Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

  COLD SPRING

  Aharon Appelfeld

  Translated from the Hebrew by J. Sloane

  Aharon Appelfeld (1932–2018). One of the greatest Israeli writers of his generation, Appelfeld was born in the village of Jadova, in what is now Ukraine. During the capture of the village by the Romanian army, when he was nine years old, he witnessed the murder of his mother. He and his father were deported to a Nazi concentration camp, from which Aharon escaped and spent three years in hiding. After the war, he immigrated to Palestine two years before the declaration of Israel’s independence. He studied Hebrew and Yiddish literature at university, and although his first language was German, he chose to write in Hebrew. He wrote his first collection of short stories in 1960. He first gained international attention with his novel Badenheim 1939. His short stories earned him considerable praise, especially the collection Blooms of Darkness. Philip Roth described his stories as “small, intimate and quietly narrated, and yet are transfused into searing works of art by Appelfeld’s profound understanding of loss, pain, cruelty and grief”.

  Seven days late, we learned that the war was over. We heard that the day after the war ended everyone was very happy. The fact is, sounds reminiscent of the war’s beginning did filter into our bunker, but we did not know that these were after-war pangs, so we listened in silence.

  When we removed the cover of our hiding place and daylight suddenly descended into the bunker, we did not know what to do. Our faces took on an expression of naïve amazement, like the face of a stutterer.

  Zeitel said, ‘Don’t rush out into the cold.’

  Berel and Hershel curled up, not wanting to move.

  The first to leave, rushing out with a powerful burst and thrusting his beard ahead of him, was old Reb Isaac.

  ‘Sonya!’ he called, as though she were waiting for him at the doorway.

  Outside lay a lucid winter. Great lights glittered in the distance, too strong for the naked eye. The horizon was a firm, solid blue. In the evening we returned and covered the bunker.

  ‘What did you see?’ asked Zeitel in the middle of the night, but we were tired and said, ‘Nothing.’ Then we fell asleep again.

  In the morning we were in no hurry to remove the cover again. The army band beat out thunderous rhythms above our heads, the music spiralled happily, and peasants yelled: ‘Hurray, the war is over!’ In the afternoon a company of Russian soldiers wandered over. ‘Do you know the war is over?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Berel, ‘only we’re tired.’

  We did not know where to go now that the war was over, so we sat at the entrance of the bunker, and when we grew thirsty we sucked the white snow that melted nicely between our fingers. Company after company of soldiers passed singing and whooping; their victory yells echoed and passed over us. The snow did not melt. In the evenings sparkling clouds of smoke piled up in the sky. Nights we no longer went out to the fields to search for potatoes, but slept huddled together in a circle. As we lay in hibernation, a heavy shudder ran through our limbs. We posted no watchmen to listen for strange noises, but Zeitel would rouse us at midnight. ‘Do you hear?’

  Old Reb Isaac could not just sit and wait. The second day, he suddenly fled the bunker, going off into the snowy fields. I remember his hands flapping in the distance like wings.

  ‘Sonya,’ he called through the clear air. ‘Sonya.’ He did not return to the bunker. We were fast asleep and did not notice his absence. Only Zeitel said from time to time, ‘Reb Isaac went out without his coat.’

  After we had got used to the light, we would go out and watch the Russian soldiers march past singing. We did not go very far, just around the bunker. The idea occurred to none of us that the time had come to take to the road. We had food. The soldiers abandoned piles of bread and sausages and vodka, but we were not hungry. The bunker was full of food but none of us went near it. Zeitel would spread out her hands and say, ‘Maybe you’ll eat something.’ Berel grew fat, so heavy he could barely stand. Hershel, on the other hand, shot up tall, like a plant springing in the shade. Zeitel could not help saying, ‘Look at Hershel.’ And Berel said, ‘You have no appetite. Good. I’ll eat all the more.’

  Hershel sat apart from us, and fell into a brown study. Nobody went near him; it was clear that he was not one of us any more. He was sailing off somewhere and there was no stopping him, for he could see what we could not.

  At times a company of soldiers stopped to eat and rest with us. They were flushed with victory and did not ask any questions. But they let us forage after them, and sometimes were amazed. ‘Jews.’

  The battlefront moved away, the railroad tracks were repaired, and the snow began to soften—not all at once, but in layers, from the surface down. There were no human voices. You could hear the sound of saws in the forest, and the sound of axes, and the sound of wood being piled up and loaded.

  Zeitel said, ‘I shiver whenever I hear these sounds. Why haven’t I become used to them?’

  Max smiled. ‘Winter is passing.’

  The snow began to thaw, baring the earth. Steel helmets that had been discarded were scattered in the fields. A burned-out jeep lay on its side wearing a helpless expression, one tail-light gleaming red.

  Zeitel said, ‘It’s a good thing we stayed in the bunker and were not so foolish as to follow the refugees.’

