Suddenly, Love

by Aharon Appelfeld

  Irena doesn’t know what that “hidden source” is, but she doesn’t think that it’s pain or guilt or regret but a spring of living water. Clear water, which one draws up from the depths, possesses a virtue that opens the heart.

  Since Ernst told her this, Irena has prayed for God to lead him on the right path, to place the right words in his pen. She feels that because of his weakness, he needs more help. Lighting the candle and praying bring Irena’s day to a close. Afterward, she sits at the table and reads a book or dozes off.

  One morning Ernst tells her, “I have returned to the Carpathians.”

  “How is it there?” she asks.

  “As it was, with no change.”

  “When were you last there?”

  “At the age of eight.”

  That’s very moving, she almost says, but she immediately remembers that Ernst doesn’t like words such as “moving.”

  “Irena, what’s your earliest memory?” He asks her directly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “My parents told me a lot about the DP camp in Frankfurt. Sometimes I think that I remember things from the age of two, but that can’t be.”

  “For me the Carpathians have been wiped out of my memory. I’m amazed at how that happened to me.”

  “Are you pleased?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Ernst usually expresses his opinions clearly, but on some days surprise grips him, or weakness, and he openly admits, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Irena wants to help him, but she doesn’t know how. At times she has the feeling that it would be better not to mix in. Too much talk could disturb the direction of his thoughts.

  Sometimes Irena thinks that if she read more, she could understand Ernst’s efforts. Her parents left her shelves filled with books: memorial volumes, survivor testimony, and diaries. Since they passed away, she has bought a few more books, and in the evening she looks through them. Some of them—the diary of Anne Frank and the diary of Moshe Flinker*—she reads over and over again.

  As she reads, Irena pictures the cities and villages where the Jews were trapped and envisions herself trying to escape with her parents. When she reads Primo Levi’s If This Is a Man, she sees her parents trudging through the heavy snow in Auschwitz, their legs swollen. From books she learns what her parents didn’t tell her. They actually told her very little. Had she known what they went through, she would have loved them more. You have to hold the people who were in Auschwitz in your arms and love them morning, noon, and night, she once said to herself with great feeling.

  * * *

  * Moshe Flinker was a Jewish teenager from the Netherlands who kept a diary during World War II. He and his parents were killed in Auschwitz in 1944. (Ed.)

  34

  ERNST HAS WRITTEN ALL NIGHT. WHEN IRENA ARRIVES IN the morning, she finds him sitting at his desk. His face is open, and his forehead glows. For a moment she wants to say, You mustn’t work all night. Working without a break will weaken you. But seeing his enthusiasm, she keeps her mouth shut.

  Irena is frightened by Ernst’s enthusiasm. And, indeed, after days of increased effort come days of depression and darkness. Sometimes she thinks it’s her fault: she doesn’t have welcoming words. What comes out of her mouth barely forms a coherent sentence, and sometimes it’s only broken syllables.

  Irena rushes to serve Ernst breakfast. He doesn’t ask how she is or what happened to her on her way there. He mutters a few words, eats hurriedly, and goes back to his desk. When Ernst is immersed in his writing, it seems to Irena that he is swimming in deep water. She can tell this by the way his head tilts, as though he were plunging and rising. When he’s done, he wraps his arms around himself.

  About an hour after breakfast Ernst surprises Irena and reads aloud to her from what he had written:

  Early in the morning Grandfather would open the eastern window, wrap himself in his tallis, and speak directly to God. I would lie in bed and see God approach the window. Grandfather’s face was hirsute, and his eyes were scarcely visible under thick eyebrows. He would pray in a whisper, but sometimes he would shout, too. While he prayed, Grandmother would stop her housework and sit at the table with her eyes shut. The mighty Lord was a constant guest in their house. After praying, Grandfather would slowly remove his tefillin. All that time Grandmother would sit attentively, and not until he closed the window would she rise to her feet.

