All Whom I Have Loved

40

And so our life has suddenly changed. Father works in his studio every day, and I drift about the house. It's full of rooms. I go from one to another and end up sitting in the kitchen, solving math problems that I make up and doodling. Victor has brought me two pads, one for math and one for drawing, and I sit and fill them. When I'm tired I go outside. It's very cold, and the trees are covered with snow. Unlike our room in Czernowitz, which was next to the Prut, here everything's quiet, and were it not for the crows hopping over the surface of the snow, one could hear the silence, as Mother says.

My life in Czernowitz now seems distant, hardly mine at all. Sometimes I feel as if the Ruthenian landlord is standing behind the house and will soon appear, saying, “The Jews have forgotten that they are Jews.” I'm afraid of his words; there's always some unpleasant demand in them. I know that this is his drunkenness speaking, and yet I'm still afraid. At these moments I'm glad that we've left that narrow room and removed ourselves from the landlord and his religious demands.

Although my life in Czernowitz seems long ago, it has not been forgotten. Sometimes I wake up at night and I think that Father is dressing to catch the first tram. The memory of Father's departures in the darkness is still within me; whenever I think of them I feel sorry for him. Now we wake up together in daylight. The windows of the house are wide, and the light of snow streams inside. Two stoves blaze day and night, and I walk around the house without a sweater, unlike in Czernowitz. In the morning, we sit together at the table and drink coffee.

Every evening we go downtown, meeting Victor and my father's other old friends. Bucharest is bigger than Czernowitz, but colder. The sharp winter winds pounce on us from the alleys and lash at our faces. Of late, Father has changed beyond recognition. The depressions that he suffered from in Czernowitz don't appear to weigh on him here. Though he does drink and does speak enthusiastically, this is not the dangerous enthusiasm of Czernowitz. It's pleasant to be with him. When he's happy, everything around him seems happy — even the walls of the house. It's a pity he spends most of the day in the studio. When he emerges, he's as pale as chalk and immediately collapses in sleep. After two or three hours, he'll revive and we'll go out to the park. I don't dare to enter his studio when Father is at work. I think of his studio as an arena, where there are many demons in the guise of dwarfs. The demons are lithe and sticky, and they taunt Father. Father pulls them off, but they keep coming back, and they cling to him. I'd already heard about the demons in Czernowitz. Father would say—“Those demons!”—and make a gesture with his right hand. Even though I couldn't see them with my own eyes, I could feel their disturbing presence. Now it's clear to me: we've brought them from Czernowitz. In my heart of hearts, I pray that one day Father will muster the strength to push them far away.

We see Victor almost every evening. His stature and his clothes completely contradict his actions. From up close he looks like a poor, neglected man; his clothes smell of grease. He wears a striped blue suit that is faded and wrinkled; it's clear that he wears it all the time. It's strange — that the suit says more than his face: it speaks of his desperate attempts to help impoverished artists; it tells of nights without sleep. Father asks Victor if he painted in his youth. “Yes, I did paint,” he replies, a smile stealing over his round face, “but heaven help those paintings!” Victor's impoverished appearance is misleading. On the day of our arrival he presented Father with a wad of banknotes, and every time he sees us, he gives more. Father says, “That's enough.” But Victor cannot help himself. We sit in a café for two or three hours, sometimes till the last tram is about to depart, but we have not yet gone into a tavern. True, on our second day here Father equipped himself with some bottles. But here he drinks only at home.

Victor is planning a large exhibition of Father's paintings for the spring, to be held at the Raphael, a well-known gallery that is currently being renovated. “It's going to be quite an occasion,” says Victor, his childlike eyes glowing. He has boundless faith in Father. I'm afraid of this faith, and I remember our last day in Czernowitz: Father tearing up sketches and paintings and shoving them into the gaping mouth of the stove. The landlord implores him, “Sir, don't destroy what you've made,” but Father pays no attention to him and continues to rip up papers and canvases, feeding them to the fire with a fearsome glee.

One day Victor arrives at our house with a woman. She is tall and blond, and she has a smiling face. Father goes to greet them, and Victor introduces her as Suzy. Suzy is to come to us every day from nine to three to be Father's model.

“What is a model?” I ask Father at lunch.

“A woman whom one paints,” Father replies, without raising his head from the plate.

Suzy appears the following day and enters the studio. I stand by the door and eavesdrop. “I'm twenty-nine and I've been married, but it didn't work out,” Suzy tells Father. “Since I got divorced, I've modeled for two painters, and from now on I'll be happy to serve you, too.”

Father asks some questions, and Suzy answers and laughs. Then they fall silent, and the only thing to be heard is the scratching of charcoal on the paper.

I go into the kitchen and sadness comes over me. It seems as though Father is also about to be taken from me, and I will be put into an orphanage. I decide that I will run away to Halina's village and await her resurrection there.

At three o'clock the door of the studio opens and Suzy comes out without looking at me. In the evening Father complains to Victor that it's hard for him to draw a woman who is also modeling for other artists. Victor asks why, and Father gives an example, and everyone at the café laughs. I understand nothing of what he has said, and yet I feel relieved.

This evening Father is in a good mood. He tells jokes and imitates people, and he narrates a long story about the famous art critic who at first had praised his work and then retracted what he'd said. Only a few days earlier Father had been mute, quite unable to produce a sound. Now he not only converses and expounds, but he even recites poetry and sings. In my heart, I pray that the demons that beset him in Czernowitz will not overcome him here. When the demons engulf him, his mood plummets, and depression darkens his brow and seals his mouth.

Suddenly Victor sinks to his knees and announces, “We will change the order of priorities.”

“What priorities?” asks Father.

“Artists should be at the top of the ladder.”

Father also sinks to his knees, and he embraces Victor; everyone laughs.