The Iron Tracks

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “But they still exist,” I couldn’t refrain from writing to him.

  “A mistake,” he didn’t hesitate to reply.

  Once he revealed his hidden desire to me, I ought to have killed him. There is nothing simpler than killing a man, and yet for some reason, I cannot do it.

  The moment the wheels roll out of the station, I swear to myself I will never return here, but my vows are empty. My route is fixed, more fixed every year. Imprinted on my body, it cannot be shaken.

  The trip north from Wirblbahn isn’t difficult, maybe because of the music. Fine music intoxicates me more than fine cognac. Happily, on this stretch of the route there’s no need to bribe the waiter. Like me, he too likes string quartets. If there’s no one in the dining car, we sit together and get drunk on the music. His name is August, and he is five years older than me. He surely took part in the war, but I don’t dare ask him where. Hatred of the Jews here is fierce, and after two or three drinks, it is given voice. I have found sensitive people here, dedicated to classical music, who don’t hesitate to declare their hostility to the Jews.

  The minute I leave the confines of Wirblbahn, the pressure eases, and I feel relief. Not complete relief. Two weeks in Wirblbahn leave their mark. It is hard to extract those geometric forms from your mind. They etch themselves within you with all their angles. To be honest, I only free myself from the sights of Wirblbahn in little Herben. There a hot bath awaits me. I soak for three full hours. Hot baths have the power to draw me out of melancholy. Not every bath, of course. Remote hotels are likely to have cramped bathtubs, and others, just showers. A sweaty body is preferable to an irritating shower. Only in little Herben have I found a bathtub that suits my body. Only there do I grant it a bit of rest.

  CHAPTER

  3

  After three hours of steady travel the train stops at Prachthof, a little village that sits on a green plateau. In this village lived my former sweetheart, Bella. I haven’t seen her for years, but she lives within me, a mute and constant presence. No day passes without her. I know the station in Prachthof like my own hand. I used to return here as a dog returns to his kennel. I often wish to get off and linger here, if only in the buffet, but I restrain myself and remain in my seat. Fortunately, the wait is short, and I close my eyes and get through it. The excitement is the same. The years, you see, have not done what they are supposed to do.

  I met Bella after the war in a warehouse, not far from Wirblbahn. She was nineteen, a mute flower adrift in a polluted sea. No one knew what to do with the life that had been saved. People shamelessly hoarded supplies. There were bitter quarrels. Life was violent and ugly. The camps shadowed us everywhere, as if we had not yet left the cages of death. I took Bella’s hand and pulled her outside. She was pretty, the kind of beauty that seems to flourish only in the barren reaches between the living and the dead. We ran away to the mountains. For many days we walked in the tall grass without exchanging a word. The summer spread over the lush meadows, and we would sleep for hours in the fields. Eventually we arrived in Prachthof, a small village with a dreary center. The houses were made of local stone. “Let’s stay here,” I said, so we stayed. I had a few dollars that I’d gotten from the Joint, and two watches. Death, which had followed us all the way, released us only in Prachthof.

  The next day, saying nothing, she collapsed into sleep. At first it seemed like ordinary sleep, but two days later it became clear that this was different, a kind of sinking. I was frightened and tried to rouse her. She would wake up and rise to her feet, utter a few syllables, and with a smile such as I’d never seen in my life, she would once again collapse. I considered leaving her and heading north, as everyone was doing, but something within me, perhaps fear, wouldn’t let me, and I stayed with her. I didn’t stay willingly. Pity is not a pure virtue.

  After two weeks of sleep, she awakened. Sleep had wrought changes in her face. She was starved, as after an illness.

  “What happened to you, Bella?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why did you sleep so much?”

  She bent her head and said nothing.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  She looked at me, and I saw the abyss yawning in her face. That short, gaunt creature, who from close up had looked like a destitute refugee, was now taller than I. She seemed to say, Why are you bothering me? Sleep is my language, and I have no other.

  Nevertheless, my tongue goaded me, and I asked, “What did you dream?” Again she looked at me with that mute gaze, and I knew I had been heartless.

