Unto the Soul

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “Why did you come now?” Gad asked impolitely.

  The peasant was stunned for a moment, recovered, and said, “I thought you’d buy from me too. Your Uncle Arieh and I were good friends.”

  “Where will I get money to pay you?” He spoke with him in the old Jewish tone.

  “The pilgrims will give to you, and you’ll pay me.”

  “They don’t give me a cent.”

  “I wouldn’t let them in. There are no free watchmen in this world.”

  Gad wanted to make a detailed reply to him, but his supply of words seemed to have given out, and he made a movement with his right hand as if to say, It’s too late for me to change. But the peasant didn’t give in, and he revealed to him that Uncle Arieh used to demand full payment strenuously, and whoever didn’t pay wouldn’t get in.

  “Uncle Arieh was a believer in the full sense of the word.” Gad sought to astonish the peasant. But the peasant wasn’t astonished.

  He answered simply, “What’s the connection between money and faith?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Gad finally admitted.

  “During the summer you must lock the gate, and only those who pay may enter.”

  “I’ll start doing it that way.” He gave in.

  “And you haven’t a penny?” The peasant returned to his business.

  “Not a single cent.”

  “Too bad I dragged myself up here.”

  “I’d very much like to buy slivovitz from you. I need it like air to breathe. It’s our bread and wine.” He spoke the peasants’ language. “But what can I do? I didn’t do my job. I failed.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Believe me. I’m not exaggerating. There are nights when I see sanctity hovering over this place like a thin cloud. We, to our regret, are unworthy of it. We are impervious to it and impure.”

  “That’s that,” said the peasant, rising to his feet.

  “I have a valuable ring. If you hadn’t known my Uncle Arieh, I wouldn’t sell it to you for any price in the world. It’s a ring I inherited.”

  Gad walked to the bureau, untied an old peasant kerchief, and took a ring out of it.

  “Gold?” asked the peasant in a peasantlike manner.

  “Pure gold.”

  “And how much do you want for it?”

  “Thirty pieces of silver. Not one penny less. If you hadn’t known Uncle Arieh, I wouldn’t sell it to you. It’s a valuable ring, and it would be worth twice as much in the market. Look at it closely and see how much workmanship has been invested in it. It’s a nobleman’s ring.”

  “I could do without it gladly. I need cash. No one leaves his home in the winter unless he’s in desperate straits.”

  “That’s all I can offer you. It’s not easy for me to sell a ring I inherited.”

  “And how many bottles am I to leave here?”

  “Thirty, not one less.”

  The old man smiled. “Jews are forbidden to drink, isn’t that so?”

  “In high places like ours it’s permitted.”

  The old man liked the ring, but he didn’t show it. He complained about the high price and how hard it would be to sell it. Finally, after bargaining for a long time, he agreed to leave behind twenty bottles of slivovitz, a sack of corn flour, and a wedge of sheep cheese. They sealed the bargain with a handshake, and the peasant spoke once more about Uncle Arieh, not without hidden admiration, because he had been an honest man and a strong one too. The peasants hadn’t dared to harm him, and anyone who tried had met with punishment. Gad listened to the peasant’s words and felt as though he was being reprimanded.

  Gad knew he had done something he shouldn’t have. When the time came his flesh would be mortified because of it. Nevertheless his eyes were pleased with the sight of the blue bottles standing on the table.

  “Amalia,” he called. “The peasant left. I have good news.”

  Amalia came up from the cellar, and when she saw the bottles on the table, her face glowed, and she said, “A miracle from heaven! Who brought them?”

  “A peasant brought them.”

  “A divine angel.”

  “You mustn’t talk that way.”

  “But what shall I say?”

  “You needn’t say anything.”

  “We were without a drop. What would we have done?”

  “We would have overcome.”

  “I would have gone out of my mind. Without a bottle, life has no purpose.”

  “You mustn’t talk that way.”

  “But what shall I say?”

