The Man Who Never Stopped Sleeping

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “It’s known, very well known,” he replied. “You’re getting overwrought.” He changed his tone of voice.

  “‘Overwrought’ isn’t the appropriate word. I haven’t yet found the correct words for what I am feeling.” I spoke in a burst that surprised me.

  He agreed with me. “We all lack words when it comes to speaking about ourselves.”

  “I’m glad you understand me,” I said.

  “What’s your family name, if I may ask?”

  I told him.

  He raised his head in surprise and said, “I know your family, my young friend, maybe better than you do.” He recited the names of my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, and my uncles and aunts. “Your father is an impressive man. He’s an author. Before the war, we used to see each other and talk about literature and philosophy. The war cut me off from most of my friends. I’m a solitary man. As the Jews say, as solitary as a stone.”

  “Are you a Jew, sir?” I dared to ask.

  He apparently expected that question and answered with a smile.

  “One-quarter Jew, to be mathematical. The Christian in me saved me from death. Now the quarter-Jew in me lies mired in depression. I hid him so well that he shrank. I’m sorry for him. But what could I do? Even that quarter endangered me.”

  I was pleased to be with him, and I wanted to say, You talk like a Jew, like my father and like my uncles. He caught what I wanted to say to him and said, “There are things that can’t be uprooted. To tell you the truth, without that quarter-Jew in me, my life wouldn’t be worth living.”

  I looked closely at him. He was about fifty, and he was wearing a checked suit with a matching tie, and gold-framed glasses. My uncle Isidor used to wear a suit exactly like that. His appearance was always elegant, and women were attracted to him.

  “Did you know my uncle Isidor?” I asked.

  “Certainly I knew him. Who didn’t? He was handsome and intelligent, and conversation with him nourished the Jew in me. Here everything is barren, and since the Jews departed, the wasteland has spread; it infests every corner. I mourn their disappearance every day. I also remember you, my friend. You were an observant boy. You’re like your mother. Your mother was the most sensitive of women. She didn’t talk a lot, but what came out of her mouth penetrated the heart. Why are you going home? What do you want to find there?”

  “Everyone.”

  He bowed his head and said, “My young friend, I don’t know what to tell you. The war devastated us. Everything has changed, changed for the worse. Without Jews, life has no meaning, and it’s ugly.”

  “What do you advise me to do?” I asked him in great despair.

  “Don’t tarry here for too long. This land devours its inhabitants. A country that didn’t know how to protect its Jews is a country without God. If I were in your place, I would take the first train out of here.”

  “And not go home?”

  “Only for a short glance, and no more. I, in any case, was glad to see you. You brought life to my soul. I regret that I have to get off here. This is my place in this wasteland. Take care of yourself, my friend. I don’t know if God will bring us together again.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m not worthy of thanks. I didn’t help my brothers in their hour of sorrow. If I had gone with them, my life would have been different, believe me.”

  I tried to detain him. “Don’t get off,” I said.

  He must have sensed my helplessness.

  “I would gladly accompany you,” he replied, “but I must go to the doctor. I’m struggling with two serious illnesses. I don’t know whether the doctor will be able to help me. I don’t trust the local doctors. I doubt they can even be veterinarians.”

  The word “veterinarians” struck me as funny, and I laughed.

  “Don’t laugh, my friend. I spoke cautiously so as not to make things hard for you. My situation is worse than the way I described it.”

  The train slowed down, and I was afraid to be left alone.

  “God knows where this train will take me,” I said.

  “Don’t be afraid. The next stop is the Pine Tree neighborhood; may it be remembered for good. Your house is about two hundred meters from the station.”

  “That’s exactly the place I’m meaning to get to.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, already standing on the platform. “Someone like you, who’s been through the seven levels of hell, won’t be scared by a little goblin.”

  When I heard those clear words, I woke up.

  40

  When I awoke, the sunlight was already streaming into the room. Everything was in its place. My crutches were propped up against the dresser. The green shirt that I’d been given by the convalescent home was on the wheelchair. Only my body was still moving with the rhythm of the train. That stranger, who looked amazingly like my uncle Isidor, still appeared before my eyes, as though refusing to part from me.

  For a moment I forgot that my legs were injured. I tried to pull myself up the way I used to, and I hurt myself.

  In the dining hall the other patients greeted me cordially and invited me to join them at their tables. I was still puzzled by the dream and by the patients who didn’t belong to it. Right away, they started asking me about the circumstances of my injury.

  “The time hasn’t come to talk about it.” The sentence popped out of my mouth.

  The other patients mistakenly believed that I was in pain or depressed. In fact, I was still immersed in sleep and didn’t want to leave it.

  “How long have you been in this country?” One of them couldn’t keep himself from asking.

  I told him.

  A woman raised her eyes to mine and said, “We don’t want to make things hard for you. But we want you to know that you’re one of us, flesh of our flesh. You’re not alone in the world.”

  I wanted to thank her, but I couldn’t find the right words.

