All Whom I Have Loved (22 page)

My dreams have returned, and again I'm with Mother, traveling with her to Vatra Dornei, or to that hidden village not far from it. I lose her for a moment at the station but then find her quickly. She is so different from the way she looked recently, and her beauty is breathtaking. I ask her about her death and her burial at the monastery graveyard. She looks at me with that full, soft gaze that I so loved, and I understand that her death was an illusion that threatened to confuse my perceptions.

“We'll always travel to Vatra Dornei,” she says, and I immediately feel that I'm connected to her with my entire soul. The two of us are linked to those wonderful waters, which seem to have grown clearer during the time we weren't there, so that I can now see her movements under the water.

On awakening from the dream I'm dizzy, and it's hard for me to understand what is going on around me. The proprietress asks if I've slept well, and of course I do not tell her anything. Very gradually hotel guests emerge from their lairs and settle down at the long, set tables. They eat with gusto, gossiping and laughing, and naturally they talk about Father. Whenever they mention his name, my anger flares, and I feel like smashing the dishes on the table.

One evening the blonde comes over to me and says, “How are you, Paul?”

“Fine,” I reply.

“And you aren't bored?”

“No.”

It seems to me that she is about to invite me to her room. I am wrong. “The proprietress tells me that you win every game against her,” she says. “Is that so?”

“Correct.”

“You're very talented.”

I'm angry, and I say, “Apparently.”

“Like your father.”

“At least.”

She explodes into hearty laughter, bending over and exposing her large breasts.

Father is sitting on the sofa. My conversation with the blonde does not interest him. I see the circles of delirium around his eyes, and I know that he is drunk.

Later, before she disappears with Father, she says, “Good night, sweetie, we'll see you tomorrow morning.”

I wake up early, play on the floor, or read. There is a good library here, and the proprietress allows me to look through the books. I've found a book here with Father's name in it. The author showers praises on him, calling him the “Prince of Painters in a Declining Empire.” As I read that praise, Father's wretchedness grieves me all the more.

Every afternoon, when I see Father coming out of the blonde's den, I want to say, “Father, let's pack our bags and leave. Rather the rain than this disgrace. These people are cheats—even the blonde steals from you. Let's travel to Czernowitz, where we'll be among friends. The streets in Czernowitz are paved, and they aren't muddy like they are here.” I want to say all this, but I don't.

“Father!” The word escapes me.

“What?”

“When are we leaving here?”

“Soon,” he says distractedly.

The blonde flaunts all conventions of decency; she embraces and kisses Father in plain sight of everyone. I seethe with anger as the guests whisper and smirk. One evening, one of the guests provokes Father outright, calling him—in a contemptuous tone of voice—“Arthur Rosenfeld, the renowned painter.” Father takes him to task. “You shut your mouth!” he says.

Out of sheer disdain for Father, the man says, “Why should I? Why not say it: Arthur Rosenfeld, the renowned painter, has gone to live in the provinces and settled himself in the Hotel Bukovina in Campulung.”

“You shut your mouth!” Father repeats, without raising his voice. The other man apparently considers Father too drunk and woozy to touch him. He is wrong, of course. Father suddenly springs up like a lion and slugs him. Had he kept quiet, I suppose Father would have left him alone, but because he keeps goading him, Father hits him again—and hard. Chaos breaks out immediately, and a doctor is called. The blonde screams at the top of her voice, defending Father: “He is the one who provoked; he's the guilty one!”

The next day, the man who was beaten up threatens to call the police. Father does not say anything. Fortunately for us, by then the skies have cleared, and we leave the hotel without further ado.

Father had intended to return to Czernowitz immediately, but for some reason he did not. The rains ceased, and a huge sun hung in the sky. We wandered through villages, and at night we would lodge with a peasant or at a roadside inn. Father hardly spoke, but sometimes he would burst into tears—heartrending sobs that shook his entire body.

One evening he asked me if I would remember Mother.

“Very much so,” I answered immediately.

“And you'll also remember me?”

