Unto the Soul

by Aharon Appelfeld

  For some reason it seemed to Amalia that her big brother was now secretly preparing a roomy hiding place beneath the earth, a hiding place where they could raise their little daughter. In the warm, dark summer nights they would take her out and rock her in a cradle in sight of the stars. Amalia wanted to ask for details about the place, but she immediately grasped that the time was not yet ripe, and it would be better to wait.

  Later his spirits fell, and he spoke about the dark Plain, the crowding and the bitterness and the sickness that ferment in every house. Therefore all the little towns had to be destroyed and the people had to be scattered across the hills. In the hills there is no crowding. Everybody can live by himself, and the air is fresh. All the anger that had been laid up in him for years now found words, phrases, and images, and his mind was not at ease until he had called typhus a Jewish fever.

  That night Amalia too chimed in. She spoke about gigantic mothers who cruelly beat their tiny daughters. Gad knew she was talking about their mother, and for a moment he was about to say, It’s forbidden to disturb the rest of the dead, but he was charmed by her voice. She spoke with eloquence, choosing words she hadn’t used for years, and she was not satisfied until she had said, “It’s wrong to keep women in dark grocery stores. Darkness darkens the soul, and when the soul is dark, hands beat without mercy.” She immediately took off her blouse and showed him the scars on her hips and her left breast. Gad remembered the sight of the strap their mother used to beat them with, and he was filled with dread. It seemed to him she wasn’t accusing their mother, but rather him, for doing what he did, and now he was trying to shake off his deeds.

  “Put on your blouse. Don’t catch cold.” He walked over to her.

  “It’s not cold. I wanted to show you, so you wouldn’t think I’m making it up.”

  He was familiar with that scar and loved it, but now he was afraid of it and also afraid she might go too far and do something violent. Her eyes glowed, and her hands were clenched in fists.

  “Still, it is cold.” He spoke to her softly. To his surprise she bared her right hip and said, “This hurts too. All winter long that scar hurt me. I didn’t want to tell you, but it hurt me a lot.” Gad knew that scar as well, but now for the first time he saw how pink it was.

  “Mother did all that to me with her own hands. I didn’t kill her babies. They died of typhus.”

  “It’s hard to understand that,” he muttered.

  “It’s not hard to understand. She wanted to kill me.”

  “You mustn’t talk that way.”

  “Why shouldn’t I talk that way? It’s the very truth.”

  “It will heal.” He spoke without conviction.

  “Can’t you see that it’s an open scar?” She raised her voice.

  “But Father loved you.” He was glad in his heart that she didn’t blame him.

  “People who pray feel mercy for others.”

  “Mother used to pray too.” He tried to defend her for a moment.

  “Not the prayer of self-abnegation. Her two feet stood firmly planted on the ground. She even used to get angry at Father.”

  “It was all for our sake.” He tried to shunt the tempest aside, but his last words fanned the blaze even more. She was pretty in her nakedness that night and spoke with great power, as though she were speaking not only of her own indignities but also about all her friends who had been abused by bitter parents and domineering husbands. It was evident she was prepared to open the door and go outside to show everyone the burning scars on her body.

  “Put on your dress. Why won’t you put on your dress?” He approached her.

  “I’m not afraid, and I’m not ashamed.” Her voice was not her own.

  “Typhus is raging outside,” he said for some reason.

  “That doesn’t concern me, that doesn’t concern me.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand.

  Later they were both drunk. Amalia spoke about another life, a full life, without shame or fear, and Gad promised her that the wall around the peak would be high. No one would enter, only a few, only the select. At the same time she wanted him to swear he would never marry another woman in her place, and he, indeed, swore out loud.

  Afterward their words no longer had meaning. She spoke about Mauzy’s beauty and loyalty and about his imminent resurrection. Gad knew he should warn her and reprimand her, but he himself was completely blurry and collapsed on the floor. Nevertheless he still caught her cry: “He will be resurrected, you’ll see!”

