Suddenly, Love

12

THE COMMISSARS QUICKLY DISCOVERED ERNST’S ABILITIES: his mastery of languages, his articulate writing, and his ability to compose a series of tracts. Literature was his great love, but he suppressed his feelings and gave them no expression. The world would not be founded on poetry but on eliminating injustice, he repeated to himself. Instead of poetry or literature, Ernst created posters, open letters, and pamphlets. He learned to turn a personal feeling into a slogan that caught the eye and captivated the ear. Like all his comrades, Ernst divided the world into black and white, bad and good. In the good world dwelt communism, and in the bad world, everything that existed before it. The division was so sharp that no one around him doubted it. From time to time Ernst would feel a twinge in his heart at the sight of a word he had corrupted, but the belief that he was doing what was necessary was stronger than any other feeling.

Hour after hour Ernst would sit in his cellar, writing and rewriting. On the agenda were not only social and political matters but also culture, literature, religion, the plastic arts, and music. He called upon all his abilities and, even more, on his youthful energy, to produce splendid pamphlets. The publications of the other political parties seemed thin in content to him, faltering, and lacking vision. His texts shone with borrowings from literature and philosophy. They stood out in their simplicity and honesty, and they aroused the heart.

People were enthusiastic about his writing and quoted it; his work became well known in Czernowitz. Of course no one knew who the author was. There were rumors that the polished pamphlets came straight from Moscow. The Communists of the city weren’t examples of good behavior, but Ernst’s posters and pamphlets were called “a model of good writing.”

Ernst was shunted from city to city like a workhorse. Everywhere he went, a cellar, an old desk, coarse paper, a pen, and ink awaited him. He knew what to elevate and what to cast down. Words flowed from his pen that were full of meaning and laden with irony, words that fired the imagination.

At restricted Party meetings, which were called “kitchen nights,” future actions and punishments were determined, and Ernst saw the regional leaders close up. They were mainly of his tribe, and they spoke better Ukrainian and Russian than the Ukrainians. They were short and nearsighted, and their eyes were filled with cunning, suspicion, and ambition. Their practical ideas were written in little notebooks that they would whip out of their pockets. They pronounced Jewish names the way the Ukrainians did, which immediately displayed the barrier they had erected between themselves and their brethren. Another thing was conspicuous at those kitchen nights: the little maps, the handiwork of anonymous women volunteers, that indicated the religious institutions, factories, and workshops that were to be burned down, or whose owners were to be attacked.

After two years without seeing his parents, Ernst decided to visit them. He didn’t do it willingly. Harsh dreams tormented his sleep. At first he tried to ignore them, but they returned night after night. His parents appeared in the dreams the way he remembered them, with no evident change. Their faces had grown thinner, and, as always, they expressed disappointment with themselves. He interpreted that disappointment as a demand for him to return home.

Ernst made his way in the dark from his cellar to the house. He knew that his parents locked up the grocery store at seven and returned home. At eight his father would stretch out on the sofa, immerse himself in the newspaper, and wait for his mother to call, “Dinner is ready.”

When Ernst opened the door, nothing new was revealed. His mother was in the middle of preparing a meal; his father lay on the sofa. Ernst’s sudden appearance riveted them in their places. In their great astonishment, they could say nothing.

“Where have you been?” At last his mother got a few words out of her mouth.

“Not far from here,” he answered in a voice not his own.

“Do you have an apartment?”

“Yes.”

Ernst wasn’t anxious to provide details, and his mother’s mouth was still. His father didn’t utter a syllable. His long face grew longer. His eyes were filled with astonishment. Seeing his father’s expression, Ernst said, in a self-satisfied way, “I’m working on important projects.” His father didn’t react to that, either. Ernst felt that the word “projects” was laden with empty pretension.

“We’re about to close the store.” His mother recovered herself and told him about their situation.

“Why?”

“No more customers.”

“How will you make a living?”

“God knows.”

Soon everything will change, he was about to tell her, but instead he said, “You have to think about what to do.”

Hearing her son’s words, Ernst’s mother’s face cleared and she said, “We have no one in this city whom we can consult. The big stores are devouring the small ones. We can’t offer customers what a big store offers.”

“I understand,” Ernst said and lowered his head.

“We’ll have to go to work somewhere.”

When he heard that, Ernst was gripped by irritation. “I’ll come again soon and stay longer,” he said.

“Won’t you eat something?”

“I’m in a hurry,” Ernst said, as he used to in the past.

“I made the sweet blintzes you like.” She spoke as if he had never left the house.

“Not now.” Ernst hastily kissed her on the forehead and went to the door.

As the door closed, his father emerged from his inertia. “I don’t understand a thing,” he said, curling up on the sofa.

Ernst dreamed about free love, but the Party forbade all contact between the sexes because it interfered with Party activity, which came before everything. You were allowed to marry and have children, but you weren’t allowed to kiss in the cellars, not to mention have intercourse. Delinquents were reprimanded, and comments were entered in their personal dossiers.

Once Ernst witnessed the trial of a lively, buxom girl who was accused of having had sexual relations with three boys. The poor girl didn’t blame the boys but only herself. The verdict was unequivocal and cruel. She was expelled from the ranks of the Party for life.