I didn't know what to say. “Why remember? You're here with me,” I replied.

The distance from village to village can be miles, and at times we found ourselves in the heart of the mountains, entirely cut off from civilization. In the hotel, my head had been full of fears; here I leaned my head on a tree trunk and fell asleep. On these endless green paths, we would chance upon peddlers, small Jewish stores, and taverns. Father spoke to the storekeepers in Yiddish. They were glad to see him and did not hide their troubles: the peasants did not pay their debts, they were attacked by wayfarers, and at night gangs would rob anyone they came across. Sometimes a storekeeper would try to keep Father from leaving, saying,
“Why not sleep with us? We have two beds made up.” Once, an old Jew came up to us, placed his hands on my head, and blessed me.

The nights beneath the trees made me think of Mother, and I saw her with nothing coming between us. Father did not see anything now. His walk was a kind of thrusting forward, and I sometimes had the feeling that he was heading toward the house of that art critic who had hurt him so much, and that when he got there, he would throttle him.

One night Father muttered something about his childhood in the orphanage. When he recalled his childhood, I saw the long, chilly corridors where barefoot children would shuffle as slowly as they could, and the janitor, who stood under the light at the entrance, raising his voice, saying, “Go straight to your rooms—no hanging around!” A few years earlier Father had taken me to the orphanage and I had seen the corridors for myself. The elderly janitor had remembered Father, and they'd talked about the old days. When we left, Father had said: “He was once a strong man and we were terrified of him.”

About Mother—not a word. Sometimes a groan burst forth from within him, and I knew that Father was angry with himself. When he was upset this way, he would bite his upper lip, tighten his fists, and say, “I made a mistake.” One night he asked me something. I did not understand his question, and he repeated it. Eventually he said, “Not even you understand me.”

A few days ago a peasant showed Father a revolver he was selling. Father checked the weapon and fired a few shots, then bought it. “Now we can sleep in peace,” he said in a voice that frightened me. Sometimes I felt that the purpose of this long journey was to prepare us for our return to
Czernowitz, so Father could go back to painting. From time to time he reminisced about the weeks we had spent in Bucharest and his face was filled with longing. But the reality was different. Since Mother's death, it had been hard for me to understand what Father was talking about. Once he told me: “I'm afraid of oblivion,” but he strode along like a soldier and I found it hard to keep up with him.

And so we drifted from one hill to the next. It was a green, hilly region, and at that time of the year everything was in full bloom. If a peasant threatened or cursed us, Father got angry, giving back as good as he got. And if he thought he had reason to hit someone, he hit him. He had scratches on his face and his neck, but he didn't bandage them.

“Why do you need all this?” the Jews cautioned him.

“You have to stand up to hatred.”

“There are too many of them.”

“That's no excuse.”

All the same, the Jews liked him a lot, and whenever we were in a Jewish store the proprietress would hurry to make us a meal and the proprietor would offer us lodgings. At night, when thieves drew near the door, Father opened the window and fired. Once, he wounded one of the thieves, who fled screaming for dear life.

Our money was running out. It seemed as though Father had wasted most of it at the hotel. Now we were living from hand to mouth, and were it not for the storekeepers who invited us for meals and put us up, it's doubtful that we could have gone on. Sometimes they provided us not only lodgings but also tea and coffee and the kinds of dry baked goods that would keep us going for days on end.

“I made a mistake,” said Father, taking a swig from his flask.

Sometimes at midday, but mainly during the evenings, we would light a bonfire, prepare coffee, and sit for hours gazing at the fire. Occasionally a word or two escaped from Father. It was hard to know if they were of blame or regret.

And so we arrived at the home of a storekeeper whom Father had called “my cousin,” because he had also been orphaned in his childhood and had grown up in the orphanage in Czernowitz not that many years before Father. The Jew welcomed us and immediately went to prepare tea. His house was a small shed-like structure in the heart of the hills. The two large oaks next to it only showed how low the house was. The storekeeper had lived there for thirty years, occasionally trying to get away from that lonely place but
without success. All those years, with the help of the local police, whom he bribed, he had struggled against thieves and robbers. Now the police and the robbers had made a pact, and not a night went by without intimidation or a robbery. The previous evening they had stolen his horse, and now he was completely cut off.