  CHAPTER 25

  The next morning, when he woke up and stood on his feet, Amalia was still plunged in deep sleep. He gave water to Limzy, tended the cow, and milked it. The silence was huge, and he forgot the pilgrims’ presence on the peak. When he came back, he lit the stove, took the butter out of the pantry, and spread it on a slice of bread. Amalia slept on her back, her hands spread out on the large cushion, and it was clear that she would sleep for many more hours.

  He had it in mind to go to the vegetable beds and check whether they had to be watered, but he remembered that the pilgrims were now scattered over the cemetery. He immediately set aside everything else and hurried over there. On his way he remembered what they had done to him the year before. They had dirtied the clearing and the outhouse, and not even the well, not even it, had they spared. If only they might leave me and observe my Torah, a forgotten verse rose up in his mind. Once one of those marvelous old men, Reb Pinchas, had greatly moved him with his sermons. Since then years had passed, and in the meantime the old man had gone to his eternal rest.

  Now he saw Amalia with different clarity. Her naked body that night had been full and tender, and the scars added a secret attraction. Her breasts were large but not sagging. She had walked about the room as though she had finally managed to free her tethered wings, and she indeed floated. When he had sworn to her that he would not marry another woman in her place, she said to him, “It’s nice that you swore,” and she had patted him on the shoulder mischievously. Her pregnancy wasn’t visible, perhaps because she walked erect. Sometimes she would go over to him so he could caress her, and he would. Toward morning she had spat out a few clear sentences. He remembered one of them: “You have nothing to worry about. I’ll go to Moldovitsa, and I’ll take care of everything there. If I don’t come back, that will mean I’ve gotten lost.” Now he was certain she had said, “gotten lost.” He was annoyed that he hadn’t scolded her.

  In the clearing near the cemetery the people sat leaning against the fence. Their faces were encrusted with bewilderment, as though they had returned from a long journey but without any merchandise. Their goods had been stolen, and the horses too. As though now the wagons were standing empty at the side of the road. Gad ignored them. His thoughts were given to the alms box. The box was lying where he had left it the day before. He was sure that this time no one would slip a cent into it either, and when fall came he would again have to sell one of the possessions left them by Uncle Arieh. He stepped over to the box, intending to raise it and announce, There is no such thing as an unpaid guardian in this world. Anyone who doesn’t contribute right away will be ejected. I’ve been exploited for seven years now. Without my inheritance I would have starved to death. True, I’m not a saint like Uncle Arieh, but I do my job conscientiously. I only ask to be paid as a guard.

  He leaned over and gripped the handle of the box and immediately felt that the large old box was full to the brim. For a moment he wanted to raise it and clutch it to his chest, but his fingers felt as though they were burning, and he left it in place and withdrew.

  “What’s this?” He blurted out the words. “This is too much.” Years before, when he was still a child, one of the regular customers had come into the store and handed him a silver coin, saying to him, “This is for you and your sister Amalia. Divide it equally. Last night I dreamt about you, children, and I swore to myself that if I awoke safe and sound I would give you a silver coin.” Then as now he had said, “This is too much,” an
d withdrawn.

  Later he approached the people and called out, “I’m opening up the synagogue.” Hearing his call, they all rose to their feet. The tall woman who had spoken to him the day before approached him and asked, “Are we going to the martyrs’ synagogue?”

  “Correct. It is also called From the Depths, because you go down seven steps to enter it.”

  “I didn’t know,” said the woman and bent her head.

  Gad told her that on the day of the pogrom the martyrs had taken refuge there, but it was a harsh siege, and the little water they had was not enough to sustain them while they dug a tunnel.

  “I didn’t know,” murmured the woman. “I didn’t know.”

  They all went down, and Gad asked them to step forward and sit next to the Holy Ark. They immediately began afternoon prayers. The familiar whispers surrounded him on all sides, and he knew it had been months since he had prayed. The letters had been erased from his head, and it was doubtful whether an open prayerbook would still be of any use to him.

