The Man Who Never Stopped Sleeping

by Aharon Appelfeld

  As for us, we’re living a life of spiritual exaltation. Fear came and went. Now we are constantly happy. The landscapes in the Negev are spiritual. It seems to me that an orchestra is hiding behind every hill, or a fine string quartet. No wonder God spoke to people in the desert and not in the fertile landscapes of Europe. Excuse me for expressing such banal thoughts.

  I hope the pain leaves you some untainted time for yourself. Last night I dreamed about Dr. Winter. He was full of enthusiasm about you. He told me that you’re taking giant steps forward, and in a year, at most two years, you’ll be walking in the street like everyone else. I believed every word he uttered. Take care of yourself.

  Yours,

  Benno

  61

  The very next day preparations began for my move. Dr. Winter had heard about the man with no family who had bequeathed his apartment to the defense forces.

  “I can do nothing but agree to an invitation like that,” he said. “You, as they say, were fated to live in the city. Nothing to be done. I’ll see you every month, and if there are problems, I’ll come to visit you. Or else you’ll come to see me in the clinic. Adieu.”

  And so he parted from me. The words I had prepared to say to him dissolved in my mind.

  “Thank you.” I did manage to throw those words into the air, but I don’t know if they reached his ears. It was strange how deeply I’d sunk roots into this un-private place.

  Tears welled up in my eyes when I saw the nurses gathering up my clothes and arranging them in the suitcase that had come from Misgav Yitzhak with the rest of my belongings.

  Mother often told me that Father had passed his temperament and affability on to me. Whenever she said that, I would see him at his desk with his wrinkled face, and I would wonder if even then he had tried to transmit his inner music to me.

  The patients gave me small presents and wished me a life of health and renewal.

  “You’re young, and your life lies before you,” a nurse said, wishing me well. On behalf of the staff of the convalescent home, she gave me two books, one by S. Yizhar and one by Moshe Shamir.

  I was moved by the gathering of people around me. One of the patients expressed his opinion about my leave-taking.

  “You’re lucky,” he said. “Not every invalid from the defense forces gets his own apartment.” Woe to my good luck, I wanted to say, but I didn’t.

  In the afternoon, a pickup truck arrived. With the help of the sturdy cook, the driver lifted me onto it in my wheelchair, and we set out. If it weren’t for the pain that gripped me, I would certainly have been impressed by the sight of the orange groves and green fields, but the pain was intense. I shut my eyes and hoped in my heart that the trip wouldn’t take long.

  The ground-floor apartment pleased me, but at the same time, I was fearful. Everything in it was on a small scale and coated with a slight dimness: a smallish room with a table, two chairs, and a slender bookcase, and adjoining it, a tiny room with a bed, a cupboard, and a bed lamp. There was also a kitchenette. I looked around and said to myself, Who heard my cry and provided exactly what my soul needed?

  Rivka arrived and was introduced to me: she was a woman of about thirty, good-looking and simply dressed. The woman in charge of the war-wounded said, “The young man’s birth name is Erwin, and he changed it to Aharon. I hope you’ll get along. I brought sheets, towels, and some utensils. The late Mr. Arthur Ehrenfeld kept his apartment meticulously, and it was transferred to us in excellent condition. Nothing is lacking here. What else? Rivka will come to you, as I said, every day for three hours. You can rest now and get used to the place.”

  It was short and sharp and a bit military, but I was happy, as though I had been offered not only shelter but also a hidden runway from which I would be able to take flight. From now on, I was by myself.

  I sat there and didn’t move. The tension of the preceding days—saying goodbye to the workers in the convalescent home and to the patients, riding in the pickup truck, and the encounter with my apartment—had shaken me up and made me dizzy.

  I shut my eyes and saw the convalescent home and the practical nurse who had always wanted to hug and kiss me and who finally told me about her son—I hadn’t seen her before I left and didn’t ask about her.

  I opened my eyes, but I didn’t move the wheelchair. I wanted to imagine the man who had lived there. The books in his library were half in German and half in Hebrew. An educated man, most likely. He read a lot, kept silent a lot, and every time he ran into one of the neighbors, he barely uttered a complete sentence. A tall man. The chairs probably didn’t suit his height. Every hour or two he would make a cup of tea for himself.

  Now he was in the world of truth, and I was sitting in his apartment. His essence still permeated every corner and told me he was a modest man, monklike but with an aesthetic sensibility. He didn’t have close friends and mostly listened to himself and to classical music. There was nothing superfluous in his apartment.

  In the evening Rivka returned. She said, “Good evening,” and started to make my supper. I saw right away that she didn’t intend to ask me questions or tell me about herself. She had cleaned the apartment the day before, and she was now familiar with all the furniture and knew where everything belonged.

  For supper she prepared a salad, a soft-boiled egg, cheese, two slices of bread spread with margarine, and a cup of coffee. I thanked her.

  “Leave the plates on the table,” she said, “and in the morning I’ll come and wash them. Good night.”

