All Whom I Have Loved (8 page)

He held me in his gaze, and I felt as if he knew not only what had taken place the day before, but all that had happened to us since Father had left the house and we arrived
here. I wanted to enter the synagogue and pray for Halina, but I didn't dare. So I locked up the house and went into the street, thinking that I'd make my way to the hospital. On our walks outside the city, Halina had once pointed out a low structure, saying, “That's the municipal hospital.” The building was hardly welcoming; it resembled the orphanage. The forecourt was neglected and some Ruthenian horses harnessed to miserable carriages stood around listlessly, as if they had lost all will to live.

I knew the main street and some of the side streets well; I'd spent so many hours walking with Halina. Now the sidewalks were drowning in fallen leaves, and I waded through them. I passed the tavern and thought of Father. Now I often saw Father in my dreams. In a dream his silence is more tangible. A black flame flickers in his eyes and his lips are pursed. Once I asked him in a dream why he doesn't speak. He looked at me with his black eyes and said, “That's how it is.” He often said that.

The gate and the front door of the hospital were open, and it was easy to enter. The main corridor was empty, and so was the corridor that led off it. At the end of the corridors there were steps, and I went up them.

“Who are you looking for?” a man in orange overalls addressed me.

“I'm looking for Halina,” I replied immediately.

“Go to the information counter,” he said, and turned away.

The information counter, it turned out, was right alongside me. The man there glanced at me and asked, “Who are you, son?”

I told him.

“Halina has had two operations, and we have to pray for her recovery.”

“When can I see her?”

“When the Almighty will open her eyes.”

It was eleven o'clock, but I was in no hurry to return home. The man's answers sounded unclear but not without hope, perhaps because he had mentioned God. I passed the orphanage and remembered what Halina had said to me about the place. Then I stopped at the home of Princess Josephina, which is surrounded by a large garden and has a high iron gate in front. Halina had told me a lot about the princess, who was related to the royal family and was now living there by herself. At each step I could hear Halina, even by the trees at the post office. Next to the post office she once told me, “Only letters leave here, never people. People get stuck here forever.”

At the chapel next to the post office I saw a woman kneeling and praying, and for a moment I told myself that I would also kneel and pray for Halina's recovery. But it was a long line and the people who were waiting did not look nice.

I didn't return home until one o'clock. I did not touch the sandwiches that Mother had left. The empty house seemed to me like a body without a soul. Halina had taught me that a person's soul is in the middle of his chest, but you can't see it because it's pure spirit. When a man dies, his soul ascends to heaven and merges with Jesus. One mustn't be afraid of death because death is light and not darkness. That's what Halina taught me.

Mother returned late and brought me a gift: a cotton shirt and gym shoes. I should have thanked her and been happy, but I was angry with her and with her red lips. Whenever she left the house she put lipstick on her lips and reeked of perfume.

I burrowed into the bed and covered my head with the blankets.

“Aren't you going to eat dinner?” Mother asked in an affected tone of voice.

“I'm very tired,” I said, and closed my eyes.

I knew that at midnight, after she had graded the notebooks, she would get dressed and leave the house. This certainty did not hurt me now—my hatred was stronger than the pain, and it drugged my sleep.

Mother leaves every morning, and I stay home alone. Without Halina, the house is cold and gloomy, and I leave it as soon as I can. First I cross the main street and then I immediately turn into the alley that leads to the municipal hospital. Sometimes I forget about Halina and roam aimlessly, but when I reach the street where the hospital is and see the neglect there and the homeless lying under the awning, I quickly climb the steps, go up to the information counter, and ask how Halina is. It doesn't take long to hear the answer: “May God have mercy.”

When I hear the voice of the man at the desk, I imagine that the doctors who have looked after Halina until now have taken off their white coats, put on priestly robes, and are now kneeling by her bed every hour in prayer. Once in the corridor I saw a peasant couple sitting on the bench. I was sure that they were Halina's mother and stepfather, but it turned out that I was wrong. The woman had come to see the doctor; she registered at the information counter, and her husband paid for the visit.