  After prayers, they would sit together at the table and eat breakfast. Grandmother would have baked a loaf of peasant bread and prepared dairy dishes, vegetables, and fried eggs. Grandfather would break off a piece of the bread and whisper the blessing. They used to eat from the same plate, without speaking. Sometimes Grandmother would ask Grandfather something, and he would reply briefly. Silence hovered over their meal. When he was finished eating, Grandfather would lower his head and recite the Grace After Meals.

  One morning I lay on the broad wooden bed and saw the sun flood the kitchen and the dining alcove. I feared the arrival of angels, because the night before Grandfather had told me about the angels who came to visit Abraham.

  I spent all my summer vacations with my grandparents. They were short vacations, but each hour was full and each had its own light. In the Carpathians, there is more shade than light, but during the summer, daylight extends until deep into the evening.

  Grandmother would be busy cooking prune jam. Two copper pots were placed on an iron stand, and a wood fire licked them until they turned dark gray. Grandfather would sit and smoke a pipe as the sun set. He looked like a giant to me. If he rose to his feet, he would shake the tall trees that surrounded the house.

  During one vacation, when I was nine, Grandfather died. When he was late for lunch, Grandmother went out to the field and found him lying on the ground. I saw her fall to her knees, slap his face, and cry out, “Mordechai, Mordechai!” I was standing at a distance and didn’t dare approach. When her efforts failed, she rose to her feet and asked one of the peasants to call the neighbors.

  Within a short time people began to arrive, coming from every direction. They were Jews like Grandfather: tall and sturdy, with the fragrance of the earth and sap coming from their clothing. They surrounded the dead man, and some of them fell to their knees. The people of the Carpathians don’t die in their beds but in the field, in the vegetable patches, among rows of trees in the orchard, or sometimes next to a tree they were about to chop down. Both Grandfather’s father and his grandfather departed from the world in the field.

  Everyone in the room was mourning, but there was no panic. The men did what they had to do, moving quietly and deliberately. Haste is not proper when performing a commandment. They drew water from the well and washed Grandfather according to the Jewish custom. Grandmother sat at the door of the house, withdrawn and not uttering a word. God gave and God took away. One doesn’t reproach the Creator of the world. Unfortunately the sons and daughters would not be able to escort their father to the World of Truth. They lived in distant cities, and one had sailed to America. There is nothing to fear: Grandfather is going to a place far from here, but he would not rest in heaven. The merit of his good deeds would assist his descendants whenever they were in distress.

  The sun, whose light had filled the morning sky, suddenly departed, and low, dark clouds descended in its place. That was when I noticed Grandfather’s large hands, which delicately held his prayer book as though it was a fragile treasure. His height and strength only accentuated his gentle ways with people, but when he chopped wood in the yard, his power was thunderous.

  By now people had come from all over and surrounded the house. Only the elderly heads of households were permitted to enter. The rest stood outside, close together. Some Ruthenian peasants gathered near the fence. For years they had worked on Grandfather’s small farm. They knew that Reb Mordechai was a God-fearing Jew who observed all the commandments and did not mind other people’s business. O
nly acts of violence would upset him. When he saw a Ruthenian peasant threaten his neighbor or his wife with an ax, he would intervene. “God dwells within us, and we mustn’t act with brute force,” he would say softly, and, amazingly, the peasant would put down his murderous tool.

  The small tombstones in the cemetery were carved from basalt. The tall trees shed thick shadows on them and on the grass that grew around them. Suddenly the clouds parted, and a bright summer light scattered the shadows. The pallbearers stopped and lay the coffin on the earth.

  One of the old men stood next to the coffin and, with his eyes closed, spoke to the dead man. “Here is a faithful servant of God,” he said, “who worked the soil all his life and took care to give tithes for the needy. God in heaven will receive Reb Mordechai with a glowing countenance. Just as he was connected to the earth, so, too, he was connected to heaven, making sure to pray to God three times a day. Reb Mordechai, remember your wife, Raisl, and your children, and help them from above.” As the old man finished speaking, his voice broke.

