The Man Who Never Stopped Sleeping

by Aharon Appelfeld

  —

  I opened my notebook and once again saw my mother’s and father’s names in Hebrew letters. This time, too, they seemed strange in their new clothing.

  Grandfather, I assumed, would have been glad that I wrote his name in Hebrew. For years he was worried about my Judaism. He didn’t express his fear explicitly, but his arms communicated it when he hugged me. Father, I assumed, would have responded with reservations to my efforts to acquire the language. He would be afraid that I would lose my mother tongue. A person without a mother tongue can’t hear his own voice. His language will be spoiled forever. There’s no substitute for a mother tongue. I’d already heard him say that in Naples and in Atlit, but not as clearly as in Misgav Yitzhak.

  By this time, we had been in Misgav Yitzhak for eight months. Some of the boys did change. They grew taller, their shoulders broadened, and they looked like the local boys. Robert, however, did not change. His light touch was evident in everything he did. He was tall and lanky, and his fingers were delicate. Despite the manual labor, his fingers hadn’t thickened. They remained bony and vulnerable. He touched objects with caution, looked at them, and put them down without making a sound. He kept discovering surprising new colors, forms, and poses. He lived in constant amazement. His life during the war and after it didn’t spoil his visions. He walked among us like a prince. Unlike Benno, he didn’t try to organize or articulate his thoughts. I was afraid for his fingers whenever he rolled a chunk of rock or picked up a heavy stone.

  Every time they called him by his new name, something in me became alarmed, as if Robert had been called upon to do something against his nature.

  —

  I returned to the empty dining hall, took out my notebook with the list I had made, and read it out loud. Suddenly I realized something I had known in the depths of my soul but hadn’t dared express: I had parents and a home, and now I would be preparing myself to return to them. That discovery made me so happy that I started to hum the song “Land, My Land,” which Ephraim had taught us.

  Slobotsky’s Bible lessons were put off until after work hours. We were all tired, and our eyes would close. Slobotsky read, and his reading flowed over my fatigue; I could take in only partial images. Still, I listened. When the Ark of the Lord was captured by the Philistines, it declared: “Better to be among strangers than among people of the Covenant who violate the Ten Commandments every day.”

  “It’s magic!” one of the boys shouted. “A wooden cabinet has no feelings or speech.”

  This time Slobotsky stopped reading and said, “A person doesn’t have to believe in the anger of the tablets of the Covenant that were given on Mount Sinai, but can we remain indifferent to the profanation and corruption of that sanctified place?”

  We were all tired, the words and images intermingled, and only Slobotsky’s fine voice could be heard. Sometimes it seemed that Slobotsky wasn’t teaching so much as sowing the words of the Bible for the days to come.

  25

  Time carried me along quickly, as though on a raft without oars. The day began at six and ended at eleven at night. I fell onto my bed and plunged into deep sleep. Sometimes a dream or, rather, a scrap of a dream invaded my sleep and terrified me. But my exhaustion was so leaden that it crushed even the nightmares.

  More than eight months had passed since Mark’s death, and Ephraim decided to hold a memorial. The thought that in a little while we would be standing in the cemetery next to Mark’s little tombstone wrenched me out of what we were doing and made me confront that dreadful day when they discovered Mark’s body hanging from a window bar.

  Ephraim wanted to bring the young flute player who had played at the funeral to the memorial. But it turned out that the boy had already been drafted. Finally, the administrator of the training course agreed to play. Once again the question arose of who would speak. How strange that Mark’s death was so recent but at the same time so far away and inconceivable. It occurred to me that if he had left behind a list, like my list, one of us could have read it, brought to life his place of birth, and reconnected Mark to us.

  Before my eyes, I saw his sharp leaps, his high jumps, and his graceful and noble stride. It turned out that during his time in Naples and Atlit, he was preparing himself not for life but for his death, and in Misgav Yitzhak he did what he thought was right.

  —

  That night my father appeared to me as I had not seen him for many days: leaning over his desk, withdrawn and in deep concentration. I didn’t see him much when he was writing. He wrote mainly at night. He wrote for years, and every time he finished a book, he would send it to a publisher. The reply came quickly and immediately darkened his face. Mother would stand next to him, as though reprimanded.

  Father noticed that I was observing him. He turned to me and said, “I can’t do it anymore. I’m passing the pen to you. You’ll do what I couldn’t.”

  I was astonished by these words and said, “What should I do?”

  “Do what I was unable to do,” he repeated.

  “I can’t write, Father. I’ve lost my language, and I can’t write in the new one.”

  “A person doesn’t lose his mother tongue.” He cut me off sharply.

  “I’ve lost it. Believe me.”

  “This is beyond my understanding,” he said.

  I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. But I was able to string some words together and said, “It’s not my fault, Father, if I may express an opinion about myself.”

  “And what about the survival of our souls? Mother and I pinned great hopes on you. I’ve reached the end of my strength. All these years, I’ve tried with all my might to find a new form, but without success. I had hoped you would continue what I began. If you can’t, either, what is the meaning of our lives?”