“Don't worry,” said Father, and showed him his revolver.

“You use a gun?” The storekeeper was taken aback.

“Sometimes, when there's a need for it.”

“It didn't occur to me that it's possible to buy a revolver.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

We slept at the storekeeper's house for two nights. When we were about to set out again, he asked us to stay another night. Father was reluctant to, but in the end he gave in to the man's entreaties. It was a clear summer night, full of moonlight and the scent of fresh water. We sat in the yard and drank tea. Father rallied and confided to the storekeeper that he intended to return one day and draw the surrounding landscapes.

“What do you find in them?”

“Exceptional beauty.”

“I look around and see only trouble.”

Father spoke about the need to uphold one's honor and protect oneself. “We have to hit back at the thugs and the anti-Semites. We must give them back as good as they give. Yes, life
is
precious, but there is something more precious—self-respect.” Father talked and talked; it had been a long time since I had heard him speak with such fluency. Hearing this flow of words, the Jew looked at him and said, “You're still young; you don't know what a nest of vipers there is here.”

“I do know,” replied Father decisively.

“How's that?”

“From my fist; I take no pity on scum.”

“I understand,” the storekeeper said, and fell silent. We sat there until late, and at midnight we went to sleep.

Toward morning, before it was light, Father heard noises and opened the window. The robbers fired and Father fired back. If he hadn't jumped from the window and run after them, perhaps he wouldn't have been injured. Father gave chase, shot, and was hit. The storekeeper and his wife fell to their knees and bandaged his wound. Father was weltering in his own blood; he let out a horrible rattle and then fell silent. The storekeeper wrapped him in his coat and muttered, “You're still a child; you shouldn't see this.” But I saw, and what I didn't see, my ears had heard.

A young peasant came riding up on a horse, and the storekeeper asked him to summon the Jews in the hills. The peasant rode off again, and the storekeeper shouted after him, “I'll pay you when you return.” The storekeeper lifted Father up, carried him into the house, laid him on the floor, and covered him with a sheet.

I was sure this was a bad dream and that as soon as it faded Father would get up from the floor and we would be on our way. I stood where I was, and the longer I stood there, the more pressure I felt in my head.

Before long, Jews came streaming down from the hills. The storekeeper hastily told them what had happened, that Father had chased after the robbers and been shot. They immediately surrounded me so that I wouldn't see the angels of death, but I had already seen them in the form of great birds, landing on the trees in the yard.

I tried to push through to see Father, but people blocked the entrance to the room where he lay. I thought
that they were hurting him. “Don't hurt him!” I shouted, and tried again to push through. Immediately everyone surrounded me.

Then they shut the door, and I didn't see what they were doing inside. The storekeeper's wife came outside and poured out buckets of water. The water flowed, then seeped into the earth. The sight of this water filled me with dread, and I ran to the blocked door. It opened and an intense prayer burst out from inside. I tried to break through the wall of people so I could see Father get to his feet, but people stopped me. “Father!” I managed to shout before falling to the floor.

Then they placed Father on a stretcher, and everyone set out. Wagons carrying peasants came from the opposite direction, and we moved aside so as not to bump into them. The path was green, and when we got to the hill, the sun was already sinking. Now I was sure that Father would break through and start hitting the people who were jostling him, just as he had beaten up that man who had provoked him in the hotel.

The irritating muttered prayers grew louder with every passing moment. I felt suffocated, and a shout escaped from my throat. The shout must have given me strength, for I shook myself free of the people who were clutching me, and I ran to the river. When I glanced back, I saw people running after me and surrounding me. I had run fast, and I must have gone quite some distance. The people who caught me were breathing heavily, and they dragged me back by force. The moment they eased up, I again tore myself away, but from the thicket two captors quickly emerged in ambush: two Jews in black garb.