All Whom I Have Loved Page 8
Halina told me that the new Jews do not believe in God and so they are in constant danger. Mother of course does not like those who believe. And now, too, all the way to Storozynetz, she spoke harshly against the rabbis and priests, and didn't stop until she had said, “Those people darken the world with their primitive rituals.”
My head was spinning from all this talk. So as to hold on to my faith, I kept repeating to myself that Halina only appeared outwardly to have died, that she was in hiding, and the day was near when she would reveal herself to me.
We returned home and didn't speak of Halina's death. Mother was concerned that she had not yet found a suitable woman to take care of me. This was a very real threat for me, but I was not afraid. I knew that Halina was faithful and that at the first opportunity she would come back to me.
That night I did not sleep at all. As soon as Mother had slipped out of the house, I got up and stood by the window. The darkness was thick, and I searched for the path behind the house; I was sure this was the way by which Halina would return. Toward morning I was certain that I saw a woman climbing over the gate, but I was mistaken. I opened the window and called, “Halina!” On hearing my shout, the woman fled. Mother returned in the morning and I pretended to be asleep.
In the meantime, to keep me busy Mother filled up a notebook with math problems. They weren't hard and I solved them in less than an hour. Mother came back, checked them, and declared, “Excellent!” I told myself that if she saw that I solved math problems and practiced my handwriting day in and day out, she'd give up on her search for a woman to look after me. I swore to myself that from then on if I saw Halina at night, I wouldn't call out her name, but I'd wait for her patiently.
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The surprise came from where I least expected it. While I was wandering the streets and returning to places I had been with Halina—sad and happy by turns—I saw Father. He was so glad to see me that he immediately snatched me up, lifting me high. We went straight into a café.
I hadn't seen Father for a long time. I'd almost forgotten what he looked like, and only in dreams did I see him. I had asked Mother many times why he didn't visit me. Mother gave long, indirect answers, and I didn't understand a thing. Now he stood in front of me as I remembered him: very tall, a peaked cap on his head, and a thin, shy smile hovering about his lips.
I told him about the murder.
Father listened without asking questions. He did not ask and did not argue. Sometimes I thought that he didn't know how to share other people's sorrow. Of course this wasn't so. He was a man without words, and you had to gaze at his face and his hands to learn from them. It was from his trembling hands that I knew he'd been drinking a lot recently. His eyes were swollen, which meant that he had not been sleeping much.
After I finished my cocoa he told me that Mother was about to be married, and he was going to take me with him.
“And what will become of Halina?” I asked.
“It will be fine,” he told me with a nice smile.
The rumor about Mother's marriage had reached him. It was hard to know if he was depressed or angry. When Father was angry his hands shook and he held his head to the side. On the way home, I wanted to ask him not to be angry, but I didn't dare. Mother was at home and let us in silently. Father immediately told her that he intended to take me with him to Czernowitz. Mother didn't ask why, as I had expected her to, but she said, “I'll get his clothes ready, and in a week everything will be clean and packed in a suitcase.”
“I won't be able to come in a week,” Father said without looking at her.
“I don't have a housekeeper, and all the clothes are dirty.”
“It doesn't matter,” he said, and he covered his mouth with his hand.
Mother must have been scared, for she immediately began to put my clothes into the green suitcase. Father stood there, looking at her without saying a word. He must have been angry. His anger now had a dark aspect. When she started to put in my toys, the dominos and the balls, she burst into tears. Father watched her crying without interfering. I went over to her and hugged her. Mother kissed me again and again, and her tears covered my face. Father muttered something and then swallowed his mumbling.
The suitcase was overflowing and would not close. Father got down on his knees, grasped it with his two hands, pressed on the lid, and latched it shut. He looked at me and said, “Let's go.”
“Paul.” Mother turned to me with a choked voice. “I'll come to see you in a few days.” And immediately she added, “I've put the math book and the notebook for practicing handwriting in a folder.”
“I'll do all the problems,” I said, wanting to please her.
“See you soon,” she said, and raised her right hand, as if she were about to take an oath.
I looked up at her; her face was swollen, stained with red blotches, as if she had fallen or been slapped. And so we left the house. Mother stood on the steps, and as we walked away I could feel her following us with her eyes, but I didn't turn to look at her. Father walked along with his large strides, and I stumbled after him.
I felt the sudden parting from Mother only at the snack counter in the railway station. It seemed that I had parted from her long ago, and that only now did I feel it. Father bought me a sandwich and a bottle of lemonade and sat next to me.
“Father,” I said, trying to start a conversation.
“What?” Father's eyes widened.
“What will I do in Czernowitz?”
Father fixed his gaze on me, and I immediately felt that my question had made him uneasy.
The train was delayed, and Father lit cigarette after cigarette. At last, when it did come, people burst onto the platform and rushed for the doors. The conductors tried to stop the crowd, but the people were stronger than they were. It was not long before everyone was pressed inside.
