All Whom I Have Loved

37

Cold, gray days follow and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Snow falls darkly and incessantly, covering the roofs and the fences. Even the mighty Prut stops roaring. Father comes home drunk and depressed and throws himself onto the bed. I don't know what to do, so I just sit next to him. When his depression worsens, he tears up papers and drawings, tossing them into the mouth of the furnace. This is no longer anger, but despair. The work at his school leaves him totally exhausted, the students have no talent, and the administration drains his vitality. “What am I asking, after all — just a little time and a studio!” he bursts out, and it seems to me that blood will spurt from his mouth, and I am shocked, frightened.

Every morning, while it's still dark, Father dresses and leaves to catch the first tram. His departure freezes the darkness of the room, and it seeps into me throughout the day. Sometimes I feel that I must be a burden to him and I want to slip away. When I told him that, he began to cry. Now he occasionally cries, and it's more frightening than his anger.

The landlord comes in every evening, bringing us provisions. Father scarcely talks to him and asks nothing. The landlord doesn't take offense. “Arthur, my dear, you mustn't despair, there is a God in heaven,” he says. Father raises his eyes as if to say, “Why should you torture me, too?” The landlord lowers his head, mutters a short blessing, and goes out.

But to me the landlord says something that shakes me: “God has removed Himself from him, and until he returns to his forefathers, he'll be tormented by demons. Where there is no God, there are demons; they breed like insects.”

“What should one do?”

“Pray.”

There is a kind of certainty in his voice that shocks me.

I don't remember how long this darkness lasts. With every passing day Father's face darkens, and the trembling of his hands increases. I want to help him, but I don't know how. One evening he returns home drunk and happy, a telegram in his hand. A distant friend — a forgotten friend who lives in Bucharest and was once a gallery owner — writes that he is putting a house at Father's disposal and has prepared a generous advance for him. The telegram ends: come to us at once; those who love you await you. Father reads it and tears roll down his cheeks. The good news affects him so that he can hardly stand on his feet. We drink coffee and do not eat supper. Father calls Victor a savior from heaven. He swings me high, up to the ceiling, proclaiming jubilantly, “Bucharest! Who would have imagined that redemption would come from Bucharest?!” After this he says no more, and I see tiredness overcome him. He sleeps deeply, and his breathing is regular. I cover him with a blanket and am glad that God has hastened to his aid.

Snow falls, and from day to day it grows colder. The Prut changes color, and now it is a dark blue, a hard and unpleasant color.

I sit at home and look at books. Once a day the landlord comes to the door and gives me a pear or an apple. Father tells me that at the end of the month we will be on our way.

“Don't forget that you're Jewish,” the landlord tells me when he comes back from the church, smelling of incense and in high spirits.

“I'll remember,” I say, so as to make him happy.

“Jews tend to forget it.”

In the evening we usually go downtown; we sit in a café or go into a tavern. Father is full of energy. He tells his acquaintances about his friend from way back who has invited him to Bucharest. Everyone's happy for him, joking around and wishing him inspiration for his work.

One evening he is set upon by a drunk, who calls him a dirty Jew. Father demands that the drunk apologize, but the man continues to curse him. Father hits him across the face, and the drunk collapses on the floor. Immediately, other drunks gather around, threatening Father. Father is quick to push them away, striking out fearlessly. I am afraid. On the way home he tells me, “You mustn't let wicked people get cocky; you have to beat them.” It has been a long time since he's spoken in full, clear sentences. After that he calms down and is happy, telling me of his plans and about Bucharest, a gracious city with many galleries — a gateway to France. I'm wary of his enthusiasm. After he becomes enthusiastic, depression engulfs him.

The landlord takes care of us, and every evening he brings us one of the dishes he's prepared. Last night he brought us goat cheese. Father promises to write him a letter from Bucharest. I've noticed that with Father he doesn't talk about the things that he discusses with me — with Father he talks mainly about fields, crops, his neighbors, and how they're all being taxed. However, this time he allows himself to ask, “What are you going to do in the big city?”

“I'll paint.”

“May God guide what you do,” he says, and extends his hand.

Father bows his head, surprised at the blessing that the landlord bestowed on him.

Father packs up his books and sketchbooks and gives away the household utensils to people he knows. The landlord mutters angrily, “You're too generous. A man has to hang on to what he has,” and he refuses to accept the big grandfather clock. Father persuades him by saying, “It's a loan, not a gift. The day will come when I'll take it back.” The landlord consents, but not without reminding Father of the well-known proverb, Whoever hates gifts will live.

This packing up saddens me and reminds me of how Mother had packed. In just a few days we will be on our way, and I assume I won't see Mother anymore. Many of her expressions have already fled from my mind. Now I recall only what she looked like most recently, and the heavy coat she was wearing. I am sad that she has changed so much.

We go downtown every evening. It is cold and dry. The snow squeaks underfoot, and heavy shadows cling to the fences of the municipal park. I dress warmly. Father has bought me a pair of leather boots, a scarf, and a fur hat. “Bucharest is cold in winter, and we must have warm clothes,” Father says, as if he has bought them for himself as well. One of Father's admirers, a tall woman in a luxurious fur coat, sidles up to him in the café and says, “In what way have we insulted you that you should leave us and set out for Bucharest?”

“Bucharest, apparently, understands the soul of an artist better than Czernowitz.” Father speaks in a tone that I have never heard him use.

“We love him passionately — and we won't relinquish him so easily.”

Father draws himself up, lifts her hand, and kisses it. He opens his heart and says, “Don't worry, I won't forget Czernowitz; this city is planted deep within my heart, and it will go with me wherever I go. A birthplace cannot be uprooted from the heart — even one that has been hard on you.”

“Thank you,” says the woman. Without raising her head from her collar, she turns and leaves. Father stands where he is and follows her with his eyes.

“Strange,” says Father. We leave the café and go into a tavern. There he downs several drinks, and I must have fallen asleep, for the following morning I find myself in bed, as if I have been tossed up from the stormy waters of the Prut.