Suddenly, Love

30

ERNST HAS RECOVERED: HIS BLOOD TESTS, BLOOD PRESSURE, and EKG are all normal. Soon they will remove the cast from his leg. As for his constant sleeping, the doctors say that it’s curative. Irena knows that the struggle he has been engaged in for so many months has changed its location; now it’s being waged in his sleep. Ernst’s sleep is chock-full of bits and pieces, and every few minutes he wakes up and utters a few words or sentences.

It’s hard for Irena to understand whether Ernst is talking about his life or about his writing. His writing preoccupies him no less than his life. Over the past few days she has heard him murmur: “Facts, facts, and not descriptions. An overabundance of details only blurs the main point. The prose of the Bible has to be a model for any writer.”

One time when he awakened he said, “My best years were when I was in the Red Army. You know who’s a friend and who’s a foe. The soldiers are your sons, and the enemy is the serpent you have to drive out. The grief is great and it is difficult, but your thoughts are clear. There are few doubts, and they don’t gnaw at you. You do your duty, and at night, even when the cannons thunder, you sleep the sleep of the righteous.”

That night Ernst told Irena that after his demobilization from the Red Army he fled to Italy, and from there he was about to sail to Australia. A lot of people were going to Australia and New Zealand then, and it seemed to him that the distant continent would make his heart forget his life. “I didn’t go to Australia because a ship had docked in Naples that was gathering refugees on their way to Palestine. And so, almost by chance, I arrived here.”

Meanwhile, Irena is preparing the apartment for Ernst’s return. The thought that life would soon return to its routine thrills her. Ernst’s injury and slow recovery brought her closer to him through his sleep. From his sleep she learns whether his pain persists or has begun to subside.

One night he told her, “If I had destroyed everything I had written at the right time, perhaps I could have started afresh. Since I didn’t destroy it, I can’t begin again. I saved my labor, even though I knew it was fruitless labor.”

Later that night he awoke and said, “Forgive me, Irena.”

“For what?”

“For asking you to destroy my manuscripts.”

“Why?”

“A person should do that kind of thing by himself and not via an agent.”

Irena was momentarily relieved, although she understood that his earlier request had disturbed him. Don’t worry, she almost said to him, whatever you command me to do, I’ll do.

In her heart Irena knew that submission of this sort would not please him. More than once Ernst had said to her, sometimes in a tone of reproach, “You work too much. You have no life of your own. Complete self-abnegation isn’t a good trait.” Occasionally Irena feels that Ernst wants to expel her from his life. She is mistaken, of course. He is in fact becoming increasingly attached to her.

Sometimes he says: “I miss our house, waking up and knowing that in a little while you’ll come and make me breakfast. Since the end of the war, I’ve been struggling. But now I’m not alone.” Those declarations frighten her, and she wants to tell him, Not because of me. I’m a simple woman. But in her heart she preserves every word that comes from his mouth.

Irena has thoroughly cleaned the apartment. For the first time she looks closely at Ernst’s manuscripts. There are eight thick folders and four envelopes containing clean manuscripts, orderly, with headings. Ernst has occasionally said of these manuscripts that they are full of flaws and need to be rewritten. The harshest word he used was “counterfeit.”

Irena doesn’t understand how they are flawed. Ernst’s devotion to his work — and this she could testify to in any court — is complete, and without respite. Day and night he toils at his writing. But for the most part he tears up and throws into the wastebasket what he has written, leaving very little. It isn’t a pointless devotion, she says to herself, rejecting Ernst’s severity.

A few nights earlier, as Irena sat at Ernst’s bedside, she shut her eyes and fell asleep. In her dream she was in a courtroom. It was almost empty, lit here and there with patches of sun. Ernst sat in the defendant’s seat, alongside two lawyers. It all looked official but also frightening, perhaps because of the dim light that surrounded the empty benches. The prosecutor made accusations. Irena didn’t understand a single word from the many that he fired off.

Suddenly, Irena was called to the witness box. I’m here by mistake, she wanted to say. I don’t know how to testify. But the judge, seeing her hesitation, glared angrily at her, and so she stepped forward.

How many years have you known the accused? the prosecutor asked her.

Two and a half years, she said, glad that there were words in her mouth with which to reply.

What do you know about the accused? asked the prosecutor, without raising his voice.

Ernst speaks very little, sir. Irena spoke cautiously, as though handling a fragile vessel.

Nevertheless, what did you hear? What did he say? And what did he talk about?

He mainly accuses himself, she said and was glad she had found the appropriate words.

What does he accuse himself of?

That his writing is full of flaws.

And what else?

Mainly that.

Irena awoke from her nightmare. Ernst was sleeping quietly, the lights in the rooms were dim, and the other patients near him were sleeping peacefully. But Irena wasn’t at ease. She could still see the courtroom. She didn’t feel completely awake, and she was afraid that she would soon be called upon to testify again. That fear got her to her feet.

Ernst opened his eyes. “Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“I’ve slept more than enough.”

“Go home, my dear.”

“I’m not tired,” she said, laughing softly to herself.