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The train moved slowly, stopping at the small stations and taking on many passengers at each one. I was tired and dozed most of the way. In my sleep some of the sights from Halina's funeral returned to me, and for a moment it seemed that Halina would be waiting at the station in Czernowitz, and that we should hurry to get to her. Father took several gulps from the flask in his pocket. His face lit up and he gazed at me. Whenever this happened I felt waves of warmth flowing out from within him.
One of the drunks on the train buttonholed Father and told him about his wife and his daughters, who he said were cheating on him and stealing his money. Father listened and asked some questions. The drunk then told him at great length how his wife was deceiving him, being unfaithful, and how his daughters had gone astray. “I'll kill them, you know. I really will. I'll kill them at the very first opportunity! True, you can be hung for a murder, but I'm not afraid.”
Father passed him the flask, and the man took a long gulp and blessed him. Although I could speak only a bit of Ruthenian, I understood the language. It is a language that has the scent of a corn-flour pie filled with plums. When Halina spoke Ruthenian, her face lit up and she laughed.
Near Czernowitz, Father fell asleep. It had been a long time since I had seen him sleep. When he slept, the pain surfaced. For years he'd struggled with people who embittered his life, and although he was tall and strong, they seemed to get the better of him. People didn't hate Mother. Mother was full of charm and closer to people. There were two art critics in Czernowitz who were particularly unpleasant to Father. Once, on one of our walks, he had pointed them out to me. He had said, “Those two are murderers.” They hadn't seemed like murderers to me, but like two people innocently taking a walk. I had asked Father about this. He had explained and explained it, and then I understood for the first time how hard it was for him to speak of it, and that I shouldn't make it harder with more questions.
Once, he had pointed them out to me in a café and said, “God is dead in their hearts.” I had wanted to ask him about this but didn't. His face had been dark and his jaw clenched in anger.
Then Father awoke
and asked, “You're not asleep? We'll be reaching Czernowitz in a little while, and we'll take a walk.” He loved long walks. I often wandered around the streets and the banks of the Prut with him. On these walks, his anger would subside and his face would soften. Sometimes he would stop, shade his eyes, and stare for a long time. I liked it when he did this.
It was already dark when we reached Czernowitz. I remembered the railway station from the summer vacation with Mother. Now it was empty and neglected. Everyone was hurrying to leave, and so were we. At first it seemed that we were going to get on the tram, but then Father changed his mind and said, “Just one drink and then we'll carry on.”
As soon as he was inside the tavern, he gulped down one drink and then another one, embraced the waitress, and gave her a kiss. In this dim hall, filled with tobacco smoke, cognac, and beer, Father's face lit up and he talked in full sentences. People questioned him, joked around, and stared at me. Father introduced me. “Paul is nine, and he's already learning algebra; he reads and writes German and understands French.”
It was a spacious hall, filled with long trestle tables. Everyone was speaking Ruthenian, spiced with bits of Romanian and German. I understood only a few confused words. Father wanted to please me and took a bar of chocolate from his coat pocket. We sat there until I got dizzy and fell asleep.
When I awoke, I was already in Father's arms on the way to the tram. On the tram, Father ran into an acquaintance and told him that he had just arrived from Storozynetz and was on his way home. The man looked at me and chuckled. In his small eyes there was a malicious look that frightened me. Father is never afraid after a few drinks. I've noticed how he's a different person, alert and full of witty sayings that amuse people so much that they laugh till the tears run down their cheeks.
Father's house was one long room, with the toilet outside. He lived on the outskirts of the city in the home of a Ruthenian peasant. The room was full of books and was not tidy. There were even clothes and books piled on the windowsill. Father poured me a glass of milk and made me a sandwich. I saw how carefully his large hands held the round bread. He sat near me, and I felt that he wanted to tell me something. But I was wrong, of course. After an hour of ease, the gloom returned. When the gloominess descends on his face, he shrinks in an instant, and sits and stares.
“Father,” I called.
“What?”
“Can I have another sandwich?” I knew that asking him would make him happy, and he immediately went to prepare it for me. After he gave me the sandwich, he opened a book and began studying it.
“Halina,” I called in a whisper, “now that the murderer's been sent to the gallows, there's nothing to fear. You can come down to me. I'm in Father's room, and I feel very alone.”
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The next day, Father left for his high school and I stayed alone in the room. In the daylight, it looked narrow and sooty. I opened the window and my eyes widened: the huge river, the River Prut, flowed right outside the house. I was so delighted that from sheer happiness I ran outside. Halina had told me so much about the Prut. I hadn't imagined that it could be so powerful. I stood on the bank and didn't dare touch the water.
The landlord saw me and asked, “Who are you?”
I told him my name.
He looked at me, smiled, and said, “It's you.” Father must have told him that I was coming.
The river was surging, its waves breaking against the banks. It was frighteningly wide, but I overcame my fear and stayed where I was. Once, Halina told me, “You mustn't be afraid.” I try to do everything she told me.
I wrapped my coat around me and sat gazing at the flowing river. Father had left me sandwiches, fruit, and a small bar of chocolate. Whenever I got hungry, I went back to the room, nibbled at something, and returned to the river.
