All Whom I Have Loved

55

A little later, a monk entered and Father introduced himself. “Arthur Rosenfeld. I used to be married to Henia. And this is her son.”

“Henia is very sick.” The monk did not hide the truth.

“Is she talking?” Father asked.

“Very seldom, only when she opens her eyes.”

“We would like to see her.” Father spoke in a quiet voice.

“Come with me.”

Again we went down a long corridor that was lit with tall wax candles. Here and there in the arched ceiling there'd be a dark skylight. For some reason, I suddenly recalled Tina's small, wondering face, when Victor and Father had loaded the suitcase and duffel bag on the sleigh. Her wonder had been intense, as if she realized that from now on her life would no longer be what it had been. I tried to uproot this memory from my mind and think only about Mother. But my efforts were futile; only when Father held out his hand to me did I understand that at the end of the corridor we would stop, drop to our knees, and fall to the floor.

The monk stopped walking, and we found ourselves standing next to a white iron bedstead. In the bed lay a woman, her head sunk into a pillow and her eyes closed. I did not recognize her, and neither did Father. “That's Henia?” he asked falteringly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Henia,” whispered Father. The woman in the bed did not move. Father turned his head, as if looking to see if anyone was behind him, and approached the bed.

“Does Henia open her eyes?” Father asked in a subdued voice.

“Sometimes.”

“We have come from far off, from Bucharest. The bad news caught up with us there, and we immediately decided to come here. There are things that a person must do.” Father spoke distractedly.

“I understand,” said the monk.

I had the feeling that Father was not speaking to the point, and that the monk would soon interrupt him to point out his mistake. The monk did in fact change the tone of his speech; he turned to Father and asked, “Where will you spend the night?”

“We would like to return to Storozynetz.”

“It's late, good sir, and it's doubtful that a wagon can be found.”

“And is there an inn in these parts?”

“There is, sir.”

“Very good,” said Father, as though he had finally found the solution to a mystery.

And so the visit was more or less over. The monk turned and we followed him out. At the entrance he showed us the way to the inn.

“Sir.” Father turned suddenly to the monk and said in a practical voice, “What has Henia got?”

“Typhus, sir.”

“And since then she hasn't opened her eyes?”

“She's opened them, sir.”

“And what did she say?”

“She muttered disjointed words, which none of us could understand.”

Father lowered his head, as if the monk was not talking but lashing his head with a whip.

The walk to the inn took about half an hour. Father said nothing; he mumbled to himself and finally asked me if I was cold. I knew that as soon as he got to the inn he would order a drink, and that's what he did. After he had gulped it down, he rubbed his hands, turned to me, and asked, “What shall I order for you, dear?”

I asked for a fried egg with bread and butter. I was tired, and what I had seen that day returned to me. The thought that Mother was very sick and lying in a monastery did not preoccupy me. It seemed that our staying here was a preparation for another journey, a longer one, to a place where we would meet Mother again. Father downed some drinks and his mood picked up. He asked the innkeeper about the monastery and the infirmary. The innkeeper did not hold back his opinion. “Corrupt to its very foundations.”

“The monks or the workers?”

“Both the monks and the workers.”

“Strange,” said Father. “You'd expect that a holy place would be pure.”

“There is no purity in this world, you mark my words,” said the innkeeper, exposing a mouthful of white teeth. After that Father sat with him, and they chatted like old friends. But then, suddenly, one of the drunks got up, came over to our table, and called out, “What are Jews doing in this holy place?”

“Jews are people, too, and God dwells also in their hearts.” Father spoke as peasants speak.

“Who said that the Jews are also people?”

“I said it,” said Father.

“I say that they are devils.”

“I'm not a devil,” said Father. “I'm flesh and blood, and I'm just like anyone else.”

“Ah — there's the lie.”

“What lie?”

“There's the lie.” It was clear that the peasant had no more words, and that he would only repeat the same ones with different emphasis. The innkeeper, who just a few moments before had talked with Father in such a friendly way, did not intervene. He must not have caught on that Father was Jewish; when he realized it, he held himself aloof.

In the meantime, more drunks gathered around our table. There were no blows, only empty threats. Father shouted, “All anti-Semites will have to give account, and the day will come when they'll be put into the same prison in which the art critics are put.” Everyone laughed and laughed, waving hands and bottles. The tumult went on for a long time. Finally the drunks dispersed, and Father turned to ask the innkeeper if there was a room for the night.

“There is,” said the innkeeper unenthusiastically.

“We're dead tired,” said Father. I was completely exhausted, and yet I still caught the phrase “dead tired,” and I repeated it to myself until it penetrated the darkness of my head.