  After the prayers he wanted to serve the worshipers coffee, as Uncle Arieh had done, but he had not prepared any. If Amalia hadn’t cleaned it in time, the place would have been neglected. Nevertheless he recovered his wits and lit the stove, placed a pot on it, and went out to fetch coffee. Amalia was alarmed by his hasty return and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Good people came this time. They filled the alms box to the brim.”

  Amalia smiled as though she had been caught out improperly dressed.

  Gad served them coffee, and they sang the hymn “Eternal Lord” to a sad melody. The melody flowed into the evening lights. The old men had not come this time, and the prayers sounded meager and clipped. There was one old fellow who looked outwardly like the old men, but he didn’t seem to have their fire. He sat bent over, and it was evident that his old age oppressed him. After the prayers no one gave a sermon. Everyone went outside and stood by the door of the synagogue. Uncle Arieh had warned him not to allow the people to stay too long in the cemetery, because too long a stay there became a cult of the dead; he said he should bring the people to the synagogue, since study was as effective as prayer, and he interpreted the well-known verse for him, “A Sage is preferable to a prophet.” Gad did not remember the interpretation. He did not heed that warning. He himself was more and more drawn to the cemetery. If he found a time of satisfaction in this severe silence, it was only the hours he spent in the cemetery. The synagogue always afflicted him with melancholy. Later the old man recovered, rose, and gave a sermon on the verse “The heavens are the heavens of the Lord, and the earth He gave to sons of man.” He warned them against questioning, and he spoke out for action, because action is body and soul wrapped up together. If someone acts, his prayers are granted, and he is shown meaning too. Probing and self-scrutiny were the scourges of the time. Only in full action is a man planted in both worlds.

  Again they sang doleful songs and songs of longing. The women wept. Thus it was every year. There were years when they used to sit for entire nights, praying and singing, and in the morning Gad would find them curled up in the clearing, everyone in his own corner, like a defeated camp. Uncle Arieh had also warned him against that unacceptable practice, but he himself had been drawn into the night songs, and sometimes he had fallen down together with the rest and slept where he was.

  After the song, Gad announced out loud, “We have two free rooms. If anyone needs the shelter of a roof, let him come.” No one asked. In the cemetery clearing they lit bonfires and hurriedly prepared supper. For a moment they too forgot that down below a dreadful epidemic was raging, a cruel epidemic, which was slaughtering children and old people. Some of the pilgrims went out to gather twigs while others fanned the flames.

  When he returned to the house, he found Amalia sitting with a bottle. Her eyes were burning, and she wasn’t drunk. Gad opened the alms box and emptied it carefully. The box contained gold and silver coins, pins and rings, and two pairs of earrings. He had never seen such a full alms box. Amalia’s happiness was of a different sort. She hugged the empty box and murmured, “What a treasure, what a treasure!” Gad sat and carefully sorted out the gold, silver, and copper coins. He placed the jewelry in a plate. After sorting and making a reckoning, he said in a strange voice, “This will last us for at least two years.” A foolish smile spread on his face, like an overgrown child who has finally gotten what he wanted.

  Later at night, after eating and drinking, he told her enthusiastically that the pilgrims who had come this time were restrained and quiet and didn’t make a hubbub, that they had to be helped, because their tragedy was grave. “If we can make things easier for them, we will have done a very good deed.” Amalia sat opposite him and hugged the alms box with both hands, and her eyes glittered with cold joy. Gad was frightened by her look, but he continued to warn her that it was wrong to leave sick and old people beneath the open sky. The nights were cold and damp, and toward the morning fierce winds blew. Amalia did not take her eyes from him. In the end she burst out in thick laughter, wild laughter, and lay down on the floor.

