All Whom I Have Loved (15 page)

Whenever I asked Father about them, a smile would come to his face, as if I had asked him about his shifting moods. Once he said, “Demons? They're everywhere. Sometimes they dress up as moneylenders, and sometimes as art critics.”

Occasionally he gave them nicknames: the red demon, the green one, the shriveled one. It was hard to know which of them were good and which wicked. Once I heard him say, “A demon is a demon.”

It was strange how there, of all places, in that large and spacious house, they managed to annoy him more than in that sooty one-room apartment in Czernowitz. I tried to
ignore them, telling myself, “They aren't real.” But what was to be done? In spite of this, they seemed to appear wherever I turned. When I threw a wooden building block at them, or a spoon, they scattered in all directions. Sometimes they were so tiny that it was hard to see them, even with a steady eye. Once, Father stormed out from his studio, a rag in hand, threw open the front door, and shouted, “Get out! I don't want to see you anymore!”

One stormy, cold evening, Father explained to me that when an artist works, demons pounce on him, and he has to either ignore them or give them a good thrashing. When he spoke of them, he would emerge from his despondency and a smile would spread across his face, as if he accepted the fact that life is a continuum of unpleasantness, confusion, and malice, which nothing can change. But despite all this, life is still worth observing. Although observation changes nothing, it does divert the eye for a while.

Once, I peeked through the keyhole. The small woman was lying naked on the sofa. Father asked her something, and she answered in a mumble that sounded like a song. The sight was astonishing, and it was hard for me to tear myself away from the keyhole. I heard Father's voice. “My little demon, a bit to the right.” The small woman leaned on the cushion with her arm, and her two large breasts spilled out from her body. Although I didn't see Father, I felt that he was gazing at her with great intensity. Another time I saw him drop to his knees and kiss her foot.

The furtive sounds in the studio reminded me of my walks with Halina, and how we sat by the water. Halina looked a little like the small woman. I had never seen her breasts, but I supposed that they were as beautiful as this woman's. Not that I could see Halina anymore, except in dreams, though whenever I saw a young woman in the street
I remembered her. Sometimes it seemed that soon I'd make the journey to be with her. Once, I reminded Father about Halina. Father shrugged, as if what I said was beside the point.

Suddenly Father emerged from his studio and called out in a despairing voice, “The exhibition opens on the first of March, and all I have is eight paintings.” This new worry darkened his brow. Victor did not pressure him. He said in a quiet, friendly tone, “Whatever you have will be accepted gratefully.” Father looked at him for a moment, as if not believing his own ears. Victor repeated, “There's nothing to worry about. What you've done is more than enough.”

Father clenched his jaw and shut himself away in his studio. The snow fell unceasingly, and the small woman did not come. In the evening, when Father emerged from the studio, he looked like a growling lion. He muttered to himself, and he beat away demons to his left and his right. Once, in a white-hot fury, he said, “Art critics are ghastly demons—they should be exterminated.” I did not understand what he was so angry about.

I'd already learned not to ask Father things when he's angry; there's terror in his fury. Here, too, I had seen him breaking planks. Sometimes I pictured him working in a circus, lifting heavy crates, bending iron bars, prizing chains apart, and riding on lions.

When Father is working, I wander from room to room, looking at all the photos on the walls. Though at first there seemed to be no particular order to them, I soon got to know that they're all about the life of the general. There's the general with his family, in elementary school, in high school, at the officers' academy. Then there are photos of the general in various elite units, being awarded medals for distinguished service, and, finally, the photo marking his retirement from the army. Victor's aunt isn't in these pictures; she made sure to hide herself. After the general became Jewish, he changed completely: he grew a beard and wore a skullcap. In one picture he is at a table poring over a book, and he looks just like one of the bearded Jews whom I saw in the synagogue in Storozynetz.

“Why did he become Jewish?” Father once asked Victor.

“It's a mystery to me.”

“Did you ever speak with him about it?”

“I spoke to him, but I couldn't get it out of him.”