  We did not bother to repair the leaks in the bunker, as we had done every year toward spring. The water began seeping in, and we had to curl up in the corners of the bunker.

  Max and I used to go out and watch the army cars speeding down the road, their wheels throwing up clods of mud behind them.

  Zeitel said, ‘Children, why are you standing outside?’

  One morning we awoke to find the bunker full of water. Now we knew we could not remain. We took our bundles out of the bunker, and Berel grumbled, ‘Just when you want to sleep, it fills up with water.’

  Max glanced inside and said, ‘Our bunker.’

  Then we left.

  Where were we to go?

  Zeitel said, ‘Let’s go to the village.’

  Hershel said, ‘Let’s go to the road where the cars pass.’

  In the distance moved long lines of refugees; their feet seemed to sink in the thawing snow. Huddled together in the bunker we used to talk and talk. Now we five walked in silence.

  Zeitel remembered something and said, ‘I forgot the wooden spoon in the bunker. Maybe I ought to go back and get it.’

  Carts loaded with trees moved very slow, leaving a trail of dripping resin. Cows were taken to pasture.

  A peasant woman stood at the door of her house with a little girl, and the woman said, ‘Look, Jews! You see, they are going to look for their families.’

  ‘Those are Jews?’ wondered the little girl.

  After a time we turned off the main road into a narrower one. Facing us was a green hill with a monastery looking down from the peak. Holiday bells were pealing and Hershel said, ‘Christian holiday.’

  The sun stood in the middle of the sky, it was hot and a mouldy smell rose from our clothes. ‘We might go down to the river and wash,’ said Max.

  ‘God forbid, God forbid,’ said Zeitel. ‘Not in this cold weather.’

  We sat down to rest in the sun. ‘The sun is good,’ said Hershel.

  And Max remembered the bunker and said, ‘Our bunker is full of water.’

  We took out the bread and the bottle of vodka. ‘I have a bad taste in my mouth,’ said Hershel. But smelling the vodka, he said, ‘Seeing vodka makes me happy.’

  We sat and stared at the red monastery, and saw the sun going down by degrees, and heard the bells hurriedly calling.

  At last, Berel stood up and said, ‘What are we sitting here for? It’s late, it will soon be night.’

  Hershel said, ‘We should walk along the main road.’

  Berel thought it would be better to start off toward the monastery.

  Max said, ‘It’s good to walk.’

  Berel grew
angry and said, ‘If you people don’t want to go to the monastery, I’ll go alone. I’m not afraid of going alone. As a matter of fact…’

  Zeitel interfered and said, ‘Sh … sh … Are you quarrelling now? All the years we sat in the bunker we never quarrelled—should we quarrel now?’

  We moved slowly in silence. At first we all kept together. Then, gradually, the knot loosened. An angry cloud hung over our heads. Berel lengthened his stride. Hershel dawdled behind. Toward evening we reached the monastery. The walls that had looked low and narrow from a distance now loomed high and forbidding. They were enclosed by rigid iron gates.

  ‘Who is there?’ asked the monk.

  We told him.

  ‘We have too many refugees already,’ said the monk’s voice.

  ‘But only for one night,’ Zeitel raised her voice.

  ‘Every inch is taken,’ he replied.

  Berel climbed up the wall, stood on the top, and said, ‘I’m a Christian.’

  ‘Look at the Jew pretending he’s a Christian,’ laughed the monk.

  His face smarting, Berel crawled down, and Zeitel said, ‘What’s all the fuss? We’ll sleep here, next to the wall. The winter is over, we can spread straw on the ground.’

  When we got up in the morning, the angry cloud of contention had not lifted. We continued to walk. The morning was large and clear and bright. Behind us trailed the monastery prayers.

  Zeitel said, ‘So hot.’ She remembered Reb Isaac. ‘I wonder what Reb Isaac is doing now.’

  ‘You’re always complaining.’ Berel grew angry.

  ‘I don’t mean anyone is to blame, God forbid. But why did we let him go? All the years we looked after him—then, on the happy day, we let him go,’ said Zeitel.

  Berel walked faster. We sensed the anger that was driving him. It forced him to keep going, never to look behind. He ran with his head lowered. By afternoon he was far away.

  Max said, ‘Maybe we ought to run after him.’

  ‘Even if we ran, we couldn’t catch him,’ sighed Zeitel.

  The footprints Berel left in the earth were deep and we were able to follow them. Max shouted, ‘Berel, Berel! We don’t have the strength to run after you. Wait, wait.’ Toward evening, Berel was swallowed up in the dusk.

  ‘That would not have happened if Reb Isaac were here,’ said Zeitel. ‘But what are we standing around for?’ She hurried us. We knew we would do whatever Zeitel said.

  It grew very dark, but Zeitel said, ‘We won’t rest till we find him.’

  At midnight we found Berel, by his groans. He was sitting with his back propped up against a tree.

