The Man Who Never Stopped Sleeping

by Aharon Appelfeld

  I received a short letter from Yechiel, written in charming Hebrew.

  “My wound isn’t deep,” he said, “but it’s healing slowly. Too bad I can’t go out and work. Most of the day I’m in my room. May the Lord send us good tidings.”

  From the few words he had put together, I heard the whisper of his parents’ and grandparents’ prayers. The ghetto and the forests hadn’t torn him from their way of life. He quietly kept the commandments, almost in secret, and if people asked him if he prayed every day, he answered simply, “As much as possible. Sometimes I cut it short.” I had the feeling it wasn’t easy for him to retain what he had received from his ancestors. When he said the Grace After Meals, he hid his face in his hands, as though trying to hide his whispers. I was sad because my friends didn’t see the nobility of his soul beneath his colorless veil.

  64

  I made sure to rise early, and when Rivka arrived, I was already dressed and sitting at the desk. Every movement came with much effort and pain, but whenever I managed to get out of the wheelchair without help, it seemed to me that the day was not far off when I would be able to walk on my own.

  Meanwhile, I scribbled, and sometimes I came up with a sentence or two. I didn’t for a moment forget my promise to myself: that if one day I managed to write, I would include Mother’s melody in my writing. For the time being, only restlessness throbbed in my body.

  —

  Edward came to visit me. His tall, handsome body was as it always had been, but his expression was blank, as though he hadn’t spoken for many days.

  “Edward!” I called to him.

  He bowed his head at my cry of joy.

  I saw before me the terrace at Misgav Yitzhak and Edward swinging his sledgehammer. Edward’s blows were precise, and Ephraim praised the way he gripped the sledgehammer. Now both of them had injured arms. Ephraim had returned to his kibbutz in the north, and Edward was living in Tel Aviv. The training program at Misgav Yitzhak was a distant vision.

  “Sit down. How are you?” I tried to get close to him. I noticed that his injured hand was covered by a simple woolen glove, which called attention to his big hand—the healthy one.

  “I’ve been working,” he said, and it was clear that at that moment he had no more words.

  I told him about Arthur Ehrenfeld, the man who wanted to have a war invalid live in his apartment, with the first preference being someone from Bukovina.

  “Interesting,” Edward said, and the surprised expression that I remembered well filled his face.

  “Where are you working?” I asked.

  “In a bakery.”

  I saw him standing at the door of an oven, his face glowing from the light and heat. I had no doubt that the owner of the bakery was exploiting him, paying him pennies. But I did doubt that he could afford to rent a decent room and buy nourishing food. People always exploited his height, his strength, and his goodness of heart. Our friends were angry at the refugees who used him for their needs and paid him a pittance. But Edward never got angry. Every time we showed him that the refugees were exploiting him, a soft smile would spread across his lips. This was that same Edward. The wounds had changed the expressiveness of his body but not his soul.

  I wanted to offer him a cup of tea and some cookies, but Edward hurried to make the tea himself and serve both of us. I asked him where he spent his nights.

  “At a club for people from in and around Cracow,” he answered with a smile.

  —

  That night I wrote the following lines:

  Now blood speaks.

  The caves spread, and the dams collapse.

  Now everything expects to be revealed

  In trembling.

  I felt a heavy pressure on my shoulders. My desire to detach myself and be borne aloft had not taken me very far. The four lines I had written were just a momentary opening into what was seeking to come into being.

  —

  The days passed. I had already attracted a bit of attention at the entrance to the building. An upstairs neighbor would greet me. Usually, it was a polite greeting, but sometimes I felt that another type of greeting was hidden within it: Thank God for not placing me among the invalids being pushed in wheelchairs. Clearly, I served as a living example of his momentary fear.

  I wasn’t angry. I had learned to accept people’s ways. A woman neighbor who came up to me and said, “I dreamed about you last night,” made me wonder.

  “What was the dream like?” I dared to ask her.

  “It was a good dream,” she said, flashing her white teeth.

  “Did you see me standing on my feet and walking?”

  “Even running.”

  We both laughed.

  For quite some time, I had been dreaming about standing on my own and running. In reality, all my movements were measured and cautious, and dreams like those used to sadden and depress me. Now I had learned to value short distances. A walk of fifty yards on crutches made the physiotherapist ecstatic. I was strengthening the muscles of my arms and legs, and I felt that my body wasn’t atrophying.

  Nevertheless, going out of the house in the afternoon aroused only a slight happiness in me. If a gentle light cloaked my shoulders, or a little bird landed on my palm and pecked sunflower seeds from it, my happiness was greater.

  Everyone knew that I didn’t have the power to do any harm, but still people avoided me. My frail appearance apparently had a frightening aura. I would tensely watch all the people who fled from me. Some of them did it with abrupt awkwardness; others slipped away as if by chance.

  Sitting in the wheelchair, I was under five feet tall; I could clearly see children’s faces. But on crowded streets, adults loomed over me. My breath would grow short, and my forehead would become covered with sweat. At first, this distress would depress me, but in time I overcame it with ease.

