The Iron Tracks

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “How are the neighbors this year?” I asked cautiously.

  “Fine,” she said. She was sixty-six at that time, but her body didn’t show it. Her legs stood firm on the ground.

  Afterward, as if beside the point, she told me that Lily had gotten sick that spring. She had lain down in her stall and refused to get up. Lotte feared for the cow’s life and called for the veterinarian. He came and examined Lily and announced that she had caught a fatal and contagious disease. She had to be destroyed immediately; he would summon the inspectors. Lotte pleaded with him, but in vain. Lily died that night. The next day, when the inspectors came to kill her, they only found the body.

  “That’s a miracle, isn’t it?” The awkward smile returned to her face.

  “True,” I said absently.

  “If they had come to shoot her, I wouldn’t have let them. An animal should die in the place where it was used to living. You mustn’t shoot animals.” Her voice quivered.

  “You’re right.”

  “The veterinarians are cruel people. You shouldn’t do what they tell you,” she said and burst into tears.

  I wanted to console her and said, “A miracle happened for Lily. She died in peace and without unnecessary suffering.”

  “She did suffer. She suffered a lot.”

  “But she wasn’t put to death by evil people.”

  “You’re right. But we were companions for many years. It’s hard for me to live without her. In the summer we used to go out to pasture together.” Amazement spread over her face as if she had grasped something that had evaded her all the years. Her mouth suddenly shut, and she didn’t add a word. Her face was covered with the same blank awkwardness that had greeted me on my arrival at her house.

  CHAPTER

  27

  I reached Weinberg toward evening. I was tired and my arms felt slack. I went to the kiosk and asked for lemon soda. The sweet liquid dispelled the weakness slightly, but not the dizziness. The sights of the past few days and the visit to Lotte still clung to me. For a minute I imagined that the legless buffet owner whom I punched in the face was coming after me on his crutches. Lotte hadn’t accompanied me to the door. I said goodbye to her, and she didn’t reply.

  I stood near the kiosk and watched the customers’ movements. They were elderly people, their moderate gait filled with rural tranquility. I knew Weinberg well. It seemed unusually quiet to me. Then I remembered that after the Tuesday fair, they remove the boards, collect the trash, and on two high wagons hitched to two oxen, they drag everything out of the village. I had witnessed that scene several times.

  I took my coat off and immediately felt the cold on my back. The winter comes early here. At the end of November snow already falls and covers the peaks with white. The whiteness turns yellow, and remains that way until March.

  “Good evening,” one of the old men greeted me.

  “A good evening to you,” I answered in the local dialect.

  “This year winter is early, and the cold penetrates right to the bones. When I was young I liked the snow, but now it’s my bitter enemy.” He spoke as if to an old acquaintance, letting me share his mood.

  “It’s not forever,” I said, glad that I had found the right words.

  “It’s a frost that won’t let up,” said the old man emphatically. “Frost like this doesn’t pass. It just digs in.”

  “Does it damage the trees?” I asked for some reason.

  “Not necessarily. The trees need a dose of cold, it strengthens them. The summer fruit will be as sweet as honey.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to leave him.

  The old man wanted to continue the conversation, but seeing that I had turned aside, he pointed with his cane as if at some distant spot. “A tavern once stood there, and they served French cognac.”

  The sun dimmed, and evening fell, dressed in violet light. From the low houses scattered along the crests thin smoke rose, reminding me of the days when my parents were alive, and I was shuttled back and forth between them like a defenseless animal. When I was under my father’s care, I was entirely his, and even when I wasn’t, I wanted to be with him. But recently I have felt my mother’s muteness more and more. Sometimes it seems that her despair was refined into a new faith. Father was more practical. He bound his faith together with his practicality, and until his last day he refused to untie the package. Years had passed, but still it was as if we had never parted.

  I advanced, now very close to Nachtigel’s house. The house lay at the foot of a mountain, surrounded by a snow-covered yard. It looked ordinary, not conspicuous or threatening. Thus, in truth, are all the houses in this area.

