Aharon Appelfeld - Suddenly, Love

AFTER DAYS OF CONTINUOUS WRITING, ERNST IS ONCE again attacked by depression. His appetite decreases, and his face clouds over. He utters incomprehensible words, cancels plans that he was enthusiastic about just the other day, and more than once Irena hears him say, “I have to burn everything.” When she hears those words, Irena is choked with fear.

The depression can last a week, sometimes more. Irena comes earlier in the morning and leaves later. She is so tense on his dark days that sometimes she forgets a pot on the stove or the clothes in the washing machine.

When depression overtakes Ernst, Irena tries to be unobtrusive by not moving utensils or furniture. She would very much like to say to him, You mustn’t curl your body up in bed. Curling yourself up shortens your breath. You have to lie on your back, with your head raised, and let the air flow freely . But of course she doesn’t say it. Sometimes Ernst raises his head, and with a voice not his own, he grumbles, “I haven’t grasped the main thing yet. The details are deluding me.” Irena knows that he’s talking to himself. Depression has darkened his spirit, and nothing that he’s written pleases him.

When the darkness overcomes him, Ernst destroys his manuscripts, tearing them to pieces and throwing them into the garbage pail. Irena’s heart sinks, but she doesn’t dare say to him, Calm down .

A few days ago Irena entered Ernst’s house toward evening and found him drunk. This time he didn’t mix things up. He spoke about his failures in an orderly way, more or less saying, “A person isn’t an author just because he has a certain ability to write. If you’re not connected with your parents and grandparents, and through them to the tribe, you’re a hack, not an author. Russian literature is true and great because it is connected with the faith of the Russian people. Russian authors don’t feel contempt for icons. They themselves bend at the knee and implore, ‘Jesus, father of those who suffer, save me.’ ”

A few years ago some of Ernst’s acquaintances tried to have a small selection of his stories published in Hebrew. Two passages were translated as a sample, but no publisher was willing to take on the financial burden of having more material translated. Then came delays, letters that expressed reservations, and letters of outright rejection. Ernst knew that most editors were practical people, lacking sensitivity and taste, but it seemed to him that they felt the weakness in his writing. Ernst was firm in his opinion: I write according to inner imperatives . He tore the rejection letters to shreds. For years he hoped that a German or Austrian publisher would take an interest in his writing and publish his books, but letters of chilly courtesy came from them as well. Years passed without any hope of his work being published. Ernst wrote feverishly and sometimes with blessed diligence, but there were months when he never touched his pen. And after his operation he was overwhelmed by doubt. Weakness and attacks of depression undermined his self-confidence. While in the past the letters of rejection and reservation aroused his wrath and spurred him to write, now he agreed with his critics. Not only that , he would add, they’re being kind to me. If I were the editor, I wouldn’t have reservations. I would condemn . After the operation Ernst felt that the mighty engine that had powered his body, transmitting images and thoughts, had now slowed its pace. Cognac did help fire up his will, but not as before.

Irena sees Ernst’s struggles and doesn’t always know what to do. One thing is evident: his deep depression doesn’t make him unattractive. Sometimes she thinks that he refines his thoughts in his darkness. Nobility resides in his hands, in his slender fingers, and in the way he moves his lips. Every day she stands to the side, observing him, and wonders, How can I relieve this prince’s pains?

When Irena returns home, she downs two glasses of cognac. It makes her dizzy, and she pictures Ernst, wearing a blue suit, entering the gate of a splendid palace. An honor guard salutes him; he raises his arm and blesses them with bowed head. He climbs the steps, and the king himself, wearing a uniform, comes toward him and greets him.

Irena rouses herself and tries to get to her feet, but she feels heavy and dizzy, and she sits back down. Then she realizes that from now on her task will be different: she must stand close by Ernst’s large body and be his constant helpmate. If he gets angry with her, she will say to him, I want to be with you in the darkness, too. Your darkness is as beloved to me as the light that shines from your forehead . For a moment Irena panics at this thought. She goes to the sink and washes her face, and immediately sees Ernst as she had never seen him before: his face is full of light, as if he had finally freed himself from the chains that had shackled him.

THE NEXT DAY, ON HER WAY TO ERNST’S HOUSE, THE pleasant image from the day before comes back to Irena. Then she imagines Ernst sitting in the armchair, reading the Bible. Of late, this book hasn’t left his hands. Sometimes it seems to her that he is not reading it so much as being thrilled by every line; so great is his amazement, he doesn’t advance very far in his reading.

Irena is surprised to find Ernst in bed. “What’s the matter?” she asks. She sees right away that once again he has been attacked by depression. The weakness is visible not only in his face but also in his arms. They are inert on the blanket.

Irena goes to the kitchen to make breakfast. In the past she would announce, “I’m making breakfast.” Now she knows that there is nothing like the fragrance of coffee to draw Ernst from his bed. Before long Ernst is sitting at the table, drinking the coffee. “Too late,” he says to himself.

Irena guesses his meaning and says, “There’s no such thing as early and late.”

“What do you mean?” Ernst embarrasses her.

Irena laughs as though she has been caught in an error, but she immediately adds, “I don’t know where I heard that saying.”

Ernst shaves, dresses, and leaves for the café. Near the stairway he turns and says, “What did I want to tell you?” Irena is frightened when she hears that because it’s likely to be followed by, “My manuscripts are in the two upper drawers. If something happens to me, please burn them.” He had said that only once, but she is still frightened. This time he forgets what he had wanted to say to her.

The walk from Ernst’s house to Café Rimon takes twenty minutes. When rain falls and the wind blows, it takes longer. Not too many years ago there were study groups in literature, philosophy, and Jewish mysticism in his Rehavia neighborhood, and in the Yeshurun Synagogue there was a regular Talmud class. The 1950s and 1960s were years of great activity in Rehavia. Ernst was one of the regular participants in the literary circle. There was also a time when it appeared that a new Jewish culture, different from the culture of the kibbutzim, was in the making. Martin Buber and Gershom Scholem would lead it. Most of the study groups were held in German, but among the participants there were those like Ernst who knew Hebrew and Yiddish as well.

Back then Ernst wrote a lot and crossed out a lot. Sometimes he did have the feeling that he was digging in the correct place. Though the excavation was slow, he sensed that if he persevered he would reach the living water. There were also days of despair, of feeling distant from the goal, of fear of the future. When he divorced Sylvia and took early retirement, Ernst felt great relief. He felt as though he was setting out on a journey and that what had been hidden and blocked would return to him.