  The secret lodged itself more deeply within her. Her face blossomed, and a crushed smile clung to her lips. Her gaunt beauty receded.

  “How do you feel?” I tried again to make her speak.

  “Fine.”

  “What language did you speak at home?”

  “Yiddish.”

  “Have you forgotten it?”

  “No.”

  That was all I managed to get out of her. Her replies were one word, sometimes a single syllable, as if her tongue had been cut out. It was spring and I was reminded of another spring. The long war years had erased scenes of home from my mind. The others sat by camp-fires warming their hands.

  Meanwhile, I ran out of money. What I had to sell, I sold. Refugees flooded the place on all sides. They bought and sold and fondled each other in the empty warehouses. “Bella,” I tried to rouse her from her muteness. “We don’t have a penny, and we have to get moving.” She didn’t seem to understand or didn’t want to be a burden, so I left her and joined the smugglers. Whoever wanted to live joined the smugglers. They breathed life into dry bones. Among them were tall, thin men, who carried bundles on their shoulders with ease, like fishermen. There were pharmacists, a veterinarian, delicate people who before the war sat at carved desks and wrote prescriptions or memoranda. But by the platforms they seemed like the rest of us—criminals.

  Smuggling intoxicated us. We smuggled cigarettes, lighters, cameras, watches, cognac, what have you. It was a broad network that stretched from Naples to Copenhagen, active people who stirred up the region and brought the police to their feet. Luckily for us, everyone was tired, the officials were confused, and a little bribery bought them off.

  Occasionally I would return to Prachthof. Bella continued to change. The creases vanished from her forehead, and a kind of rosiness permeated.

  “How are things?” I would begin by asking.

  “Everything’s okay.”

  The secret in her face was still hidden. She was working in the kitchen at the Joint. People handed her bowls, and she filled them with soup. If there were potatoes or rice, she would serve them with the same gestures of forbearance, as if she worked without benefit to herself.

  “Join me,” I urged her.

  “And who will work in the kitchen?” she answered simply.

  Every time I returned to Prachthof, we would sit together in silence. It was hard for me to talk to her. The words clung to my palate, and what came from my mouth sounded crude and insulting. She grew taller and cast a frightening spell around her. Finally, I stopped coming back. Now I realize that no woman has ever known my soul as she has. Since then I’ve had many women, some of them attractive, but only with Bella did I know true silence. Today I know there is much pretense in talk. Only a quiet person earns my faith.

  In time I heard she married a refugee who had gotten rich, and they had two children who went into their father’s business. That is what the rumors said. Forty years have passed since I last saw her, but the hidden pull toward her has not ceased within me. Sometimes I imagine, but surely I am mistaken, that she also thinks of me.

  CHAPTER

  4

  From Prachthof I continue north. The train passes through rural stations without stopping. Thank God nothing ties me to them. I sit in the dining car and drink coffee. I bribe the waiter with a small sum, and he immediately turns on the classical station. Even now it’s hard for me to remove the image of Bella’s
face from my mind. Over the years she’s matured within me, her face has thinned, her hair has grayed, but the muteness of her eyes has remained. Once a fellow refugee told me that he had seen her in a dry goods store, measuring out cloth for a customer. “Did she ask about me?” “She asked,” he answered. Since then she has breathed within me more intensely. In my mind she no longer feeds refugees in the Joint kitchen but measures out cloth in a store. Her husband stands at the cash register and takes in the money. The boys have gotten fat from too much idleness. But Bella doesn’t scold them. She watches them out of the corner of her eye, and when they catch her at it, they get annoyed and rudely chide her.

  Until five years ago I kept up this relentless pace, but since my ulcer was discovered, movement has become difficult for me. After a day of travel I need rest. I calm my stomach with light foods, have sworn off fried meat, and eat a lot of yogurt. But I won’t give up smoking. Without cigarettes I’m not a man. My hands shake, my memory falters. I’ve told the doctor, and I say it again here: I won’t give up cigarettes. If there’s any point to getting up in the morning, it’s knowing that a cigarette awaits me on my table. Without cigarettes, what would be the reason to get up? If a woman scolds me for smoking in bed, I get rid of her.