  “It’s a burden beyond my power, Father.”

  “So it seems to you.”

  I overcame the choking in my throat.

  “I’m here, Father, in the heart of the bare Judean Hills. These hills can’t tolerate a language that isn’t theirs.”

  “And what is their language?”

  “Silence and more silence. In that silence we’re building terraces, planting trees, and every day we acquire a handful of Hebrew words. The book of Samuel is marvelous but parsimonious with words. That is the language of these hills—fewer and fewer words.”

  “And you speak that language?”

  “Every day.”

  “So we won’t be able to speak the way we used to anymore?”

  I told him I had made a list of all the people who had filled my life and would soon add to it. This was my dam against oblivion. I conceded that working the soil was overwhelming me and didn’t leave space for my former life.

  “Your mother and I are your former life?”

  “Father, you and Mother are planted in me, and I am with you even when conditions don’t permit it. One day, when the vicissitudes of my life become known to you, you’ll understand that I’m attached to you and, through you, to my grandparents and the Carpathians. My latest incarnation is strange and full of contradictions. But I haven’t forgotten for a moment that you and Mother are my soul. I have no other. I haven’t betrayed you, and I never will. As for the language, even if I forget all the words that connected us, you will be with me always, and we’ll always speak the way we did.”

  Tears welled up in Father’s eyes, as though he understood my situation.

  26

  The memorial for Mark was held toward evening. The light was low and pleasant, in total contrast to the event for which we had gathered.

  “We have come here to remember our comrade Mark,” Ephraim said. “The office investigated and checked with the Jewish Agency, and we discovered that Mark’s family name was Stolz. Other details—his father’s and mother’s names and his place of birth—have not yet come to light. But at least they managed to rescue one detail from the jaws of oblivion.”

  We have come here to remember. I silently repea
ted Ephraim’s words. How and with what will we remember him? I asked myself. The new detail that had just been made known to me spoiled the figure that had taken shape in my mind. “Stolz” means “proud” in German. Mark was not a proud young man. Proud implies he was pleased with himself and his achievements. He did what we all did, and with more success, but he wasn’t proud. He didn’t try to stand out. He was free, and his freedom was more important to him than pride.

  The administrator of the training course played the flute, and we sang “The Partisans’ Song.” I recalled my list, and for a moment I was sorry I hadn’t brought the notebook with me. But I immediately realized this was an idle thought.

  Everything proceeded at a leaden pace, with long pauses. And like most newly created ceremonies, it was without taste.

  Benno’s face showed his displeasure. It was clear that this ceremony was not to his liking. When we were about to disperse, Yechiel walked up to Mark’s grave, covered his forehead with his left hand, closed his eyes, and in a soft voice recited the Kaddish in the Ashkenazic pronunciation. When he finished, he took a few steps backward and returned to his place.

  Astonishment reigned. Everyone expected Ephraim to protest Yechiel’s action. But Ephraim, to everyone’s surprise, stood still and said nothing. His lips curved into a smile, which made all of us stare at him.

  In any case, Yechiel’s unexpected act made an impression. We didn’t foresee independent action from him. He always did as he was told. Although the skill of his fingers was evident in the kitchen and in preparing snacks for us, no one saw that as an expression of his own will.

  “He has something that we don’t.” That was Benno’s reaction.

  “What is it?”

  “Faith that he inherited from his parents.”

  “We’re already beyond that.” That harsh response came quickly from someone standing behind us.

  —

  That night I sat in the dining hall. I took out the notebook in which I had written my list and added the names of my uncles Arthur and Isidor, and Mount Strelitz, at whose foot we would sit for many hours—Father, Mother, and I—listening to its summer music.

  How strange that during the years of separation from Father, I hadn’t remembered his writing at night. I was sure that he placed his greatest efforts in the chess games.

  I looked up and saw Yechiel. The way he stood showed that he was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say to him. Eventually, I overcame what was blocking my speech and said, “It’s good that we parted from Mark with a prayer, thanks to you, Yechiel.” My words apparently touched him, and he burst into tears.

  “Yechiel,” I said, “you rescued us from the shame of muteness.”

  His weeping grew stronger and his body shook. I went over to him and gave him a hug. After a few minutes he stopped crying and went into the kitchen, his place of work.

  27

  One evening a refugee came by the training camp, looking for his nephew. His dress, his appearance, and, most of all, his posture showed how out of place he was in our silent surroundings. He was momentarily pleased when he heard my German; it turned out he was from my region. He had been wandering for weeks, and he had already been to quite a few kibbutzim, farms, cooperative villages, and training courses, pursuing idle rumors. He had resolved to do whatever he could to find his nephew and not to skip over any place where young people were being sent.

  I wanted to show him the orchard and the new terraces, but he thanked me and hurried away. As we stood at the gate, I recognized in him several features of my grandfather Meir Yoseph.

