All Whom I Have Loved

52

We reached the station at Storozynetz early in the morning. Frost sparkled on the ground and on the platforms, and icicles hung on the drainpipes, but the sky was blue and clear, and a large sun appeared on the horizon.

“I need a cup of coffee; that's just what I need,” said Father, stomping his feet.

Here, too, there weren't many people. What few there were hurried to the front entrance. Someone shouted, “Where are you?” But there was no response.

Seeing the station and its familiar entrance cheered me up. For a moment it seemed that we had come here only to drink our morning coffee at Café Vienna, renowned for its splendid cakes, and then go off somewhere else. The café owner, who did not remember us, turned to us and said, “Gentlemen, you're up early today. The first rolls won't be coming out of the oven for another half an hour; why not read the paper in the meantime.”

Alongside the partition between the café and the bakery was a counter beyond which you could see the fiery oven. In the hall itself, the dimness of night still reigned. The proprietor returned, promising that coffee and cake would soon be served.

Father lit a cigarette. I clearly remembered coming here with Mother. She was wearing a blue poplin dress. We sat next to the window, and it felt like a continuation of our summer vacation. I had no idea at the time that it was only a prelude to those long and meandering days, that I would lose Halina, and that Mother would find herself a lover. Disaster seemed distant then, as if it belonged to other people and not to me.

The cheesecake arrived and with it steaming coffee. Father tasted it and said, “Excellent.” The grayness in his face faded away, and only traces of it remained under his eyes. The café owner came over and offered us another cup of coffee. Father said, “Of course.” He praised the coffee and the cake.

“I used to come here with Halina.” The words popped out of my mouth.

“Who?”

“Halina.”

“I don't remember her.”

“Halina. The girl who was killed.”

The word “killed,” which had never before passed my lips, was like a flare in my memory. I immediately saw the funeral, with flutists playing all the way from the village to the graveyard. I also saw the clear skies opening to receive Halina. Because Mother had been in a hurry to get back, we didn't attend the funeral meal and didn't see her full resurrection. I was angry with Mother: she was head over heels in love.

Father asked the proprietor how to get to the hospital; he stood in the doorway and pointed, saying, “Straight ahead, straight ahead.”

It was hard to grasp that we were about to visit Mother, sick in the very same place where Halina had been. I saw only Halina, as if both the place and the way to it belonged to her. Father didn't speak, and I didn't disturb him. Winter still crouched everywhere, and we walked along slowly, as if we weren't in a hurry.

In the hospital forecourt many homeless people lay around and thin dogs strayed among the low carts. The homeless were momentarily taken aback when we appeared, and shouted, “Jews!” Father stood there and stared at them.

“Jew, what are you looking at?” one of them said.

Father strode over to him, and the man fled for dear life.

We entered the corridor and climbed the steps. The man at the desk apparently remembered me, but responded with a shrug to Father's question. “Not with us. Perhaps at Wexler's, the private hospital. Or perhaps at the monks' hospice.”

“Where is the Wexler hospital?”

“Not far.”

As we left, one of the homeless shouted out rudely, “What are you doing here, Jew?”

Father didn't hesitate. He grabbed the man by his coat and shook him. The man must have been shocked by Father's reaction and said, “I didn't mean you.”

“So who, then?”

“The bearded Jews.”

“Ask forgiveness. Apologize right now.”

“I'm asking.”

“That's not how you ask.”

“What should I say?”

“Say: ‘I ask forgiveness of all Jews.’ ”

The man repeated this word for word, and Father let him go.

“Run for it!” his friends urged him, but the man stood where he was, as if in the grasp of paralysis.