I like the general. Sometimes I imagine him sitting in the synagogue in Storozynetz and praying and, without noticing it, imitating the gestures of the bearded Jews. Last
evening I drew him and showed Father the drawing. Father laughed and said, “A Jewish general.” There are expressions that amuse him, terms like “old Jew” or “half Jewish.”

I try to draw Halina but the picture doesn't come. In Czernowitz I still saw Halina clearly. Since I've been here, her features have blurred. Father paints only what he can see, and because of that, all the demons and little imps have Tina's face. It's a shame that I didn't draw Halina when we were together. Had I done so, I could have kept her close to me. Now my memory plays tricks on me. Sometimes I feel like sitting and drawing what I see before me, so that when the time comes, my memory won't deceive me.

I want to ask Father many things, but he's just not there. He works away feverishly, and when he emerges from his studio he's so distracted that he'll ask strange questions; if the truth be told, he actually argues with himself. Victor begs him to put down his palette for an hour or two and go downtown, but Father won't hear of it. He swears that he will not stop until he's filled the quota he set for himself. Victor's face saddens for a moment, and he says, “What can I do?”

Last night we got a telegram from Mother: I'LL COME AT EASTER. Whenever I get news from Mother, my body trembles and my knees go weak. I've told myself so often: Mother is with André and I'm on my own, but I find it hard to stick to this separation. A telegram from Mother awakens my love for her, and I can't move. Not that Father is indifferent to a telegram from Mother. Although he doesn't look at what she's written, he'll ask, “What does Mother write?”

At Easter they crucified Jesus. After his crucifixion he rose again. Mother believes neither in God nor in life after death.
I've often heard her say, “Why do people say that God's in the sky? A person has to make his reckoning with himself, and not with God. Believing in God is foolish.”

This kind of talk fills me with fear. It brings to mind pent-up anger and trying to burst through a locked door. When Mother left me with Halina, she warned her, “Don't tell him any tall stories about religion—they addle the brain.” On hearing her injunction, Halina laughed. From the way she laughed, it was clear to me that she would not follow Mother's instructions, but would defy them at the first opportunity, as indeed she did. Halina loved telling me biblical stories about Abraham and Isaac and Jacob; the story of Joseph took days on end. I felt fear mingled with delight whenever she told me these stories; but I would sit beside her, listening.

Father's belief is a mystery to me. When I asked him if there's a God in heaven, he answered, “Supposedly.”

For some reason, his answer saddened me.

In February the canvases smiled upon Father; he painted and was content. Tina's kindly face now peeked out from every picture. I felt sorry that she was surrounded by wicked demons and had to suffer from them, but apparently there's no happiness without pain. While Father was happy with his progress, adding paintings to his body of work, the owner of the gallery suddenly notified Victor that he would not rent out the hall to him, for he had been told that the artist painted decadent pictures. Victor explained—in vain—that it was great art, but the gallery owner not only remained unconvinced, he also threatened to notify the authorities.

I saw Victor and my heart sank. For some days he rushed around from one gallery to another. No one wanted to rent to him. In the end, he found a childhood friend who was prepared to put the downtown coffeehouse he owned at Victor's disposal.

Father went to see the place and was impressed. It was a coffeehouse of the old-fashioned kind, with high ceilings and wide windows. Father declared: “Better an honest coffeehouse than a splendid hall full of snakes.” When Father makes declarations he's either drunk or close to being drunk; his arms lengthen and he waves them in wide circles.
The anti-Semites, at any rate, are everywhere, and Victor suffers from them as well. Even though his father had once been the deputy mayor and completely integrated in society, they don't let him forget that his mother had been Jewish and, what's more, a journalist with liberal notions.

We sat in a café and celebrated, and Father drank freely. But the episode had nevertheless left him with a bitter aftertaste. Victor, eager to placate Father, brought us smoked fish, pickled cucumbers, and two loaves of country bread. Throughout the evening he kept speaking of the advantages of the coffeehouse and about the proprietor, who was onequarter Jewish and who did his utmost to help.