  “You needn’t say anything.” He repeated himself, as though that was a general rule appropriate at any time and place.

  CHAPTER 14

  The winter continued without letup. Gad felt he was cut off from his parents, from his home town, and from the house where he was born. A year ago his mother and father had visited him in his sleep. But they had slowly detached themselves from him. At first he had felt relief, his sleep became transparent and weightless, but in time his slumber had grown muddy, and now he was caught up in it as in a tunnel with no exit.

  “Do you still dream?” he would ask.

  “I’ve stopped.”

  “I’ve forgotten every one.”

  “It just seems that way.”

  “I feel as though I’ve never been there.”

  “That’s just momentary.”

  Amalia had many faces at that time. Sometimes her face was wrapped in light, as in her childhood, when she used to lean on the windowsill or, on sabbath afternoons, in the neglected hall, a face without blemish. Even then he had feared lest that marvelous face be ruined, and one day her face might look like those of the market women. For a moment he was glad his fear had proven vain, but in the dark, drunken, and confused nights, he saw clearly that no sign of her clear and wonderful face remained. Leathery skin grew on it, which made her jaws prominent, and also her mouth, which was pulled shut most of the day. When the mouth opened a little, bitterness was spread on it. Now, however, the bitterness had faded a little, but in its place grew a kind of hidden hostility, clinging to the folds of skin.

  “Amalia.” He would call her all of a sudden.

  Her gaze, which just a year before had been lively and full of devotion, that marvelous look, was now filled with suspicion. Sometimes it would emerge from her pupils, become sharp, and wound him.

  “Why are you angry?” He could no longer restrain himself.

  “I’m not angry,” she would say and reveal her eyes.

  And when she revealed her eyes, he would discover something of her hidden being; she was not the Amalia she had been. There was a kind of bow to her back like the women who had been raped at one time by cossacks. Shame, for some reason, clung to their backs. From a distance one sees that this is Hannah, who was raped. Her son, born to her from the rapist, is banished far away to a crowded town, where they try to remove the flaw from within him.

  When he looked at her closely he knew that what he had done to her that winter would never be erased. She herself did not know into what realms of darkness he had thrown her.

  “Forgive me,” he would ask her.

  “Why?”

  “I feel guilty.”

  “You’re mistaken,” she would say, with a strange kind of certainty.

  Since her childhood he had been attracted by her. True, more than a few times he had found refuge in the bosom of gentile women. He secretly hoped that they, those full and generous women, would root his attraction for her out of his heart, and they, indeed, did what women are meant to do. Yet the attraction did not fade. It seemed to grow stronger with the years and the darkness. Truly it was no longer an attraction but rather a drunken slide. Now he also knew its bottom. If I were a decent and dependable brother I would return her to the Plain, rent her a room, and support her until she finds a decent husband. That’s how I ought to have done things, and indeed that’s what Uncle Arieh did for his younger sister, he would torment himself. This
was merely outward remorse. In fact, now he wanted only to stroke her in that darkness which was growing dimmer day by day.

  “Wouldn’t you like to go back to the Plain?” He tested her nevertheless.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere,” she would respond, in a voice roughened by alcohol.

  “And you aren’t frightened?”

  “Of what?”

  All this was during the daylight hours, but in the afternoon, when the darkness thickened and she had poured a few drinks into herself, she would change, smile, and embrace him shamelessly, as though she had been waiting for that winter all those years, for it to enclose them, finally, in that dark shell. After an hour of embraces, she would kneel down and kiss his palms like a person who has lost her entire world and has nothing left but that hand.

  That pleasure gradually darkened his spirit. What would happen in the summer, when people came? They would certainly see and know right away. At first she didn’t respond to those fears, as if she hadn’t absorbed them. Finally she gathered strength and said, “No one can take away the little bit that we have.”

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Of whom?”

  “Of the people who’ll be coming in the summer.”

  “They won’t be our judges.”

