The Story of a Life (3 page)

“Father!” The cry escapes from my mouth, and I start to run. After I have run part of the way, the fear leaves me and I return to the two trees at the entrance to the synagogue. Now the prayers are quiet, and I go inside. Grandfather is deep in prayer and does not notice that I’ve come in. I stand next to him and look at the Holy Ark, which still seems locked up by the heavy embroidered curtain. I try to take in one word from the many words with which the men are talking to God, but I cannot. It’s clear now: I cannot speak. Everyone is whispering, trying hard, and only I am without words. I stare, even though my eyes smart. I will never be able to ask anything of God, because I don’t know how to talk in His language. My father and mother don’t know how to talk in His language, either. Father has already told me once, “We have nothing but what our eyes can see.” At the time I didn’t understand this, but now it seems to me that I have guessed what it means.

The prayers have come to an end, though I don’t realize it. The last prayer is said amid great enthusiasm, as if it is all about to begin anew. That is the ending, and those praying get to their feet. One of the old men comes up to me and asks me what my name is. I am scared, and I hold on tight to Grandfather’s coat. The old man gazes at me and doesn’t ask me anything else. Then little honey cakes and small glasses of cognac are served, and blessings, mingling with the smell of alcohol, waft up into the air.

After this we set out on the verdant path homeward. The sun is shining, and herds graze on the pastures. The sight reminds me of a different quiet in another place, but I do not know where. We cross the meadows and enter a sparse forest. There are a few abandoned buildings in the forest. Darkness crouches in their gaping entrances. Along the way we meet a Ruthenian peasant, an acquaintance of Grandfather’s. They talk, and I don’t understand a word. After that we stand on
the ridge of a hill, and there seems to be great agitation—a movement across the cornfields.

As we approach the house, I see Mother, dressed in white, standing at the entrance. It seems to me that she is about to take off, to fly straight toward me. This time I am right. With one swift movement, as if it weren’t Mother but a young Ruthenian girl, she runs toward us. Only seconds later, I am in her arms. For a moment we are together in the high grass.

In the afternoon we sit in the yard, and Grandmother brings us long rolls and strawberries in cream. Mother is beautiful, with her hair loose over her shoulders and lights sparkling on her long poplin dress, and I say in my innermost being: That’s how it will be from now on. Yet, even as I am immersed in this hidden joy, sorrow constricts my heart, so slight that I almost don’t feel it, though, slowly and imperceptibly, it spreads inside me. I burst out crying, and Mother, who is in a wonderful mood, gathers me in her arms. But I am gripped, locked in this sadness and fear, and I refuse to be consoled. The fit of crying seizes me, and I know that this is the last summer in the village, that henceforth the light will be dimmed and darkness will seal the windows.

And so it is that, at night, after the Sabbath, Father arrives, bringing with him the hustle and bustle of the big city. Mother hastily packs the suitcases, and Grandmother brings out a full crate of preserves covered in white gauze, a crate of red apples, and two bottles of cherry liqueur that she has made herself. The carriage is a fine one, but it doesn’t have extra room for all this produce, and the driver can barely cram the precious gifts into the dark space under the seats. Grandfather stands by the door, as if uprooted from the world that he has been in. A gloomy sort of dismay radiates from his eyes. He embraces Mother with great tenderness.

We set out in the carriage at a gallop in order to catch the last train. On the train I am again seized by a fit of crying, and Mother tries with all her might to calm me down, but the tears gush out of me and wet my shirt. Father’s patience snaps, and he demands to know the reason for my tears. Though my sorrow is piercing and the pain seems immense, I don’t have a single word to explain it. Father’s anger increases. Eventually he can’t contain himself and says, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll slap you. You’re five years old, and a child of five shouldn’t cry without a reason.”

This time Father, who almost never got angry and always remembered to bring me presents whenever he returned from a trip, is so frightening that my tears ceased. But Mother, who understands my pain, embraces me and draws me close to her. I drop into her lap and fall asleep.

MY MOTHER’S UNCLE, Uncle Felix, was a tall man, strong and quiet. He was the owner of an estate that extended over broad fields, grazing pastures, and forests. He even had a lake of his own. His house lay at the heart of the estate, surrounded by guest houses, offices, and servants’ quarters.