Most of the day I wander along the side streets and alleys. I have stolen a little money from Mother's purse, and I buy two overflowing cones of ice cream at a time. An icecream
cone brings to mind running in the rain with Halina along the main road from the ice-cream shop to the house. It wouldn't help that we made a dash for it—we would still get soaked. Halina would immediately strip off my wet clothes and dress me in dry ones. These fumbled actions filled me with sensations of rain and laundry starch.

Those are the pleasant, fleeting memories. Mostly I see the gushing wound in Halina's neck. The doctors are helpless, and whenever her condition worsens, they get down on their knees and pray. At these times I also want to get down on my knees in the corridor, to pray together with the doctors. Sometimes I think I see Father coming toward me. I haven't seen him for weeks. I used to envision him walking with people. Now I see him alone, his loneliness trailing after him like a long shadow. I feel his presence grow within me; now I've come to know his long strides, the way he holds a glass, and the way he grips his old duffel bag. When I reach his age, I'm sure I'll be as silent as he is.

One night I dream that I stole money from Mother's purse and took a train to visit Father. At the station I asked where he lived. I was happy, because everyone knew him and told me how to get to him. Then I wake up and Mother is not next to me. Darkness lies curled up where she had been.

So now Mother sleeps with André and she's warm. I'm cold and long shadows hover about, deceiving me. Never mind—when Halina recovers, I'll run away to her village with her. In the country there are fields and streams, and we'll take walks from morning till late at night.

Mother comes back from school and asks, “What did you do?”

“I played.”

“You weren't bored?”

“No.”

“I'm looking for a woman to come and look after you, but I can't find one.”

“You don't have to.”

“Why?”

“I'm waiting for Halina.”

“Halina is very ill.”

“She'll soon be well.”

“Who knows.”

Once, I adored Mother's voice; now every word grates. When she talks about Halina, she says, “Perhaps …Possibly … Who knows?” If she really loved me, she would not speak like that, she would use different words. But because she loves André and not me, she uses words that André uses—dry words like the blond hair that comes down to his neck.

I go to the hospital every day, and I prepare myself to run away with Halina to her village. I keep my plan totally secret. The thought that I will be in her village in just a few days makes me so happy that I begin to skip in the street, and I have the feeling that no one can catch me.

The brief talks with Mother at night are forced and wearying, and I'm happy that she leaves me alone and sits at the table, correcting notebooks. Sometimes her face takes on a light from days past, and I remember her beauty. This, of course, is just an illusion. She has changed so much. Her hands have broadened and she eats hastily, buttering slice after slice, trying to get me to eat. I don't feel like taking part in this fit of eating that's called dinner. I sit to one side and stare at her, and the more I look at her, the more I know that this is not the mother that I loved.

One day I walk by the school and see the children in the
school yard fighting and shouting, and I am so happy that I am not learning there that I forget about Halina and walk all the way to the orphanage, telling myself, “Father knows what's best for me.” Because Father had saved me by the magic of a single word: “asthma.”

As I approach the hospital, I suddenly think that I also need to use magic, so I can pull Halina out of the deep sleep into which she has fallen.

I'm on my own for the time being, and happy. But when I suddenly remember Halina lying in the hospital, I brush aside my thoughts and run there. Again, the man at the information counter says, “May God have mercy,” as if there are no other words in the world. One day I summon up the courage to ask, “Can I see Halina?”

“She's sleeping and mustn't be disturbed,” he says, placing a finger to his lips. His answer raises my spirits, and I retreat on tiptoe. In the hospital forecourt a group of homeless have gathered, arguing, shouting, and making a great deal of noise. “You aren't allowed to shout here,” I want to tell them. For the rest of that day, until evening, I am aware of Halina's sleep, walking carefully so as not to make a noise.

In the evening Mother asks, “How was your day?” Of course I do not tell her anything.

The next day I go into the synagogue next door. There is only one man in the place, and he asks me what I want.

“To pray,” I answer.

“It's late. We've already prayed.”

