All Whom I Have Loved

17

Suddenly the sun came out, and in the yard next to us the bearded Jews were wearing white.

“What's going on?” I asked Halina.

“It's the Jewish New Year today, didn't you know?”

“No.”

Halina had worked for religious Jews, and she knew lots about them; she was always telling me interesting details.

“On Rosh Hashanah they dip an apple in honey so it'll be a sweet new year.”

“And why do they wear white clothes?”

“To look like angels.”

“You're teasing me.”

“No.”

I had already noticed: sometimes Halina looked at them with a hidden smile; she worked for them for two years, and those days are ingrained in her memory.

Halina put the sailor cap on my head, and I went into the synagogue. At first no one paid any attention to me. But after a short while, I found myself surrounded by people. Now they seemed very tall to me. One of them put a prayer shawl around my shoulders and said, “It's a tallis.” The shawl was not heavy, but it was cold, and it made me shiver.

They must know everything about us, for I heard one of them say, “He's a Jew, he's a Jew for sure.” Then he leaned down, held out a prayer book, and said, “This is a siddur.”

“What should I do with it?” I raised my eyes.

“Hold it.”

I clasped it to my heart and stood there. The men wrapped themselves in prayer shawls and prayed with devotion, and for a moment it seemed that God was looking down from the ceiling, and I lowered my eyes.

Then I left, and no one stopped me. It seemed that the praying grew stronger and could be heard in our backyard. The thought that I, too, was Jewish and that I was also allowed to pray made me glad for a moment. I revealed my thought to Halina.

“You want to be like the bearded Jews?” Halina wondered.

The direct question confused me, and I said, “No.” Then I regretted it and said, “Still, they do pray nicely.”

Of course, I didn't say anything to my mother; she can't stand them. She once said to me, “They speak so loudly and dress in such a slovenly way.” Since then, I've been careful not to ask her about them. Truth be told, I was drawn to them. Sometimes I felt that I'd been with them before, that I'd even taken part in their prayers, but where and when I did not remember. Halina said, “After all, you are only nine years old, you can't remember,” and she must be right.

Sometimes my memory played tricks on me. For example, I didn't recall Father ever raising his voice or shouting. Halina said that before divorcing, people shout at each other, and even come to blows. She didn't know that Father was a quiet person, that he may have clenched his jaws, but he wouldn't let a loud word out of his mouth. Sometimes she asked me about Father, but I didn't tell her the truth. Her questions about Father were far from innocent. “He's a good-looking man, all the girls are attracted to him,” she whispered.

Once again I tried to draw her out, asking her to tell me about the bearded Jews. Halina didn't always want to talk about them. Three weeks had already passed since her fiancé went back to the army, and there was no word from him.

“He's not serving far from home,” she railed. “If he wanted to, he could have come. His army friends go home at night and return the next day.”

“You're angry with him?”

“Very.”

“And you won't marry him?”

“No.”

If Halina didn't marry, she'd be with me forever. I curled up inside this thought, happy.

The day came that everyone calls Yom Kippur. It was a cold and clear evening, and upon all the backyards a frozen quiet descended. Jews in white clothing hurried to the synagogue, and Ruthenian women stood leaning against the fences, watching them closely. Halina and I also stood next to our fence. Halina's face was serious, and I saw how the awe of this evening was upon her, too.

“What is Yom Kippur?”

“I'll explain it to you soon.”

The synagogue doors were open, and candles lit up the wide entranceway. You couldn't see the faces of those praying — they were wrapped in prayer shawls, weeping. “What's going on?” I asked, but Halina was involved with her own soul and paid no attention to me. It seemed to me that there would soon be a loud noise, and lightning would split the sky. It wasn't so. The evening was clear and quiet, and the longer the sunset lingered on into dusk, the more intense the silence became. The Ruthenian women, too, remained standing by their fences without moving, as if a spell had been cast upon them.

After this, the restrained weeping turned into long and drawn-out sobbing. Halina lifted up her head and said, “I don't know why, but this evening always moves me.” Tears welled up in her eyes. And so we stood there for a long time. The wonder faded slightly, but I felt that this evening would long remain with me, even after I grew up.

We went inside. Halina lit a lantern and said, “These Jews always amaze me.” In what way, I wanted to ask but did not.

Mother returned late. Her face was covered with weariness and indifference, as if her secret had been snatched from her. I wanted to feel pity for her, but my heart wouldn't let me. I remembered the black night and how I had called out, “Mother, Mother!” and I immediately felt estranged from her.