Long Summer Nights

by Aharon Appelfeld

  Yanek read slowly, emphasizing every word. At first he didn’t understand what he was reading. Yanek speaks Ukrainian like a Ukrainian, but it was hard for him to read the language.

  After he mastered the reading, he was amazed: the verses of the psalm were simple and understandable, but still wrapped in secrecy. Grandpa Sergei says that a verse like, “Praise the Lord, for He is Good, and His mercy endures forever,” was quarried from a soul that knew how to pray. Prayer flows from the heart. Some people say that not every hour is appropriate for prayer. “From experience in the flesh I know that someone who ignores his mood and stands up to pray is a true believer.”

  Dwelling in the forest was different from camping in a field. In the forest, the shadows cover you, and the silence is great. You can hear every sound. It occurred to Yanek to ask Grandpa Sergei whether he should look for berries. Grandpa Sergei said yes, but he asked, “Don’t go far away. It’s easy to get lost in a forest.”

  Yanek is attentive and alert every time he’s in a new place. This time he didn’t have to go far, because two hundred yards from where they had settled a cherry tree rose up, full of black cherries. Yanek didn’t hesitate. He climbed up and stood in the midst of the tree and filled his hat with cherries. He climbed down the tree and rushed to Grandpa Sergei to show him the treasure. Grandpa Sergei touched the cherries, and his forehead filled with light. “These are marvelous cherries. Where did you find them?”

  “Right nearby.”

  In the afternoon Yanek went out to look for berries and he also found some not far from where they had settled. They were little raspberries, wonderfully red.

  For a long while they sat and ate. After the meal, Grandpa said, “Please read me another psalm from the Book of Psalms. Since you read to me, I feel that the verses you read throb more strongly within me.”

  Yanek didn’t ask which psalm to read. He opened the Bible and recited Psalm number one. After he finished reading it, Grandpa Sergei asked him to read it again. Then Grandpa sank into himself and said nothing.

  Grandpa Sergei was a soldier in every limb of his body. Sometimes it seemed to Yanek that the soldier within him stood out more when he was asleep, maybe because of the high boots and the leggings. But there were days when the soldier within him disappeared, and he was totally immersed in himself. Yanek tried not to disturb him on those days. Instead Yanek retreated behind the packs and bundles and observed the sights of the forest.

  When Grandpa Sergei roused himself from his self-absorption he asked Yanek, “What do you see?”

  “Two wagons full of clover.”

  “Is the driver young or old?”

  “Old,” Yanek answered.

  “I like old wagon drivers. They suffer from their age and from their children, who don’t respect them. But some of them are strong and bold, and they don’t forfeit their honor. From them you can learn how to stand tall.”

  “How do you preserve your honor?” Yanek asked cautiously.

  “By not complaining, not becoming bitter, being quiet when you don’t have anything to say, and if you have something to say, saying it briefly. Not getting angry. Knowing that human beings are guests in this world, and not being arrogant. It seems to me that I have listed the main things for you.”

  “Thank you, Grandpa.”

  “You’re an excellent trainee. If all trainees were like you, the world would be more merciful.”

  25

  That night Yanek heard voices talking to him: “Yanek, you and Grandpa Sergei are fighting on a difficult front. This is a war of the few against the many. Evil has taken over the world, and it swarms in every grove of trees and forest, in cities and in the country. Even those who have some compassion keep out of the fray and don’t raise their voices.

  “Protection doesn’t last forever. Grandpa Sergei has prepared you well. What you’ve done so far is praiseworthy, and in the future you’ll do wonders. Weakness, even the slightest, is forbidden these days. The wicked have taken over the world, and we are commanded to do what we can, not just stand on the sidelines.”

  Yanek woke up. The voices he had heard filled him, not just his ears. He felt them in his arms and legs. They seeped the length of his body. It was cold, and he tried to warm his legs by jumping. The cold still bothered him.

  Grandpa Sergei woke up, and he was glad the campfire was burning. Yanek brought him water so he could wash his hands and face. He wanted to tell him about the voice he had heard in his sleep, but he didn’t dare. But in the end he overcame that obstacle and told him.