Father continued to paint and his mood was even, but at night, when we went downtown, his face would darken and he'd rage: anti-Semites in every corner, all over the place, even in the pleasant coffeehouse where his pictures were going to be exhibited. Victor tried to calm him down, but Father refused to contain his fury, and whenever he ran into an anti-Semite he'd shout, “You filth! You bastard!” Sometimes Father seemed like a soldier fighting on two fronts. At home he fought against the demons, and outside, against the anti-Semites. Victor, it turned out, was more practical than Father. When Father was about to raise his voice, Victor whispered, “You have to ignore them.” Clearly, Father could not do that.

At the end of February, Victor brought over a covered sleigh and he and Father piled the pictures onto it. Little Tina watched them. When the paintings had all been loaded and were covered in blankets, she suddenly burst into tears. Father rushed to embrace her and promised that from then on she would always be his model, and that the next week, right after the opening, he would start preparing a new exhibition. This promise stopped Tina's tears. Eventually she
also climbed up onto the sleigh, and all of us went into town to hang the paintings.

It was not long after Father and Victor hung the paintings that the comments of the coffeehouse's clientele could be heard. Father restrained himself at first. But in the end he could no longer keep quiet and he began to shout.

The opening was the following evening. Victor's friends came, as did Father's admirers and a man named Karl Proper, whom I immediately saw was quite special. Father hugged him over and over again. It turned out that he was a famous art researcher. From Father's first exhibition he had been an admirer of his work. It had been a long time since I had seen Father as happy as he was that evening.

I sat next to Tina. Were it not for her large breasts, you would think she was a child. Now she looked down upon everyone from all the walls, at times in the form of a demon and at times in the form of a girl frightened of the demons.

“What grade are you in?” she asked me.

“I don't go to school,” I replied. “I have asthma and Father got me exempted.”

“And do you have a private teacher?”

“No, I learn from books and from workbooks.”

Tina's face was filled with wonder, and she asked nothing more. I gazed at her for the entire evening, and the more I did so, the more enchanted I became.

I must have fallen asleep. After midnight Father carried me to the sleigh. In my sleep, I sensed his excitement and I heard him say, “My friend Victor pulled me up from the depths and restored my faith in God and in man. My thanks go to him both in this world and in the world to come.”

He also mentioned Tina, saying, “She's right in front of
you. There is no flesh-and-blood artist who can compete with the Creator of the world. The Creator of the world should keep to himself and we'll keep to ourselves. And as for the gap—you can see it for yourself in my paintings.”

Sometimes what you hear in sleep can be more lucid than what you hear when you're awake. But most of the time sleep is a barrier, and I pick up only the echoes.

The following day we went back to the coffeehouse to see if anyone had bought a painting. As it turned out, just one had been sold: Father's admirer, Karl Proper, had left his gold watch with the proprietor, promising to bring the money within a few days. The press summed up the exhibit in two words: Decadent Art. Father was furious and got drunk, shouting obscenities at the people sitting there. Victor and his friends barely managed to pull him outside. I clearly remember the complete havoc of this scene—it was the first time I had seen Father totally drunk. Victor never left his side, talking to him all the while. “Don't worry, I have enough money to put up seven such exhibitions. I'll buy the pictures and send them to France. In France, they still know real art when they see it.” But Father did not calm down. Not even when he returned home did his rage abate.

Cold, gray days had come. Father stopped painting and slept for most of the day. I would go to his room almost hourly to look in on him. In the afternoon he would wake up and ask, “Where's Victor?” Victor would come in the afternoons and take us out to the country. Perhaps he thought that his being there would have a calming effect on Father,
but of course in the country there's no good cognac, so we would come straight back to the city to stock up on a few bottles.

“I once loved the country,” said Father distractedly.

“And now?”

“I find the quiet hard to take.”

In moments of clarity, Father would embrace Victor and say, “What do you need this trouble for?”

There were some art critics, mostly Jews, who no longer wrote for the newspapers. They would come to see Father. But Father was not that welcoming, because he lumped all art critics together. Eventually people stopped visiting; only Victor came. Father would read the newspapers and say, “Here they are.”