  “I know, but they’ll spread the rumor.”

  “I’m not afraid of informers.”

  Her open, glowing eyes now expressed the freedom of an animal that doesn’t know what fear is. Sometimes she would speak fluently and with a kind of wild enthusiasm about the need to be freed from oppressive memories, from dark thoughts, and from fear of people: to live without dread. Her face was not pretty at that time. The dark wrinkles around her eyes would spread out on her temples, and her forehead was narrow and dark. But her voice was clear and strong. Gad was repelled by the flow and power of her words, and he didn’t ask a thing, but when she continued to press him, asking why he was afraid, what difference did it make what people said, he couldn’t refrain from saying, “You’re right, my dear. I’m wicked, I’m a fool.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The winter grew ever deeper, and every time Gad gathered his strength, wrapped himself in his Uncle Arieh’s winter coat, and started to go out and visit the cemetery, a storm would blow up, break out, and block his way. Strong was his will to reach the graves and prostrate himself upon them. He was certain, more than at any other time, that only they had the power to save him. For hours he would stand by the window and wait for a letup.

  The cemetery now assumed a new image in his eyes. For some reason it seemed wider to him, as though it had spread out to the vicinity of the abandoned Christian graveyard. He sensed that part of his being, that which was faithful and devoted to Judaism, was buried there and awaiting him. If he managed to join with it, he would be connected not only with himself but also with the entire Jewish people, from whom he had divorced himself.

  Amalia did not budge from the stove. On her face a kind of frozen worry solidified ever more. Now it was hard to know what she was thinking. She had indeed been worried, but recently the worry had been buried and forgotten, and now only remnants of it were left.

  For many days she waited beside the window. Finally the churning of the storm halted, and broad streaks of blue were revealed in the sky. “I’m going out,” said Gad without delay.

  “Don’t.” Amalia tried to stop him, but he did not heed her, and with a lurch, holding a spade in his hand, he went.

  He advanced slowly, drawing his feet along cautiously. Then, as though his fears had melted, and with a will such as he had known in his youth, he took powerful, sure steps in the deep snow.

  Once again the cemetery was entirely covered with snow, and if his feet had not been familiar with the place, he would not have known it. First he considered clearing away the snow, and indeed he did toss away a few spadefuls, but he immediately grasped the stupidity of his action. For a moment he forgot his purpose in going there. He was seized by the view of the white slopes, which spread out in splendid silence. A few sleds glided along at the foot of the peaks, devouring the distances with ease as though seeking to soar. For a moment Gad saw his father, standing with bent back in the store, illuminated by the light of the snow and with inconsolable sadness on his face. “Father,” he called out. Hardly had he uttered the word, before Adiel appeared before his eyes, the old man who had stood there and preached to those assembled.

  As usual, he did not speak about the martyrs but rather about life, about vain fears, and about those who torture themselves with futile worries and fail to see the main point and the purpose. Two men held his arms, but he did not appear to be leaning on them. His voice was clear and strong. For a moment it seemed he was about to hurl a severe reprimand at the handful of people banded together there. That, of course, was merely the first impression, and now he came to the main point of his speech. This is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and there is no place empty of Him, and, as it is said, “if I rise up to the heavens, there art Thou, and if I make my bed in the underworld, Thou art there.” True, greatly reduced and in concealment, but present. Thus one must never despair but prevail like a lion and draw oneself up out of the mire. By drawing oneself up, at the same time one draws up others who are mired in the mud like oneself, and perhaps from a greater depth.

  During the summer the old man’s words had sounded distant and as ungraspable as the tractate “Seeds” and other obscure parts of the Mishnah that deal with abstruse and complex issues. In his heart Gad was incensed at the old man for not talking in simple language, but now it was as if his words had become clear, and he understood a bit of them.