  Grandpa Sergei listened and said, “What we hear in our sleep are the most important instructions in life.”

  “Who spoke to me?” asked Yanek.

  “I don’t know, but it’s clear to me that you have to listen to those voices and think about them.”

  “Did someone from above speak to me? That’s the second time I’ve heard voices.”

  “You have to be patient, to preserve the voices you heard and not tell anyone about them.”

  Yanek cooked cornmeal porridge and embellished it with raspberries. Grandpa Sergei tasted it and said, “Very tasty, and different from what we’ve been eating up to now.” For a long while they sat and ate.

  “It’s a good thing my friend Kiril provided us with cornmeal. Otherwise we’d have to go from door to door and beg for alms. Let’s bless him together and say: God, bless Kiril and restore him to strength.”

  As soon as they had said that blessing, Yanek saw Kiril before his eyes, sitting on the wicker chair where his late wife had sat.

  While they were eating, a tall man emerged from the forest. The hair on his head was long, his face was gray, and his clothes were tattered.

  Grandpa Sergei asked, “Who are you, and what are you doing in the forest?”

  The man replied to the question with simplicity: “I live in the forest.”

  “And how do you provide for yourself?”

  “Mainly with mushrooms and berries.”

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “With pleasure.”

  They sat and drank tea. The man apparently hadn’t spoken for many days, because he spoke in a torrent. “I’ve been living in the forest for years. There’s nothing better than the forest. It keeps you away from people and their wickedness. But, to my regret, they even come here. They cut down the trees cruelly. It’s hard to witness that murder. It’s good I have a hut far from here. I flee to it so I won’t hear the trees’ screams.”

  “Won’t you go back and live among people?” asked Grandpa Sergei calmly.

  “No. People are evil. They hate quiet people.”

  “We don’t have a house either,” Grandpa Sergei said, trying to draw closer to him.

  “Do you walk from village to village and ask for mercy?”

  “No. On Sundays we stand at the church door and expect people to give to us out of the goodness of their hearts,” Grandpa Sergei spoke with surprising openness.

  “Why don’t you go into the church?”

  “They don’t allow wanderers, cripples, and lepers to go into the church. Not only that: who would keep on eye on our bundles?”

  “Are you the kind of wanderers who want to purify themselves and draw closer to God?”

  “Let’s not talk about that,” said Grandpa Sergei.

  “I don’t need a thing. I have no complaints about anyone or about God. I’m with myself. Just with myself. The trees and an occasional dog are my friends. I have no need for anything more. In any event, thanks for the good tea. I’ll be on my way. Maybe we’ll meet again someday.”

  After the man went away, Grandpa Sergei sank into his thoughts, and when he roused, he turned to Yanek and said, “I have a request of you, Yanek, but promise me you won’t be frightened by what I’m going to tell you. You’re a soldier, and a soldier isn’t easily frightened.

  “I’ll start right away: no one knows when his day will come. Today he’s here, and tomorrow he’s in the world of truth. Please
, Yanek, do this act of mercy for me. Don’t bury me in the village where I die. Ask the local priest to bury me in the village of my birth, next to my parents.”

  “What’s the matter, Grandpa Sergei?” Yanek was fearful.

  “Nothing’s the matter. Because a person doesn’t know when his day will come, and I’m no longer young, I wanted to tell you what I want. The Bible teaches us: when a person dies, he is gathered up with his ancestors. I wish to be gathered up with my ancestors, who are buried in the village where I was born. Excuse me if I’ve alarmed you. I assume I’ll live till I return you to your parents. And also, I still have to strengthen your inner self. The path is long yet.”

  “Grandpa Sergei, it still frightens me.”

  “You mustn’t be afraid. I’m not talking about now, but about the future. I, in any event, pray that I won’t leave this world before I finish training you and return you safely to your parents.”

  “Grandpa Sergei,” said Yanek, almost about to burst into tears.

