Suddenly, Love

8

ERNST WONDERS WHY IRENA FASCINATES HIM. SOMETIMES he thinks that she bears within her the serenity of a believer. Indeed, she behaves like a believer. She neither complains nor assigns blame, she finds positive things in people, and sometimes she gives thanks to God. At first her behavior made him feel uncomfortable, but over time Ernst learned that Irena speaks with no ulterior motive or pretense. And her actions are consistent with her speech. But sometimes he thinks that she isn’t intentionally living according to her ancestors’ traditions, that she is just totally filled with wonder about everything that happens to her and everything that happened to her parents and to the grandparents whom she had never known. Ernst likes the expression on her face. He gets the feeling sometimes that she is curious about him. But usually her face reflects what she is doing. Her hands are busy with work, and she doesn’t waste a moment. The house and the furniture gleam. And when everything is in its place, she sits in the kitchen and pickles cucumbers or prepares fruit for drying. When she works, and she works most of the day, rigor and order are her essence.

One evening Ernst surprised Irena by telling her that he was going to write about his childhood. She waited to hear more, her eyes wide with anticipation. Ernst was about to tell her some of what he was feeling, but in the end it proved to be too difficult for him. His childhood and youth weren’t merely a series of errors. There were also, he had to admit, quite a few moments of joy, especially in school. But his parents remained an open wound. During his years at home, he wrote long indictments against them, and after he left home he continued to find fault with them — quite honestly, for no reason. They gave him everything they could. Their own lives were unimportant to them; they asked for nothing for themselves. But he couldn’t forgive them for his unhappy childhood, even after he found out what the Romanian Army had done to them during the war.

During the past few weeks, Ernst has tried desperately to connect with his parents. He sits at his desk for hours and awaits them. For years they had tried to get through to him, but he was either busy at work or concerned with himself, and he didn’t let them in. Sometimes his mother would break through the barrier. His father tried, too. But his efforts didn’t get very far. He would look at Ernst from a distance, as if asking repeatedly, What harm did we do to you that you withdraw from us even now, when we’re in another world? While they were alive, there was no competition between his parents. And if there was, it was minimal. But since they have been trying to approach him from the world beyond, there has been a hidden competition between them. Who will get there first? But the tables have been turned: Ernst is now seeking them.

Ernst’s anticipation of their arrival failed to bring them to him. But images of his childhood materialize from a distance and appear before him. His father lies on the sofa and reads the newspaper. That was his permanent place in the world. Ernst’s mother often said, “Why don’t you lie down in the bedroom? The sofa is narrow.” His father wouldn’t respond, and his mother’s suggestion would be ignored.

Sometimes Ernst’s mother would stand at the window and look out into the night, as though she were expecting someone to come from outside and break the silence in the house. Suddenly she would turn her head toward her husband, seeming to ask for his confirmation. At the time, Ernst didn’t understand that turning of the head. It appeared as if she wanted to voice some reproach. But that notion was, of course, not correct. She never demanded anything.

On Friday evenings Ernst’s mother would light candles. The candles brought no additional light to the house. On the contrary, it seemed to Ernst that the dim light of the white candles was the embodiment of inertia. “Good Sabbath.” His mother’s voice would pass by and touch the stagnant air. Ernst’s father would rise from the sofa and open his eyes wide as if to say, Where is my mistake? There’s no doubt that I made a mistake. But apparently the mistake can’t be corrected. His mother tried in vain to breathe a different spirit into the Sabbath meal. His father would eat two portions of fish. His strange appetite on the Sabbath always repulsed Ernst.

Something else appeared to Ernst recently: his mother’s folding of clean clothes. Every Monday the Ukrainian laundress, a sturdy young woman under whose hands shirts and socks were crushed, would come to their house. Her whole being radiated stability, health, and joy. Everything that was missing in their home was present within her. There was a good reason for Ernst to stop reading and watch her. Her name was Galina, and she represented everything he yearned for: a body one could take hold of, full, firm breasts, long legs, rhythmic motions, and laughter. His mother looked like a blighted shadow next to her. Ernst felt bad that he didn’t know how to talk to Galina. His parents’ silence clung to him and seeped into his body, and he stood mute next to her. Still, she left something of herself with him. Every time the scent of starch reached his nostrils, Galina rose up out of the past, as if time had not obliterated her. At night, after returning from the grocery store, his mother would fold the clothing that Galina had washed. It annoyed Ernst that his mother so easily reaped the fruit of Galina’s labor.

Irena resembles Galina slightly: she also has sturdy legs, a full body, and quick hands. When she appears each morning, there is a smile on her face, and Ernst feels like saying to her, Come, let’s live our lives anew. For a moment he forgets the pains that torment him at night and the years that have ill treated him. He’s ready to put on warm clothes and set out.