All Whom I Have Loved

32

When Father returned home, I told him about the land-lord's visit. Father laughed and said, “Don't take any notice of him. In the winter he's drunk and talks only about God. But he's a good man.”

“Is there a God in the sky?” I could not contain myself.

“There is, apparently,” said Father, and chuckled, as if someone had discovered his weakness.

Then he reconsidered and said, “Why did you ask?”

I told him about Halina and how she rose to heaven. His forehead creased all at once, and he said, “The Ruthenians still have a simple faith, and we should learn from them.”

It wasn't raining, so Father decided that in the evening we would go to the church refectory and celebrate, and so we did. I loved the city streets at night after the rain. Nights such as those become absorbed deep inside you, and you remember them for a long time. Once, on a night after it had rained, I went with Father to Herrengasse, where he met an old friend. They stood talking, and before they parted, the man said, “I don't know what to do; I feel lost.” The man and the words that had come out of his mouth seemed to me so inseparable, as if they were one, that now, whenever it stops raining and I'm in the street, I see that man and hear his voice.

The refectory was full of heavy wooden tables and somewhat resembled a tavern, except that here people drank only lemonade. There were just a few drunks, and they didn't disturb anyone. Father got two pieces of corn pie at the counter, a jug of cream, and two glasses of lemonade. We immediately found seats by the window.

The hall was completely filled, and it was hard to speak. If you looked up, you saw that the walls and the ceiling were covered with pictures of saints. A large metal light fixture hung from the ceiling. The place didn't look like a church, and yet it bore some resemblance. The corn pie was tasty, and Father hurried to fetch more. All the while, people came up to him, asking how he was. I noticed that here, too, everyone was slapping him on the shoulder and calling him by his first name. Father had had his hair cut a few days earlier, and he looked like a soldier just out of the army.

After we finished the meal, the people buried their faces in their hands and started to sing. It was a restrained but powerful singing that seemed as if it would flow that way for hours, except suddenly the door at the back opened and a very thin, very elderly man came in and those singing fell silent.

As the old man sat on a chair, all eyes were on him.

“Dear brothers,” he began, “may the light of the Messiah be upon you and may your eyes see only the light and only the good. Do not quarrel among yourselves, for such dissention comes from darkness and from Satan. Beloved brothers, do not fight, for fighting removes us from His light and expels us into darkness.”

The old man was dressed in peasant's clothing and spoke Ruthenian. A harsh light radiated from his long, gaunt face. I did not understand most of what he said, but I knew that he was talking about God and about the light and about people who are drawn to the darkness and refuse to see the light. He also spoke of Jews who deny the Messiah and have gone astray and lead others astray. There was great stillness, and the voice of the old man carried through the hall like a frightening threat. But apparently people were not afraid — they sat alertly, as if the old man was about to lead them into a world filled with goodness.

When the old man had finished, two strong men went up to him, supported his forearms, and helped him to the doorway at the back. No one rose from his seat; it was as if everyone had stopped breathing. For a long time the silence hung in the air until a peasant stood up and called out, “There is none like our God and there is none like our Messiah!” and immediately the hall burst into mighty song.

Once Halina had taken me to a church and shown me the altar. It was a small, wooden church with angels on its windows. The priest was wearing his ceremonial robes and reading from a big book, and the choir began to sing whenever he finished a section. I do not know whether this was a festival or a funeral, but in any case, then, too, the priest had called out, “There is none like our God and there is none like our Messiah!”

We went outside and Father lit a cigarette. The night was dark and the gates of heaven, which only a moment ago had seemed open, suddenly closed.

We crossed the street and waited at the tram station. There was no one there. I wanted to ask Father why the heavens were sealed off and for how long they would be sealed off, but his head was buried so deep in the collar of his coat that I didn't dare. The tram was not long in coming, and we sat in the front seat, as if we were about to set out on a long journey to a place where the heavens are always open and you can see God clearly, sitting on His throne.