  —

  That night I had a long conversation with Mother. I told her I intended to begin my writing with my origins. I would not leave out any part. I’m linked to you and to Father with every fiber of my soul, and when the connection is complete and well fastened, I can go on and search for my grandparents. Legends of the North, the book that you would read to me before I fell asleep, that enchanted book, has accompanied me all along the way, and from it, I expect, I will one day take flight.

  Putting aside her trepidations, Mother told me in confidence that Father had returned from the camps, and he was now mute. He didn’t utter a word. She tried in vain to get him to speak. Most of the day he slept, and when he awakened, muteness clogged his mouth. It was impossible to know where he had been or what he had done or how he had made it home.

  “I hope, my son, that you, in your writing, will remove him from the slumber into which he has fallen. I did everything I could and didn’t succeed. But you are connected with Father. Only you can bring him back to life and give him voice.”

  62

  I sat at the desk and felt that it was comfortable for writing. The table in the convalescent home was wider but not comfortable. It was too high and it slowed my hand, and the light from outside blinded me. Here the window was narrow and long, the light was moderate, and the curtain was made of thin, airy cloth. Everything reminded me of Father’s study.

  I made myself a cup of tea. The thought that from now on I would be on my own made me happy, but at the same time it frightened me. My plans for writing suddenly seemed pretentious, beyond my abilities, and precarious. This distress weakened me, and I fell asleep.

  I immediately met Uncle Arthur, sitting among the refugees. They recognized me and called out to me.

  “Here’s the sleepy boy!” they said.

  Uncle Arthur didn’t know what they were talking about, so one of the refugees explained it to him, with the help of his long arms.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Uncle Arthur asked with anxious curiosity.

  I told him in brief, adding, “I’ve already left the path of chance, and I’m striving toward a goal.”

  “And what are you about to do? Do you need help?”

  I told him that someone from Bukovina had bequeathed his small apartment to the defense forces, and it had come my way.

  Uncle Arthur wanted more information. “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Arthur Ehrenfeld. And that also doesn’t seem to hav
e happened by chance.”

  “In what sense?”

  “You and he are namesakes.”

  “I didn’t know a man by that name.” Uncle Arthur tried to shake off connections he couldn’t understand. “You told me you’re striving toward a goal, if I understood you correctly.”

  “I’m training myself to be a writer,” I admitted.

  “That’s strange,” said Uncle Arthur, and a thin smile spread across his face.

  “What’s strange about it?” I wanted to understand.

  “Your father tormented himself for years because he wanted to achieve perfection. That was his one and only desire. For as long as I knew him, he never moved from his desk. He was very meticulous, sensitive to every false note. No wonder his many revisions ate up all his time. Once, he showed me eight versions of a single chapter.”

  “Eight versions?”

  “Even during the last days in the ghetto, he never stopped polishing his writing. At that time, I was sure he was wasting his days, and I asked him to join the communists. He refused. His refusal pained me greatly, and I cut off all connections with him.”

  “You never spoke with him again?”

  “No. I used to meet with your mother. She understood him better than anyone. She admired his writing and used to say he was ahead of his time. I was sure she was only caught up in his charms. I sinned against him. I sinned.”

  “During the past year, I copied many chapters of the Bible by hand.” Like a fool, I revealed this.

  “You copied? Did I hear you correctly? What good does that do?”

  “I learned to bond with the Hebrew letters. The images of the letters are etched into me now.”

  “That’s beyond my understanding. We always condemned copying. We regarded copying as unworthy. A copy is an imitation, pure and simple. Do you want to imitate the Bible?”

  “That’s what I need at this time.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “So it seems to you,” he said, raising his voice. “Your father revised endlessly. It seemed to him that he had to strive for perfection, and for that reason he made himself and your mother miserable. Write, yes, but for one purpose—for the good of mankind, for the general good. A grand style is a luxury.”

  Uncle Arthur had many other complaints about Father, but he now directed them all at me because I was following in Father’s path, shutting myself off and depriving myself.

  “It would be better for you to bond with the refugees, to serve them a bowl of soup at noon, to sit with them. There’s no circle of hell they weren’t in. You’d do better to listen to them, to play cards with them, to bind their wounds in the infirmary. Copying the Bible won’t cure a single person.”

  I wanted to raise my crutches and say to him, I’m handicapped, but I didn’t. I knew he would see that as an excuse. Instead, I said, “Father devoted his soul to writing. True, success didn’t come to him, but his devotion to understanding humanity and his diligence in searching for the right mode of expression were boundless.” Just as I said those words, I woke up.

  —

  Rivka was already in the kitchen, making breakfast for me. She immediately helped me get out of bed. I washed my face and sat down at the table.

  “How are you, Rivka?” I wanted to befriend her.

  “Fine,” she said indifferently. My first impression, that Rivka was reticent and didn’t seek human contact, proved to be correct.

  She tidied the apartment, prepared lunch and supper, bought groceries and a block of ice, wished me a good day, and left.

  —

  The night visions came back to me, but this time while I was awake.