  In a few minutes the grave was dug. Grandfather was laid in his grave, and the friable soil covered the coffin. For a long while those in attendance stood silently in the sunlight, next to the small headstones. Then I saw the Attending Angels. Their faces were like those of children, and they raised Grandfather from the mound and bore him to heaven. No one else noticed this miracle, which took place before my eyes. Everyone else stood silent and in pain, but no one saw what I did.

  Irena is stunned by the final sentences, and tears well up in her eyes. The person who read these words wasn’t the Ernst she knew so well but an Ernst who was connected with other realms. The words had a clear sound. They were cut to fit his breathing.

  The reading tired Ernst. Irena makes him a glass of lemon tea. This time he doesn’t ask, What do you think? He just sits at his desk without uttering a word. Irena serves him some apple cake and withdraws into the kitchen.

  35

  ERNST SITS AT HIS DESK EVERY MORNING. IRENA CAN tell how deeply immersed he is in his writing by the bend in his back. Sometimes he just concentrates on a blank page and doesn’t write at all. “Irena!” he will suddenly call, and she will rush over. Irena is always on the alert. He doesn’t ask for anything; he’s just checking to see if she is nearby.

  During the past week Ernst spoke sadly about having ignored his mother tongue for so many years. “The Jews’ language is their soul,” he told Irena. A notebook lies on the desk, and Ernst writes words in it, sayings and proverbs in Yiddish. Whenever he remembers a word or a proverb, he grabs the notebook to write it down. Ernst fights forgetfulness and his fear that those precious words, which he heard in his childhood, will be lost to him. Sometimes he asks Irena whether she had also heard in her home the word that he remembered. Irena tries to recall, and when she does, a big smile lights up her face. It seems to Irena that Ernst has left the dark cave where he lived for years and is now stepping out cautiously, trying to get used to the new light. It’s hard to say that he is happy, but the gloom that dwelt on his brow has gone. Every day he produces a page or two. He labors over each sentence, sometimes copying it several times. As he works, he murmurs or hums to himself, or throws a word of satisfaction out into the room.

  Yesterday Ernst told Irena that since he left the hospital, his path homeward, which had been blocked for so long, had become clear. The first house wasn’t that of his parents but that of his grandparents. He had known this in his heart, but certain obstacles delayed his return.

  “Do you also think fondly about your grandparents’ home?” he asked Irena.

  “My grandparents perished before I was born.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” he said and hit his head with his hand.

  As Irena was about to leave for home, Ernst asked if he could read her a short chapter. The chapters that he read took her far away, to the village where her parents and grandparents lived. Her parents had told her a lot about that village, but only now does she see it before her eyes. Ernst is a magician. A few words, sometimes even a single word, carry her to a new place.

  Immediately after Grandfather’s funeral, my uncles and aunts gathered to sit shiva, and the little house, which had known years of silence, filled with city voices. The commotion didn’t last long. The Carpathian Mountains don’t allow noise and commotion. After a day or two the tumult died down, and thin rustles of prayer filled the rooms.

  The mourners prayed three times a day. They were joined by some of the neighbors nearby and even by some Ruthenians. The Ruthenians invoked Grandfather’s name with great awe. They were familiar with the Jews’ customs of mourning, and they said in Yiddish, “May God console you.”

  What I saw most clearly during the shiva were images, even some not particularly significant ones, such as the long, colorful peasant mat that had been made by the farm women of the village. The mourners were sitting on it. Among the mourners, the pretty, round face of Aunt Malka stood out. She was my mother’s sister, and she sat on the mat with eyes full of wonder at the shiva and at what visitors told her about her father.

