All Whom I Have Loved

3

It was night when our train arrived in Czernowitz. The station was in turmoil, with whistling trains and an overflow of people. We tried to make our way through, but all the exits were blocked. Seeing this reminded me of the nightmares that had kept me awake in the country. I gripped Mother's hand. Mother did not give up but tried again and again to push inside the waiting room with all her might. It was useless. People stronger than she shoved against us. In the end we were pushed aside, pressed against the wall.

We sat on the suitcase and waited for the crush to subside. I pictured the fields and the water that we had left behind, and longing choked me.

While we were sitting there hopelessly, Father appeared, as if the ground had split open and he'd emerged from it. He was wearing his usual clothes, but he looked so different here, as if he were a stranger. He immediately grasped the suitcase and led us outside through a dark opening. A carriage was waiting for us. Even now, Father behaved as he always did. He asked no questions. When we reached the house, he pulled down the suitcase, carried it up to the apartment, and said, “I'll come tomorrow.” Then he was gone.

Mother had brought a few provisions from the country, and we sat down to eat. Her face was still tan from the country, but its freshness had faded. She tried to recall sights we had seen, but there was a hollow ring to her words.

Then, for no apparent reason, she began to cry. It was a bitter weeping that left her face blotchy. I fell at her feet, hugging her legs. Yet this time my love did not help. Her crying only intensified, as if drawing upon the depths of her hidden pain. I was so moved that when I went to bed I could not fall asleep. It then seemed to me that Mother was about to say, “I'm going to pack the suitcase, we're going back to the country. I feel out of place in this crowded city; everything is dirty and tasteless.” But I was wrong; her sorrow passed and little by little she accepted our old place.

That same night Mother told me about her childhood. Her parents died young and she had grown up in an orphanage. The orphanage is at the edge of the town, near the trees and water. When she was nine, her class was taken to the city, and there she saw the Great Synagogue for the first time.

“And you didn't have any brothers or sisters?”

“No, I'm an only child,” she said with a shy laugh.

At the age of twelve she was already an apprentice at the large garment workshop owned by the Stein family. She worked from morning till night, and in the evenings she studied. Eventually, she passed the matriculation examinations with low grades, but she graduated from the teachers' seminary with distinction.

“And do you remember your mother?”

“No. A few years ago, I could still remember some of her features, but now they're gone. I remember that she was short.”

“And was your father tall?”

“I don't remember. He died before my mother.”

Mother opened her eyes very wide, so as to take in the distant visions, but it didn't help. To my questions she answered, “I don't remember; what I recall is so hazy.”

I, at any rate, could imagine my mother's mother and father very clearly.

“I'm sorry, everything has faded from my memory,” Mother said, shrugging.

“I will remember the house in the country and the water in the river. And the lake,” I said for some reason.

“And me? Will you remember me, too?” she asked, suddenly putting me to the test.

“I'll remember you most of all.” I wanted to impress her.

“How will you remember me?”

“Swimming in the water.”

“Only swimming?”

“And wrapped in a large towel.”

“What else?”

“And the song ‘The Long Clear Nights of Summer’—the song you like to sing.”

“I'm happy.”

That night I slept soundly, but one clear image filtered into my sleep: Mother wearing a pure white nightdress.