  I loved Uncle Arthur—his simplicity, his direct way of relating to people, his belief that action was preferable to words. A complicated or vague statement used to drive him out of his mind. It was no wonder his brother Isidor’s ways made his blood boil. Uncle Isidor was a bank clerk. He dressed well, took good care of his bachelor’s flat, and read literature and philosophy. He had a subscription to the symphony and the theater and was always surrounded by women. His lofty manners, curiosity, education, and independent thinking created a barrier between him and the Jewish petite bourgeoisie, even though he was part of it. Uncle Arthur used to say that his brother was in love with himself and that it was no coincidence there were ten mirrors in his apartment. Every mirror said, Me, me, just me! Barbers, tailors, shoe polishers, and masseurs continually nurtured his egotism. Without them, he would have simply disintegrated.

  The two uncles weren’t usually invited to our house at the same time, but one time they both came. Father, who was fond of them both, tried to stave off the big fight, but it was inevitable.

  “I’m getting out of here,” Uncle Arthur shouted. “I don’t want to see this toy of a man. Smelly sweat is better than his stinking cologne.”

  Uncle Isidor wasn’t about to be bested. “Anyone who’s in love with Stalin can’t be a decent human being,” he shouted at Uncle Arthur. “Stalin is imprinted on everything he does, and he’s corrupt from head to foot.”

  Unfortunately, this bitter memory stuck in my mind. I prayed in my heart that it would be erased, that I would no longer see them quarreling but, instead, individually: each with his own features, way of walking, tone of voice. It was impossible not to love them. Both Mother and Father loved them with all their might.

  63

  Once a week—sometimes twice, if the weather was fair—Rivka took me out for a walk in the city. I preferred the afternoon hours. I devoted the mornings to writing—or, rather, to attempts at writing.

  My writing still didn’t have the right melody. I tried various strains, but one thing was clear to me: I had to start with the first sight of my home, where the music my parents bequeathed to me was hidden away. I had carried that feeling with me for many days, but only now did it take shape. A trip of even two or three miles around the city would bring me closer to that hidden goal.

  Rothschild Boulevard was a pleasant avenue that reminded me of my native city. The humidity was oppressive at that hour, but the houses, the plants, and the front doors charmed the eye with their simplicity. I was borne on rubber wheels, without exchanging a word with Rivka. At least she didn’t pester me with questions.

  On one of these excursions, a man recognized me and called out.

  “Unbelievable! Here’s the sleepy boy. Where have you been?” His cry tore my heart; it was as though he had rediscovered his brother or nephew who had been lost during the war. To make sure he wasn’t mistaken, he came closer to me and said, this time in a whisper, “Is it you? Good God! I wasn’t wrong.”

  Hearing his terrible shout, a few people gathered around and stared at both of us, trying to understand what had happened. But the man just cried out again, “Unbelievable! It’s him! I wasn’t mistaken!” I was embarrassed and wanted to escape. But Rivka, who was also surrounded by people, couldn’t extricate me.

  Then the man bent down to my face and spoke in a soft voice.

  “What happened to you, my friend?”

  “I was wounded.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “You were our secret. We carried you from place to place, and we were sure that when you woke up, you’d tell us marvelous things. We sensed that you were linked to worlds that were sealed off from us. You were dear to us all. True, we didn’t always watch over you properly. In any event, you persisted in your sleep. Our repeated efforts to pull you out of it were in vain. Are you normal now?”

  I didn’t know how to reply. Finally, I said, “Like everybody.”

  “Too bad.”

  The man rose to his feet and stood alongside me, as though words had failed him.

  Eventually, he left me. The people dispersed, and once again I was borne on the rubber wheels. Rivka didn’t ask anything, and I saw no need to tell her. The evening lights were pleasant, and a breeze blew in from the sea.

  —

  “You were only a chi
ld,” Mother sometimes said to me. “You probably don’t remember.” But to my surprise I remembered not only the paths and the big rusty yellow leaves of early autumn—we called them “blades”—that were strewn along them, but also the peasants we met on the way, whom Father would greet in their own language.

  —

  In the evening the upstairs neighbor came in and introduced himself. He told me a few things about the late Arthur Ehrenfeld.

  “He was a private person,” he said. “We didn’t know anything about him. He was polite and pleasant, and he kept away from arguments and quarrels. A solitary, secretive man.”

  I was still curious. “Was he tall?” I asked.

  “Indeed.”

  But mostly he spoke about what was then going on in the country.

  “The war has quieted down, and now we’re mourning our dead. Our achievements were mighty, but the pain is hard to bear. How can we console the bereaved parents?” For a moment it seemed as though he was going to burst into tears. I wasn’t wrong. Tears welled up in his eyes. He begged my pardon for invading my apartment and left.

  From the little news that had reached me, I knew that there had been acts of heroism on all the fronts. My heart was with the thin young men who had immigrated, been sent straight to the battlefields, and did not return. Who would remember them and mourn for them?

  During nights of unclouded sleep, I saw Mark again. He didn’t die in battle, but his mysterious death lived on in me as a powerful, desperate ascent to the heights. As though he was saying, This is what I was capable of and I did it.