All Whom I Have Loved

2

Then it was summer, and Mother and I left for the country. The village is all woods and fields, and streams from the River Prut that winds through them. Mother rented a small house next to the water; she unpacked the suitcase and put on her green dressing gown. I stood at the window and saw no trace of streets, only children and sheep and horses galloping over the green fields.

Later, a peasant woman brought a basket with fruit, bread, and butter, and Mother paid her with two banknotes. The woman folded the notes, put them into a kerchief, and tied it up. Mother asked if she had vegetables in her garden, and the peasant woman smiled. “I have all kinds.” She promised to bring some.

Then it was night, and Mother spread butter on slices of bread and served them on an earthenware plate. The bread was fresh and tasty, and with each bite I felt the tiredness from the journey. I tried very hard not to close my eyes, I drank water and I talked, but the tiredness was heavy and it overcame me. From within my sleep, I felt Mother's hands as she carried me to bed.

When I awoke, the sun was already full at the window. Mother prepared breakfast and said: “We'll soon go down to the river.” We sat at the table, and we saw how the sun bathed the two rooms of the house with its light, and for a while we were filled with wonder.

This was how our vacation in the country began. We would get up early, eat something light, and then go to the river. The river was not deep and flowed quietly. The first dip would be cold, and immediately we would wrap ourselves in towels and jump around to warm up, but the higher the sun climbed, the more it would warm the water, and so we would dip in again and again. Mother would swim. Her strokes were rhythmic and supple. I was afraid when she swam out far and glad when she came back to me.

“Mother!” I'd call out with excitement.

“What?” she'd say, her arms reaching toward me.

I'd run and hug her legs.

Every few days we walked out farther, as far as the lake. The lake was in the heart of a forest, and its waters were black. Mother would dive and dive again, and at last she would take me in her arms and swim along with me. I would feel a fear full of pleasure, and we stayed in the heavy shadows for hours, bundled up in large towels, and only as the sun set would we pack the knapsack and return home. On the way back, we would sometimes come upon a calf or a colt. It would gaze at us for a moment and then flee, but apart from that, nothing stirred. The fields of clover had been harvested and appeared grayish, and the trees huddled together, ready for their nightly slumber.

In the afternoon the yard was shady, and Mother would spread out a reed mat, and we would sit and have tea. Mother baked a large cheesecake smothered with forest berries. We ate half of it and placed the rest in the pantry. Mother's dishes were so tasty that I ate and ate and asked for more.

At that time of the year the skies were aflame until late at night. Hues changed, and in the end what was left was a transparent gray with fragments of flickering fire. This thin grayness pressed us into the reed mat, and we gazed and gazed without tiring, but sometimes we got up to take a walk into the clear night and came back very late. And so we went on, day after day. The sun and the water enveloped us, and our skin became tanned. If it hadn't been for the nightmares that kept coming back to me, there would have been no pain at all there. Mother said that dreams don't tell the truth, but for some reason I did not believe her, even though it was plain to me that there were no monsters prowling in our backyard.

Sometimes the sun awakened me very early in the morning. Mother would still be sleeping, a sweet shadow hovering over her. I wanted to remove the shadow and gaze at her up close. It was hard to see her face, which would be wrapped in her long hair, but I could see her clothes, scattered on the chair and on the dresser. Mother's clothes were gauzy and satiny, pleasant to the touch, especially the silk stockings that she had bought just before our trip. I liked to watch how she stretched out her leg and drew the stocking up over it.

Sometimes, she woke up while I was gazing at her. “What are you doing, my love?” she'd ask.

“Nothing,” I'd tell her, and I could not help laughing.

There, the days were long and went on deep into the night. Were it not for the few clouds, the difference between day and night would have been blurred. Sometimes a wagon full of children passed the house. The children would shout: “Jews! Jews!” and momentarily break the silence. But apart from these unexpected voices, there were no human sounds. The fields breathed quietly, and you could see the dark waves of night floating over the earth.

Sometimes fear gripped me, and I felt as if I was alone alongside the water. There was no reason for this fear. Whenever I called out “Mother!” her response was quick in coming: “I'm here!” Even when I awoke in terror and confusion, Mother leaned over to me and said out loud: “I'm here!” These magic words immediately took away the nightmare, and yet it would still be there when I closed my eyes.

“There are demons everywhere,” said Mother.

“Here as well?”

“Even here, unfortunately.”

“Can't you make them go away?”

“We'll drive them away,” Mother promised.

I'd already heard the word “demons” in the city, and yet it was only there in the countryside that I understood at last what they looked like.

“The demons are small, aren't they?” I asked.

“True.”

“And what do they do?”

“They pester people.”

“That's all? Just pester?”

“On the whole.”

Then it seemed to me that I'd seen them by the garden fence.

The days were clear, with not a cloud in the sky, and every day we returned to the river, to exactly the same place, as if we were trying to get to know it better and better. Mother had grown taller here; only I had stayed short. I was no longer afraid of the water, but I was still not ready to dip my head into it.

The time got shorter and shorter. Mother counted off the days on her fingers and said: “We have another week left.” I found this counting unpleasant, and I wanted to say: “Mother, don't count like that,” but I held back, so as not to make her sad.

But meanwhile we spent a lot of time at the lake. There, by the water, we were either naked or wrapped in large towels. There was not another soul inside this shadowy canopy. And yet I sensed we were in danger. “Mother,” I'd call out, but Mother wasn't frightened. Alongside the brackish water she was lithe, her face open, and there was a moist sparkle in her eyes. She dove and surfaced, dove and uttered incomprehensible sentences. Once she put some squares of halvacovered chocolate on her palm and said, “Take it, my love, it's tasty.”

“Mother, I'm not a bird,” I said for some reason. When she heard this, Mother burst out laughing and hugged me.

Some Christian festival was being celebrated, and throughout the night cows and pigs were slaughtered in the village. The lowing and the squealing was enough to rend the heavens, but no one went to help them. I asked Mother if it was possible to save them, and Mother said it was their fate and that we couldn't change anything. The entire night I saw the blood flowing in the sky and pouring into the horizon.

The next day we didn't go to the river; Mother took me to the church. We walked along dirt roads and saw the clear morning like a canopy over the gardens. The fruit had already been picked from the trees, but on the highest branches a few large apples still swayed, reddish, as if drunken. At times we came upon a rooster or a sheep that would take fright at our footsteps; I was happy that they had been spared from the night slaughter.

“What do people do in the church?”

“Nothing. They pray.”

“Will we pray, too?”

“No.”

The church wasn't tall; it was domed, made of wooden beams, and a golden cross rose from the roof.

“Nice,” said Mother, and we went inside.

The priest wore a long ceremonial robe and stood next to the altar. He read from a book, and the choir responded to him in song; there was a magnificence in this ceremony that deeply moved me. Mother must have been moved as well, for her face was tense and she grasped my hand. I was sorry that I had to be silent and didn't know how to sing the song that the choir and the worshippers were singing together.

After that, in a gesture that was slow and extremely impressive, the priest lifted a bowl of incense and waved it over the faces of those assembled. When they saw the smoke rising, they bowed their heads and I burst into tears.

“What's wrong, my love?” Mother bent down to me. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

I wasn't afraid; I was overwhelmed by the singing and the pungent incense.

The next day Mother packed our suitcase and paid the landlady. The landlady watched us with a kindly eye. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Home,” said Mother in a cold voice, and the openness in her face shut tight. I knew that if I were to ask her something, she would answer but in one word only. We still had two hours at our disposal, but Mother was in a hurry, as if the road beckoned to us.