All Whom I Have Loved

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “Never mind, it happens,” said André, rather tensely and without conviction.

  I noticed that his blond hair was long, all the way down to his nape, and that his blue eyes had a cold glimmer to them. Mother was animated and laughing. Not since our vacation in the country had I seen her laugh like that.

  “How old are you?” He turned to me.

  I told him.

  I was disappointed and angry that Mother was so very lively and so engaged in their conversation. I didn't say anything. I had already learned not to reveal my thoughts. A carefully guarded thought can be a pleasant secret.

  I sat and looked at them for quite a while. Eventually I got tired of André's smooth face and sat down on the floor and played cards. Nothing is more enjoyable than cards. I pricked up my ears to catch what Mother was saying. She was using words she did not ordinarily use, such as “cutie” and “sweetie.” I didn't like those words. I played a few more games and then I fell asleep. Beyond my sleep, I heard them chattering away happily and wanted to listen, but I was overcome with exhaustion.

  The following day Mother got up late and rushed off to school. Her haste brought to mind André's smooth face and blond hair, and a wave of anger swept over me.

  “How are you?” Halina asked when she arrived.

  “André visited us,” I told her.

  “And what's he like?”

  “Not that nice.”

  “But good-looking?”

  “Not good-looking,” I was about to say.

  Then she said, “Your mother may be in love with him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That's how it seems to me.”

  Halina heard and knew everything. She knew that Mother and Father divorced because Father was deeply depressed and addicted to alcohol, and that now he had also stopped making his alimony payments. I also knew that Mother and Father had divorced, but I didn't say this out loud. It seemed to me that this was a word that should not be spoken out loud.

  “So, is André going to marry Mother?” The question popped out of my mouth.

  “Possibly.”

  “Then I'll have a stepfather.”

  Halina told me something that surprised me. Her father, who had been so cruel to her, died when he was still young, and her mother married again. It turned out that the stepfather was more easygoing than her natural father. He simply ignored her. Halina often told me secrets from her own life. At seventeen there was already a lot of life in her body: rage at her dead father and scorn for her mother; while it was true that her mother didn't beat her with a belt, she would lash Halina with her tongue. “Sometimes the tongue hurts more than the strap,” Halina told me.

  Every word that came out of Halina's mouth went straight into me. I didn't always completely understand what she was saying, but I easily absorbed the sense of it, and at night when I was in bed I heard her voice and felt the touch of her hand.

  My talks with Mother were now short and abrupt, and left nothing within me. She did not ask me very much, and I didn't ask her anything. It was as if our talks had been extinguished. Even at night, when I lay down next to her, I didn't think of her. I curled up in the corner of the bed, and whenever she touched me a shiver went down my back. Before I shut my eyes, Mother would ask me: “Wouldn't you like to go to school?”

  “No.”

  “You won't be able to study in the high school.”

  “I don't care.”

  16

  Halina also said that Mother had changed. She thought she was head over heels in love. I'd already noticed that Halina might not always have been sensitive, but her instincts were extremely sharp. She knew when it was going to rain and which birds forewarn of it. She once said, “It's not rain that will fall but hail.” And she was right.

  “What is love?” I asked her.

  “Kissing,” she said, and laughed.

  “And what else?”

  “You're still a child, you're too young to know.”

  “Tell me a bit.”

  “Well, you take off your clothes.”

  I saw Mother naked on our vacation. The lake was screened by dense foliage and we were alone. At first I was afraid of the quiet and of the gray water, but the moment we took off our clothes and immersed ourselves in the water, the fear receded. Toward evening we would get out and wrap ourselves up in large towels, shivering from the cold. Blueberry bushes grew along the road to our small house in the village, and we feasted on them, getting all stained.

  I told Halina about that long, sweet summer. She listened and said, “We weren't taken on vacation. We started working when we were young.”

  I was sorry I had told her.

  Later, I cried without knowing why. Halina asked me again and again, “Why are you crying?” I didn't know what to tell her. To cheer me up, she dressed me in my sailor outfit and we went out for a walk. Along the way, too, the tears welled up, but I kept them in.

  Halina said to me, “You mustn't cry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it hurts more.”

  I think that she was right.

  Now I was in no doubt: Mother was in love. Halina kept saying, “Your mother is in love.” Perhaps she didn't mean to hurt me, but it did hurt. Mother was blossoming. I saw her happiness and my heart bled. André came again at night and Mother went out to meet him. He gave me another math exercise and again I became confused. Had it been in my power I would have thrown him out. Because I couldn't do that, I sat on the floor and played cards.

  I woke up in the middle of the night and looked for Mother, but she wasn't next to me.

  “Mother!” I called. Her side of the bed was a dark pit. I got up and went to the window. Trees rustled in the thick darkness. “Mother!” I called again and again, but she did not answer even this. The tears were about to burst out from within me, but I held them in. I remembered what Halina had taught me, and I curled up inside the blankets and pillows. “Mother loves André more than me,” I murmured, choking back the tears. “I will never forget this betrayal, not even when I'm grown up.”

