All Whom I Have Loved (13 page)

Snow falls, and from day to day it grows colder. The Prut changes color, and now it is a dark blue, a hard and unpleasant color.

I sit at home and look at books. Once a day the landlord comes to the door and gives me a pear or an apple. Father tells me that at the end of the month we will be on our way.

“Don't forget that you're Jewish,” the landlord tells me when he comes back from the church, smelling of incense and in high spirits.

“I'll remember,” I say, so as to make him happy.

“Jews tend to forget it.”

In the evening we usually go downtown; we sit in a café or go into a tavern. Father is full of energy. He tells his acquaintances about his friend from way back who has invited him to Bucharest. Everyone's happy for him, joking around and wishing him inspiration for his work.

One evening he is set upon by a drunk, who calls him a dirty Jew. Father demands that the drunk apologize, but the man continues to curse him. Father hits him across the face, and the drunk collapses on the floor. Immediately, other drunks gather around, threatening Father. Father is quick to push them away, striking out fearlessly. I am afraid. On the way home he tells me, “You mustn't let wicked people get cocky; you have to beat them.” It has been a long time since he's spoken in full, clear sentences. After that he calms down and is happy, telling me of his plans and about Bucharest, a gracious city with many galleries—a gateway to France. I'm wary of his enthusiasm. After he becomes enthusiastic, depression engulfs him.

The landlord takes care of us, and every evening he brings us one of the dishes he's prepared. Last night he
brought us goat cheese. Father promises to write him a letter from Bucharest. I've noticed that with Father he doesn't talk about the things that he discusses with me—with Father he talks mainly about fields, crops, his neighbors, and how they're all being taxed. However, this time he allows himself to ask, “What are you going to do in the big city?”

“I'll paint.”

“May God guide what you do,” he says, and extends his hand.

Father bows his head, surprised at the blessing that the landlord bestowed on him.

Father packs up his books and sketchbooks and gives away the household utensils to people he knows. The landlord mutters angrily, “You're too generous. A man has to hang on to what he has,” and he refuses to accept the big grandfather clock. Father persuades him by saying, “It's a loan, not a gift. The day will come when I'll take it back.” The landlord consents, but not without reminding Father of the well-known proverb, Whoever hates gifts will live.

This packing up saddens me and reminds me of how Mother had packed. In just a few days we will be on our way, and I assume I won't see Mother anymore. Many of her expressions have already fled from my mind. Now I recall only what she looked like most recently, and the heavy coat she was wearing. I am sad that she has changed so much.

We go downtown every evening. It is cold and dry. The snow squeaks underfoot, and heavy shadows cling to the fences of the municipal park. I dress warmly. Father has bought me a pair of leather boots, a scarf, and a fur hat. “Bucharest is cold in winter, and we must have warm clothes,” Father says, as if he has bought them for himself as well. One of Father's admirers, a tall woman in a luxurious fur coat, sidles up to him in the café and says, “In what way
have we insulted you that you should leave us and set out for Bucharest?”

“Bucharest, apparently, understands the soul of an artist better than Czernowitz.” Father speaks in a tone that I have never heard him use.

“We love him passionately—and we won't relinquish him so easily.”

Father draws himself up, lifts her hand, and kisses it. He opens his heart and says, “Don't worry, I won't forget Czernowitz; this city is planted deep within my heart, and it will go with me wherever I go. A birthplace cannot be uprooted from the heart—even one that has been hard on you.”

“Thank you,” says the woman. Without raising her head from her collar, she turns and leaves. Father stands where he is and follows her with his eyes.

“Strange,” says Father. We leave the café and go into a tavern. There he downs several drinks, and I must have fallen asleep, for the following morning I find myself in bed, as if I have been tossed up from the stormy waters of the Prut.

The next morning the landlord took four crates of books to the railway station in his wagon. The crates were to travel via the freight train while we followed them on the night train. I felt sad about the room that we were going to abandon. Father was shoving sketches and paintings into the blazing fire. The landlord tried to prevent this destructiveness but couldn't. Father was adamant: the flames alone could correct them.