  —

  From time to time, strangers drifted in. Once, a Jew in traditional European dress arrived, bringing spices for the kitchen. After selling his wares, he stood in the yard for a long time, looking at the landscape and the people, and then, without asking about anything, left.

  That night, for the first time, we went out for night patrol armed with guns. A few nights earlier, the tall, well-trained guards of the training camp had gone out, lain in wait for infiltrators, and toward dawn caught five of them. The infiltrators were brought, bound, to the dining hall, and once they were questioned, they were given coffee and cigarettes. After promising that they would no longer attack Jewish settlements, they were finally released, without their five rifles—spoils for Misgav Yitzhak.

  For us, happiness mingled with giddy tension. We had been training for months, but our armed patrol had been delayed several times. Now came the moment to feel the danger.

  We entered the dark hills walking lightly and crouching correctly and spread out in ambush formation. We lay on the cold, hard ground for about six hours, and before first light, we rose and stood, bent over, on numb legs. Then we returned to the camp, stooped and tired, and slept until noon.

  In that sleep I had a long dream that I remembered very well. I was in Atlit, after physical training and language drill, drinking a glass of lemonade and then slaking my thirst with a second glass. Suddenly the walls separating us from the refugees fell down, and an entire congregation stood there, wrapped in prayer shawls, praying silently. I rose to my feet and stepped back. It seemed to me that if I hadn’t done so, they would have approached me and knocked me over. I was wrong. Their prayer became softer, and their bodies hardly moved.

  “What’s this?” The words slipped out. My voice was loud and tore through their silent prayer.

  All at once they removed their prayer shawls and glared at me. The arrows shooting from their eyes became stuck in my flesh and immobilized me. In vain I tried to gather all my strength to run away from them. But I was tied down, the target of their hostile looks. One of them, tall and sturdy, turned to me and said, “What did you do to us?”

  “I didn’t mean to do anything,” I apologized.

  “You put a stop to our prayer. We can’t go back to it.”

  “It seemed to me you were about to trample me. I was wrong. Pardon my error.”

  —

  I woke up to the noise of the tractors returning to the garage, but those images from the dream didn’t fade. They stayed before my eyes for a long time.

  Toward evening I went to visit Dr. Weingarten in the immigrants’ settlement. I didn’t find him. He had gone out to guard a building site, the men in his shed told me.

  While I was standing there wondering where to go, a short refugee came over, fixed his eyes on me, and asked, “Aren’t you the sleepy boy?”

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “You’ve gotten a lot taller,” he said. “You’re suntanned. I almost didn’t recognize you. I’ll tell you the truth. We were sure you wouldn’t make it and that you’d return your soul to your Creator in one of the camps. We were very tempted to leave you behind. But there were some among us who argued strongly that we had to bring you to safety. You owe your life to them. They, the few, the stubborn, carried you. A lot of people will tell you that they carried you, but don’t believe them. Only a handful did. I wasn’t one of them.”

  He paused for a moment and then asked, “When did you wake up?”

  “In Naples,” I told him.

  “All at once? After all, you didn’t move during the weeks we were wandering, except when you smelled the water in streams. You would crawl in order to drink from them. How did you emerge from your slumber?”

  “It happened,” I said, just to be rid of him.

  “And now are you awake?”

  “As you see,” I replied, trying to go.

  But the man wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “You have to find the people who carried you and thank them,” he said. “Some of them are here. I’ll point them out.”

  “I’ll come back in a few days,” I said, and turned my back to him.

  “Don’t put off that obligation, and don’t be an ingrate,” he said, running after me.

  “I won’t put it off,” I said, and walked faster.

  “We tend to put off paying our great debts. That’s our weakness. Don’t do it. There a
re things we can’t run away from, and the sooner we do them, the better it is for us. We have to learn to say thank you and not deny those who were good to us.”

  “I promise,” I said, to escape his clutches. I ran all the way back to the training camp, and I was out of breath when I reached the gate.

  28

  The shooting directed at our training camp didn’t let up, even in daylight. We received reinforcements from the nearby settlements and we dug trenches, fortified existing positions, and built new ones.

  One night, while I was on watch at one of the posts, I felt sorry for myself; soon they would attack us, I would die, and I then wouldn’t see my parents anymore. I asked Robert, my partner on watch, if he also heard noises.

  “No,” he answered. That single word, devoid of doubt, sounded like a reproach to me, and I was ashamed that noises made me afraid.

  Slobotsky was not recruited for guard duty. Along with Yechiel, he brought coffee and sandwiches to each of the posts. In fact, they were more exposed than we were, especially Slobotsky, who hadn’t learned to bend his tall body down.

  Eventually, the order was given to fire, and we did so, along with those in nearby positions. The darkness was thick, and we could see only the sparks of light flashing from the barrels of our guns. After a few minutes we stopped shooting. Silence reigned. We waited for a response, but the response was slow in coming. It was clear the infiltrators were crawling toward our positions. The two ambushes the officers had set up didn’t stop them. Luckily for us, the silence lasted until dawn.