  As the darkness grew heavier, threatening to choke me, I heard the door opening. I knew it was Mother, but I closed my eyes and decided not to let her know that I had been awake and afraid. Without taking off her clothes, she lay down next to me. I felt her breathing and I knew that her eyes were open. Even when the dawn broke and there was light, I pretended that I was sleeping. Mother got up, changed her clothes, and sat at the mirror, putting on makeup, for a long time.

  “How did you sleep?” Mother asked.

  “Wonderfully.”

  “You didn't have any dreams?”

  “No.”

  “Very good. I have to leave.”

  I was happy that she was going and that I would again be with Halina. At first I was about to tell Halina what had happened at night, but then I decided not to. It's better to keep a secret to yourself. When you tell a secret, you feel bad. But Halina didn't hold back that morning. She lashed out, angry at her fiancé, who had returned from the army without bringing her anything—not even a bar of chocolate.

  “He must have another woman, I'm sure of it,” she said, clenching her jaw.

  “How do you know?”

  “The smell. I smelled perfume on his body.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He denies it, swears it's not true. But I don't believe his oaths.”

  “So you won't marry him?”

  “No.”

  When Halina was angry at her fiancé she was more beautiful. Her tanned face glowed and her eyes flashed.

  17

  Suddenly the sun came out, and in the yard next to us the bearded Jews were wearing white.

  “What's going on?” I asked Halina.

  “It's the Jewish New Year today, didn't you know?”

  “No.”

  Halina had worked for religious Jews, and she knew lots about them; she was always telling me interesting details.

  “On
Rosh Hashanah they dip an apple in honey so it'll be a sweet new year.”

  “And why do they wear white clothes?”

  “To look like angels.”

  “You're teasing me.”

  “No.”

  I had already noticed: sometimes Halina looked at them with a hidden smile; she worked for them for two years, and those days are ingrained in her memory.

  Halina put the sailor cap on my head, and I went into the synagogue. At first no one paid any attention to me. But after a short while, I found myself surrounded by people. Now they seemed very tall to me. One of them put a prayer shawl around my shoulders and said, “It's a tallis.” The shawl was not heavy, but it was cold, and it made me shiver.

  They must know everything about us, for I heard one of them say, “He's a Jew, he's a Jew for sure.” Then he leaned down, held out a prayer book, and said, “This is a siddur.”

  “What should I do with it?” I raised my eyes.

  “Hold it.”

  I clasped it to my heart and stood there. The men wrapped themselves in prayer shawls and prayed with devotion, and for a moment it seemed that God was looking down from the ceiling, and I lowered my eyes.

  Then I left, and no one stopped me. It seemed that the praying grew stronger and could be heard in our backyard. The thought that I, too, was Jewish and that I was also allowed to pray made me glad for a moment. I revealed my thought to Halina.

  “You want to be like the bearded Jews?” Halina wondered.

  The direct question confused me, and I said, “No.” Then I regretted it and said, “Still, they do pray nicely.”

  Of course, I didn't say anything to my mother; she can't stand them. She once said to me, “They speak so loudly and dress in such a slovenly way.” Since then, I've been careful not to ask her about them. Truth be told, I was drawn to them. Sometimes I felt that I'd been with them before, that I'd even taken part in their prayers, but where and when I did not remember. Halina said, “After all, you are only nine years old, you can't remember,” and she must be right.

  Sometimes my memory played tricks on me. For example, I didn't recall Father ever raising his voice or shouting. Halina said that before divorcing, people shout at each other, and even come to blows. She didn't know that Father was a quiet person, that he may have clenched his jaws, but he wouldn't let a loud word out of his mouth. Sometimes she asked me about Father, but I didn't tell her the truth. Her questions about Father were far from innocent. “He's a good-looking man, all the girls are attracted to him,” she whispered.

  Once again I tried to draw her out, asking her to tell me about the bearded Jews. Halina didn't always want to talk about them. Three weeks had already passed since her fiancé went back to the army, and there was no word from him.

  “He's not serving far from home,” she railed. “If he wanted to, he could have come. His army friends go home at night and return the next day.”

  “You're angry with him?”

  “Very.”

  “And you won't marry him?”

  “No.”

  If Halina didn't marry, she'd be with me forever. I curled up inside this thought, happy.

  The day came that everyone calls Yom Kippur. It was a cold and clear evening, and upon all the backyards a frozen quiet descended. Jews in white clothing hurried to the synagogue, and Ruthenian women stood leaning against the fences, watching them closely. Halina and I also stood next to our fence. Halina's face was serious, and I saw how the awe of this evening was upon her, too.

  “What is Yom Kippur?”

  “I'll explain it to you soon.”

  The synagogue doors were open, and candles lit up the wide entranceway. You couldn't see the faces of those praying—they were wrapped in prayer shawls, weeping. “What's going on?” I asked, but Halina was involved with her own soul and paid no attention to me. It seemed to me that there would soon be a loud noise, and lightning would split the sky. It wasn't so. The evening was clear and quiet, and the longer the sunset lingered on into dusk, the more intense the silence became. The Ruthenian women, too, remained standing by their fences without moving, as if a spell had been cast upon them.

