That night they went to bed early. In the hall an oil lamp flickered and diffused a dim light. Lang sat in the armchair, wearing the striped gym pants he had worn to the funeral. When he saw Lotte he rose to his feet.
“You’re sitting by yourself,” said Lotte in surprise.
“I can’t pull myself together.”
“It was a blow to us all,” said Lotte, in the way people say.
Lang bowed his head. The expression on his thin, tormented face was one of boyish earnestness.
Lotte said, “He was different from the rest of us.”
“He was a completely simple man. The final simplicity, I should say. He understood that without a drastic change we have no hope, we’re lost. And it all fell to pieces because the disciples rose against their mentor. Believe me, madam, much will still be said about his simplicity. How he tried to build a wall against the coming flood. His vision was appallingly simple. Isn’t simplicity one of the signs of greatness?”
Lotte sensed that the man was speaking out of his own deepest pain.
“Pardon me, madam,” he said. “Pardon me for talking too much. By doing so I have offended not only you, but also the memory of Balaban.” As he said this he seemed to stand exposed in all his shame: a man who talked too much. Without another word he turned away and went into his room.
Lotte sat in the empty hall. She too was tired and dazed but she was not sleepy. The scenes of the day mingled with the scenes of her past, but the past came to her more clearly.
When did it begin? she asked herself absentmindedly. When I left home? I had no love for my parents’ home. When that scoundrel seduced me? But I was attracted to him. When I married? I didn’t want to get married. She asked the questions and answered them as if she were on the witness stand.
Afterward, in bed, the questions and answers did not stop, but gradually they turned into pictures. Each picture with its own colors. Until the colors of the night encompassed her and she sunk into them as if she were diving into deep water.
TWENTY-ONE
And as the snow thawed, gray and grubby and inglorious, as if she were rising out of a thick mist—Julia appeared. She stood in the doorway, heavy and bundled in a peasant’s coat. Lotte hardly recognized her. But it was Julia. The past year had changed her beyond recognition. Her narrow, strained face had grown fleshy and her mouth was open in an awkward smile. To tell the truth, ever since Lotte had written her letter she had stopped thinking about Julia. Every now and then her daughter would appear to her, but these appearances held no sadness. Lotte was preoccupied with herself and the day-to-day life of the retreat.
A few days before she had once again received regards from her ex-husband, Manfred. He also had undergone vicissitudes. He was now living in another little town, and there too he was playing in a Jewish band. What does it mean, a Jewish band, she asked herself in passing, but she did not pause to ponder this question.
“What brought you here?” asked Lotte, overcome by embarrassment.
“Nothing,” Julia blurted out. She bent down and removed the following things from her bag: a few jars of jam, a bottle of oil, two loaves of bread and dried fruit wrapped in a white cloth.
“I’m so glad,” said Lotte. “But why so much?”
At the sound of these words Julia took the heavy peasant shawl off her head and her face was revealed in all its fullness. There were a few red marks on her neck. Her hands too were broad and fleshy.
“Why did you go to so much trouble?”
“It’s nothing,” she said in a heavy country voice.
“I’m quite all right,” said Lotte.
Julia’s face grew more and more exposed.
“And what is George doing, and the children?”
“Working.”
“I’m very glad.”
It occurred to Lotte that something had happened inside Julia. She had never reacted in this way before. Her whole being breathed heaviness.
“And what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Working.”
Herbert appeared in the hall and Lotte called out to him: “Herbert, I have a visitor. Julia has come to visit me.” And Herbert, who was in a good humor, said, “Your mother is doing very well here. You will still hear great things of her.” At the sound of these words Julia bared her teeth, broad, healthy teeth.
It was afternoon. The spring sun pierced the windows and dappled the floor with light. The hall was now exposed in all its poverty. A few people were sitting at the tables playing cards. Mrs. Kron was sitting in the armchair where Isadora used to sit.
“So we haven’t been completely forgotten,” said Herbert jokingly.
Julia did not respond. The heavy peasant coat thickened her figure and made her seem impermeable.
“And how did you get here?” said Lotte wonderingly.
“I have a cart.”
At the sound of these words Lotte hurried to the window. And indeed, there stood a horse and cart, of the kind used for transporting hay.
“Wonderful,” said Lotte, as if a miracle had occurred.
For two months they had not seen a stranger on the mountain. People had stopped writing letters and no letters came for them. The long, cold winter had accustomed them to their isolation.
“And George is working on the farm.”
“He’s working hard,” said Julia weightily.
“And is he still drinking?”