In the evening the landlord brought us to the railway station. Father embraced him, saying, “You've been a brother and a true friend to us.”

“May God bless you.”

The landlord turned to me. “Don't forget what I told you.”

“I won't forget,” I promised.

“May God bless you both and keep you,” he said. “You deserve it.” He bowed and climbed back up onto the wagon.

And so we parted from the landlord. We still had another two and a half hours till the train would leave. Father was in a good mood. He bought me an ice cream and called the city a province that fattens up its rich. His enthusiasm does not usually last very long, an hour at the most,
and sometimes even less, but this time I saw that he was comfortable with the parting. His eyes shone, and the dark rings around them had faded. A man called out to him. It was an old Jew who had once worked in the orphanage and recognized him. Father was glad to see him and invited him for a drink. The Jew refused. We sat at the station entrance, and Father told him that he was now leaving for Bucharest, where a spacious house and studio awaited him. The Jew listened with his head bent and didn't look excited. Finally he asked, “And a living?”

“Absolutely!” Father answered confidently.

They spoke of what had become of the boys from the orphanage—those who had remained in the city and those who had traveled far. The old man could recall all their names, and for a moment he looked at us intently, as if trying to fathom what awaited us far off. His gaze must have frightened Father, who immediately flooded him with talk, as if trying to deflect him. The old man understood that he had made a mistake and lowered his eyes. He stood silently, as if wishing to get away. To our surprise he then stretched out his hands and blessed us. First Father, and then me. Father was embarrassed and his face became flushed.

We entered a tavern. In the tavern Father met some poor acquaintances and ordered sandwiches and drinks for them. At the same time he told them that in another hour and a half we would be on the night train to Bucharest.

“Why are you going?” one spoke up.

“Because here all everyone cares about is money and there's no compassion in their hearts. The artists can starve.”

“And in Bucharest?”

“In Bucharest artists get support and they can work.”

“And won't you miss the city where you were born?”

“No.”

“Strange.”

“Not strange at all. No one has offered me a studio here, or an advance. I teach forty-six hours a week, and when I get home my hands are shaking from tiredness.”

“They shake from the drink and not from tiredness.”

“You shut up!” Father raised his voice.

“I'm speaking the truth. Jews have no respect for their city, for their birthplace. They're ready to go anywhere that will offer them more. A birthplace isn't a shop where you go in, buy something, and leave!”

“I'm leaving it gladly—and you, too.”

“Now you know why Jews are hated.”

Father did not hold himself back but got up and hit the man in the face. For his part, the man did not sit idly by with his hands in his pockets. “The Jews are worms!” he shouted.

“But not pigs!” shouted Father, and went on hitting him.

Those around them tried to separate the two brawlers, but Father was furious, cursing in every language he knew. He wouldn't let anyone near him. Eventually someone came and threw him outside. Father's face was covered in blood, and he tried to wipe it off with his handkerchief. The blood was spurting out, staining his shirt and pants, but Father looked far from wretched. A kind of fire flamed in his face. He cursed the town and its people and shouted, “I'll get you! You just wait, you bastards!”

At the station we found a faucet and Father washed his face. He took a shirt out of the suitcase, and turning toward the tavern, he shouted, “I'm not through with you!” Then we immediately got onto the train.

The train speeds along, not stopping at small stations. At night, the stations look like dimly lit warehouses. Bags and people are all mixed together, and small children jump around on the platforms and screech at the approaching trains. Father is tired and falls into a deep sleep.

I remember Mother. It's been many days since I've seen her face. Now I feel that I didn't behave well toward her. When she stood in the rain and said to me, “Farewell, my love,” I stood staring at her as if it didn't affect me. I hadn't even walked with her as far as the tram, and now we were about to treat her shabbily, disappearing on her. She would certainly return here someday, dressed in the same heavy coat and clumsy galoshes, and she would look for us, and the landlord would say, “They've gone to Bucharest … they didn't leave an address.” Mother would stand there as if in shock. She would try to put together a few words and would repeat the question, and the landlord would give her the same answer.