  After this, the restrained weeping turned into long and drawn-out sobbing. Halina lifted up her head and said, “I don't know why, but this evening always moves me.” Tears welled up in her eyes. And so we stood there for a long time. The wonder faded slightly, but I felt that this evening would long remain with me, even after I grew up.

  We went inside. Halina lit a lantern and said, “These Jews always amaze me.” In what way, I wanted to ask but did not.

  Mother returned late. Her face was covered with weariness and indifference, as if her secret had been snatched from her. I wanted to feel pity for her, but my heart wouldn't let me. I remembered the black night and how I had called out, “Mother, Mother!” and I immediately felt estranged from her.

  18

  Father appeared immediately after Yom Kippur. His expression frightened me, and I clung to Halina's legs. Father's face had grown darker since I last saw him. He was wearing a long raincoat and a black peaked cap, and he carried a bag in his right hand. “Father!” I called, without letting go of Halina. On hearing my cry, he bent down and stretched out his arms to me. I detached myself from Halina and went to him.

  Once again, we crossed and recrossed the main street in silence. Father wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Father is tall and strong—he can lift tables and chests of drawers—but he finds talking difficult. When he's angry he smashes things, but he doesn't lash out at people. Once I saw him break a chair into pieces. Mother stood by the door without uttering a sound. From then on I knew that he must not be annoyed.

  We sat in the café we used to go to. To break the silence, I told him about my walks with Halina, about the ice-cream shop and the candy kiosks. Father listened but he was not with me; his thoughts were elsewhere. The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and me a hot chocolate. His face had become more wrinkled, and I saw that his thoughts gave him no rest.

  When he finished the coffee, Father began talking with pent-up anger about a certain man who had just been appointed curator of the municipal museum, a Dr. Manfred Zauber, who once wrote a scathing review of his paintings. I gazed into his blazing eyes and saw the fire burning in them.

  Later, we sat in the tavern. Father talked about the delays and the obstacles that kept him from painting. He had never talked with me about his paintings. Now his words rolled out of his mouth like heavy stones. I was afraid to look at him. After a few drinks he relaxed, spoke with the waitress, and complimented her. The waitress confided that she would soon be leaving this backwater and going to Czernowitz. Life in the provinces depressed her; it was better in a large city—you've got cinemas and nightclubs there. Father looked at her as if to say, “I hope you won't be disappointed.”

  On the way home he asked me if I had seen Mother's new friend.

  “No,” I lied.

  “Your mother has a boyfriend, and his name is André.” Father rolled the r with a strange emphasis. I glanced at his face and was afraid that he would go on questioning me, but he didn't. His face got tighter and tighter, and he looked like a man rushing to get somewhere. At the house he hugged me and said, “Hurry on in!” Then he immediately turned away.

  I stood watching him for a long time. I was sure that at any moment he would smash the gate of the municipal park and the wooden platform where the fire-brigade band played every Sunday. I stood and waited for the noise of wood smashing, and when it didn't come, I went inside.

  It was already late, and Mother hadn't arrived yet. Halina didn't ask how it went. We sat on the floor and began to play cards. Most of the time I'm lucky and I win. This time Halina won. Whenever she won, a malicious grin spread across her face, as if she were saying, “Don't I also deserve to win sometimes?”

  I said nothing about what Father had told me. Whenever she said, “Your father,” it was with a wicked smile on
her lips. In the end, she couldn't contain herself and said, “Your father is a good-looking man; all the girls are in love with him.” It was clear to me that she counted herself among them, but she was careful not to say it.

  Later I asked her if she believed in God.

  “Of course I believe,” she said, kissing the crucifix on the chain around her neck.

  “Why doesn't Mother believe in God?”

  “She's a teacher.”

  “Teachers don't believe in God?”

  “Only Jewish teachers.”

  “But the bearded Jews believe in God.”

  “They? Yes.”

  The conversation confused me.

  Mother arrived later, apologized, and said, “Our staff meeting took longer than usual.”

  I did not believe her.

  19

  It rained incessantly, and we sat on the broad bed playing cards. For an instant it seemed that it would be like this forever, and I wasn't sorry. Halina was amazed by my victo-ries—when she was amazed at me she hugged me and kissed me and called me her sweetie. She was wild and her embraces could hurt, but mostly they were pleasant.

  Mother was so distracted and confused that sometimes she called me Arthur, my father's name—last night she did it again. Not only were her thoughts scattered, but her movements, too. From time to time, a saucepan or a glass would slip from her hands. Yesterday she dropped a stack of plates. Seeing the pieces, she knelt down, covered her face, and said, “What's happening to me? Everything's slipping through my fingers.”

  When I was just about to fall asleep, Mother asked, “How is Father?”

  “He's all right.” I didn't mean what I said.

  “What did you do?”

  “We sat in a tavern.” I let her in on something I need not have told her.

  Mother came over to me and, with a catch in her throat, said, “You mustn't go into a tavern. A tavern is a dan gerous place.”

  “Why?” An impish devil egged me on.

  “People get drunk in taverns,” she said, and burst into tears. She sat on the bed and cried for a long time, but I felt no pity for her. I was sure that she was not crying for Father or even for me, but for herself.