” Because Father had saved me by the magic of a single word: “asthma.”

  As I approach the hospital, I suddenly think that I also need to use magic, so I can pull Halina out of the deep sleep into which she has fallen.

  23

  I'm on my own for the time being, and happy. But when I suddenly remember Halina lying in the hospital, I brush aside my thoughts and run there. Again, the man at the information counter says, “May God have mercy,” as if there are no other words in the world. One day I summon up the courage to ask, “Can I see Halina?”

  “She's sleeping and mustn't be disturbed,” he says, placing a finger to his lips. His answer raises my spirits, and I retreat on tiptoe. In the hospital forecourt a group of homeless have gathered, arguing, shouting, and making a great deal of noise. “You aren't allowed to shout here,” I want to tell them. For the rest of that day, until evening, I am aware of Halina's sleep, walking carefully so as not to make a noise.

  In the evening Mother asks, “How was your day?” Of course I do not tell her anything.

  The next day I go into the synagogue next door. There is only one man in the place, and he asks me what I want.

  “To pray,” I answer.

  “It's late. We've already prayed.”

  “I'd like to learn how to pray,” I explain.

  On hearing this, his lips crease into a smile and he says, “You first have to learn the letters.” He immediately takes down a prayer book and shows me the large letters. He points to the first letter and says, “Alef.” Then, seeming to remember that he hasn't asked, he inquires, “Why do you want to pray?”