  ‘Let me alone, let me alone, let me rest,’ he said.

  Zeitel went over to him and said, ‘I’m going to take care of you.’ She made him sip some water.

  Hershel and Max carried Berel, Zeitel and I trailed behind. We were in good spirits, the way we had been in the bunker. Max hummed Russian marching songs, and even Berel’s heavy breathing was part of the celebration. Reconciliation was in the air.

  Max said, ‘Let go, Hershel. I want to carry him by myself.’

  ‘Look at the hero,’ said Zeitel.

  We came across a lean dog and Max said, ‘Look at the dog,’ and ran over to stroke it.

  We decided to ask the peasants for a place to lodge.

  ‘You want to sleep at my place?’ asked the peasant woman. ‘I can tell from your looks you’ve just come out of a bunker. Now you’re trying to locate your relatives, aren’t you?’

  ‘We’re looking for a place to sleep,’ said Berel.

  ‘Ah,’ smiled the peasant woman. She seemed to like what Berel had said.

  In the ante-room she spread out straw, lit the oven, and said, ‘You poor people, lie down and sleep.’

  I do not remember that night. But I do remember the tongues of flame that licked my back. The wounds all over my body gaped painfully. A sweet languor dissolved through my limbs. The hayseed crackled in the oven, shooting sparks. I sensed my voice returning. Tomorrow I would be able to speak again. The moment we lifted the cover of the bunker when we learned the war was over, a stream of cold air had numbed my throat, and I had not been able to talk ever since.

  The next morning our bodies ached and we could not rise. It was Max who got up at last and said, ‘Where’s Berel?’

  ‘Woe is me!’ screamed Zeitel.

  ‘Where is Berel?’ we asked the peasant woman.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s in my room.’

  ‘Give us a chance to speak to him,’ pleaded Zeitel.

  ‘The nerve of these people! You think he’s badly off with me?’ asked the peasant woman.

  ‘Berel!’ shouted Max, but Berel did not answer.

  Zeitel covered her face with a kerchief and said, ‘The son of Nachman Katz and the grandson of Rappoport. What have we done to deserve this?’

  I had not regained the power of speech. I tried to say something but could not. I felt that if only I could speak I would be able to suggest a solution. A vast loneliness descended on us, the sun’s rays seemed to sink, heavy and rough, and Zeitel said, ‘If Reb Isaac were with us, such a thing would never have happened. A tragedy.’

  Hershel walked behind us. His face was silent. We saw that his eyes were clouded, he was deep in inner meditation. We did not know what visions were being shown him.

  We had been walking for an hour or so when Zeitel stopped and said, ‘Children, perhaps we ought to go back. He must be sitting alone feeling sorry now. How could we have allowed that filthy peasant woman to steal him from us? What if we meet his father? Could we tell him that we left Berel with a filthy peasant woman? Let us go back, children.’

  But even as she spoke. Zeitel knew we could not go back. We felt heavy and weary.

  In the distance moved long lines of refugees. Tall peasants stood in the field mowing grass. ‘Hey you,’ a peasant yelled to us. ‘Over there go the refugees looking for their relatives. Don’t you have any relatives? Is that why you’re in no hurry?’

  Hershel was depressed, his face yellow with sadness. Max and I walked at Zeitel’s side. Hershel plodded heavily behind, his every step a sigh.

  ‘You remember the night we went into the bunker?’ Max broke the silence. ‘You didn’t want to go in, Zeitel. Now the bunker is full of water. It held up all those years, and on the last day it filled with water. The dampness must have been too much for it.’

  We took out the last of our bread and sausage and sat down to eat. ‘Hershel, if you don’t eat, neither will we. A person can’t walk if he doesn’t eat. You’ve got to keep up your strength, it’s a long trip,’ Zeitel reprimanded Hershel.

  We came to a cross-road, and Max said, ‘I’ll walk over and ask where the roads go.’

  ‘Well, I found out,’ he said when he returned. ‘One road goes to Tulz, the other to Raditz.’

  ‘Raditz,’ said Hershel. ‘No Raditz for me. They’ll never see my face there again.’

  ‘Well, where shall we go?’

  We were standing there in a quandary when an old peasant approached us, his cheeks wrinkled in a smile, and began talking to us in our language.

  ‘You’re Jews,’ he said. ‘I like your food. I did a lot of business with Jews. You want to take my advice? It’s good advice. Down there, on the slope of that hill, lives a man who is very famous in these parts, there’s no one like him when it comes to dealing with spirits. He’ll tell you who is still alive and worth searching for, and who has been killed. Why tire yourselves walking the roads? Go over to his hut and he’ll tell you. Take my advice.’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Max, the blue vein throbbing in his forehead.

  Zeitel’s face grew very serious. She took off- her kerchief.

  Hershel raised his head and said, ‘I don’t believe in magic.’