  It had been a difficult summer. Little rain had fallen, and choking dryness stood in the air. Processions of peasants snaked through the valley bearing images and loudly praying for the end of the drought. Sometimes it had seemed that in a short while they would climb up on the cliffs and take out their anger on the handful who had come to prostrate themselves on tombs and beg for mercy. The old man spoke of that as well. He warned them against fears. We must fear only Him who sits on high, for He is a compassionate and merciful God. Fear of death flaws creation. One must accept death quietly, without making a huge commotion.

  Meanwhile the sky closed up and heavy snow gripped by the wind broke over the mountaintop. Gad hunched over, but that movement did not help him. The storm knocked him down, and he clung to the surface of the snow and moved on all fours. For a long time he crawled until he reached the foot of the acacia tree. That tall tree, at the foot of which, during the summer, the pilgrims sat, now seemed like a staff planted on the edge of an abyss. He clung to it as to a lifesaving pole. Now he saw death in another guise, not as the old men had described it in their preaching, but rather in the image of a Ruthenian peasant borne on a long pitchfork. “God, take away this monster,” he shouted out loud, but he immediately knew his shout would go unanswered, because a person’s petition cannot be met while he is unclean.

  When, after an hour, at the end of his strength, he reached the doorway, Amalia greeted him with an awkward smile and said, “Where were you?”

  “It was hard to get back.” He tried to reveal a hand’s-breadth of what had happened.

  “I was very worried about you, my dear.” She was drunk, but her face was pure, as though she had succeeded in shedding the wild skin and in leaving only the little girl within her, and Gad, who wanted to tell her about the terrible things he had encountered on his way, stood mute and did not utter a word.

  Finally he said, “Give me a drink.” Amalia poured him one without saying anything, and he gulped it down with a single swallow and asked, “Did anyone look for me?”

  “No, my dear.”

  “For some reason it seemed to me that someone was wandering about on the peak and looking for me.”

  “It just seemed that way.”

  The last words, which Amalia spoke distractedly and only to calm him, reminded him that he had not done what he intended to d
o. The part of his soul that was devoted to Judaism had remained there beneath the mounds of ice. That awareness seeped into his limbs with pain, but it did not reach his feet. His feet were frozen.

  “What’s the matter?” Amalia opened her large eyes.

  “The storm attacked me.” He no longer hid the truth.

  “You mustn’t go out in such weather.”

  “What could I do?”

  Amalia, who knew his soul, stepped over to the sink to prepare hot soup for him, a cheese pie, and some pickled cucumber. Gad sat at the table and silently devoured everything his sister served. She sat not far from him and looked at his face. His face was dark like that of a man who has seen dreadful sights.

  After he had eaten the meal she drew close, leaned over, removed his soaking shoes, and wordlessly began to rub his frozen toes.

  CHAPTER 16

  M any thoughts raced about his brain, but one gradually become ensconced in it, and this is what it was: As soon as the snow melted, he would take the small box, put in the jewels that had been left to them by Uncle Arieh, the money, and the two gold watches, and give them to Amalia, rent a wagon, and send her back to their native town.

  The storms stopped, and a quiet frost, a burning frost, crouched in the cracks of the windows. Amalia brought Mauzy and Limzy into the house, and Gad made no comment. He spent most of the hours of the day in the shed sawing wood, and when he came in from there his face was dark like that of a man gripped by harsh dreads.

  Amalia sensed that evil thoughts haunted him, and she toiled. What she had not done all winter, she did now. She prepared cheeses and butter, she baked and did laundry, and at noon the meal would be ready on the table. Sometimes he would rouse from his gloom and ask, “Has anyone been here?”

  “No.”

  “It seemed to me that someone was walking around.”

  “All the paths are blocked,” she said. Now she was the practical one, listening to the outdoors, taking care of the dogs, rising early to milk the cow. Gad would stand for hours by the window, make reckonings, and mutter. Once, distractedly, he said to Amalia, “I’m sorry I gave the ring to that peasant. Who knows what harm I did.”