  Meanwhile, I saw a woman walking down the hill, headed toward the center of the village. She was a short woman of about forty, wearing a knitted hat and a coat like the ones the women of Czernowitz wore before the war.

  “Excuse me,” I called to her. “Where is Mr. Nachtigel’s house?”

  “Perhaps you mean the new tenant? It’s right in front of you.”

  “Thank you,” I said without moving from the spot. The sky was darkening, and lamps were lit in the houses. The forest all around was thick; I could easily find cover and a vantage point. But for some reason, I stood transfixed by the sight of the evening. It reminded me of another evening, in the forest near Czernowitz. I was four, my mother held my hand, and we made our way through the tall grass. The next day I was going to have my tonsils out, and of course I was afraid. Mother promised me that it was a simple operation and that I wouldn’t feel it at all. When I kept asking her how they would remove the infected tonsils, she answered me, in a tone I never heard again from her, “Easily, the way you take a pit from a plum.” That voice and the evening mingled together and charmed me, banishing fear from my heart. I returned home happy, drank chocolate, and repeated out loud what my mother had said. “Easily, the way you take a pit from a plum.” Later I heard that she was sorry for that little lie.

  CHAPTER

  28

  Now it was completely dark. The few soft lights that shone in the windows only intensified the darkness all around. I felt the cold beneath my feet, but knew that I could stand it for many hours. Since my youth and my travels with Father, the cold has accompanied me. Sometimes it has hurt me, but it never killed me the way it killed so many in the labor camp.

  Again I remembered the legless buffet owner, his thin, determined face, the German he spoke. He didn’t talk like one of the locals, but in the dialect of the small towns of Austria, where the accent is strong and slightly artificial. Unlike me, he spoke fluently, clearly, with no impediments. I regretted my stammer, the ill-chosen words, the stupid repetitions, and mainly that I left the train quickly, as if fleeing. I ought to have punished the mouth that had uttered the words “a great mission,” but I was paralyzed, confused, and without resolve.

  In Nachtigel’s house no light was lit. I felt that the dread that had oppressed me during the past weeks had subsided inside me. As in the days of my youth, I was prepared to suffer, but I didn’t know what the nature of the suffering was to be. For some reason I saw myself running for my life, seeking shelter like my father in the houses of peasants.

  To avoid suspicion I went down and strolled along the river. At one time, in moments of exaltation, usually after two or three drinks, agent Murtschik used to talk about the Jews’ duty to execute the murderers and to purge the world of its sins. Once he even told me that a religious man was obliged to carry out the sentence—for had the Jews not brought the religion of truth into the world? Those sayings, which he would repeat in many languages, sounded inflated and unpleasant to me. Besides, I suspected he was trying to flatter me so I would pay him more.

  Time moved lazily. The center of the village shut down, and only the tavern remained open. The roads were empty, and the few who climbed the hill were middle-aged men who headed straight for the tavern. I, too, wanted to go up and sip a drink. A drink always dissipates fear and gives strength, but I restrained mysel
f and remained at my post.

  Last year, at this season, I stayed in a pension for a few days, not far from Weinberg. Hunting down Nachtigel then seemed like a distant wish, as if it belonged more to my old age than to my present. I slept for whole days, immersed in childhood memories and glad for the small amount of cash I had added to my savings. But when I headed south, I knew that if I returned here, it would be different. Then, of course, I didn’t imagine that Nachtigel would decide to come out of hiding and buy a house in the area. The moment I learned he was walking about freely, it was clear that I couldn’t escape my duty.

  At one time I wanted to consult with Rabbi Zimmel about the matter, but in his last years, Rabbi Zimmel was so immersed in preserving his books that I didn’t dare impose that burden on him. As I said, just before his death, I told my secret to him. The very act of consultation, it seems to me, is a kind of sharing of the burden. That’s why I didn’t consult Max. A person must take an action like this of his own accord.