“I'd like to learn how to pray,” I explain.

On hearing this, his lips crease into a smile and he says,
“You first have to learn the letters.” He immediately takes down a prayer book and shows me the large letters. He points to the first letter and says,
“Alef.”
Then, seeming to remember that he hasn't asked, he inquires, “Why do you want to pray?”

“Halina is very sick.”

He apparently does not understand me, for he says, “First you have to learn the letters.”

“I want to learn.”

“Tell your mother to send you to the
cheyder.
”

I feel that he still doesn't understand me, and I am about to leave.

“Who are you?” He again turns to me.

I tell him my name.

My name seems to tell him nothing, for he asks no more and turns away from me.

I understand that this might not be the right person to speak to, and I leave.

The desire to pray grows stronger in me, and I walk on till I find myself at the chapel. The tiny chapel can hold no more than one person at a time. When there isn't a line, the person coming to pray can take his time, but if there is a line, he hurries his prayers and then blesses the person coming after him. It's mostly women who come here, but I've also seen men. Once I saw a tall, strong man kneeling and shaking the small wooden structure.

And so the days pass. Sometimes I sense that Halina's sleep is dragging her into a deep gorge and that someone must hasten to pull her out. I shared this feeling with the man at the information counter. He smiled and said, “It's absolutely forbidden to wake her up.” Since he said that to me, my life has become smaller.

Now I hardly ask, and I just wander along the side streets. When this tires me, I curl up in bed and sleep for several hours.

“I can't find a woman to look after you,” Mother says in an empty voice on her return.

“There's no need,” I answer coldly.

“You aren't bored?” Again, that superficial voice.

“No.”

Once Mother would have told me stories or read to me or sat quietly by my side. Now it seems that it's not her sitting next to me but another woman. My real mother has slipped away and left me with this awful substitute, and every word that comes out of her mouth wounds me. Sometimes I want to shout out, “You're not my mother!” I contain the fury in my heart by telling myself, “It's better that I hold it in; in only a few days Halina will wake up from her sleep and I'll run away with her.”

It gets colder each day, and in the morning frost glitters on the grass. But this doesn't stop me from going to the hospital every day. Sometimes I think that the man at the information counter understands me and wants to help me, but the nurses, who wear yellow uniforms, refuse to cooperate.

Every evening, Mother's mindless chatter makes my blood boil. For some reason, she's sure that Halina won't return to us. Too many days have passed since she lost consciousness. She calls Halina's sleep “a loss of consciousness,” and to me that sounds as if she's refusing to believe that Halina will come back. “She'll come back soon,” I say, not hiding my confidence from her.

Mother says, “It's not good to harbor illusions”—words she has already used. They grated on my ears then, too.

Since she has been teaching at the school Mother uses words that she didn't use before. Like “to harbor,” and
“treatment and development,” and other words that freeze my heart. Mother would correct Halina's German, but I loved the timbre of her voice and the way she pronounced the words. When she said, “Come, let's put on your coat,” I felt that the two of us would wrap ourselves in it and that no one else would see us, but that we would see everyone.

Day after day, fierce rain continues to fall, and it's hard to get to the hospital. The water rushes down the streets, drawing mud with it. At times the rain becomes hail and lashes my face. I have a raincoat and boots that cover my feet, but I rarely use an umbrella. The umbrella comes between me and the sky, between me and people in the street. It's better to get wet and be able to see than to walk like a blind person—that's what I learned from Father. Father has a large umbrella, but he seldom uses it.

After visiting the hospital, I wander for about three or four hours and return home soaked, but there is something special to this dampness. I sleep differently. In my dreams I run with Halina. Running with Halina is brisk and joyful, and, as she always does after we run in the rain, she strips off my wet clothes and puts me in dry ones.

I've noticed that in recent days Mother returns early and prepares a huge dinner. After that she sits and talks to me about school. She is not in a hurry, and she seems calmer and less distracted. What has happened? I'm suspicious and prick up my ears. Sometimes André comes and joins our meal.