  —

  I could hardly believe that two and a half years had passed since I was wounded. My friends matured, and they finished their army service. Most of them stayed on kibbutz and were preparing to move to another one up north. I was what I was, mindful of my situation and trying with all my strength to climb up smooth surfaces. A night when I succeeded in composing two lines, even rough ones, was a night of brightness.

  If it weren’t for Rivka, who cushioned me with pillows, bedsores would have done me in. Let me say it loud and clear: thanks to her, I was borne on rubber wheels and got to see the world.

  —

  Dr. Winter came to visit me, examined my legs, and concluded that my recuperation was proceeding satisfactorily. I had to keep moving my legs, he said.

  “I’m glad you have a place of your own,” he added.

  I told him about my daily struggles with the Hebrew language and my search for the right melody.

  “What will you write about? The kibbutz?”

  Again I was perplexed. I didn’t have the right words to explain it to him.

  “The well I intend to draw from is dark and moist.” I finally said. “The water in the bucket is as cold as ice. That is the place that gives me life.”

  “It’s not here, correct? Or am I mistaken?”

  “Correct. Since my childhood, the well and the water have enchanted me. But back then I didn’t know that I would also be reflected in it when I grew up.”

  “This is beyond my understanding, my friend,” Dr. Winter said, throwing up his hands.

  “Didn’t I explain myself well?”

  “You explained it very well,” he said, “but I’m a simple person, and I hear only the voice of what’s tangible.” Then he chuckled, as though he had succeeded in fooling me.

  I wasn’t insulted. I had learned to love him and his love of mankind. If there was one person in this world to whom I could turn even in the middle of the night, it was Dr. Winter. With his dedication, he had brought me this far.

  —

  The calendar said it was the end of January. Ever since I had been wounded, the seasons passed me by, and I barely n
oticed them. At Misgav Yitzhak I knew the spring and the summer, the autumn and the winter. The seasons had been imprinted into my skin. Ephraim not only trained us, but he also taught us to love the earth and the stones.

  “The trees,” he would say repeatedly, “are man’s friend. A vegetable garden grows and its produce is eaten, but a fruit tree accompanies us for years—when it blossoms, when its leaves fall, and finally when it tires out. It’s a good thing there are trees in the world.” Now Ephraim was at his kibbutz, working in the office. He was a man of integrity who tried to plant us into meaningful lives. His life was interrupted, and he was all alone in his little apartment in the north.

  65

  Rivka was a quiet creature, undemanding and virtually mute. Her devotion was boundless. I was ashamed that I had nothing to give her in return. To the words “thank you,” and “thank you very much,” she did not respond.

  At first I tried to find out who she was, where she came from. My questions were met with lowered eyes. Even the few words that she did utter came at an effort. Most of her speech consisted of “yes” and “no,” though she did give those words some variety.

  “She’s a withdrawn person,” said the woman in charge of the war-wounded, when Rivka had been with me for more than nine months. It was hard for me to accept that. A person who served someone else with such dedication and perseverance, day after day, had to have an open heart. I didn’t have to tell her what to do or how. She tidied the apartment, bought groceries, cooked, and helped me wash, and in the afternoon, she took me out for long walks. Someone who did all that for another person without once looking at her watch couldn’t be called a withdrawn person.

  I came to picture Rivka as someone ageless and without a place of her own, as though she had been summoned from out of nowhere to help me. I kept trying to express my gratitude, but my words made no impression on her. She was entirely immersed in what she was doing, as if to say, I do what I’ve been assigned. The rest isn’t important.

  The woman in charge of the war-wounded asked me on several occasions if I was satisfied with Rivka’s service.

  “Very much!” I cried out.

  “Does she ever ask you anything?”

  “There’s no need. She does exactly what she has to do.”

  She didn’t react to my replies, as though I was mistaken or being deceptive.

  —

  One morning I had the feeling that my shattered leg bones had fused. Not without effort and pain, I stood up and took a step, just as Dr. Winter had instructed me. I wanted to rejoice, but I was cautious. Seven operations had planted the virtue of caution within me. I was experienced with vain hopes, and I knew that even an operation that Dr. Winter considered successful would bring only a slight improvement, sometimes barely noticeable. So perhaps this new feeling was only a wish or an illusion. To his credit, Dr. Winter did not inflate one’s hopes.

  “Medicine isn’t an exact science,” he would say repeatedly. “A doctor must be modest and know his place.” Indeed, there were times when he did not seem like a surgeon but like a concerned individual.

  There was another reason for my caution. When the woman in charge of the war-wounded learned that I was capable of getting out of bed and serving myself, she would discharge Rivka or reduce her hours. In the convalescent home, one of the patients warned me that I mustn’t be hasty and show that I could manage by myself, because then they would fire my helper.

  The next day Rivka saw me hobbling around on my crutches, and it looked to her like I was walking.

  “Good!” she cried out. “Now you won’t need me anymore.”

  “You’ll be with me for a long time,” I replied, and became frightened by what I had said.

  “Won’t they fire me?” she asked, staring at me.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” I said loudly.

