Aharon Appelfeld - Suddenly, Love

After the shiva, the uncles and aunts went back to their homes in the city, and Grandmother Raisl remained alone on the farm. My parents also returned home. It seemed to me that they were glad to leave their only son with his grandmother. I, in any case, didn’t ask to go back. The house in the city always oppressed me. Here the silence of the tall trees gave me a feeling of spaciousness and pleasure. I went for walks, and the shadows of the trees accompanied me everywhere; the deeper I went in the forest, the more wonders I saw: here a raspberry bush, and not far away a twisted branch full of currants. One could even find a low cherry tree that bore fruit as black as coal. Suddenly a huge crow would pop out of the thick foliage and fill the woods with its screeches.

If I walked deeper into the forest, I would come to a lake in the heart of the mountains. I had been there a few times with Grandfather, who would stand by the lake and look out at the gray water. Sometimes we took off our shoes and dipped our feet in. Grandfather probably knew how to swim, but he wouldn’t go further in. Swimming and everything associated with it wasn’t proper for a Jew. A Jew had to stand and observe. Observation illuminated one’s thoughts with images that were not visible to the eyes. New visions were a sign of faith.

After Grandfather’s departure, his presence only intensified. Every time I went out for a walk, I felt that Grandfather was with me. I would go out with him to see if the wheat had ripened, to observe the blush of the fruit in the orchards, and, of course, to look at the hay. Grandfather’s pace was slow. “Walking fast isn’t proper for a Jew,” he used to say, and as he spoke a smile would spread across his bearded face. Grandfather smiled often, and his smile would light up his face. But he never laughed out loud.

I wandered about all day, and when I came back I found Grandmother Raisl cooking. At meals Grandmother acted as though Grandfather was still sitting at the head of the table. After his death she adopted his way of moving. Whatever Grandfather did, she did in exactly the same way. Once on a hot Friday afternoon she fell asleep, and when she woke, night was already falling. She couldn’t forgive herself for neglecting the approach of the Sabbath. After that she fasted every Monday. Despite her loss, Grandmother didn’t let despair gain a foothold. She rose early, prayed, drank a cup of coffee, and went out to work in the fields. Like Grandfather, she knew the fields well: what had ripened in the vegetable garden and had to be picked, which field had to be plowed, and what to let rest until autumn. The Ruthenian peasants obeyed her and said, “We’ll do as you wish.”

In the evening, upon returning from the fields, Grandmother would sit with her eyes closed next to the chair where Grandfather used to sit. It was hard to say whether she was praying or gathering her thoughts. She was strict with me about two things: reciting the Modeh Ani prayer of thankfulness in the morning and the Shema Yisrael at night. My mother also used to remind me to pray from time to time. But Grandmother Raisl was more determined. She didn’t treat me like an only son.

Even after the thirty-day mourning period, Grandfather’s presence was still felt in the house. He would appear in unexpected places. In the Carpathians a person doesn’t depart from the world without leaving behind a bit of his essence. Grandmother didn’t speak about Grandfather in the past tense.

I noticed that the sealed eastern window looked different. When Grandfather prayed, Grandmother would open the shutters and sit at his side for the length of the prayer. When he was finished praying, she would close the shutters. After Grandfather’s death the window took on a new importance. Grandmother was careful not to stand near it except during the regular hours for prayer. She recited her own prayers in a separate alcove near the bedroom.

On Sabbath eve Grandmother would go out to the garden, pick flowers, arrange them in two vases, and place them on the windowsill. Suddenly the shuttered window took on the form of a gate.

On Sabbath morning I would go to the synagogue with Grandmother. We took the paths I used to take with Grandfather. Grandmother didn’t speak either. In the Carpathian Mountains people learned from the trees and from the basalt rocks how to be silent. When Grandfather was alive, Grandmother didn’t go to synagogue every Sabbath, but now that he was gone, she took care to go. She walked slowly and thoughtfully, not like the way she walked at home.

The synagogue was a small wooden building. People entered it with bent backs. No one sat in Grandfather’s seat. His absence only made people feel his presence even more. In the synagogue they remembered not only Grandfather but also his father and his grandfather. In the name of Grandfather’s father, they recalled the proverb: “Don’t think that after the tree has been chopped down its shadow disappears.” They interpreted that proverb literally, although some said it referred to people.

After the Sabbath, Grandmother would go down to the cellar and prepare dairy products. The dark cellar, which was lit by two lamps, was also one of the wonders of the place. Grandmother churned butter in the cellar, made cheese, and stored apples for the winter.

Raising the trapdoor to the cellar, going down the stairs, lighting the lamps, and driving out the darkness — all of these things that she used to do together with Grandfather she now did alone. She didn’t complain. She did everything quickly and with great concentration. Sometimes a word or half a sentence, which I didn’t understand, would escape from her mouth. I didn’t ask what they meant. Here one learned not to ask questions unless it was absolutely necessary.

After one Sabbath, a Ruthenian woman, a neighbor, came carrying a bunch of flowers. Grandmother greeted her warmly and told her what she had done during the previous week and what she was planning to do. With suppressed pain, the Ruthenian woman told Grandmother everything that her daughter from her first marriage was doing to her. Grandmother listened with her head down, and when the woman had finished speaking, she advised her to pray. “Nothing changes things like prayer. Prayer works miracles,” she said in Grandfather’s tone of voice.

Every evening Ernst reads Irena a passage or chapter before she leaves. The short chapters stand on their own. Ernst would very much like to hear her opinion or a comment, but Irena doesn’t know what to say. Only on her way home or when she sits in the dining alcove does she feel the visions that Ernst’s writing evokes grow stronger within her.

A few days ago Irena had a long dream. In it she is walking with Ernst on a network of paths in the Carpathians. Both she and Ernst are nine years old. She is wearing a lace dress that her mother sewed for her and Ernst is in shorts and a blue shirt like the ones they used to wear in Hashomer Hatsa’ir. They are walking hand in hand. She feels his hand very strongly and wants to kiss it, but she doesn’t dare. Ernst is bolder. He put his hand on her shoulder and embraces her. She is so happy that the few words she possesses are snatched from her mouth.

“It’s all because of you,” Ernst tells her one evening.

The compliments that Ernst showers on Irena embarrass her. She doesn’t think her ideas and actions are important, but she is glad that Ernst is writing diligently and that every day another page or two appear on his desk.

ONE EVENING ERNST SAYS TO IRENA, “IT SEEMS TO ME I’M on the way.”

Irena rises to her feet, approaches the bed, and says, “I don’t understand.”

“I’m returning to the place from which I set out.”