Suddenly, Love

7

IT’S STRANGE, BUT ERNST HARDLY EVER ENVISIONS HIS parents. For seventeen years he lived in their company, but now their features are faded and blurred. They were withdrawn people who hardly ever spoke. Sometimes his father would erupt, and his mother would rush to do his bidding. Ernst suffered from their silence. It appeared to be repressed anger, and sometimes like a sunset in thick darkness. They left for their grocery store early in the morning and returned home after dark. They were more relaxed in the store than they were at home.

When Ernst began to go to school, the barrier between him and his parents appeared to grow higher. His mother took care of buying notebooks and textbooks and other necessary supplies, but she hardly spoke to him. When he turned nine, he sank deeper and deeper into his books. He was so immersed that nothing around him touched him. He read in German, Romanian, and later in French. His love of languages and literature was boundless.

The teachers liked him; his fellow students, less so. They knew in their hearts that no matter how hard they tried, he would outdo them. If the teacher asked for a German synonym, he would immediately offer three or four. His French pronunciation was precise. His parents were proud of his report cards, but they didn’t know how to express their pride. They were too deeply withdrawn into their silence, as if their tongues were tied up in their mouths.

At home they retained a bit of the tradition, but it was without life, without joy. Every Sabbath eve his mother would clean and straighten up the house, and for the holidays the cleaning was more thorough. But these were preparations for a day that they didn’t know what to do with. Ernst’s father would lie on the sofa and read the newspaper. Sometimes he would go to the synagogue and drag Ernst along with him. Upon their return, his mother’s silence would greet them.

To tell the truth, during those years Ernst hadn’t needed his parents at all. Books were his good friends. To open a book and sink into the yellowing pages, to meld into the flow of the plot — that was his life. Sometimes his mother would rouse from her silence and ask, “What are you reading?” It was an idle question, and Ernst wouldn’t bother to answer.

In other houses that he happened to visit, people talked, quarreled, and even shouted. In his house everything was frozen in place. One time his father abandoned his muteness, turned to Ernst, and asked, “Are you studying history?” Ernst was stunned at being addressed. But he recovered and replied, “Certainly, the French Revolution.”

“In the village, we didn’t study history,” said his father, smiling sadly. The grocery store ate up his inner life. It was evident in his hands, in the way he would lay them on the table, or in the way he sat in a chair. Usually he slept on the sofa. That was his place when he returned from the store, and on the Sabbath and holidays. This passivity used to drive Ernst out of his mind. More than once he wanted to stand up and shout, Everything is stifling here!

Ernst felt like a guest in the house, and nothing around him seemed to belong to him. Were it not for the public library and the books he consumed, his life at home would have been a barren desert. He drew his happiness from school. In the race for achievement, he always came in first. His accomplishments provoked wonder, admiration, and of course envy. As early as ninth grade Ernst developed a kind of arrogance. He never expressed his feelings openly, but his behavior proclaimed it: Don’t try to catch up with me; I’m already at the top. In time he brought that pride home. Home was not only darkness and mildew; it was also full of passive ignorance. Sometimes he would erupt, as though to remove a burden from his shoulders, but that was like tramping through stagnant water.

Ernst’s parents demanded nothing of him. On the contrary, it was as if they said, You’re doing too much. Why don’t you sit with us and be quiet. Too much effort is harmful to your health. Though this was never actually stated, it would exasperate him.

Only later on and far from home did Ernst understand that being uprooted from their home in the Carpathian Mountains and settling in the city had made his parents into mute creatures. If anything brought a small suggestion of pleasure to their faces, it was the memory of their parents’ homes in the mountains. Mainly they were sunk in stagnation, and more than once Ernst felt that they were dragging him down with them into an abyss. He would escape from the house and sit in the yard, but the stifling feeling didn’t leave him in the yard, either. He would go as far as the river. Only playing soccer on the riverbank would calm his spirit.

“Ernst!” His father would sometimes emerge from his torpor and address him. Ernst would flinch, pull back a bit, and say, “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” came the prompt reply.

Occasionally Ernst’s father would say, as though just remembering, “I met your French teacher, and he’s very pleased with you. When I was in school, they didn’t teach French. We were two Jews in a class of forty peasants.” It was hard to know whether this was resentment or a hidden lament.

“Irena, what did they talk about in your home?” Ernst surprised her again.

“About everything,” she replied, not sensing that this question was freighted with a heavy burden.

For a moment Ernst was about to bring her into his tangled memories, but he drew back. He wrote that night, a great deal. It was nearly morning when, from the scrawled letters, a simple truth, one that had been hidden in his soul for many years, emerged: the reason for his parents’ silence. Now he had to admit that there was some nobility to it. They never complained or assigned blame. It was as if they were saying again and again: Everything is within us and from within us. Our connection with our parents’ faith was severed once we left the village. When we left, we were sure we were doing the very best thing. This is our fate, and it’s no one’s fault. There’s a reason to make a spiritual accounting, but not for recrimination. Our parents delivered all the secrets of faith to us, but we didn’t follow their path.