It's strange—yesterday I was in Storozynetz and here I am today. Did Mother also see me, just as I saw her now? Mother taught in her school, and in the afternoons she went to André. At night they lay naked in bed, embracing and kissing. This thought came back to me again and again and drove me crazy. I tried to push it out of me.
Suddenly, I saw Mother standing as she stood when Father took me away with him, her face swollen and a cry of fear frozen on her lips. I immediately swore to myself that as soon as I grew up I would go and rescue her from that blond thug. This thought so stirred me that I left the Prut and went inside.
The light grew colder, and snowflakes drifted down in the wind and melted as they landed. Last night, with absolute clarity, I saw Halina borne aloft on the wings of angels. It was a peaceful, blue sight. When she saw me, she called out with a mischievous smile, “Why don't you visit me in the chapel? I'm there most of the day.” I remembered her once telling me that, through prayer, we can change everything. If we are fated to die, prayer can cancel the decree.
“If prayer is so strong, why don't people pray?” I asked.
“They don't know its power; if they knew, they would pray.” She spoke not only of prayer but of God as well. “If man believes in God, God dwells within him and no harm can befall him.”
“I don't understand, Halina.”
“Through prayer we are connected to Him; the trees and the birds are also connected to Him.”
“God is everything,” I said.
Halina was so amazed at what I said, she hugged me and kissed me and would not stop till she had said, “I'll gobble you all up and there'll be nothing left of you!”
It was always hard to guess what Father was thinking. Sometimes it seemed that he talked only with God, but there were days when I sensed that he was not connected to anyone, not even to God, and that he lived by himself, all alone, and no one knew his secret.
And so I sat and gazed at the waters of the Prut, and it occurred to me that if everything was connected to God, the Prut was also connected to Him, so there was nothing to fear from it.
In the afternoon, it rained. I had hoped that when the rain stopped I could stand on the riverbank, but it rained harder and I got drenched. I went inside, stood next to the window, and saw battalions of clouds racing through the skies and lashing their rain down on the black waters of the Prut. It was a struggle between heaven and earth, and it was hard to understand what it was about. So I sat and observed. And the longer I sat, the more I saw everything darkening; it was clear to me that Halina would not visit me here. My prayers at night returned empty. I opened the door and went outside. The rain and the wind whipped my face, and I felt a pressure in my chest. “God, let me see Halina!” I called out.
“She's in the chapel” came the answer. “If you come to Storozynetz, you'll be able to see her. Many people come to see her.”
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Father returns when it's dark. I am so happy that I forget my woes. Father is also happy. When Father's happy his forehead gets broader and the lines on it rise.
Father gets up to make a pot of potatoes for dinner. He buys provisions from our landlord. The landlord brings the provisions and hastens to extol their quality and freshness. Father tries to make this conversation as brief as possible, but the landlord goes on and on. He talks about the rains and crop yields, and the flooding that has uprooted an entire orchard. Father pays him and promises that he'll come and see the new plot of land he's bought. The landlord leaves, and we sit at the table to eat our meal: baked potatoes, cheese, and yogurt.
Father doesn't ask, “How was it?” or “What did you do?” He eats and then serves up more for me and for himself. It appears as though this is his only full meal of the day. To break the silence, I tell him how I sat on the riverbank and gazed at the water. I would have really liked him to ask me about Storozynetz and about Halina, but he does not ask, as if he has no curiosity. And yet his presence does not weigh heavily on me. I love to have him close to me, so sturdy, and I think that one day I'll be like him.
When it stops raining, we go into town. Once our walks were less leisurely; now we stroll about the alleyways and walk up the main streets. The
downtown area is crowded at night, with the stores and cafés open. At the café, Father knows many people, and they greet him cheerfully. In the street, too, he meets acquaintances. Sometimes it seems to me that the entire city likes him, and I'm proud of him.
It's not always like that. Once, a short, stocky man approached us, and I saw that Father became filled with anger. The man was an art critic, as it turned out, one of Father's enemies. Although I knew that he doesn't usually beat up people, I was still afraid. But this time Father surprised me and called out, “You scum! I hope the worms will eat you!” The man must have heard the curse; he began to run toward the gate of a house and then disappeared inside. Father's fury abated and a cold smile spread over his face.
Our walks usually wind up at the tavern. Father downs a couple of drinks, jokes with the barmaid, asks after his friends, and then we return home. I fall asleep on the tram, and Father carries me home in his arms. When I wake up in the morning, I feel as though I'm still sitting in the café.
The rains do not cease, and most of the day I sit by the window and gaze at the Prut flowing by. The river is black, and its waters surge and break over the banks with a deafening noise. Sometimes the landlord comes in and asks how I'm doing. Once, he asked me if I went to synagogue. I was taken aback by his question, and I told him the truth. “A person should go to pray at least once a week so that he'll remember that there's a God in the world,” he said. “The new Jews never go to see the face of God in the synagogue as they're commanded. The café is their temple. God has been showing restraint, but not for long. When the time comes, He'll punish them.” His face was red, and he spoke in a voice that shocked me.