  CHAPTER 26

  The next day the sky was dark, and a gloomy cloud hovered over the peak. “We mustn’t sleep in the house while people are sleeping outdoors,” he murmured distractedly. It was nine o’clock, and Amalia was still deeply sunk in sleep. During the past few days her face had been tense, and she had remained in the cellar most of the day. He had the idea of taking her to the clearing and the synagogue, but he immediately realized that the disgrace, if it were revealed, would be great. He had concealed the coins and jewelry in a hiding place the night before. Now the solid alms box stood empty on the table. The remorse that had seethed within his chest all night long was now reduced to a single sentence: “This time too I have deceived the innocent.”

  When he returned to the clearing, everybody was sitting near the fence. The muddy light of the heavens made the people’s faces gray. Gad regretted that he had not asked forgiveness the day before. Now if he asked them to pardon him, they wouldn’t know what for. Everyone was awaiting the old men, but they were slow to arrive. Their lateness cast a harsh fear of heaven upon the people.

  One of the men approached him and asked, “When will the old men come?”

  “Soon,” Gad answered energetically. “No year passes without the old men. The trip is hard for them, but they come.”

  Hearing those words the man bowed his head and thanked him. That bowing of the head revealed, inadvertently, the tattered lining of his coat and the patches he had sewn in a vain effort to mend it. Most of the coat linings here were tattered, but such a gaping lining Gad had never seen in his life. When he stepped aside he noticed that the back of the coat was puffy, and the patch was pulled all the way up inside it, holding together the belt and extending up to the collar. The patch running the length of the coat now seemed to him like a concealed spring that burdened the man’s back.

  The man said in resignation, “We need the old men as we need air to breathe.” It was evident that he had prepared the cliché in advance, and now he was pleased it had left his mouth.

  “We must wait patiently, and we mustn’t hasten the end.” Gad spoke with conviction.

  Upon hearing those words, a smile spread across the man’s face, and he said, “What can we do? Time presses on in any event.”

  Gad knew the man was talking about the death that had settled within him and in his clothing, and if the old men didn’t come, evil spirits would vanquish the angels.

  “It’s too bad. We thought we would find them,” he said, like someone who has missed more than his chance.

  The two boys sat on the side, and from their large eyes flowed a kind of fierce wonderment.

  “Where are the boys from?” Gad asked as though he had just discovered them.

  “They’re twins,” the man quickly replied. “Their parents and brothers died in the epidemic. We were afraid to leave them alone.”

  “It’s good y
ou brought them.” Gad spoke with a kind of dreadful practicality.

  “They’re quiet, and they pray.”

  “The old men will come and bless them,” said Gad, and he immediately sensed that his words were shallow.

  Two women sat next to the large tombstone whose letters had been effaced, and they prayed silently. A few years earlier, a venerable old man, Reb Mordecai, had read the erased parts of the inscription out loud. Now no one remembered what had been worn away. The day before he had already noticed that the women were sitting next to the high tombstone and praying.

  “We have two vacant rooms, and it’s possible to house the women and children there.” Gad spoke emotionally.

  “We cannot stay for a long time. They’re waiting for us down below.”

  “Rain will fall soon. You mustn’t leave the women out in the open.”

  “Last night we slept in the synagogue. It wasn’t cold.” The man spoke apologetically.

  “We have two wide beds in each room, a well, and a bathroom. This is an hour of trial for us too.”

  “You mustn’t let us into the house. We are sick people.” The man spoke with a frightening voice.

  “I’m not afraid.” He took courage. “Jews don’t frighten me. Jews are responsible for one another, as we have said for all these years. The time has come to call in that debt.”

  At that time three men sat in the synagogue and studied books. Their cheeks were marked with yellow, and their fingers trembled on the pages.

  “Blessed be those who study,” Gad called out loud.

  They drew their eyes up from the books, and the yellow glowed on their faces as though they were illuminated from afar. “Has the epidemic even come here?” one of them asked and immediately regretted his question.