  Later, I revealed to her that I was embarking on a long journey, one that would take years, and to accomplish it I needed to have someone close by, someone who could help me through hard times.

  She looked up. “Where are you going?”

  I didn’t know how to reply. All the answers I could think of seemed absurd. Finally, I said, “I want to return to my parents and to their land.”

  That’s far away and dangerous, said the look in her eyes.

  “I have to do it. I can’t leave my father and mother, not to mention my grandparents, in a place that is not a place and a time that is not a time. After all, I’m the flesh of their flesh.”

  I recalled my arrival in the apartment and how troubled I had been, stuck in that wheelchair. I couldn’t know what was in store for me. The convalescent home, the nurses, the patients, the books I read and the pages I copied, the few lines I wrote—they all seemed to me like a blessed oasis compared to this jail. But after I spent time with Rivka and observed her ways, her attentive eyes, and, eventually, how she took care of me, I knew that I had been placed in reliable hands. She did everything delicately, even when she bandaged my legs or took me to the toilet. When I began living the in the apartment, my pain was intense, and it distracted me from her, as if she wasn’t a speaking creature but a benevolent robot who offered her hand every time it was needed.

  We don’t know how to love the people who are really good to us. The angels of destruction and the angels of healing were battling over my body. If the angels of healing won out, it was in no small measure because of Rivka. When my body was burning up with fever, she hurried to care for me with damp cloths; she massaged my legs every time it seemed that the power of life was draining out of them. And so, step by step, with silent devotion and perseverance and without boasting, she pulled me out of the pain.

  She’s pretty. She’s still young. Why is she wasting her life on me? I often asked myself. Your life is no less important than mine, I considered telling her. But when I saw again how focused she was, how immersed she was in everything she did, my thoughts seemed external and not connected to her. Sometimes she seemed to me like a proud woman whose real life was her inner self. But at other times she seemed like a woman who had decided to forgo her own life and devote herself to others instead. Who knows what she has undergone, where she left her parents? Everyone who wasn’t born in the Land had a life full of trials. I often wanted to roar, You are also a person full of beauty, and you deserve soulful attention. But every time I was about to say that, I realized it was foolish.

  66

  Reality soon showed its true face. The woman in charge of the war-wounded announced to Rivka, in my presence, that from now on she was reducing her hours by a third.

  “Why?” I didn’t hold back.

  “I received authorization from Dr. Winter,” she said, smiling at my distress.

  “And who will help me when I need it?”

  “It’s not fitting for a soldier to talk that way,” she replied, plucking a painful string. “Part of your rehabilitation is to get up and move and be on your own,” she added.

  The woman in charge of the war-wounded may have reduced her hours, but Rivka herself did not. She came to me every day and did what she always did. I didn’t dare ask her how she would make up her lost wages.

  I told Dr. Winter about the decision of the woman in charge of the war-wounded, but he ignored my concern.

  “You should be happy,” he said. “Today I can disclose to you that my colleagues didn’t believe you would ever be able to stand on your own.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Winter.”

  “We did the best that we could.”

  “You did more than that.”

  Dr. Winter responded to that with a forgiving smile.

  I confided my concern for Rivka to him.

  “Don’t worry about her,” he said. “She’s a young woman, and she’ll find other work. You have to take care of yourself.” I couldn’t believe my ears: Dr. Winter, who had seen her devotion, had shut his heart.

  —

  I tried to get out of bed and stand on my own. The effort was painful. Rivka wa
nted to help, but I tried to do everything by myself. Every time she reached out to me, I felt I was doing her an injustice. In any event, Rivka never asked for special consideration or for me to intervene on her behalf. She just kept coming every day and doing what she had always done.

  It took me a while to notice how thin Rivka was and that she was only of average height. With what hidden power did this woman, who did not appear to be very strong, lift my body to lay me on the bed, bring me to the shower or the toilet, and wash me every day?

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart, I wanted to say, but I didn’t, so she wouldn’t think I wanted to part from her.

  “I’m glad you can get out of bed by yourself,” she said to me one day.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “I didn’t do anything special,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

  Once again, Rivka wrapped herself in silence. She tidied the house, bought groceries, cooked, and, because it was Friday, bought flowers. For a moment it seemed she was about to leave me without saying anything.

  “Rivka!” I called out in fear.

  “What?” she said, and turned toward me.

  “I wanted to tell you that you’ll be with me for a long time.”

  “As long as I’m needed.”

  Then I saw that she was shrinking before my gaze. I wanted to grab hold of her, but my arms were too short to reach her. She appeared to me like a bird in distress, trembling and shaking her head. Wordlessly, she started to leave.

  “See you tomorrow!” I called out.

  “See you,” she replied.

  I was relieved, but I didn’t allow myself to be happy.

  67

  That night I didn’t sleep. The pain did not abate, but, to my surprise, my body quietly throbbed. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down at the desk.

  Rivka’s face appeared before me. I felt that she had brought to me not only her silence but also her patience and her ability to live unassumingly. And in fact, she had also prepared me and my legs to follow my life’s path.