  “Yanek, my friend, patience, silence, and restraint—that’s what’s demanded of every soldier in a special unit. He accepts the good and the bad without raising his voice.”

  “Let me cry a little, Grandpa,” Yanek surprised him. “I’m not weeping in despair, but in joy that you’ll be with me.”

  “Just this once, and no more, my friend.”

  That night they heard thunder on the horizon. Grandpa Sergei stated: the Red Army has broken through the front and it’s advancing.

  “Will it liberate my parents and grandparents?” Yanek asked.

  “Certainly.”

  He was going to say, Thank you, Grandpa, for staying with me, but he didn’t say it.

  26

  The following days were tense. Yanek trained every day, adding exercises, and he was in condition. Grandpa Sergei spoke little. In the end he said, “The forest isn’t a secure place. People you can’t understand and criminals make their home there. Let’s stock up on cherries and raspberries and get going. What we have will last until Sunday. On Sunday we’ll go to a church.” Yanek understood Grandpa Sergei’s words, and after he finished his run and prepared breakfast, once they had eaten their meal, he went out to pick cherries and raspberries. From the top of the tree he could see Grandpa Sergei: turned inward, either a knight or a hermit.

  When he returned, laden with cherries and raspberries, he took a handful out of the bag and offered it to Grandpa.

  “Did you take some for yourself?”

  “I ate while I was on the tree.”

  “Fruit that you’ve just picked brings you a message from the world of beauty,” Grandpa Sergei remarked.

  After they ate, Grandpa asked Yanek to light his pipe, and he said, “Yanek, my friend, please read Psalm 117. I believe that’s the shortest psalm in the book.”

  “‘Praise the Lord, all you peoples: praise him, all you nations, because his mercy is great for us, and the truth of God is forever. Halleluia.’”

  Yanek read it and repeated it. Clearly, Grandpa Sergei was slowly absorbing the verses, and they filled him with delight. Yanek was surprised: the Book of Psalms was full of obscure verses, but Grandpa Sergei drank it down like vodka, and they fired his thoughts for many hours.

  Then Grandpa raised his head and called out loud, “And the truth of God is forever.”

  After lunch they started off toward a village named Vasilovka, a quiet village. They didn’t hate wanderers openly, maybe because not a lot of them visited the village, which was far from the main road and nestled in a valley. Yanek had been there before, and he remembered the tree and the stream nearby.

  They reached Vasilovka toward evening. They immediately settled next to the tree in whose shade they had once stayed. Unfortunately for them, it started to rain. Yanek took the two tarpaulins out of the bundle. They covered the bundles with one and wrapped themselves in the other. Rain, which is a blessing for the fields, is sometimes a disaster for wanderers.

  It rained all night, a thin rain. In the morning, when they woke up, Yanek saw that the rain had gotten into their packs. He immediately pulled the clothes out of the packs and hung them on trees. The cornmeal wasn’t wet.

  Yanek recovered from the wet night and went out for a run. When he returned, he made cornmeal porridge and embellished it with raspberries. They finished with a cup of tea.

  The smell of morning arose from the houses, the fragrance of bread fresh out of the oven, mixed with vapor from warm milk. Yanek remembered the summer rain, the wet grass, and the sparkling droplets of water on the trees, his father and mother looking at the beauty. His mother used to say, “I love the rain at night, and the light the next morning. There’s nothing like summer rain.

  It not only brings beauty, but also quiet joy.” In every sentence his mother spoke, there was always at least one word or expression taken from her soul.

  In the afternoon, Yanek asked, “Should I go to Olga’s to buy supplies?”

  “We don’t have any money. We’ll borrow from the money your father left us. Open the bundle and take out a fifty-mark bill. You should know that I’m not doing this with a light heart,” said Grandpa Sergei in an embarrassed way.

  Yanek immediately set out at a run. He remembered Olga from their earlier visit: not a tall woman, plump, smiley, who sold wares at a fair price. When he left, she had asked, “When will you come back here?”

  “In some time,” Yanek had answered.

  “Don’t forget to come and visit me.”