Halina once told me that God tests us all the time, like He did with Abraham. He tests children with small trials and grown-ups with more difficult ones. At that time I didn't understand what she was talking about. Now, I understand:
God also tested me and I failed the test. When the time comes, I'll surely be punished because I didn't keep to what Halina used to drum into me morning and night: honoring one's mother is more important than honoring one's father. Because I didn't honor my mother, everyone insulted her. Whenever an insult landed on her, she would bury her head in the collar of her heavy coat.

“Mother, we'll see each other soon,” I say with my last ounce of strength, and then I fall asleep.

When I awaken, the blood-red dawn is already outside the window. My head is resting against Father's side. He tells me that we are very near Bucharest and that in Bucharest we will eat breakfast. I try to picture the railway station in Bucharest. I imagine it to be like the station at Czernowitz, but I know that my imagination is playing tricks on me.

“Father,” I say.

“What?”

I hope that Father will now tell me something about Bucharest, but he says nothing. His face is tense. I know why: he hasn't had a drink since last evening.

There isn't a soul waiting for us at the station. Victor, who has promised to come, has not. We stand by the exit and wait. The station at Bucharest is not at all like the station at Czernowitz. It's much grander, humming with people, and there are many policemen watching over those coming and going. We stand there with our suitcases, at the threshold of a strange city, like poor people who don't have a roof over their heads. Father lights one cigarette after another, and despair burns in his bloodshot eyes. Suddenly I see a bald man waving his hat, treading heavily in the gray morning mist. He looks like a drunk who has just woken up from a stupor, but we are wrong, for he turns out to be none other than Victor. Father runs toward him and hugs him.

Victor is a small, rotund man. He speaks German with a heavy accent, and after every few sentences he says, “It'll be fine; there's nothing to worry about.” He invites us to a restaurant, and the breakfast is good. I particularly like the poppy seed rolls, which remind me of the vacation with Mother.

“Arthur,” says Victor, and slaps Father's shoulder. It is obvious that he is happy to see him, and he expresses his happiness with his hands, by rubbing them together. He uses small expressions of encouragement and mentions the names of critics who once praised Father's paintings. For years Victor has dreamed of bringing Father to Bucharest, but he did not have enough money. Some six months ago, he came into an inheritance; his aunt left him her house and jewelry. “And now I can realize my old dreams. Come, let's go home.”

“Is it far?” wonders Father.

“Five kilometers, possibly less.”

“What I urgently need is a drink.” Father speaks in a low voice.

“Right away,” says Victor, and orders the waiter to bring one.

We take the tram and are on our way. We pass gray fields that are covered with dirty splotches of snow, frozen puddles, and low houses with thin wisps of smoke rising from their chimneys. Here and there is an abandoned house or a small factory. The fear that no one would meet us at the railway station and that we would wander around lost in a big city was groundless.

In the meantime, Victor reveals some of his plans: an exhibition in Bucharest and an exhibition in Paris. People are looking forward to it; the outlook is bright. The words roll rapidly from his mouth, and it's obvious that his inheritance
has turned his head. Father does not ask any questions, which appears to increase the flow of words from Victor, as if he is trying to remove any doubt.

After half an hour's journey we arrive at the house, an impressive two-story mansion surrounded by a forest. Vic-tor's aunt, his mother's sister, who left him the house, was a childless widow. She lived there all alone, devoted to the memory of her husband, whom she had loved with all her heart.

“And who was her husband?”

“A retired general. After finishing his service he converted to Judaism, learned Hebrew and Yiddish, and founded the Association for the War Against Anti-Semitism.”

“Did it have many members?”

“A one-man association!” Victor says, laughing.

The house is spacious and filled with light, the ceilings are high, and the floors are made of fine wood. Victor embraces Father. “The time has come for artists to create in ease and comfort. Poverty is humiliating.”