Mother and I would visit him in spring and in summer, spending a week or two with him. Outwardly his appearance was completely secular, but his library was full of religious texts, of which several were first editions. Before he would open a Hebrew book, he would place a
kippah
on his head. There were two religious precepts to which he adhered strictly all the days of his life: praying and learning a page of Talmud daily. When he was wrapped in a prayer shawl and phylacteries, his freethinking appearance would fall away in an instant. Immersed in prayer, he looked just like an observant Jew. His manner of studying was also that of an observant Jew, learning to the singsong melody. His level of privacy was such that only few knew about this, and on the outside there
were no visible signs of a believer. He dressed like most landlords who were owners of large estates, in a suit, a white shirt, and a tie that matched the suit. But, unlike most landlords, he had refined taste. His suit had a quiet elegance that was immediately discernible.

He spoke many languages and was careful to pronounce them correctly. The German he spoke was flawless, and the articles that he wrote on agricultural matters had been published not only in Czernowitz, the capital, but also in Lemberg and in Kraków, and they had been praised for their precise language and clear style. By profession, Uncle Felix was an agronomist, but the scope of his education was far broader. He had a bookcase just for works of philosophy, a bookcase of linguistic tomes, and a few bookcases of literature, not to mention the collection of his agricultural books, which I loved leafing through. I would find within them pictures of fields, orchards, animals, and forests. Uncle Felix always allowed me to look through the books in his library, because he knew that I didn’t tear books and that I turned the pages very carefully.

Sometimes it seemed to me that horses were his greatest love. On the estate there was a stable full of proud, tall, riding horses tended by two stable hands. Even though he was no longer young, Uncle Felix could mount a horse without help from anyone. On a few occasions his grooms hoisted me up and I rode with him. I was afraid, but the fear was mixed with so much pleasure that it quickly receded. We’d ride across fields and meadows until we reached the forest. Deep inside the forest was a lake. Although it was extremely wide, toward evening it would appear to be inward-looking and fathomless, and the dusk flickering on its dark surface made it look like the huge eye of some fearsome animal. On our return, Mother would be waiting to welcome us with a joyful greeting. I was four, or perhaps four and a half years old.

I didn’t see much of my uncle’s wife, Aunt Regina. A sickly woman, she spent most of the day resting in her room. The maid who took care of her so resembled her that they could have been sisters. The difference was that Aunt Regina lay in her bed, while the maid took care of her with great devotion, day and night. Aunt Regina’s spacious room was steeped in an atmosphere of majesty and fear, perhaps because of the gloom that filled it, even during warm summer days. I hardly spoke with her. She would look at me but never ask me anything. Apparently, her mind had been dulled by pain, or perhaps in her delirium she didn’t see me. Aunt Regina knew a lot about French literature, and in her youth had written a small book on Stendhal. My mother didn’t like her, but had a high regard for her education.

Uncle Felix’s pride and joy were the pictures that he’d acquired in Vienna and in Paris—among them, a Modigliani, a Matisse print, and some superb watercolors. The pictures matched the delicate furniture of the house perfectly. Wealthy Jews of Uncle Felix’s generation choked their rooms with expensive and cumbersome furniture; they hung sentimental oil paintings on the walls; their drawing rooms overflowed with vases and stuffed animals; and on their floors they laid heavy, rather vulgar carpets. Uncle Felix knew these wealthy Jews all too well—their greed and their materialism—and when he was in the mood, he’d imitate them. He particularly loved to mimic the broken German they spoke, their ignorance in matters of Jewish learning, their vulgar style of dressing, and their behavior, so lacking in all politeness. He even mocked the way they treated their wives. He was repulsed by them and would keep his distance.

Uncle Felix had no children. In their youth, the couple had adopted a Ruthenian child and looked after him with great devotion. At the age of seven the child escaped, running back to his village and to his insane mother. He refused
to return to his adoptive parents. I kept asking my mother about the Ruthenian boy. Mother told me a little, but without details. For some reason I identified with the child and pictured him fleeing from Uncle’s house to his mother’s hut.