  “If you need something,” she continued, “don’t hesitate to tell us. We’re not rich, but we have enough to make things easy for you.”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “We’re like a family, and we watch over one another.”

  “At this time, I want to be by myself.” I spoke bluntly.

  “And you don’t need anything?”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. My injury is temporary. I’ll soon manage to get up and walk.”

  My words surprised them, and they looked at me with a pity that hurt me.

  —

  I was sorry that the clear images from my dream were fading, that even the rhythmical rocking of the train had stopped. The powerful feeling that had throbbed within me and had borne me on its wings—that I was getting closer to my home, to my parents, and to my room—dissolved in the light of day, as if it had never been.

  I went back to my room. Depression plunged its claws into me. I could go out and totter around on my crutches, but I know that they couldn’t take me away from here. Again I would be exposed, and again everyone would stare at me. If I’d had a book to read, I would have sunk into reading. The last book I read at home was Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. All the years I was imprisoned in the cellar, images from that book appeared before my eyes.

  It occurred to me that if I could find the book, it would connect me to my home and my parents and make my legs move. The feeling was strong and urgent, and I went out into the corridor.

  “If you really want to help me,” I said to one of the patients, “please find me a copy of Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. I need that book now the way I need air to breathe.”

  He looked at me in surprise and said, “I’ll check in the library.”

  “If you mean the library of the convalescent home, they don’t have books in German.”

  “But there are a lot of books in Hebrew.”

  “At this time, I need Siddhartha in the original.” I didn’t relent.

  “I’ll look. I promise.”

 
He didn’t seem to understand my request, but he didn’t argue with me. Instead, he looked at me cautiously, as though seeing a side of me that hadn’t been visible before.

  “Just Siddhartha,” I repeated.

  “I understand,” he said, and stepped back a little.

  “That was the last book I read at home,” I said. I thought he would be moved by that, but it actually made no impression on him. After a short pause, he said, as though doing his duty, “I’ll be in the municipal library in the afternoon.” He then walked away, terminating the conversation.

  I went back to my room and sank into a deep sleep. I felt that the darkness was bandaging and healing my legs with powerful forces. I didn’t know if this should make me happy, because the feeling might have been deceptive. I wanted to stand up, but it was beyond my ability.

  The pain didn’t die down. From minute to minute, it grew more intense. On the day that I stand up on my feet, I said to myself, I won’t forget this feeling of grace. And if I can find the words in my mouth—I will pray.

  41

  I waited for the man to bring me Siddhartha, but for some reason he ignored me. I didn’t ask him about it, and he didn’t apologize. He apparently believed I had spoken from my roaring pain and not from an inner need. I didn’t know how to extricate myself from this entanglement, so I kept silent.

  I asked the nurse to look for Siddhartha in the library of her moshav. She promised to do so, and a few days later she told me that the moshav library had no books in foreign languages. On the day the moshav was established, its members swore that they would neither speak nor read in any foreign language.

  —

  My friends came to visit me, and I was pleased to see them. With all the ardor of youth, they were doing what I was unable to do. Since I’d last seen them, they’d grown taller and more suntanned. The dangers they were facing didn’t diminish their joy in life. On the contrary, they were merrier.

  Benno told me that all his efforts to obtain a violin and music books had so far failed.

  “Music stirs strongly within me. There are days when it fills me from head to toe, but because I have no instrument to play, it poisons me instead.” He asked whether I understood him, and I said I did. I tried to console him.

  “Soon the war will be over here.”

  His answer came immediately. “And I will remain a spiritual cripple.”

  —

  Dr. Winter came to examine me.

  “Patience, my friend,” he said softly. “Your fractures are knitting.” I noticed that he didn’t say “the fractures” but, rather, “your fractures,” implying there was a reciprocal relationship between me and the fractures, though I couldn’t see what it was. I could only feel the pain they caused me.

  The next day, without first asking for Benno’s permission, I spoke about him to the patients around the dining table.

  “I have a friend who’s a fine musician,” I said, “a member of my training group and a soldier. He’s looking for a violin to play in his spare time. If you have a violin, perhaps you can lend it to him.”

  “We aren’t musicians,” one of the patients said, “and we don’t have violins, but we’ll look around. What’s the fellow’s name?”

  I told him.

  “I haven’t heard of him.”

  I didn’t hold back. “You will,” I replied.

  The patient looked at me with a practical expression.

  “A few days ago you asked for a book in German,” he said, “and now you’re asking for a violin for your friend. We’re simple people. We never went to concerts. For many years we were pioneers. We worked in the fields and orchards. We’ve gotten old, and now we’re spending our days in hospitals and convalescent homes. We can’t help you with things we don’t have connections to.” His face was open and expressed exactly what he thought. His friends followed his words with intense eyes.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t be angry at us. We love you the way we love our own sons. I myself am a bereaved father, and since my son died in battle, every soldier is dear to me. A wounded soldier ever the more so.”

