Suddenly, Love

52

ERNST’S SITUATION IS GRAVE, BUT IT ISN’T GETTING worse. The doctor who comes to visit him asks about the secrets of writing, and Ernst tells him. When Ernst says that silence is preferable to speech, the doctor is surprised. What does silence produce and why is it preferable to speech, which connects people?

“Silence is the full expression,” says Ernst.

“But, nevertheless, it’s mute.” The doctor is pleased that he’s found the right words. He raises his head, looks at Ernst, and says to himself: This man is so ill, but still he isn’t lost in the world. He doesn’t preach, he doesn’t make demands upon others, and he doesn’t pretend to know a lot. He works, and he’s glad to be working.

Ernst’s spirits appear to be stable now, and his thoughts are quiet. He doesn’t give up sitting at his desk. When Irena feels that the Angel of Death is lurking near the window, she gets up and drives him away, the way one would drive away a bird of prey.

They sit together for hours, mainly quietly. Irena is now more sure than ever that Ernst’s life will continue far beyond this spring, with its bright skies and pleasant warmth, into the summer, and from there on to the autumn, and then the winter, and on and on.

When Ernst writes a sentence, he strives with all his powers to end it correctly. When he is pleased with a paragraph or a page, his face is bright. Irena recognizes that happiness in every feature. It instantly makes him look younger.

It is now of the greatest importance to Ernst for his writing to be clear, orderly, without superfluity, and without any exaggerations. If a sentence has an air of coquetry or a hint of ornamentation, he crosses it out. He even excised the word “fine” from a sentence because it sounded soft to him. Writing has to be direct and to the point, without twists. Only people who are conflicted in their souls write in arabesques and with vagueness, and it always seems as though they have something to hide.

Good writing has to be like Grandfather’s peasant smock: a simple tunic, with no decoration, comfortable to wear. Once Grandfather told him that there is not a superfluous word in the Bible. Every word counts and has its place.

A few days ago Ernst asked forgiveness of his ancestors, of his parents, of Tina and Helga, but then he took it back. Asking for forgiveness that involves no specific deed is hypocritical. In his grandparents’ generation, when a person sinned, he would go into exile to reform himself and to help the poor and oppressed.

If Ernst had the faith of his fathers, he would have thanked God for showing him the way to himself, to his ancestors, and to his parents. It was easier for him to write about his grandparents than about his parents. His parents had bequeathed to him skepticism and gloom. Those traits had bound up his inner being for years, and they didn’t permit him to look inward. Every time he tried, he heard a whisper of doubt: What will you find there?

But now Irena is with him. Her presence is the gateway to life. In her company, every high or inflated word sounds foolish. Now Ernst uses only those words whose content one can see, words that have no ambiguity, words to which one can reach out, as one reaches for a slice of bread or a pitcher of milk.

When his spirit is ablaze, Ernst envisions himself writing an essay on biblical prose: on word choices, on the severe factuality, on the avoidance of descriptions and embellishments, on the eschewing of explanations and interpretations, on the absence of allusion to externals, on simplicity and straightforwardness, on wonderment with no doubts, on the silence between sentences and between words.

At night Irena dreams that they are walking together in the Carpathian Mountains. Ernst is wearing khaki trousers and a military jacket, with an officer’s cap on his head. He is tall and graceful. Irena also feels light on her feet, and she wonders at the splendid meadows. “When did I become so closely acquainted with this place? After all, I was never there.” She is amazed. Ernst smiles and says, “We were born here. Because of some mistake we were driven from this paradise and cast into exile. But finally the mistake has been corrected, and we have returned to the place where God and man dwell together. And soon we will come to the sanctuary.”

“The sanctuary?” Irena asks in surprise.

“You have nothing to fear. Grandfather’s house is his sanctuary. There is no altar; no one makes sacrifices. It’s just the gateway to heaven.”

Ernst embraces Irena and swings her into the air; he catches her and swings her again. In his arms she is light. She is a bird. She hangs onto his neck. Her hair smells of pine. She breathes in the fragrance and is drunk with it.

“I had a dream,” Irena tells Ernst.

“What did you see?”

“I saw the Carpathians, and in the middle of the meadows there were only the two of us.”

Ernst wants to thank her for pulling him up out of the depths of despair and into a life that has sunlight, but he doesn’t know how to say this without embarrassing her.

In the afternoon Ernst feels better, and he sits down to write. The brick-colored shirt suits his face. The effort is visible in his arms but not in his face. A glow illuminates his brow, and for a moment Irena wants to approach him and say, Ernst, you don’t know how much happiness you gave me when you swung me up. I was so light in your arms.

Later she serves him a cup of tea. Ernst drinks and keeps writing, and Irena has no doubt that it will be this way from now on. Ernst will write, and every day he will discover a new corner of the Carpathians. She, for her part, will watch over him, wash him, prepare the food he enjoys, iron the clothes he likes, and sit by his side. The doctor will come, and they will talk about writing, and she will reinforce the house on every side. No harmful creature will ever dare to approach the window.