  Strange, I had actually hinted to Bertha that I intended to take Nachtigel’s life. The hint was vague, and she didn’t catch it. There was a practical reason: I wanted to leave her my small amount of cash, the bankbooks, and a few pictures from home. Someone who sets out on a mission like this has to take into account that he might be wounded or may even die. I was sorry for a moment that the little property I had accumulated over the years would be deposited in a local police station after my death. There they would sort every item, and finally they would burn the clothing, as is the practice here. I wanted to write a note: the cash and the contents of the suitcase, the savings in the bank account in Sandberg, belong to Bertha Kranz. She would certainly report to a police station. As for Nachtigel’s death, all the responsibility would be mine. I wanted to write all that, but immediately grasped the foolishness of it.

  Gradually, the lights in the houses went out, and only the tavern remained lit. The sounds grew muffled, and were it not for a few birds of prey that sawed the air with their screeches, you could cut the silence into squares.

  The cold had seeped into my toes and was now climbing higher. I wasn’t tired or faint. My senses were alert and my memory was clear. Still, it seemed to me that those shadows that had followed me over the years, disturbing my sleep and hampering my steps, those malign shadows had finally managed to push me into this trap. Old fears, fears that I had overcome, returned and made my body tremble. Stamping both feet hard, I marched in place. That brief stamping drove away the fear.

  Later I thought only of Max, about our friendship and the closeness I feel to him. I wanted to remember how and when I had first met him, but I could not. That practical man, who started with nothing, had taken care of dozens of people. He kept extensive financial records. He was connected with banks and finance companies. He helped people in secret and watched over Rabbi Zimmel. Max, that marvelous man, had been gripped by dread all these years. Sometimes it seemed that he led his life according to signs that he received from distant places. They, in truth, were what guided his life.

  Now the feeling grew in me that Max, too, was in danger. I remembered that he had several protected rooms, and not a few pistols. But somehow it seemed to me that he had been trapped in the open store. The cashiers wanted to sound the alarm, but they didn’t have time. “May God help him!” I shouted, and I emerged from my waking nightmare.

  CHAPTER

  29

  For hours I stood there. When I awoke the cold had already gripped my whole body. I was surprised at myself for surrendering so easily to my mood. I remembered that one thought had bothered me, gnawed at me all night, and finally it had touched a painful nerve. But what that thought had been, and where it was going, I didn’t know. The cold permeated my entire body, and I tried to overcome it.

  The morning began to glimmer, and the barking of the dogs ceased. Clumps of darkness fell away from the trees. The pain spread through my body. I had known similar pain in my youth, and I was pleased that I had succeeded in standing watch all night without falling asleep.

  As the light grew brighter, I saw a man approaching me. He was walking slowly, with a pouch hanging from his shoulder, and he leaned on a cane. He looked like a milkman who had gotten up early, but because he was empty-handed, I changed my mind and imagined he was delivering newspapers. He had an old man’s gait, short of breath, stopping every few steps. When he came closer I saw that the pouch wasn’t full, but it was still hard for him to carry. His body slouched forward, he was bent over. He seemed to be headed for the commercial center, but to my surprise he turned toward Nachtigel’s house.

  Without delay I approached him. “Good morning, Colonel Nachtigel.”

  “A fine morning to you,” he replied, revealing a toothless mouth.

  “In the name of the neighborhood, I am pleased to greet you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We are very proud of you.” The words came to me as if I had rehearsed them.

  “It’s hard for me to walk.” He opened his mouth and gasped for breath.

  “But you march like a veteran soldier.”

  The old man grinned, looked at me in embarrassment, and asked, “Where can you buy milk around here?”

  “In the grocery store up there. That’s where you’ll find all the dairy products, sir.” I tried to sound like a local.

