All Whom I Have Loved

56

The following day we returned to the monastery. The monk at the entrance and the monk in the waiting room both welcomed us and bowed, and soon we were standing by the white iron bed. Now I recognized Mother's face. Her hair had grayed and her cheeks were sunken, but her smile, or what remained of it, hovered about her lips.

The monk left, and the two of us stood there. A pure light streamed in from the windows and washed over the pictures and the statues that were set into the walls. I knew Mother's sleep, but this wasn't her sleep. Her head was sunk deep into the pillow, and a strange paleness covered her face.

The longer we stood there, the clearer it became that we would not be able to draw Mother out of this deep sleep. Father took a firm hold of my hand and said, “Let's go.” But the moment he uttered those words, Mother opened her eyes and looked at us. “Arthur,” she said, and immediately closed her eyes again.

We remained by the bed, Father on his knees and me at his side. We heard the praying of the monks and the choir accompanying them. I saw angels hovering in the sky and felt that I, too, was ascending.

The monk came back to us, and Father told him that Mother had opened her eyes, recognized him, and spoken his name. “That's a good sign,” the monk said, and we left with him.

“And where is her husband?” asked Father in a chillingly practical voice.

“They've parted.”

“I didn't know.”

“The headmaster from her school came once.”

“And no one else?”

“No one.”

We went outside, walked around the monastery, and then returned to the inn. It was empty, and we sat next to the window. Father had a drink and I ate a sandwich. The long journey now seemed like a dream taking place in a steep valley with no way out. Father's attempts to get out proved futile; the walls were sheer and the canyon narrow as we went forward.

Father could not calm down. We returned to the monastery, and the monk at the entrance told us that Mother had been brought there a month ago, critically ill. The doctors had taken care of her, but although her situation had improved, her life was still in danger.

“What can we do?” Father asked with an exaggerated gesture.

“Pray.”

“And if we don't know how to pray?” asked Father, using the plural for some reason.

“Don't worry, sir, we'll do that on your behalf.”

“I thank you with all my heart,” said Father, as if the man had removed a heavy weight from his shoulders. But it seemed to be only a temporary relief. Father was angry, and mostly with himself. The journey to Bucharest and the exhibition now seemed to him like a nightmare.

We circled the walls of the monastery again. The walk was long and tiring, and toward evening we returned to the inn. Now it was full. The smell of vodka and tobacco hung densely in the stale air. Suddenly, a man emerged out of the tobacco smoke and approached Father. Father did not recognize him at first, but then he fell on his neck and cried out, “Kuba!”

Kuba had been Father's friend at the orphanage, and they had studied painting together at the academy. His first exhibit was held at the Raphael Gallery, and he had made a name for himself. A year later, he disappeared. Rumor had it that he had sailed to America. Now the mystery was solved: Kuba had bought a house in the Carpathians and retreated there to lead a life of piety. Kuba now looked like one of the Jews whom I had seen in the synagogue at Storozynetz; his beard was long and thick, and he wore a peaked cap. He came into town once a month to stock up on provisions. Father asked if he had a family, and Kuba replied immediately: six sons and a daughter.

We went out to his wagon, and Father helped him load up the provisions. Then he told Kuba about Mother and her illness, and about the long sleep into which she had sunk. Kuba's body seemed to shrink with the bad news, and he closed his eyes. Father said, “I will be here until the doctors draw her out of her deep sleep.”

They stood there, talking, recalling people and places and, of course, the orphanage. Kuba seemed to listen with his entire being, and he kept embracing Father and promising to come and see us. For a long time we stood watching his wagon as it disappeared in the distance. And we were silent, as if something wondrous had befallen us.