  “I’ll come,” he answered, and went away.

  Strange, that short conversation, which had been held moderately and comfortably, was both disturbing and pleasant.

  “Don’t forget to come and visit me.” That sentence remained stuck in his mind for a long time, but in their wandering it had faded.

  Now he stood at the gate of her house, and to his surprise it was open. He stood on the threshold and called out, “Olga?”

  She appeared right away. She left her house, shaded her eyes, and surveyed him from head to toe, saying, “You’ve grown since I last saw you. How has the wandering been?”

  “Fine.”

  “And now you’ve come to me to buy vegetables and dairy products?”

  “Yes,” answered Yanek.

  “I’ll bring you what I have in the garden right away, and I’ll show you what I have in the kitchen. Come in. Why are you standing at the door?”

  Before long she returned with a basket on her arm. She announced, “Here are vegetables straight from the earth.”

  “Thanks,” said Yanek.

  “Come into the kitchen with me, and we’ll see what I can give you.”

  She took bread down from a shelf and took a jug of yogurt and a piece of cheese from the pantry.

  When he was about to pay her, she approached him and said, “You’re a sweet boy. There aren’t many like you. Come to me, and I’ll give you a kiss. How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “You’re still a puppy. In a few months you’ll be a man.

  Don’t forget to come to me on your next visit.”

  Yanek gathered up the groceries and hurried out. When he got to the tree, he told Grandpa what had happened to him. Grandpa chuckled and said, “There’s a woman like that in every village.”

  “A witch?” asked Yanek.

  “More or less.”

  What had happened to Yanek seemed to amuse Grandpa Sergei. At last he said, “Every village has a woman who helps boys grow up. It’s not a bad thing. Sometimes it’s useful, and sometimes it’s harmful, but not too bad.”

  Yanek wondered why Grandpa was amused, but he didn’t dare ask.

  27

  The time passed without their noticing, maybe because nothing happened. Yanek ran, exercised, climbed trees, picked up logs, and practiced boxing.

  An old peasant, who was on his way to work, lingered and asked Grandpa Sergei, “Where are you from, and where are you heading?”

  “We’re on a pilgri
mage to the monastery of the Virgin Mary.”

  “You took a wrong turn.”

  “No matter. We’ll get back on course in a day or two,” said Grandpa Sergei. “What’s going on in the village?”

  “The Red Army broke through the front and is advancing.”

  “Are the people glad?” asked Grandpa Sergei.

  “They’re apprehensive,” said the old man, and all his doubt showed on his face.

  The clothes on the tree dried out. Yanek folded them and put them in the backpacks.

  Saturday night is laden with disquiet. The men go to the tavern. In the summer they sit in the garden. At first gaiety fills the men as they sit, but very soon, after a few jugs of beer, it becomes boisterous. The boisterousness increases, and threatening words rise in the air. The fight ensues immediately.

  This time there was no gaiety. The men talked about the war. Some of them believed that the Russians could never stop the German army. The Germans were going to conquer the world. But others thought that the winter would vanquish the Germans the way it had subdued Napoleon.

  They dispersed before midnight. Though there were shouts, there were not threats.

  The night was quiet and pleasant. They slept till dawn rose. Yanek lit the campfire and arranged the packs and bundles for the road. Grandpa woke up and was pleased by the fire’s warmth.

  “What’s ahead of us?” Yanek asked.

  “Struggles, my friend.”

  They finished breakfast and went to the church. On the way they passed by a barn. A boy stuck his head out of the barn window and provoked them, “Thieving tramps!” Grandpa Sergei gritted his teeth and didn’t allow Yanek to hit him.

  They reached the church before the services had begun, and they sat on the ground. Two other wanderers sat near them, as well a man with leprosy.

  The worshippers came one after the other. No one put anything in Yanek’s hat. Now they were waiting for them to leave.

  Meanwhile the two village policemen appeared. A wanderer with his hands cuffed walked in front of them. The wanderer, a man of about fifty, with a pack on his back, took small steps without complaining or asking for mercy.