Suddenly, Love

51

SO THE DAYS PASS, AND THEY REACH THE MONTH OF April. Ernst lies in bed most of the day, dozing, reading a book, or watching Irena’s doings. Her body is full, but her movements are quick. The house is tidy and shining, with a vase of flowers or a landscape in every corner. Irena’s taste is like her personality: simple and not overly decorated. The corner where she secludes herself with her dear ones also has nothing that offends the eye. When she has finished the housework, she sits at the dining room table or in the kitchen. “A woman devoted to her house,” says the doctor, but Ernst knows that there is a secret hiding within her simplicity. He has not deciphered it, but he feels it throughout the day.

When evening comes, Irena expresses to Ernst her feeling that life is a continuum that extends into the unknown. There’s no point in listening to the voices of the spirits or of the doctor, who announces each time he arrives that parting is unavoidable. Irena, in any case, won’t leave Ernst alone at any of the way stations that are ahead of him. She now sees him as that low-ranking officer who took command after most of the senior officers were killed or taken prisoner, organized the remnants of the division, and launched a counterattack that defeated the enemy. For that deed he was awarded a medal for heroism by the Soviet Union and raised to the rank of lieutenant colonel.

Irena has worked for Ernst for only three years, but she can’t imagine her life without this house and without him. Her own home has grown distant from her, more like a house where life is mummified. Ernst is a model patient. He seems like a soldier who has been badly wounded at the front, but determination to defeat the enemy burns in his bones. Even now, if someone only gave him crutches, he’d join his regiment.

When Irena discovers this determination, her faith that Ernst will confound all the doctors’ predictions, will rise from his illness and return to his former habits, is strengthened. He still has a lot of work to do, and he will doubtless need a drink or two during the day. The doctors have forbidden strong drink, but to boost his spirits Irena will on occasion secretly give him a shot of vodka. He’ll sip it and look at her with a victorious expression.

There had been days when Kafka’s writings took possession of Ernst, and his own voice was stifled. Thank God, he was no longer under the influence of that great author. Kafka’s focus was entirely inward. Even the exterior was his interior. No wonder he fascinated those who were like him. Ernst explains to Irena why he had been drawn to Kafka and what dangers lurked in that attraction. Now Irena understands most of what he says, and what she doesn’t understand, she intuits.

Later Ernst writes a short letter to Irena, revealing to her that in the coming days he intends to destroy the manuscripts he has accumulated in his cabinet. He is doing this with a calm heart and a feeling of obligation. He will leave only what he has written in the past two years. He asks her not to be angry with him and not to blame herself. Moreover, he regards his latest writing as a collaboration with her. Not only has she been a constant help to him, but she was also the spirit of what he wrote. Therefore, if the manuscript should ever be published, it should say — and this is his explicit desire—“by Ernst and Irena Blumenfeld.” When he finishes writing the letter, he puts it among his papers, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

Irena’s thoughts are not easily confused. She makes blintzes filled with cheese and raisins. She knows that this is a dish that Ernst savors. The preparations, the frying, and waiting for the moment he awakens direct her thoughts, and she is sure that her life will carry on at this pace for many years. She wants nothing more. Every day with Ernst is a day of spreading her wings and soaring to the heights. If she could take on all of his pains, or even just some of them, she would be happier. Over time Irena has discovered some stratagems for making Ernst happy — for example, handing him his brick-colored shirt in the morning, ironed and fragrant. She knows he likes that shirt, and if he wears it, he will have a pleasant morning.

With every passing month Irena understands Ernst’s language better. He speaks to her in German but mixes in a few Hebrew sentences. She likes that mixture a lot. Over the past few weeks he has been using more Hebrew, and she interprets that also as a good sign.

On several occasions Ernst has expressed regret to her that he doesn’t know Hebrew well enough to write in it. In the past he had envied the author Leah Goldberg, who spoke many languages but adopted the Hebrew language for her writing. To her credit it must be said that she never said to him, When will you start writing in Hebrew? She had read some of his manuscripts and regarded him as an author with a voice of his own. They had sat together several times in Café Hermon or Atara. But now, thank God, he has a road map. His life is no longer one of wandering and confusion. He gets up in the morning, and if his body bears him, he sets out on his way. The Carpathians are a tangled landscape, but he is helped by his memory, and, amazingly, his memory leads him to the black cliffs that reach out from the earth. From there, the way to Grandfather’s sanctuary is short.

When he reaches the threshold of the sanctuary, the smell of wood strikes his nostrils, but more than the smell of wood, the silence is intense. Ernst feels it throughout his body. It wraps him up and takes him away from all the tumult that has clung to him. Now he will dwell there for a few years. He will absorb everything that is both visible and hidden in that silence.

Day after day, Irena feels that she is growing stronger. Sleepless nights leave no mark on her. If she were required to travel a long distance to bring medicine for Ernst, she would go. She feels that much of this strength is in her arms and legs, and she can now make more of an effort.

The tall doctor comes twice a week, adding medicine or changing a dosage. But in actual fact, he comes to converse with Ernst about art. From his youth he wanted to devote himself to literature and art, but his parents forced him to study medicine. First he resisted, but in time he followed their advice and went to study medicine in Vienna. He was hoping that one day, perhaps after he retired, he would start writing. For a moment he forgets that he is a doctor, and he asks his patient about his writing habits and the sources he draws on.

Ernst doesn’t hide the fact that for years he wandered in alien fields but that in recent times he has discovered a reservoir of living water that was hidden within him.