  In the village even Jews beat their children, but Mordechai did not. He spoke to his children while hugging them or carrying them in his arms, and when they matured, he spoke to them like they were grown-ups. Nor did he abuse animals. A runaway horse wasn’t punished. A cow that kicked the pail and spilled the milk was scolded but not punished. No wonder he was always surrounded by birds. Birds would land on his shoulders, peck at his hands, follow him to the field, and follow him home in the evening. His dog, Yambi, howled every day of the shiva, refusing to eat and drink. At the end of the shiva, when they all got up, he withdrew into his doghouse, where he died.

  In my eyes Yambi and his doghouse now became one, along with the tall trees that surrounded the house, along with the well, whose deep waters I could barely see. The dripping buckets they pulled up from it held everything: the secret darkness, the shining, cold liquid that quenched thirst better than any other drink.

  During the seven days of shiva, the mourners didn’t eat full meals; they only nibbled. Two Ruthenian girls served coffee and mamaliga filled with plums or cheese. Most visitors spoke in whispers, but some of the old people raised their heads and recited blessings out loud. The old people were a world unto themselves. Old Ephraim was the most respected of all. He wore a long peasant smock, a wide belt around his hips, and wide cloth shoes. When he explained the Torah, he closed his eyes, and everyone listened intently to what he said.

  “God gave, and God has taken away. We mustn’t question His judgment. Too many questions are poisonous to body and soul. We must do much, because in doing, only in doing, is redemption.” Thus spoke old Ephraim, contradicting all the faultfinding and doubts that arose from the mourners. “Let us bless what is good and what becomes better, because it is all from Him. Nothing in the world happens by chance. Chance is an invention of the devil.”

  My parents were among the mourners. A wagon brought them one night, and since then my mother was also sitting on the floor. I found it strange that my parents’ usual habit of silence was not in evidence: here they prayed and spoke with my mother’s brothers and sisters and with her aunts and uncles, drawing words and whole sentences out of themselves. Mother’s face changed completely: light brightened her brow. Her father, who had risen to heaven, left some of his features in her face. But my father didn’t change. The same sadness clung to his face. Though he did pray with the mourners, the prayers didn’t remove the shadows from his brow for even a moment.

  The days of mourning were long: they began at sunrise and didn’t end until late at night. Between one prayer service and another, the mourners studied the Mishnah and read from The Ford of the Yabbok River, a book about the laws and customs of mourning. The old people weren’t the only ones who took part in the study. At night a deep hum rose from the house. It was hard to know whether it was a reconciliation or a sadness that refused to be silent. The prayers and study continued after mi
dnight. Then, suddenly, the great effort caught up with them, and they all fell asleep where they were on the mats.

  Even then, God was not absent from the house. He was present in other ways. Early in the morning, darkness invaded from the forest and enveloped the worshippers in black fleece. It seems that God not only dwells in the light but also hides in the moist, cold darkness. Here I am, He announced, and the worshippers felt His gentle, singular presence. They were shaken and acknowledged that they had a long way to go to achieve goodness and purity, and they raised their voices and wept.

  But at dusk, in the midst of afternoon prayers, God appeared as a sudden flash of light that dazzled the worshippers’ eyes. The mourners lowered their heads so as not to be blinded by the glow. The light continued to pour in and was not consumed. And the soul knew that it was no longer filled with anger but with forgiveness and mercy.

  When Irena returns home, she realizes that the day spent in Ernst’s company has filled her with emotion. Sometimes she sits at the table and is so moved that she weeps. Only later does Irena realize that in reading his work to her Ernst is revealing inner secrets, things that he had kept to himself for many years.

  One time Irena heard Ernst ask his doctor, “My body is wearing out and is finished. Does the soul wear out the same way?”

  The doctor was stunned by the question and replied, “I’m just a doctor. What is your profession, if I may ask?”

  “I was an investment adviser.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m trying to write.”

  “Very good.”

  “Why do I merit your approval?”

  “For trying to tell us about the soul.”

  “Doctor,” Ernst replied, “you can’t imagine how far I fall short.”

  36