SOMETIMES WE’D COME to visit in winter as well. In the winter there were clouds covering the estate, and snow fell incessantly. I loved to sit by the blazing stove, listening to the crackle of firewood. In the summer the days were long and stretched deep into the nights, but in winter the days were as short as a passing breeze. The brief light was grayish and faded in the middle of day.

Evenings on Uncle Felix’s estate were full of small meals. At four o’clock there was tea, with pear cake decorated with cherries, and at seven o’clock, a splendid supper. We would linger over the meals, and we would be filled with the surrounding silence. In Uncle Felix’s home people spoke little and seldom argued; useless theories were never aired. Most evenings were spent reading or listening to music. I have been in many quiet homes, but the quiet inside Uncle Felix’s home had a special quality; it was a quiet that welled up from within the place itself and surrounded one with a pleasant awareness.

Sometimes Aunt Regina would get up from her sickbed and appear in the drawing room. Uncle Felix would rise to greet her. Apparently, her pains were almost unbearable. Occasionally there was nothing to do except call the doctor, but generally the maid who cared for her would persuade her to return to her bed and would rub her back and her legs, assuring her that she’d soon feel better.

Aunt Regina wasn’t used to strange people. Once she appeared in the drawing room and saw me sitting on the floor, leafing through a book. “Who’s the child?” she said, turning
to her maid, as if I weren’t her nephew but some strange child. Still, apart from such unpleasant incidents, the days on my uncle’s estate passed quietly and without disturbance.

Uncle Felix was a pleasant and generous manager. No worker ever complained that he had not been given the wages he deserved. My uncle’s policies reflected his liberal philosophy: give more to the workers and you’ll get more in return. He was very wealthy, but not a miser like the
nouveaux riches
, whose stinginess blinded them to the needs of others.

There were also fine days in winter, days drenched in sunshine, and we would set out on sleds to speed down the hillsides. Sometimes my father would also join us in these adventures. I would be installed at a vantage point from which I could see the sledding. Uncle Felix excelled at this, too. Despite his age, he would sled around the bend like a young man. Father and Mother might topple off, but not Uncle Felix.

Even the trees on Uncle Felix’s estate were taller than the ones I was used to seeing; the landscape was more lush and the servants seemed taller, almost touching the ceiling. Uncle Felix’s life and his estate were legendary; most of the stories were pleasant, but some were frightening. There was a drunkard who had gone berserk, ax in hand, cursing the Jews and their wealth and scaring away the maidservants with his threats; and there was a horse who’d thrown off the stable boy, bolted from the stable, and went crazy in the yard. On one of my summer visits, a baby was laid on the doorstep of the house during the night; the servants discovered the bundle in the morning and called my uncle.

On his estate the quiet was deep but not absolute. The night air would be torn by the calls of birds of prey, and wolves howled. Uncle Felix had a forthright attitude toward nature. From childhood he’d loved plants and animals. His father, an
elderly rabbi, did not look kindly upon his lifestyle or his occupation, but neither did he preach to him, because he also had a kind of hidden yearning for animals: he kept bees in his garden.

In the summer of 1937, life changed beyond recognition. The government became anti-Semitic, and the police sided with the rabble and the underworld. Boundaries were swept away, and robbery became a nightly occurrence. Uncle Felix—who had lived on the estate since his youth, had built the house, cultivated the fields, and preserved the forests, and had mingled in non-Jewish society—tried not only to hold on but also to fight back. At night he’d put on his wool cap and go out to chase away the thieves. One night he caught a youth of around fifteen who swore on the life of Jesus that he would never steal again. Uncle Felix was not satisfied with this oath and insisted upon a specific pledge. Out of sheer terror, the youth fell on his knees, pleaded, and then burst into bleating sobs. Uncle Felix let him go, and, like an animal suddenly released, the youth bolted in the direction of the gate.

Aunt Regina passed away that summer, and in accordance with her wishes, there was a secular funeral. She had asked to be buried on the estate, on one of the hillocks that overlooked the valley and its little brooks. Uncle Felix, who had loved her and her whims, took great care to carry out her wishes exactly as she had requested. Poems by Rilke were read aloud at her grave, armfuls of flowers were placed there, and a quartet played Mozart sonatas. The quartet, which had been brought over from Czernowitz, played morning and night throughout the entire seven days of mourning. Aunt Regina had left a list of compositions, and it was in this order that they were played.