Suddenly, Love

22

THAT NIGHT BAD DREAMS PREYED ON IRENA’S SLEEP. SHE got out of bed several times and stood by the window to see whether the dawn had arrived. Ever since she had forgotten to visit her mother’s grave on the anniversary of her death, evil spirits were tormenting her.

As always in time of trouble, Irena clung to the two thin photo albums her parents had left her. She especially loves the photographs that survived from Europe. Her parents didn’t tell her much about the war. But before his death her father would open the album and go through it with her. Every photograph was a world in itself: their branch of Hashomer Hatsa’ir, the abandoned palace of Count Potocki, the stream that divided the village, the tall church that was painted green, the wooden synagogue. And at the center were her strong grandparents, God-fearing Jews who tilled the soil and who looked, outwardly, like Ukrainian peasants. Sometimes Irena feels that she, too, had been in their house, eaten their bread, and worked in their fields. Every time evil visions take hold of her, she says to herself, I mustn’t sink into them. I have a task, and I must stay on watch. But what can she do when Ernst’s surprising requests shock her? When he stands at the threshold and says, “What did I want to tell you?” she becomes dizzy with fear of the words that will come.

This morning, before leaving the house, Ernst once again scares Irena when he again asks her to burn his writings should something happen to him.

“I can’t take on that role.” Irena speaks boldly.

“If you won’t promise me, I’ll burn them myself.”

She raises her head. “Don’t do that.”

“I don’t want strangers to grope my writings.”

“Good God!” Irena exclaims, without knowing what she was saying.

While Ernst is out of the house, Irena involves herself in her work and tries to dispel the fears from her heart. She knows that in his condition she mustn’t defy him, that she must say, I’ll burn them, if only to give him relief. Yet it’s hard for her to say it. Her mother used to tell her that for the sake of reconciliation or to prevent sorrow one occasionally has to turn a blind eye or tell a lie. Telling the truth is sometimes harder than lying. Irena loved her mother and loved to listen to her. But she wasn’t able to absorb her practical life wisdom.

Ernst returns from the café with an ironic smile on his face. An Israeli publisher has agreed to publish a selection of his writings, but of course not for free. Ernst is required to put up three thousand dollars toward the expense of producing the book. For years his manuscripts bounced around from one publisher to another, and now, when an opportunity to publish them has finally arrived, Ernst isn’t satisfied with his writing. For many years — actually, since his youth — he has striven to tell the story of humanity itself. Ethnic details seemed restrictive and provincial to him. But now he knows that literature begins at the well you leaned over as a child and with the black fear that looked up at you from its depths. From the puppy you patted that turned out to be rabid. From racing to the clinic crowded with panic-stricken adults and screaming children, the doctor, holding a huge needle, baring your trembling belly and sticking the needle into it, your mother no less frightened than her child. This is where he should have begun, with the little details that have been soaked in the autumn rain, with his mother and father. If he had begun at that point, his life would have been different.

For a moment Ernst wonders what to say to Irena. Sometimes he thinks that Irena understands the torments of his writing no less than the pains of his body, and he wants to sit down and tell her about them in detail. But some days he is overcome by doubt, and he prefers not to share his insecurity with her.

“What’s the matter?” Irena asks when she sees that Ernst is upset.

“They decided to publish a few of my novellas.” He doesn’t keep it from her.

“That’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t explain.

Irena doesn’t like to press him. When Ernst shuts off his words, she retreats to the kitchen and leaves him sitting in the armchair. It’s hard for her to see him in his daily struggles. It isn’t enough that he has to swallow nine pills every day; he compounds his trials by straining to write. But she has to admit that Ernst withstands them. He dresses carefully, goes out on his walks every day, and his expression doesn’t betray his pain.

Ernst is aware of everything around him — the local culture, the economy. The local culture doesn’t capture his heart. This is a country of refugees, and Ernst doesn’t believe that someone who has fled from his birthplace can create a new literature or new art forms in his adopted home. Even if they have become successful tillers of the soil, industrialists, or university lecturers, refugees will always remain part of the culture from which they came. This is why Ernst feels that the culture here is deracinated, that it’s just politics dressed up as literature.

One time, when Ernst expressed this opinion to one of the managers of the investment firm where he worked, the manager attempted to correct him.

“A new nation is growing up here,” the manager said.

“In what way is it new?” replied Ernst.

“Does this need an explanation?”

Irena listens and tries to understand Ernst’s opinion. She sees that he struggles day and night, pouring his soul into the long pages that lie on his desk. Why not rest a little from writing? she wants to cry out every time she sees his drained face.

That night Ernst writes a letter to the publisher. “I won’t conceal from you,” he says, “that I don’t regard my novellas as any good. I’m grateful to God that you delayed their publication. I would be very sorry if they were published.” He wants to read the letter to Irena, but in the end he decides not to bother her. He puts it into an envelope and immediately feels relieved.