  I worked as a smuggler for three years. Three years of constant coming and going, danger and fear. We forgot ourselves in all that activity. No one asked why, when, or how. As if we were trying to accomplish just one thing: to loot every warehouse. What we didn’t do during the years of the war, we did now: we moved rapidly. In three years, I amassed a considerable sum. If I’d invested the money wisely, I would be a rich man today.

  Then suddenly I ran out of energy. I would sleep for days on end, wake up and stand by the window. Emptiness seeped into me down to my toes. Had it not been for nightmares, I doubt I would have moved. They were my hidden taskmaster, driving me from place to place. I would board a train, travel for three or four stations, and change hotels. Hotel rooms didn’t make sleeping easier. Sleep in a hotel is either light or frighteningly deep. I didn’t return to Bella. I was afraid of her muteness. It seemed that madness was trapped within her. I’d rather crawl through stations and keep changing hotels than return to her.

  In an inn a refugee approached me, a tall man with old-fashioned elegance. “I know you, comrade,” he said. When I told him my family name a smile spread over his lips, which conveyed his connection to me. Later, in the buffet, he told me he was about to head south to reorganize the cells that had been destroyed.

  “Anyone still alive?” I asked, full of dread.

  “Just a few, but loyal.”

  The word “loyal” was whispered among the secret circles that my father had been involved with. “He’s loyal,” Father would say, meaning that the man had been a Communist since youth, that he’d taken part in open and clandestine operations, that he’d served time in prison, and also that he’d proven that his loyalty was unswerving. My father had been a Communist since youth and had eked out his days organizing meetings and strikes far from home. He was hardly ever with us. My mother became bitter and took solace in drink. I would often find her sitting in an armchair, muttering to herself. She worked as a secretary in a small textile factory, and with great difficulty supported the household. Father would appear like a gust of wind and then disappear. Their life together was not happy.

  Rollman, it appears, had known my father well. He too, like my father, had been one of the great organizers of the party. Jewish Communists have a particular kind of face. Their restrained voice indicates powerful will, and they always wear short leather jackets. Another sign: most of them are bald.

  That evening Rollman spoke at length and with enthusiasm about our duty to rebuild, adopt orphans, exorcise ghosts, and plant faith in people’s hearts for a better life. Later, his visionary gaze changed, and he said abruptly, “We have been ordered to send the refugees back to the East. Palestine is an illusion and a disaster.”

  “How will this be done?”

  “With song. You have to close the ranks with song.”

  From childhood I had known the power of song over the masses. My father used to take me to workers’ meetings, where they would sing folk songs, hymns, even snatches of operas. In time Father left the Jewish camp and went over to the Ruthenian neighborhoods, where they didn’t sing at meetings but roared. Father would say that the Ruthenians were good and talented people, that exploitation had corrupted them, and as soon as the yoke was removed from their necks, they too would become engineers and doctors.

  The next morning we took the first train out to the refugees. They were encamped on a long beach crammed with people and shacks. Rollman immediately found an empty spot, a few meters of canvas, and some crates. A Communist from youth knows how to set up a stage.

  Rollman appeared that very evening. He sang in a low voice, as if talking to himself. The multitude of refugees, with burning candles in their hands, surrounded the small stage and responded by singing the chorus. The songs grew more powerful, and gradually they began to sound like prayers.

  After the performance, a refugee harshly attacked him. “I’ll never forgive you,” he shouted. “I remember your speeches in Lvov. The Communists cannot be forgiven. They must be condemned everywhere.”

  Rollman composed himself. He stood there and bent his head. The man didn’t stop berating him. He spoke of the commissars who had seduced the young with false promises, causing misery to old parents, and the strikes that had been catastrophic for small Jewish businesses.

