Suddenly, Love

42

ERNST RISES EVERY MORNING LIKE A SOLDIER. SINCE THE doctors issued their verdict, his diligence has increased. He sits at his desk or in the armchair, writing and crossing out. His struggle to find the right words is evident on the paper, but it isn’t an irritating struggle. He calmly crosses out and patiently looks for a substitute. His perseverance plants hope in Irena’s heart that soon he will recover his health and be able to leave the house.

To lighten his mood and encourage him, Irena dresses nicely, wears makeup, and hangs the pendant that he bought her around her neck.

“You’re a charming woman,” says Ernst, taking her hand and kissing it. These chivalrous gestures move her.

Irena is glad that the doctors’ prognosis hasn’t filled Ernst with despair. In the morning his posture is erect, like that of an officer marching at the head of his soldiers to capture a fortified position. For that reason Irena thinks he is writing about his service in the Red Army. She is mistaken. After years of internal struggle, he has finally reached the “hidden source,” as he calls it.

Ernst knows that there are pitfalls and obstacles in this enchanted realm. His memory hasn’t always preserved the correct details. The impulse to prettify is a human one, and it’s hard to avoid it. Nevertheless, Ernst feels that he is breathing the very air and touching the very earth that brought the mountain Jews into the world.

For Ernst’s seventy-first birthday, Irena has once again baked a cheesecake and decorated it with strawberries. This time he is pleased and says, “Thank you, Irena.” He gets out of bed immediately and sits at the table. Irena sits next to him. He has become thinner over the past few months, but the gleam in his eyes is as sharp as ever. He writes for several hours every day, and each morning he goes over what he has written the day before and continues on. From time to time Ernst asks Irena to bring him a folder from the cabinet. There had been several instances in the past when he had consigned a folder she gave him to destruction. Now it seems that his rage has eased. He reads with a smile and asks her to put the folder back in its place.

Ernst’s writing is progressing. Every day a few more pages accumulate on the desk. Irena is happy that his writing is uninterrupted and that he seldom tears up the paper.

“It’s all because of you, Irena,” he says, holding her gaze.

“Me?”

Ernst likes that sudden look of surprise, which can be seen also in her white neck, her small ears, and her cheeks. She still has within her the demeanor of a young girl, and every time a smile lights up her face, her nose wrinkles.

Most of the time Irena’s thoughts are given over to Ernst, to his meals and his medicine, to creating a pleasant atmosphere for him. Once a week the doctor comes to see him. He’s a tall man and his speech is full of impediments. Ernst asks him some questions and at the same time offers him a few words to use. The doctor is grateful and uses them.

“Has there been a turn for the worse?” Ernst asks.

“I haven’t seen the latest test results yet.”

“Excellent,” Ernst exclaims.

“They’ll certainly come by tomorrow,” says the doctor, not realizing that this will shorten the reprieve.

The riddles of life that appear in the guise of illness confound the doctor, too. He admits that as of now nothing has the power to stop the spread of the malignant cells, but he says that one day, perhaps very soon, we will have the right tools. Ernst knows that this tall man, whose expression displays benevolence and a good heart, wants to encourage him, and he accepts the encouragement without demurral.

“What are you writing about?” the doctor overcomes his reserve to ask.

“About the Jews in the Carpathian Mountains,” Ernst is pleased to reply.

“I come from there, too,” says the doctor, as though he’s been caught concealing something.

“May I ask where you were born?”

“In Vizhnitz.” The doctor is glad that his reply is brief.

“So we’re from the same region.”

“But I left at the age of five. I don’t remember anything from there.” The doctor tries to backtrack.

“May I ask where your family went?”

“To Vienna.”

“Too bad,” says Ernst.

The doctor lowers his head, as though a secret has been revealed. “Recently I met a cousin, and he told me about the Carpathian Jews.” The doctor backtracks from his backtracking.

“Jews of heaven, weren’t they!” Ernst speaks with enthusiasm.

“I had the impression they were tillers of the soil.”

“There’s no soil without heaven,” says Ernst, embarrassing the doctor.

From the first time that Ernst had met him, the doctor aroused his sympathy. Unlike the arrogant specialists, he doesn’t inspire fear. He asks the patient questions and immediately tries to make a connection with him. He’s a tall man, but his height isn’t noticeable in the house. Because of his stooped back, he looks like a Christian minister who has come to visit a member of his congregation who is tormented by pain.

One night, when Ernst was wracked with pain, Irena left her bed and got into his. She hugged his large body and pressed him close to her. When the pain didn’t subside, she got up and rubbed his body with oil and then curled up next to him again. She sensed that her hands were doing what was necessary and that it was better to avoid asking questions. Ernst thanked her by stroking her, then turned his face toward hers. The power of his closeness made her dizzy.

Irena doesn’t let the pain prevail. She gets into Ernst’s bed immediately and lies down next to him. Contact with her seems to soothe him. He turns to her and kisses her brow, and when he embraces her, she feels all of his gentle strength.