“Oh yes, he’s still drinking.” Julia smiled.
“But not beating you, I hope.”
Julia bared her teeth again and her smile became even more awkward than before.
Their conversation, for some reason, was conducted loudly, in the doorway to the hall, and attracted the attention of the people inside. And although they did not look as if they were eavesdropping they were indeed eavesdropping.
“I’ll bring you a cup of coffee,” said Lotte, and hurried into the kitchen.
Julia sat down and drank in silence. And Lotte, who did not wish there to be a silence between them, told her at length and in a loud voice about the grant she had been awarded by the board, a grant which enabled her to devote herself entirely to her art. The flood of words seemed beyond Julia’s grasp. She sat and listened, but without concentrating.
“And is everything all right at home?” Lotte tried once more to make her daughter talk.
“Everything’s all right,” said Julia in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she were exchanging a word with a neighbor in the grocery shop.
It was Julia but at the same time it was not her. As if her being had been encased in heavy armor. Lotte had met such women on her travels, standing at the doors of their houses or on the riverbanks. Dull, submissive as domestic animals. Incapable of uttering a word.
For a long time she sat without asking questions and without looking at her. And the longer she sat there the more she felt the pressure of the words collecting in her throat, wanting to burst out. And like her mother before her, she too said, “You should take a long holiday, have a little rest. You’re very tired.”
Julia’s face exchanged one set of lines for another, but it remained heavy and expressionless. Now some peasant cunning, learned in the fields, seemed to rise and flood her lips, and she said, “Never mind.” A world of rustic wisdom and equanimity was contained in these two words.
“Pardon me,” said Lotte.
Julia rose to her feet and said, “I must go now, Mother.” She pronounced the word “mother” like a peasant woman visiting her aged mother.
“And what are the children doing?” Lotte tried to hang onto her.
“They’re all right. They’re working in the fields with George.”
“Won’t you come and see me again?”
“I’ll come in the summer, after the harvest.”
Lotte suddenly saw a picture of peasants scattered in a field, singing and shouting at the top of their voices. It occurred to her that in the evening when George came home tired and drunk he brought his w
hip down on Julia, as he brought it down on his farm animals.
“George beats you, doesn’t he?”
“What of it,” said Julia in a cold, quiet voice, as if someone had touched an old wound which had already healed.
“What are you saying? I won’t allow it.”
“Mother.” Julia took Lotte’s arm. “All women are beaten. They don’t die of it.”
“No,” said Lotte, covering her mouth anxiously with her hand.
“It’s nothing,” said Julia, as if they were speaking of a couple of chickens caught by a fox, and there was no point in crying over spilled milk. Lotte took both her hands in hers.
“Will you come again in the summer?”
“At the end of summer.”
Julia bent down and kissed her on the forehead, as people kissed in the country. Without undue passion or excitement.
“I’ll leave you now,” she said. Lotte accompanied her to the cart.
“It’s not bad here. What do the people do?” she surprised Lotte by asking.
“Nothing in particular.”
“They don’t work?”
“No.”
“What do they do, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Strange,” said Julia, and she smiled. And with no more questions she broadened her step, climbed onto the seat and cracked her whip. The cart moved off and rumbled down the hill.
Lotte remained standing where she was. The slopes shone, white and polished. All the cold of the winter was absorbed in them. She stood there without moving for a long time. For some reason, she now remembered the first summer she had spent with Manfred. Even then it had been clear to her that her marriage with Manfred would not last long, and nevertheless it had lasted for years. Now Manfred was living in a remote little town and playing in a Jewish band.
TWENTY-TWO
After this a sense of well-being descended on the retreat, a time of grace. Betty worked in the kitchen and served hot meals without adhering to a strict timetable. The meals were meager but tasty. At long last Betty had come into her own. The desire to feed people with hot meals gave her face a grave, womanly importance. She worked hard but her work brought many compensations. Everyone praised her cooking.
The burden fell on Herbert’s thin shoulders. He was always coming and going, going down to the village and bringing up provisions. He did not bring much. And what he brought Betty would divide up and ration out in installments. Herbert’s face gradually took on the expression of a workingman. His intellectual horizons shrank to the simplest acts.
The retreat now resembled a poor but clean hotel. Betty worked till late at night but there was always a pot of tea on the counter. People drank whenever they felt like it.
And thus the spring passed. It was cold but no one complained or moralized. As if they had all agreed that change was impossible and their fate in any case was sealed. Superfluous words would get them nowhere.