  The next day, too, Rollman’s performance was impressive. He sang folk songs and workers’ songs, and songs that brought to mind ancient prayers. No one interfered. After the performance there was a great silence. I remembered my mother, who had also been a Communist from her youth. It was said that she had taken part in the murder of General Porotzky, the chief of the secret services, who had viciously persecuted the Communists. The years, solitude, and bitterness had removed her from active duty. Increasingly, she withdrew into herself.

  Later it got hot, and the mood on the beach became volatile. The Italian police would arrest people and confiscate their goods. Short men would race after them with bribes. Life at the beach was full of such hustle and bustle. Whoever was capable of striking would strike. No one ever said, “Enough,” or “Silence.” A tall woman was there, with wild hair, who spoke Lithuanian Yiddish. After every one of Rollman’s performances she would rush into his arms and say, “You’ve given us back our home, comrade.” But not everyone agreed. Some bitter people would stretch out their arms and shout, “Strangle the Communists, death to the thieves!”

  These threats did not deter Rollman. The humidity would sometimes muffle his voice, but he didn’t give up his performances. A refugee, one of the gaunt ones, begged him, “Why don’t you go farther south? The refugees there are quieter. Here there’s violence and much hatred.” Clearly, the man was concerned about him and wished to save him from his enemies. Rollman ignored these pleas. Old Communists are used to insults. They love torment. It strengthens the will and also one’s capacity for suffering.

  After the performance he would return to the tent, drink five or six cups of tea, and fall asleep. He slept most of the morning. His sleep, like his being, was a mixture of practicality and secrecy. When he sang, his face would fill with emotion, like the High Priest’s in the Temple. But in the tent, near the crates, he was like a craftsman who knew the power of restraint. He ate moderately. During the time I spent with him, he revealed many things to me, including something my father had hidden from me: the death of Uncle Moses. Uncle Moses was Father’s younger brother, a Communist from youth and a district chairman. At the time of the persecutions, he was murdered in his hiding place. I had known his death hadn’t been easy. Now I heard about the murder for the first time.

  One evening everyone was preoccupied, people were dancing the hora in the open area, buying sandwiches and lemonade at the improvised buffet. While everyone was s
aying “good evening,” a refugee stepped up to Rollman and said, “The Jewish Communists deceived Jewish youth. They wrested them from their parents, put them in squalid cells, and in the end, sent them to Russia, right into the lion’s mouth. We won’t forgive them. They have forgiveness neither in this world nor in the next.” The words rushed out as if from a memorized speech. Then, without warning, he drew a pistol from his coat pocket and shot Rollman in the head.

  People were stunned. No one moved. Before long the full extent of the horror was clear. Rollman lay in a pool of blood. The murderer, a short, thin Jew wearing a cap, stood next to his victim and muttered, “The Communists destroyed the Jewish people.”

  “Why have you done this?” shouted a refugee.

  “You don’t know?” answered the murderer.

  Soon Italian guards came and handcuffed the murderer. He went off without a word. A restrained excitement was in his face.

  Right after Rollman’s murder, I boarded a train and fled north. The sharp pain came later, many kilometers from the scene of the crime. I am a creature of the tracks. Every time the whip lands on my back, I board a train and flee. Only a railroad car with its rhythmic vibration has the power to soothe me and put me to sleep.

  What would I do without that somnolent rhythm? True, a drink and a few cigarettes can banish fear from my heart for a short while, but only the train, it alone, can tranquilize me completely.

  After the murder I traveled for many days. In a moment of weakness I almost got off at Prachthof. But as soon as I stood up and reached for my valise, Bella’s mute face rose up before me. I don’t know if she was already married then. In any event, I did not get off. I closed my eyes and kept them shut until I felt the whirl of the wheels beneath me.

  Since then my days have glided over the rails with a kind of haste, as if they weren’t days, but the gathering darkness of twilight. It was a profound sleep, sometimes disturbed by the pounding of hammers. I hate those vigilant inspectors who strike the wheels and send evil sounds out into the night. Were it not for those dusky inspectors, were it not for their chilling sounds, I would be another man.