All Whom I Have Loved

38

The next morning the landlord took four crates of books to the railway station in his wagon. The crates were to travel via the freight train while we followed them on the night train. I felt sad about the room that we were going to abandon. Father was shoving sketches and paintings into the blazing fire. The landlord tried to prevent this destructiveness but couldn't. Father was adamant: the flames alone could correct them.

In the evening the landlord brought us to the railway station. Father embraced him, saying, “You've been a brother and a true friend to us.”

“May God bless you.”

The landlord turned to me. “Don't forget what I told you.”

“I won't forget,” I promised.

“May God bless you both and keep you,” he said. “You deserve it.” He bowed and climbed back up onto the wagon.

And so we parted from the landlord. We still had another two and a half hours till the train would leave. Father was in a good mood. He bought me an ice cream and called the city a province that fattens up its rich. His enthusiasm does not usually last very long, an hour at the most, and sometimes even less, but this time I saw that he was comfortable with the parting. His eyes shone, and the dark rings around them had faded. A man called out to him. It was an old Jew who had once worked in the orphanage and recognized him. Father was glad to see him and invited him for a drink. The Jew refused. We sat at the station entrance, and Father told him that he was now leaving for Bucharest, where a spacious house and studio awaited him. The Jew listened with his head bent and didn't look excited. Finally he asked, “And a living?”

“Absolutely!” Father answered confidently.

They spoke of what had become of the boys from the orphanage — those who had remained in the city and those who had traveled far. The old man could recall all their names, and for a moment he looked at us intently, as if trying to fathom what awaited us far off. His gaze must have frightened Father, who immediately flooded him with talk, as if trying to deflect him. The old man understood that he had made a mistake and lowered his eyes. He stood silently, as if wishing to get away. To our surprise he then stretched out his hands and blessed us. First Father, and then me. Father was embarrassed and his face became flushed.

We entered a tavern. In the tavern Father met some poor acquaintances and ordered sandwiches and drinks for them. At the same time he told them that in another hour and a half we would be on the night train to Bucharest.

“Why are you going?” one spoke up.

“Because here all everyone cares about is money and there's no compassion in their hearts. The artists can starve.”

“And in Bucharest?”

“In Bucharest artists get support and they can work.”

“And won't you miss the city where you were born?”

“No.”

“Strange.”

“Not strange at all. No one has offered me a studio here, or an advance. I teach forty-six hours a week, and when I get home my hands are shaking from tiredness.”

“They shake from the drink and not from tiredness.”

“You shut up!” Father raised his voice.

“I'm speaking the truth. Jews have no respect for their city, for their birthplace. They're ready to go anywhere that will offer them more. A birthplace isn't a shop where you go in, buy something, and leave!”

“I'm leaving it gladly — and you, too.”

“Now you know why Jews are hated.”

Father did not hold himself back but got up and hit the man in the face. For his part, the man did not sit idly by with his hands in his pockets. “The Jews are worms!” he shouted.

“But not pigs!” shouted Father, and went on hitting him.

Those around them tried to separate the two brawlers, but Father was furious, cursing in every language he knew. He wouldn't let anyone near him. Eventually someone came and threw him outside. Father's face was covered in blood, and he tried to wipe it off with his handkerchief. The blood was spurting out, staining his shirt and pants, but Father looked far from wretched. A kind of fire flamed in his face. He cursed the town and its people and shouted, “I'll get you! You just wait, you bastards!”

At the station we found a faucet and Father washed his face. He took a shirt out of the suitcase, and turning toward the tavern, he shouted, “I'm not through with you!” Then we immediately got onto the train.