Suddenly, Love

17

ERNST WROTE LAST NIGHT AND WAS PLEASED WITH WHAT he wrote. When he is pleased, his face opens up, and his weakness isn’t apparent. He shows Irena things that she didn’t expect to see: his city in its seasons, the hidden little parks where he loved to walk after school, and the tiny kiosks that looked like chapels, where you could buy a glass of cold lemonade or a cup of ice cream and from there go directly to the municipal library. High school was his racecourse. There he brilliantly demonstrated not only his knowledge but, mainly, his ability to think. French, literature, and philosophy were the subjects he loved, but he was also outstanding in the sciences. The teachers favored him, and everyone was impressed by his abilities and courtesy. No one doubted that he would become a university professor. How strange, he would later say to himself, that I sold my soul to a false faith. Communism, which took hold of him while he was in high school, halted his progress.

Irena has made Ernst breakfast: thin toast, low-fat cheese, and vegetables. She tries to vary his meals. This time she has added black olives and homemade plum preserves.

“You should sit and eat with me,” Ernst says in a commanding tone.

“I enjoy serving you.”

“But you also deserve breakfast.” He has demanded this on several occasions, but Irena doesn’t feel comfortable sitting next to him.

When it rains hard and the weather is very cold, Ernst lies in bed and reads the Bible. He discovered the Bible two years ago, and since then he has been charmed by the rhythm and the economy of the text. He reads a chapter or two in Hebrew every day, assisted by Martin Buber’s translation, which sounds too clever in comparison to the clarity of the original.

Yesterday Ernst recalled that three months before his thirteenth birthday, his father brought home a private tutor to prepare him for his bar mitzvah. The tutor was an old man whose eyes abounded with good-hearted gentleness. The old man grasped the Bible in his two pale hands, looked straight into Ernst’s eyes, and said, “This is our holy Torah, which we received from heaven. There are marvelous things in it. Our fathers watched over it with vigilance.” He spoke to Ernst in German mixed with Yiddish, which detracted somewhat from the value of his words. At that time Ernst was far from Jews and Judaism, and the old man’s words, full of conviction, sounded to him like a counterfeit appeal, if not a deceitful one.

A few of the lessons amused him, but before three weeks had passed, Ernst’s patience wore out. The sacrificial rituals seemed to him like a slurry of blood that belonged to a prehistoric age. He didn’t hide his opinion from the old man.

“You mustn’t talk that way,” his tutor replied. “God, the Master of All, hears you.”

“I’m not afraid. God is an invention of primitive man. We have been liberated from that invention.”

Ernst spoke to him as one speaks to an ignoramus. Upon hearing those impertinent words, the old man hung his head. After he recovered he turned to Ernst and said, “I see that you don’t want to learn our holy Torah.”

“No.” The answer came without delay.

The old man tried another tactic. “You can’t be a Jew without Torah,”

“I willingly give up that title.”

The old man said nothing further. He rose from his chair and headed toward the kitchen, where Ernst’s father was. After hearing what the old man had to say, Ernst’s father paid him, apologized, said a few words about the younger generation, and accompanied him to the door.

“I see that the Torah doesn’t interest you,” Ernst’s father said to him later.

“Correct.” Ernst was brief.

“You can learn history from the Torah.” His father tried to speak in the language of Jews who had attended high school.

Ernst’s reply was once again brief. “You learn history from history books.”

His father knew that in matters of education, he would never have the upper hand.

That distant memory, which had lain dormant within him for years, flooded back, and Ernst sees clearly some forgotten objects in his house, such as the washboard that hung in the back of the kitchen and the braid of garlic that was next to it. It appears as though the house that he had abandoned with contempt and thoughtlessness has not faded from his memory. The image of the old man, which had been revealed to him at night, makes him happy, like a gift that has come to him from a distance. For a moment he wants to tell Irena about his happiness, but he realizes right away that the matter is complicated and that this isn’t the right time to talk about it. “How is it outside?”

He speaks to Irena distractedly.

“Cold.”

“I’ll wear my winter coat.”

Ernst surprises Irena again and again. A week ago, before going out to the café, he turned to her and asked, “Am I dressed well enough?”

“Absolutely.”

“Sloppiness doesn’t become a man of my age.”

Irena irons his clothes very attentively, but she leaves to him the choice of what to wear and when. Ernst is sensitive to color. She has often seen him lay a shirt on his coat to see whether the colors match. He likes vivid colors, but not those that are too conspicuous. When Ernst goes out in the morning, he leaves some of his essence in the house. Sometimes Irena speaks to the absent Ernst, telling him something that has occurred to her. How strange that it’s easier for her to speak to Ernst when he’s not at home.