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  “This is a hard country that has no mercy on the people who live in it. A person dedicates his soul to the soil, but the soil doesn’t reward him with kindness. All the years we have lived here, we tilled the earth, and at night we stood watch. Our sons, who joined the Palmach, were even more dedicated than we were. But their dedication didn’t save them on the battlefield.”

  I went back to my room and thought about the man’s sunken cheeks. I felt sorry for him because all his labor on the land hadn’t brought him a blessing. And now he was battling a harsh illness.

  —

  That night I saw Benno in my sleep, holding a violin in his hand. A member of Misgav Yitzhak had given him the instrument. But instead of being happy, Benno said, “Thank you. It’s too late.”

  “Why?” the man wondered.

  “During all the years of the war, I didn’t practice or play. Music once flowed from my fingers. Now there’s nothing in them, just stiffness. Stiffness at my age can’t be corrected.”

  “You’re a young man.”

  “The age of seven is the cutoff for a violinist.”

  “You can play in an orchestra.”

  “I prepared myself to be a soloist from the age of four. I kept to a rigid schedule, and I practiced every day. Mother made certain always to remind me of my duty. What can I do? The war cut my life in two.”

  “Too bad,” said the man, taking the violin from Benno’s hands. “If you change your mind, I’ll gladly lend it to you.”

  “Thank you, thank you, from the depths of my heart.” Benno spoke in a submissive tone of voice.

  “I don’t play it,” the man said. “My late mother used to encourage me. Rather, she forced me. My desire to play, to be honest, was quite small.”

  “Thank you,” Benno repeated.

  “You’re very welcome,” said the man, and he walked away.

  —

  I noticed that in my sleep I saw people with more clarity. They appeared to be carved out of the darkness, and their inner essence lit up their faces. I hadn’t seen Mark in my sleep for some time, so I didn’t know what was stirring in his soul. But since Benno told me that music was imprisoned in him and was poisoning him, I saw him as a person who had given up on the great hopes his parents had pinned on him. He was now only marking time on a gray plain, without climbing or achieving. Benno didn’t speak about it, but it was what his face and his hands told me.

  —

  Father asked me again, “What are you doing to prepare yourself to be an author?”

  “I’m doing things,” I told him. “But my legs are shattered, and it’s hard to lift myself up. Broken legs block forward motion. I pray that God will bring my legs back to life.”

  “From whom did you learn to pray?” Father was surprised.

  “From Grandfather.”

  “As far as I remember, Grandfather didn’t teach you to pray.”

  “I observed him while he was standing in silent prayer.”

  “Prayer is speech, not standing in silence.”

  “Haven’t I heard people say that it’s possible to be silent and pray?”

  “It’s beyond my understanding,” said Father in a voice whose every nuance I recognized.

  “When God gives my legs back to me, Father, I’ll set out to find the right way to express everything that happened to us.”

  His voice softened. “Where will you go?”

  “To all the awful places where we were.”

  “Why are you speaking in the plural?”

  “Because you, Mother, and I are covered by the same heavenly canopy.”

  “I knew you were courageous,” said Father, and his eyes filled with tears.

  42

  I saw Father again, leaning over his desk and writing. He was so immersed in his work that he didn’t notice I had ent
ered the house. I stood at the door without uttering a word. Finally, I could no longer control my excitement.

  “Father!” I called out.

  He made a gesture with his right hand, one I had never seen him make. It was as though he was saying, Leave me alone. Why are you bothering me? I went outside and stood on the front steps. It was evening, and the sky was dark blue, without a cloud. Thin smoke curled up from the distant houses.

  I expected our dog Miro to notice me and come over. All around me a thick silence prevailed, such as I hadn’t experienced for many years. It occurred to me that Mother might be sitting behind the house, reading a book. I tried to move my legs, but my legs did not move. I remembered that I’d been wounded, and that the fractures hadn’t yet healed. I said to myself, If Mother comes, I won’t tell her what happened to me.

  I saw the gardener down on his knees, planting new flowers. His quiet, focused kneeling made me think of some ancient ceremony where people don’t talk but are connected to inanimate things. I left him and didn’t call him by name.

  Strange, I said to myself, I returned home, and no one is paying attention to me. Father is so immersed in his writing that he won’t pause to ask how I am.

  I waited for Mother. I was about to call out, Mother, as I used to when I came home from school. But there was no need for that. She appeared, and her appearance astonished me: she was so different—shorter, and her hair had turned gray. Her eyes were cast down, not meeting mine. Mother, I wanted to call out. But I held my tongue.

  Mother knew everything. Not a detail escaped her. She had heard about my wound the day it happened. She had also heard about Dr. Winter’s desperate operations.

  “How did the news reach you?”

  “A mother knows everything, and what she doesn’t know, she guesses,” she said, and the soft smile returned to her face. “You look better than I imagined,” she quickly added. “Thank God we’re seeing each other again.”

  “How is Father?”

  “He’s completely immersed in writing. He hardly eats, hardly drinks. I have to stand there and beg him. He’s always depriving himself. I don’t understand why or what for.”