All Whom I Have Loved

57

We went back to see Mother the next day, and we were astonished. Mother was sitting up, leaning against two heavy pillows, her eyes wide open. Father sank down onto his knees, and I followed him. Mother's face was turned toward us, but her gaze was somewhere else. “Henia,” whispered Father, but Mother did not respond. The elderly monk who was standing next to us and who was a witness to the miracle also sank to his knees. Father pressed both his hands to the floor, as if he were trying to push himself up.

Suddenly, Mother shut her eyes and her face closed. The monk looked at us as if to hint: it's best to leave her; the patient needs complete rest. Father got to his feet, and I did as he did.

“She's feeling better,” said Father.

“True,” said the monk.

“Thank God,” said Father, as if he had borrowed these two words from the monk.

We stood there, looking at her. Her closed eyes seemed to be gazing inside herself.

The monk turned toward the door, and we followed him out. Almost without realizing it, we walked down the long corridor and found ourselves outside.

“She must be better?” Father linked his question to the monk's answer.

Again we circled the monastery. Before we had completed the walk, Father said, “Mother will get better and we'll take her with us to Czernowitz. Her marriage to André was a mistake.” His voice was devoid of anger and rang clear. As if I was in a sweet twilight, I now remembered the apartment that we had lived in together with Mother, with Father sitting on the floor and playing dominos with me.

How many lifetimes had we been through since then? My bond with Father had deepened in the past year. His silence no longer weighed upon me. I could walk with him for two or three hours without exchanging a word and at the end of the walk feel that we'd talked a lot.

We ate lunch at the home of a peasant, who served us corn pie and omelets made with cream that he had just skimmed off sour milk. We were hungry, and we ate with relish. Father paid, and the peasant asked if we were Jews.

“You've got it wrong,” Father rebuked him. “We're Swabian; you can't see that we're Swabian?”

“My mistake,” he apologized.

“You don't see that we're taller than Jews?” Father did not let up.

“You can see it.”

“So how did you make such a mistake?”

“It just seemed to me—”

“Not every person who speaks German is a Jew.”

“You're right, sir.”

I liked Father's charade. When he was in a good mood he entertained, told jokes, and threw in the occasional vulgar word. There were times when he would put on a peas-ant's hat or a merchant's hat, doing imitations and playing entire scenes, and everyone would hang on to every word that came out of his mouth.

So it was then. Father sang, climbed a tree, and imitated the peasant at whose home we had eaten and the innkeeper at whose inn we were spending the night. Most of the time I was afraid of his happiness. After such happiness, darkness would descend upon him, his eyes would narrow, his head would retreat into the collar of his coat, and not a sound would come out of his mouth. But on that day his high spirits did not plummet. He took gulps from his flask, and until late into the night he told me about his childhood in the orphanage and about how he had met Mother.

That night I dreamed that we were traveling on the train, passing stations in the semidarkness. A man who sat next to Father was pestering him with questions. At first Father was polite and answered, but when the man overdid it, Father got to his feet and shouted, “Enough! I don't owe you any answers!” The man was taken aback by Father's tone of voice but continued asking his questions. Father ignored him, but the man did not let up. Father warned him that if he continued to bother him he would hit him, but the man ignored his warning and laughed. That laughter seemed to hurt Father deeply, and he struck the man in the face. Then the man got up and called out, “I've exposed the face of this Jew!”

Father continued to hit the man. His punches, though strong enough, apparently did not hurt him, for the man continued to laugh, as if he wasn't the one being beaten but the one doing the hitting. And indeed he was. I lifted up my eyes: Father's face was covered with blood.