  “Everything has changed here.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “This whole area used to be part of my father’s estate. My elder brother, may he rest in peace, was a wastrel and sold the estate for a pittance. I was in the war and couldn’t oversee the family business.”

  “Here, sir, your service is remembered with pride.”

  “Never mind,” he said, making a dismissive motion and swallowing.

  “When do you plan to move in, sir?”

  “Soon. For the moment I’m living with my cousin Fritz. He’s eight years older than I, and it’s very hard for him to walk in the morning.”

  “But you walk well, sir.”

  “Not as I once did,” he said, and some of his former vigor returned to his face. He leaned on his cane as if he were about to march on, but he changed his mind and added, “It’s hard for an old body to endure this cold.”

  “That’s a nice house.”

  “Since my wife died, life has lost its meaning.”

  “You mustn’t step out of harness,” I said, as they do here.

  “That’s right. But there are days when one has no more will.”

  “That doesn’t apply to old soldiers.”

  “An old soldier is also a person, isn’t he? He also gets old, and he’s also miserable.” He smiled, and quickly added, “All these years I wanted to return to my childhood home. I was sure that we’d spend our last days together here. But my wife went too soon and left me alone. What’s the point of a new house if you haven’t anyone to talk to? The walls can drive a man out of his mind.”

  “Colonel Nachtigel, your former soldiers will come to visit you.”

  “Today people even forget their fathers and mothers.”

  “But not their commanders.”

  He had apparently not expected a compliment like that. He gave me a sad look and said, “So be it.” At that moment it was hard to imagine that this man had once worn a uniform, shouted orders, abused people, and shot them the way you shoot stray dogs. He was completely crushed by his misery, and it was clear that no compliment could rouse him from his depression.

  “How many years have you lived here?” he asked.

  “Many years.”

  “To my regret, I was distant, though it wasn’t my fault, from this place.” The slight twists in that sentence showed that the man still hadn’t set his thoughts free.

  “This land is dear to us all,” I said, trying to get him to be sentimental.

  “Sir,” he replied, raising his eyes, “these places are the true Austria. The rest has already been spoiled.”

  “True.”

  “As we used to s
ay in high school, a sound mind in a sound body, isn’t it so?” He chuckled, the laugh of an old man whose memory is weak and who is glad of any detail he remembers.

  I was shocked at my composure, but still I didn’t let up. “Not everything succeeded,” I said. “But we didn’t lose the war.”

  “I share your opinion.”

  “Why, then, this defeatism?”

  “From America. All bad things come from America. All the refuse of the world is piled up there, and all the sick ideas come from there.” These few words made him stand straighter, and one saw immediately that the man had served in the army from his youth.

  “I need milk,” he said. “Where’s that grocery store?”

  “Straight up the hill.”

  “Once people had dairies and cows. Today everything’s in a carton.” He raised his hand to wave goodbye.

  Had it not been for that gesture, it is doubtful that I would have struck at him. But that gesture, more than anything he had said, reminded me of Nachtigel’s comradeship with his young subordinates in the camp, and the warm paternal care he used to shower on them. He treated them like a father, and within a short time he made them as cruel as he was.

  The old man walked away, and I opened the valise. I took out the pistol and aimed it straight at his back. The first shot hit him, but he didn’t collapse. The second shot knocked him over, and he fell with his arms outstretched. I wrapped the pistol up again and replaced it in the valise. With quick steps I cleared out.

  I knew the forest well, from the times when I used to take the shortcut between Steinberg and Weinberg. The morning light was bright and full, and not a shout or siren could be heard from the main road. I made my way without effort. My arms and legs acted of one accord, but my head was empty, as after a night of drinking.

  CHAPTER

  30

  I reached the station on time. The express will stop only in distant Salzstein. But the farther away, the better for me. Cold morning lights filled the square. People were buying tickets at the booth. They seemed relaxed. I too was unafraid. I bought a ticket and boarded the train. It was warm in the dining car, and the waiter served coffee and toast.