All Whom I Have Loved

54

We set out toward evening. The restaurant owner was right: it really was a winding, precipitous road, and we dismounted from the wagon several times to make it easier on the horses. The driver cursed both the steep ascent and the horses. Father held out the flask to him, and he took more and more swigs. In the end he turned toward us and asked, “You're Jews, aren't you?”

“Correct,” said Father with emphasis.

“What's with Jews at a monastery?”

“We have someone sick at the infirmary.”

“A sick Jew?”

“You'd suppose,” said Father in an affected tone.

“And still, what's with Jews at a monastery?”

“Jews also believe in God,” Father replied in a different tone of voice.

“Not the new Jews.”

“The new ones are not that different from the old ones.”

“Completely different,” the peasant said firmly.

“In what way?”

“The new ones don't pray.”

“And what else?”

“They don't fast on Yom Kippur.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“People who have no God are frightening.”

“Who do they frighten?”

“Us.”

“They don't frighten me.” Father made a funny gesture.

“True,” said the wagon driver.

“Why ‘true’?”

“Because sir's apparently one of them.”

Father laughed. The driver's wit had caught him off guard, and he said, “I see you know Jews well.”

“I grew up with them.”

“With the old Jews or with the new ones?”

“Both of them.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“The old ones keep to themselves, and the new ones travel to the city to learn medicine.”

“True, true.” Father laughed again, and it was clear that the wagon driver's insights amused him.

We reached the monastery with the last light. Father asked about the cost of the journey, and the driver named his price. Father doubled it and handed him the banknotes. The wagon driver was astonished. He shook his head and smiled.

We got down from the wagon and stood at the gate.

“May God bless you,” the driver called out from his seat.

“And you, too,” Father replied in the same tone of voice.

I immediately saw that this was a different place from the ones I had seen till now. A tall monk stood at the entrance to welcome us, and Father hastened to explain why we had come. The monk listened, and I saw that his attentiveness not like ours. “You're looking for Henia Drushenko?” The monk wanted to be sure.

“Correct.”

“She is, indeed, in our infirmary.”

“And may we see her?”

“I should think so.”

I looked up and saw that the entrance was decorated with pictures of saints and that the windows were of stained glass. From the nearby hall came a burst of organ music accompanied by a choir of male voices.

“I'll take you to the waiting room,” said the monk, and we went straight down a long corridor that was lit with tall wax candles. At its end there was a spacious waiting room. “Please be seated. You'll be called,” said the monk, and he retraced his steps.

Here the music could not be heard. From the long, narrow, stained-glass windows, a blue light streamed into the hall. The silence was so thick you could almost touch it.

“How do you feel?” asked Father, taking my hand.

“I'm all right,” I said. I was not afraid, but I had the feeling that this hall led to a long corridor, just like the one we had passed through, and at the end of it there was another hall, just like the hall we were sitting in. For some reason, this thought made me dizzy, and I closed my eyes.

Father got to his feet and went to look at the paintings on the walls. He liked them, and he smiled faintly, the way he always did when he was satisfied with some picture or object.

I closed my eyes and saw the road that we had taken with the wagon driver. The driver's behavior had not been pleasant. He had cursed and lashed at the horses without mercy, but Father had not been angry with him. The responses the driver gave Father had amused him, and he had smiled and laughed the entire way. Even now, as he stood next to the pictures, a trace of that same smile played on his lips.

“They've forgotten about us.” Father turned to me. “Good that there are ancient pictures here that one can look at. These old pictures are always amazing, because they don't try to be more than what they are — do you understand?” I did not understand, but I didn't dare ask him to explain. Most of what Father says is beyond me, and yet still I like to hear it.