But even in these last days passions did not die down completely. From time to time someone would remember and ask in surprise: What am I doing here? All my property is down below. My daughter is down below. What am I waiting for?
“Is it so bad here?”
“No, to tell the truth. But I feel uneasy.”
Even Engel, even that self-torturer, who never stopped practicing all winter, suddenly said one evening, “My playing has improved. I’m ready to go back to the orchestra. They’ll be glad to see the improvement.”
Betty too, full of her new activities, did not hide her envy of Lotte. “You’re an actress, you’ve worked in the theater. And me, what am I? I grew up in a poor Jewish home. I was married young to a man without character. Nothing came of all my dreams. I love the peasants. They’re strong and healthy. But what can I do, they never loved me.”
But the complaints were not serious. People went quietly about their business. Those who did not work in the kitchen worked in the yard. Trees grew in the yard and spread a pleasant shade. Lang cleaned the gym and fixed it up. The inmates did not exercise, but Lang thought that for Balaban’s sake the gym should be put in order. The light in the front yard was soft and it was gradually enclosed in a cover of green leaves.
Lotte now remembered her arrival on the mountain clearly, the coach and the coachman, Julia sitting in the corner, tight-lipped, her brow dark and her hands red and swollen with water. It all looked cold and remote to her now, although the proportions seemed right and the colors not exaggerated. And she remembered Lang too, in his short gym pants, standing at the front entrance, thin and joyless, a corporal in an anonymous army of reserves. She saw Herbert too. His checked suit, elegantly negligent, inspiring confidence.
Now Herbert got up early in the morning, harnessed the horse to the cart and went down to the village. Anyone who had a jacket or a pair of trousers or a shirt worth selling gave it to him to sell. There was no need to ask. People gave generously and in a kind of secret desire to get rid of superfluous baggage. The days were fine and clear, and from day to day they grew clearer.
From time to time Herbert was joined by Rauch or Hammer. And when they came back at night they looked neither cheerful nor somber. Their movements were measured and uniform. The provisions were scant but neatly packed, and Betty greeted them with a maternal air.
Outside it was warm and pleasant. It was possible to sit on the slopes and look around and reflect: Not far from here busy cities exist, trams drive back and forth, people get up early to go to work, a clerk opens his counter, a maid takes off her shoes so as not to enter the house with mud from the countryside. One detail after the other, as if filtered through a fine sieve. One thing was clear: these things no longer belonged to us.
Lotte’s sorrow grew duller. True, she never stopped thinking, seeing and remembering, but her thoughts were without anger. She worked five or six hours in the kitchen and then she sat on the slopes. And as always, she never stopped thinking about her body, her wrinkles and blemishes. Her jars of cosmetics were empty and this grieved her. Now too it was important to her to look her best.
It was true that people had not changed, but Balaban’s death had brought them closer to each other. Not an absolute closeness. From time to time they would recall him as a riddle which refused to be solved. Lang stopped talking about him in bombastic words. From time to time a quarrel broke out over trifles. For the most part the quarrels died down of their own accord.
And the summer grew broad and hot. Herbert now returned from the village beaten and wounded. Ruffians fell on him and beat him up. His appearance toward evening was excruciating in its silence. Betty tended his wounds with wet compresses.
The pain was cruel, the shame terrible, but Herbert got up every morning and went out to endure his suffering. The provisions he brought back were scant, but nevertheless their meager meals were eaten in tranquillity. Later, they began to take turns, and Rauch and Lauffer would go down in his place. They too were beaten and their wounds were bandaged by Betty.
The world seemed to be narrowing down to its simplest dimensions: breakfast, supper. And if anyone said, I would like—all he had in mind was a cup of coffee. Sins were not pardoned, sentences were not commuted, but no one threw them in the face of his fellows. Their only worry now was that the cart might fail to return from the village.
And when all the coats had been sold, the jewels and the suits, Herbert went into Balaban’s room, sorted out his clothes and tied them up in a sheet. Tomorrow he would sell them to the farmers. At night, of course, people were afraid. But they helped one another. If a man fell or was beaten he was not abandoned.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Aharon Appelfeld was eight when he witnessed the murder of his mother by the Nazis. After escaping from a concentration camp, he wandered in the forests for two years. When the war ended he joined the Soviet Army as a kitchen boy, eventually emigrating to Palestine in 1946. The author of eleven internationally acclaimed novels, including Badenheim 1939, The Age of Wonders, Tzili, To the Land of the Cat
tails, and Katerina, he lives in Jerusalem.
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The Retreat Page 11
