All Whom I Have Loved

23

I'm on my own for the time being, and happy. But when I suddenly remember Halina lying in the hospital, I brush aside my thoughts and run there. Again, the man at the information counter says, “May God have mercy,” as if there are no other words in the world. One day I summon up the courage to ask, “Can I see Halina?”

“She's sleeping and mustn't be disturbed,” he says, placing a finger to his lips. His answer raises my spirits, and I retreat on tiptoe. In the hospital forecourt a group of homeless have gathered, arguing, shouting, and making a great deal of noise. “You aren't allowed to shout here,” I want to tell them. For the rest of that day, until evening, I am aware of Halina's sleep, walking carefully so as not to make a noise.

In the evening Mother asks, “How was your day?” Of course I do not tell her anything.

The next day I go into the synagogue next door. There is only one man in the place, and he asks me what I want.

“To pray,” I answer.

“It's late. We've already prayed.”

“I'd like to learn how to pray,” I explain.

On hearing this, his lips crease into a smile and he says, “You first have to learn the letters.” He immediately takes down a prayer book and shows me the large letters. He points to the first letter and says, “Alef.” Then, seeming to remember that he hasn't asked, he inquires, “Why do you want to pray?”

“Halina is very sick.”

He apparently does not understand me, for he says, “First you have to learn the letters.”

“I want to learn.”

“Tell your mother to send you to the cheyder.”

I feel that he still doesn't understand me, and I am about to leave.

“Who are you?” He again turns to me.

I tell him my name.

My name seems to tell him nothing, for he asks no more and turns away from me.

I understand that this might not be the right person to speak to, and I leave.

The desire to pray grows stronger in me, and I walk on till I find myself at the chapel. The tiny chapel can hold no more than one person at a time. When there isn't a line, the person coming to pray can take his time, but if there is a line, he hurries his prayers and then blesses the person coming after him. It's mostly women who come here, but I've also seen men. Once I saw a tall, strong man kneeling and shaking the small wooden structure.

And so the days pass. Sometimes I sense that Halina's sleep is dragging her into a deep gorge and that someone must hasten to pull her out. I shared this feeling with the man at the information counter. He smiled and said, “It's absolutely forbidden to wake her up.” Since he said that to me, my life has become smaller.

Now I hardly ask, and I just wander along the side streets. When this tires me, I curl up in bed and sleep for several hours.

“I can't find a woman to look after you,” Mother says in an empty voice on her return.

“There's no need,” I answer coldly.

“You aren't bored?” Again, that superficial voice.

“No.”

Once Mother would have told me stories or read to me or sat quietly by my side. Now it seems that it's not her sitting next to me but another woman. My real mother has slipped away and left me with this awful substitute, and every word that comes out of her mouth wounds me. Sometimes I want to shout out, “You're not my mother!” I contain the fury in my heart by telling myself, “It's better that I hold it in; in only a few days Halina will wake up from her sleep and I'll run away with her.”

It gets colder each day, and in the morning frost glitters on the grass. But this doesn't stop me from going to the hospital every day. Sometimes I think that the man at the information counter understands me and wants to help me, but the nurses, who wear yellow uniforms, refuse to cooperate.

Every evening, Mother's mindless chatter makes my blood boil. For some reason, she's sure that Halina won't return to us. Too many days have passed since she lost consciousness. She calls Halina's sleep “a loss of consciousness,” and to me that sounds as if she's refusing to believe that Halina will come back. “She'll come back soon,” I say, not hiding my confidence from her.

Mother says, “It's not good to harbor illusions”—words she has already used. They grated on my ears then, too.

Since she has been teaching at the school Mother uses words that she didn't use before. Like “to harbor,” and “treatment and development,” and other words that freeze my heart. Mother would correct Halina's German, but I loved the timbre of her voice and the way she pronounced the words. When she said, “Come, let's put on your coat,” I felt that the two of us would wrap ourselves in it and that no one else would see us, but that we would see everyone.